Raising Hell (6 page)

“Decorating hasn’t been a huge priority.”

“Men,” she said, grinning.

“I stand accused. And no, you’re not kicking me out of my bedroom. I sleep out there.” As he spoke, she’d come toward him, and now he led her into the room even as he pointed toward the massive bed, complete with black silk sheets and a blood-red comforter.

“Right,” she said, then let out a nervous cough as she stared at the bed. “So, um, where do you want me?”

A loaded question. “Where would you be most comfortable?” he asked. He was playing a game, pretending to be the polite, considerate host, when in reality he wanted nothing more than to pull her to him, ply her body with his hands and mouth, and then leave her sated in the bed, her soft, glowing body ready to be immortalized in pigment and oil.

“Oh. I … I don’t know. I mean, I—”

He held up a hand, amused by her befuddled expression. “Honestly, it’s not a fair question. The truth is that I could paint you anywhere and create a work of stunning beauty. The real question is what composition is worthy of the creation of a masterpiece.”

Her eyes flashed with gratitude, and he found himself charmed by her innocence. How quaint. And how interesting.

“I guess that’s your department,” she said. “I’ll just do what you say.”

He fought to keep his expression bland, afraid that if he commented on the more lascivious possibilities that her words suggested she’d blush so brightly she’d ignite the turpentine. Those lascivious possibilities, however, intrigued him more than he’d anticipated.

She had that effect on him. He supposed he’d always known that she would. Should he ever find the woman he’d for so long imagined capturing on the canvas, how could he not want to possess her fully, both body and soul? How could he not be drawn to her? Want to consume her? Want to lose himself in her?

And yet, despite everything he’d known before he’d met her, Delilah Burnett was still a surprise. He’d expected the physical craving. What he hadn’t anticipated was the … what? Curiosity, perhaps. Or anticipation. Maybe even joy. An unfamiliar and not entirely unwelcome emotion that coursed through him.

He hadn’t truly required her to move into the loft. There was a convenience to having his models near, of course. But he could have made do. Still, having her nearby made practical sense. After all, he had his father’s work to do, and the sooner he satisfied that, the sooner he’d obtain his prize.

But that was all bullshit. He hadn’t brought her to his loft because of his father; he’d brought her because he wanted her near. Wanted
her.

Nick didn’t fear much in this world. But the course of desire that heated his veins when he looked at her had him trembling.

“Nick?”

“Follow me,” he said, his voice gruffer than he would have liked. He took her to the bed, waited while she crawled on. Then he stepped back until he was right beside that one canvas he’d had for so long. The canvas that had been waiting for her.

As he sketched a few preliminary lines with a pencil, she knelt on the bed, her hands awkwardly placed on her knees. “Should I just sit here?”

He shook his head, his mind now only on the canvas and the image of the woman he was trying to coax from the lead. “Something different. Lay down,” he said. “On your side, and look at me. Good. Good.”

He stroked the canvas again, the faint gray line hinting at the outline of the portrait to come. Just a single gray line marring the clean, crisp canvas. But that was enough. It wasn’t right. In his mind, Nick could see how every stroke would fill the canvas, like a chess player planning the game through to the end. And at the end of his game, there was no masterpiece. Not yet, anyway.

“No,” he said, stalking away from the canvas. He tossed more pillows onto the bed, then took her by the elbow, tugging her back gently among them. She wore a white button-down shirt, a single button at the collar unfastened. His fingers moved to the next button, this one modestly tight. As he started to undo the button, she slapped him away, her fingers closing over her chest.

“If you’d like a wardrobe alteration, just tell me.”

“Sorry,” he said, coming back to himself. “I get caught up.”

“But you aren’t happy with it,” she said. “Not yet.”

“No,” he agreed. “Not yet.”

“Is it me?”

Such an innocence filled her voice that he was compelled to kneel on the bed beside her. He stroked her face, wishing he could somehow make her understand the perfection that he saw in her. But there really weren’t words. The best he could do was render her beauty on canvas and hope that the portrait proved her worth.

