“Thanks!” I call after her, rolling my eyes.
Way to throw me to the wolves without an introduction, Anita.
I take a deep breath and try to compose myself, unsure why I’m suddenly so nervous. I’m fully capable of talking about art with a stranger for a few minutes. Hell, I do it every day. And, given the number of paintings I’ve sold in the past two years, I’m actually pretty freaking good at it.
Smoothing my hands over the form-fitting black dress and sharp, matching blazer Estelle makes all her female brokers wear, I set my shoulders back, curl my right hand into a fist, and rap three times on the door.
I don’t panic when a deep, male voice calls, “Come in.”
I don’t panic when my hand closes around the handle.
I don’t even panic when the door swings open and I take two shuffling steps into the office, allowing my eyes to scan the magnificent space in a probing, appreciative sweep.
But then, my gaze lands on the gleaming glass-and-chrome desk — along with the man sitting behind it, whose green-eyed stare is evaluating me with the same critical eye I’ve used to measure his office — and all that composure flies right out the window, falls down 29 stories, and lands on the sidewalk with a sickening splat.
And Ipanic.
Because Chase Croft is sitting behind that desk, staring at me like the freaking proverbial cat about to swallow a helpless canary.
In case that was too metaphorical for you…
Yep. I’m the damn bird.
Chapter Ten
Blue
“Hi,” I blurt, as has become my unattractive yet involuntary reaction whenever I see this man. I hear the distant click of the door closing at my back but, frozen just inside the threshold, all my concentration is focused on the man staring at me from across the room.
He smiles — a lazy, confident grin — and his voice is soft, a verbal caress, when he speaks. His gaze though, is alert as ever — intense, unwavering, active, as he watches me enter.
“Hi.”
His voice rumbles across the open space, deep and magnetizing, and suddenly, I’m fighting the urge to squirm as I stand there, gripping the binder so hard my knuckles have gone white. There’s quiet for a moment as we stare at one another, the air heavy with unspoken questions — the loudest one being,what the hell am I doing here?
Finally, I realize that he’s not going to shatter the silence, which is a little infuriating considering he’s clearly orchestrated this entire encounter.
“You figured out where I work,” I manage to say.
His eyes are still serious, working with thoughts, but his lips stretch in ababy-I’m-a-billionaire-what-did-you-expectgrin. I get the sense it’s an act, to make himself appear less threatening than he is, like a lethal cobra throwing up his hood to mesmerize and distract its prey before a kill strike.
It makes me feel vulnerable, manipulated, intimidated — even angry. And I’m not typically an angry person.
My hip juts out with what little sass I can muster.
“You brought me here,” I say in a voice that’s aiming for snarky but falling pathetically short.
He nods.
“Why?” I say, practically squeaking.
God, I sound like I’ve ingested a balloon-full of helium.
He rises from his leather chair, rounds to the front of his desk, and leans casually against it with his arms crossed over his chest. He looks even better dressed up than he did in jeans and a tee, which I wouldn’t have thought possible. His muscular torso fills out his white dress shirt like it was custom made for him — then again, he’s a billionaire, so it probablywas. He doesn’t have the normal, businesslike CEO look — no tie, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled casually to his elbows — but anyone who steps inside this office would be a fool to doubt he commands the space with absolute authority. He saturates the room with power, just leaning there looking at me. My heart’s tempo kicks up a notch as my eyes lock on the tanned slice of skin peeking out at his collar.
“You sell art,” he says casually.
My throat convulses and I actuallyseehim make note of its movement in his mind. Ignoring that, I force myself to form words.