The Art Of Deception, Book Two, Stolen Hearts series, Romantic Suspense (16 page)

He grabbed her hand and placed it squarely in the middle of his chest. “I’m not a damned model, Sophie. I’m a very horny guy who wants to have sex with you.”

“Sex,” she said the word as if she’d never heard it before.

“Yeah, sex. We’d be good together. Better than good." He threaded his fingers through her short hair and cupped her head.

She nodded, as if giving herself permission. Without warning, she twined her arms around his neck, placed her lips against his and opened her mouth, her tongue darting into his, then out as she gulped in air.

His body jerked forward as a shaft of pure heat blazed through him. He tightened his arms around her and thrust his tongue into her mouth, any control he might have held on to, burned away by the sweet taste of her mouth.

And God, was she sweet. Sweet and eager. Almost innocent. There was that word again. No matter how things appeared, deep inside he believed Sophie was innocent. Or maybe he just wanted to believe that.

He let his hand drop to her neck, swallowed the whimper that purred out of her mouth as he trailed his fingertips up and down her slender throat. Then found her small breast through the folds of her sweatshirt and squeezed gently before rubbing his thumb over her hardened nipple. Her body arched up toward him in an electrified, almost violent movement.

Gage tore his mouth from hers and kissed her forehead. “Slow down, honey. This is supposed to feel good.”

“It does. Almost too good." She sounded as if she were on the verge of hyper-ventilating.

He tucked her head under his chin and stroked her back, waiting for the trembles that shook her body to stop. His breathing started to even out as the edge of his passion dimmed. This felt good, too. Just holding Sophie, gentling her, almost as if she were a--

Aw, hell. Gage lifted Sophie out his lap and settled her on the sofa, then shot to his feet.

She reached out to him with one hand. “Vince?”

“You’re a virgin." Damn, he hadn’t meant that to sound like an accusation.

She veered away from his glare and studied a worn spot on the velvet green sofa. “I’m not. I don’t have a ton of experience, but--”

“Do you have any idea how turned on I am right now?” he interrupted her. He ran a hand over his chest and sucked in a lung full of air. He wished his heart would stop pounding. “I was primed to take you, without.... I could have hurt you, Sophie.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me.”

“How many men have you had?”

A blush stole into her cheeks. “One.”

“One." The word doused the remaining embers of his heat. He buttoned his jeans and fastened his belt buckle. “You’re twenty-seven years old. How did that happen? Or, more to the point, not happen. You don’t like sex?”

The sultry look she sent him kicked his heart back into high gear. If he were a smart man, he’d get out of here right now. When he turned around to grab his sweater from the floor, Sophie’s startled gasp made him spin back to her.

“What?”

“Your gun." Her finger trembled as she pointed to his back.

He reached round to feel his small revolver. It was safely snapped into the holster. He dragged his sweater over his head and pulled it down to cover his weapon. What the hell had he been thinking?

A woman like Sophie didn’t do one night stands. Even if she thought that’s what she wanted, he knew better. They had nothing in common. Even the sight of his gun upset her. He’d known plenty of women who got turned on by the idea that he carried. Not Sophie. He stood in front of her, trying to look like the tough cop he was, but inside, everything felt turned upside down. “You don’t like what I do. My work."

She massaged her big toe for a minute before looking up. “Your job’s necessary, but I’m not used to being around guns." She went back to work on her toe. “I don’t really know what you do. I mean, the every day stuff.”

That made sense. She probably thought he spent his days chasing criminals at gun point. The reality was he spent much more time at his desk than in the field. She could come to the office. Then she’d understand....

He sighed. Sophie was a suspect, and he was thinking of inviting her to the office for a PR tour? Man, he needed his head examined.

Maybe he’d finally lost it. Maybe the Super was right to sit on him so hard.

Maybe he wasn’t cut out to be a FBI agent.

He spun away from the sofa and strode across the room to the window to dispel the panic that froze the muscles in his throat. The first trace of dawn colored the edges of the night sky, and the idea that he could soon put this night behind him made him breath easier.

Being an FBI agent was who he was; who he’d always wanted to be. He’d learned young that dreams were precarious, dangerous things to have, but that was the one dream he’d clung to his entire life.

His doubts receding with the night, he turned and surveyed the room. It would be the last time he’d see it; the last time he’d see Sophie most likely. He looked at her curled up on the sofa watching him with wary eyes. The same ripping sensation he’d felt a while ago tore through him again, except this time it was definitely a separation, not a joining. In a few hours, he would ask the Super to replace him. Better for Parker to think he couldn’t handle an art forgery than for him to screw the case up royally.

But before he left, there was something else in that closet he needed to ask Sophie about. “The other paintings you have stashed in the back of the closet, they’re yours?” He remained firmly rooted on the other side of the room. The softness of her skin was imprinted on his hands. He ached to touch her again.

“Yes." She picked up a sandwich, wrinkled her nose as she studied it and tossed it back on the plate.

“You didn’t tell me you painted. I mean other than the restoration work you do.”

“You didn’t ask.”

She might as well have said, “It’s none of your business." The pressure on his chest grew heavier. She was right. Nothing about Sophie was his business except untangling the mess she was in. In a few hours, even that wouldn’t be his concern. He knew he should leave it alone, but he couldn’t.