“It’s not you,” he said simply.

She smiled, then leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything. For giving me this opportunity. And, I guess, for wanting me here. For wanting to paint me.”

Nick nodded, but found himself not quite able to meet her eyes. Foolish emotion. He
did
want to paint her. And she wanted what he could give her. True, she probably didn’t want to lose what he intended to take, but this wasn’t about what the girl wanted. It was about proving himself to his father. And to do that, Nick had to see this through. Best to forget about the larger issue and simply focus on creating his masterpiece.

“Like this,” he said, his fingers moving down to cup the still-fastened button. “The purity of a plain white shirt coupled with the invitation of several open buttons.”

He started to work the buttons free, but her hands closed over his. He held his breath, hoping she wouldn’t fight him on this. He needed her open and vulnerable. He needed inside this woman because he couldn’t take what he couldn’t see.

His fears, though, were unfounded. She closed her fingers over his, and the heat of her touch shot through him with a feeling of coming home. Her lips parted, and he had to force himself to wait for her words when all he wanted to do was lean in and capture her in a kiss. “I’ll do it,” she said, then undid the next two buttons.

The crisp white cotton parted, revealing the swell of her breasts, trapped in a pale pink bra that fastened with a simple clasp in front.

Nick couldn’t help himself. He reached out and traced his finger down between her breasts, noting with interest the way her nipples hardened against the lace. He stroked his thumb over her nipple, his breath catching in his throat, mesmerized by the way she closed her eyes and arched her head back.

Her movements were slow and subtle, but she tilted her breasts up in a silent invitation. Greedily, he cupped her breasts, feeling them swell against his palms.

Glorious Hades! How he wanted this woman. A woman like none he’d ever had before, with a purity that seemed to reach out, begging for him to take and make his own.

“Delilah,” he whispered.

That, though, was a mistake. Her eyes flicked open, and she reached for the lapels of her shirt, tugging it modestly closed even as she slid to the far side of the bed. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” he said, hoping for a smile but receiving nothing in return.

She stopped by the window, then reached her hand up to stroke her fingers along the glass. Outside, the setting sun burned orange in the sky, painting her body with an ethereal glow and setting her hair on fire.

Her shirt, though more modest now, was still unbuttoned, revealing only a hint of her bra.

Magic seemed to wash over her, as if the firmaments had both consumed and released her, leaving her trapped between Heaven and Hell, earth and sky.

This, Nick realized, was the image he’d been waiting for.

She started to turn toward him, but he held out a hand and cried, “No! Don’t move.”

She froze, one eyebrow lifting. “Nick?”

“Say nothing,” he said. “Just stay stay there. Stay, and let me capture this moment.”

Lila stood completely still,
her palm pressed against the window, the cool of the glass a counterpoint to the heat that filled her body. So intense, actually, that it was a wonder steam didn’t rise from beneath her fingers.

She smiled at the thought, pleased to have something silly enter her head after all the decadent images that had filled and distracted her.

He’d touched her.

Even now, it was all she could do not to trace her fingers down her throat and cup her own breasts, remembering the feel of his hands against her. So heady, so wonderful, so very erotic.

And so very terrifying.

She’d felt the quickening in her thighs, the liquid heat in her panties, and she’d bolted, startling him and embarrassing her. But what choice did she have? She’d come here to be a model, not to fall victim to Nicholas Velnias’s famous charm. No matter how real that charm might be.

The man had a reputation, after all. And she didn’t want to be one of his many publicized conquests. Didn’t want to be one of a line of women. More, she didn’t want to turn into the very woman her father had predicted she’d become if she moved from home to the dark hell of New York City. A wild woman, unconcerned about whose bed she ended up in, more interested in pleasure than love or morality or simple kindness.

No, Lila didn’t want to be that woman.

But she did want to sleep with him. Like it or not—foolish or not—the desire coursed through her, filling her. And, ultimately, driving her.

Her eyes welled, and she fought back tears as she thought of her father’s harsh words when she’d told him that she was doing it—that she was going to New York. He’d been cruel, accusatory.

But he’d also been wrong. Because she
wasn’t
that woman. She had her head on straight and she wasn’t going to sleep around.

But did that mean she couldn’t be just a little wicked with a man she was desperately attracted to? Because right now, she wanted to be. Oh, how she wanted to be.

Nick was fully focused on her, and the sensation of being at the very center of his attention turned her on, filling her body with heat. Something about him—about this place—seemed to open her senses. The pungent scent of oil and turpentine. The larger-than-life women who watched her from canvases propped this way and that, seeming to urge her on to … what?

She wasn’t sure. She wanted something, but she didn’t know what. She felt itchy, as if she wasn’t quite herself, but at the same time was more herself than she’d ever been before.

The gentle scratch of Nick’s charcoal against the canvas seemed to be an incantation, something pulling her toward him. Something beckoning. Something seeking a promise from her.

She wanted to turn from the window and promise him anything he asked, just so long as he’d let her keep that feeling.

She stayed there, watching his reflection in the window as he sketched, occasionally trading the pencil for a brush with just a dab or two of color on it. His face was intense, his jaw firm. And as he stroked the canvas, she could almost imagine he was stroking her. Her skin felt on fire, and if he did touch her right then, she had a feeling she would come so hard her body would melt right into the floor.

She craved him. And by the time he put the brush down and walked to her side, it was all she could do not to rip open her shirt and thrust her body against his.

“That’s all for now,” he said, his hand pressing lightly against her back. “We’re losing the light. More tomorrow.”

“So we’re only going to do this when the sun’s going down?”

His rich laughter caressed her. “No. You can pose here in the evenings. The rest of the time I’ll work on feature studies. And, who knows, I may do a few smaller canvases as well. But that,” he said, turning toward the large canvas by which he’d been standing, “that is the portrait that will change both of our lives.”

She couldn’t help but grin. “Confident, aren’t you?”

“Very.” He traced his fingertip on the back of her neck, pushing her hair aside as he did so. “You were wonderful, by the way. I know it must be boring to stand there with nothing to do but look out the window.”

“I had a lot to think about,” she said. She turned, letting his finger trace her shoulder as she did. Then she took a deep breath for courage and met his eyes, gratified to see the silver-gray storm brewing there. A storm that seemed to rival the tempest now spinning through her body.

“Secret thoughts?” he asked. “Or will you tell me?”

“I might tell,” she said, teasing. “If you’ll show me.” She cast a quick glance toward the canvas.

“Show you mine, you’ll show me yours?” he retorted with a grin.

“Something like that.”

“Then by all means.” He took her hand, leading her across the studio to the canvas. “It doesn’t look like much yet.”

How wrong he was, she thought when she laid eyes on the canvas. “On the contrary,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”

He looked more closely at the emerging image. “Do you think so?”

“Oh yes,” she said, unable to take her eyes away from the orange and purple of the setting sun. Just a hint. A color study, really, but enough to give the painting a warmth. The rough outline of her hand, so delicate against the glass.

For part of the time she’d stood there, she’d imagined his body beneath her fingers, and now, looking at the image and the tenderness with which he’d painted her hand, she couldn’t help but wonder if he somehow knew that.

Her face, though, was the true masterpiece, even at this early stage, a mix of pencil and paint. Colors not yet alive or accurate. Lines unfinished. But none of that mattered. Her essence was there, spilling from the canvas, crying out to be completed and yet somehow whole even as it was.

“Wow,” she said. “You make me look… I don’t know. Lit from within, I guess.”

“That’s how you look to me,” he said, making the words sound like the truth and not a come-on.

“That’s how you make me feel.” She licked her lips nervously. He was watching her, and she could feel the heat of desire radiating off of him, filling her.

Earlier, she’d pulled away from him, a frightened little girl. But she wasn’t frightened anymore. And she wasn’t a little girl. She was a woman. Wasn’t that made crystal clear by the portrait? The image on that canvas wouldn’t shrink from her desire. She’d embrace it. And that’s just what Lila wanted to do.