“They’re beautiful paintings. Why are they hidden at the back of the closet?”

She shrugged, glimpsed over at him, then away, her shoulders hunched as if under attack.

He crossed the room to stand in front of her. “Why aren’t they hanging in a gallery? In your mother’s gallery? Have you even shown them to anyone?”

“I don’t want to talk about them." She picked up the plate of sandwiches, placed it on her lap and started rearranging the limp pieces of bread stuck together with peanut butter.

“Why not? I’m far from an expert, but they looked damned good to me.”

“They’re none of your business. Here." She thrust the plate at him. “You said you were hungry.”

If he stopped to analyze it, the unappetizing sandwiches had nothing to do with Sophie’s paintings, yet for some reason, his brain made a connection. He took the plate from her, sat in the chair across from the sofa, and bit into a sandwich.

“Not bad. Want one?” He held the plate out to her.

After she took one, he relaxed back in his chair and stoically munched his way through an entire sandwich. He hated peanut butter. What he hated even more was the guarded expression on Sophie’s face. One of the things he admired most about her was her honesty, yet she had her share of secrets. He had a feeling her paintings topped the list.

“Has Raphael seen your paintings?”

“No." She popped the last bite of her sandwich in her mouth.

“Your mother?”

“No.”

His stomach churned, more from what Sophie was telling him than the lump of peanut butter in his gut. “What’s going on, buttercup? From what I saw tonight at your mother’s gallery, your paintings are as good, if not a lot better than what she’s selling. You don’t strike me as the shy, retiring type." Except when it came to sex, maybe.

She picked up the plate and sat forward. “Don’t you have to go to work or something?”

He glanced at his watch. “Not for another couple of hours. I’ve got plenty of time before going home to clean up." Plenty of time to change his mind about handing the case over to another agent, too.

He cursed under his breath. What was wrong with him? In the fifteen years he’d worked for the bureau, he’d never once knowingly jeopardized his job. Yet minutes after deciding to pass on this case, he was trying to find a reason to stick with it.

“Your paintings have nothing to do with my investigation. I’d like to understand, because...." Because it hurt to see her so defensive, so vulnerable. “Because hiding your paintings from everyone doesn’t make sense, and I don’t like it when things don’t add up right.”

She stood and moved toward the door. “If you’re going to hang around for another hour or so, I should get the coffee.”

“I’m not leaving until you answer the question.”

She kept her gaze trained on the plate in her hands. Gage grabbed it from her and shoved the plate on to the arm of the chair he’d just vacated.

As if not knowing what to do with her hands now that the plate was gone, she raked them through her hair. “It’s complicated.”

“You like to paint?” He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to pat down the loose strands of her hair that stood straight up.

“Of course." She sidled back, away from him.

She was trembling, and he needed to hold her. He folded his arms across his chest. “But you don’t want to give people the pleasure of viewing them.”

“No, I...." She glanced up at him. “They’re not good enough.”

“How do you know unless you show them?”

“But what if they’re not good? What if people hate them? Look at what happened to my mother." She flung out an arm and pointed as if her mother stood across the room. “She was everyone’s darling, and somehow it all came to a screeching halt.”

Her mother. That darling prima donna who likely couldn’t stand to have one of her children surpass her in any way. The woman had a lot to answer for.

“Let me guess. Her career as an artist ended when she got pregnant with you and Raphael,” he uttered, his jaw locked tight against his anger.

“She lost out on that deal, hey?” She tried to smile as if the whole lousy thing didn’t matter.

He turned away, made a quick circuit around the chair and over to the small kitchen. He stopped at the sink and stared at several paintbrushes sitting in a jar of water. “I imagine when you were younger, she saw your work."

“Sometimes, but she was busy with the art gallery by then.”

He turned to see her still standing by the sofa as if she were frozen in place. “And very dismissive of your attempts at becoming an artist, I imagine." Phrases he’d never used to describe a woman drummed through his head.

Sophie blew out a loud breath. “It wasn’t a crime for her to want to get on with her life, Gage.”

“Did she? You forget I met her. It took all of five minutes before she gave me the low down on her fifteen minutes of fame. She didn’t sound like someone who had gotten on with her life, as you put it.”

His heart did a little flip as he watched the spark of anger lighten the shadow in her eyes. Thank God, she’d gotten her spunk back. He hated seeing her look vulnerable.

She straightened out of her hunch, put her hands on her hips. “What difference does it make to you what my mother’s done with her life?”

“I don’t give a damn about your mother. It’s your life I’m interested in. You think you have to pay for your mother’s mistakes? You won’t show those incredible paintings in there,” he jabbed a finger in the direction of the closet, “because you’re afraid you’ll fail like she did. Just as you won’t let yourself fall in love or have babies or a family because she blames you and Raphael for her failure. Maybe she just didn’t have what it takes. Maybe she would have failed all on her own whether she got pregnant or not. But at least she tried, which is more than you’ve done."

“I want you to leave now.”

He looked at the window, surprised to see the sun gathering strength in the sky. No one had ever turned him inside out, had ever made him lose his bearing the way Sophie did. The tension drained from his body as he ran a hand over the stubble on his jaw.

“I’m sorry." He wanted to say more, but suddenly there didn’t seem to be anything more to say. He’d be off the case in a couple of hours. Out of Sophie’s life.