The Proviso (31 page)

“Your mother’s going to swat your behind until you
can’t sit down,” he murmured, and Giselle laughed.

“What, are you going to tattle on me?”

“I will if you don’t tell me who Ford is.”

“Pffftt. Fen,” she drawled, “that keeping my mouth
shut thing works two ways. It’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

“Then you asked for it. You’ll get sent out to cut a
switch.”

Giselle was still snickering when Bryce swept her
around and under his arm for another dance. He looked over the
crowd absently until something caught his eye. Far across the
immense room a man leaned against a wall, away from everyone else
and in the shadows, his arms crossed, a glass of champagne in his
hand. He stared straight at Bryce with a smirk on his face, then
tipped the glass at him.

It only took a microsecond before Bryce burst out
laughing. When Giselle looked up at him, he gestured vaguely toward
the man; once she saw who he meant, she chuckled.

“Ford.”

She looked back up at Bryce and murmured, “I knew
there was a reason I let you fuck me. Let’s go home so you can do
it again.”

“You didn’t
let
me do anything, Warrior
Queen.”

She snorted, and he grinned.

He took her back to her bed, the one on which
Giselle’s torment, her hunger and agony, was on display for the
entire world to see. That bed—the one where she’d lain under him,
her head, heart, arms, and legs wrapped around him, matching him
wit for wit, kiss for kiss, word for word, thrust for thrust.

Bryce couldn’t imagine a future without her in it,
without her in his bed, in his heart—

—but his gut clenched at the thought of what he’d
have to tell her, what he hadn’t thought to tell her before he’d
staked his claim.

* * * * *

29:
THE ARRIVAL OF THE QUEEN OF SHEBA

Sebastian attempted to mingle, but, as usual,
society viewed him with utmost suspicion—which was why he didn’t
get out to these soirees much. Women he might have liked to
approach watched him warily, ready to bolt. He’d let it be known
very publicly and very cruelly some years ago that gold diggers
were not welcome in his personal space. That had made him
completely radioactive around the world.

Men he might have liked to cultivate for places on
future high-level management teams hid their suspicion of him
little better. Of course, he had a tendency to burn people’s
bridges for them if they said the wrong thing, but only Sebastian
knew what that was. That had happened in Prague. And Amsterdam.
Possibly Berlin. He didn’t quite know how all the things he did in
Europe followed him back to Kansas City.

Very few people outside of his family weren’t afraid
of him at first blush, and lately that had been the sum total of
two people: Oakley and Kenard—

—who was about to find out what his lover of less
than a day looked like on a five-by-eight-foot canvas. Nude.

He was pleased when the only real emotion he could
see in the man’s face was awe. Then he kissed Giselle obscenely in
the midst of two hundred and fifty silent people who awaited his
reaction with bated breath. Sebastian was slightly surprised the
man didn’t back her up against the wall and fuck her right then and
there, and he almost smiled. That boded well for Kenard’s staying
power with her, and, much as Giselle was a pain in Sebastian’s ass
sometimes and he enjoyed the hell out of picking on her, he loved
her and wanted to see her happy.

He wandered around, watching people
post-new-painting-unveiling, observing Giselle’s newfound
notoriety, quietly chatting with not-yet-declared senatorial
candidate Kevin Oakley, studying the rest of the exhibit, drinking
a punch that was slightly less offensive than the cheap bubbly, and
generally milling about brooding over why Miss Logan hadn’t wanted
to be with him tonight.

Bored and only happening to catch a glimpse of a
very tall blonde entering the gallery long after the unveiling, he
ambled along behind her to see what he could see. When she turned,
his breath caught in his throat and he nearly dropped his
glass.

She had one green eye and one blue eye, and they
sparkled merrily as she looked around her. Her mouth was full and
curving in a generous yet sensual smile. She had soft, straight
butter-blonde hair to the middle of her biceps where it curled at
the ends and lacked the harshness of any chemical coloring.

Her body was lush, shown to perfection in a
shimmering iridescent dark copper gown cut like a double-breasted
tuxedo jacket that flared out into a long bell skirt to her ankles.
Her lapels were iridescent black. Her sleeves stopped just below
her elbows and were turned up in French cuffs that matched her
lapels. She had high heels on, which made her stand head and
shoulders above everyone else.

She was stunning, a Viking goddess, and he smiled,
looking down into his glass and shaking his head. Whatever he’d
expected Eilis Logan to look like under all that badly fitting
Chanel, pancake makeup, brown contact lenses, and hair-darkening
gel, this was
not
it.

His sharp eye caught details no one else ever did,
though, and he thought it odd she’d hide the scar on her face for
business but not for pleasure. However, once he got a good look at
it and saw that it made her look as if she were perpetually crying,
he understood. And those eyes! No wonder she wore colored contacts.
He was
fascinated
by the fact that her eyes were two
different colors.

He walked over to her, hooking her elbow in his
right hand and gently pulling her away from the paintings. She
gasped in protest and then stilled when she saw who he was,
suddenly angry that she’d been caught.

“I have an eye for detail, Miss Logan,” he whispered
in her ear, not having let go of her and, in fact, pulling her even
closer to him. Any excuse—he’d take it. “I will admit you have a
very good act.”

She looked straight at him, no shorter than he in
heels. Her two different-colored eyes blazed. He wondered how long
he could keep from backing
her
up against a wall, although
right now, it didn’t look like his usual freight train seduction
strategy would actually work. She was already fit to be tied.

“Let me go,” she whispered hotly, and he was very
pleased to know there was passion and fire under that luscious
skin—and that he really could get to her. “I didn’t come here to be
‘on.’ I came here to enjoy myself without being reminded of my
humiliation by every mogul in the room.”

He could see how that would be distressing to her,
now that she mentioned it. “I’m sorry,” he said and released her,
stepping back and into cool King Midas once again. “I didn’t
think.”

“No, you didn’t,” she shot back, though still quiet.
“I would like for you to figure out when it would be most
convenient to let me have a vacation. I need one. Badly. If I must
take it up with the prosecutor myself, then I will do so. Now, if
you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go look at this man’s work in
peace.”

“Wait,” he said, unsure what he was going to say.
She had barely turned and she stopped, looking over her shoulder at
him. “I— May I accompany you through the exhibit?”

“Why?”

His mouth tightened. “Because I would like to, if
you would allow me the pleasure.”

Her eyes widened at his sudden formality, but he was
rather impressed with himself for not making himself look like a
complete buffoon. He’d said what he meant to say.

“Pleasure? You don’t even like me.”

He looked at her, confused. “Why would you assume
that?”

She stared at him for what seemed like hours, then
finally said, “Well.” Her mouth twitched indecisively for a moment.
“All right. I suppose I can’t stop you.”

It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Time to try the
next step.

“Eilis, may I get you something to eat? Drink?”

She hesitated for a moment, put a hand to her belly,
bit her lip, then shook her head. “No, thank you,” she
murmured.

Sebastian’s eyebrow rose. He’d seen that gesture too
many times in his life not to know what it meant. Too bad, too,
because she fulfilled Sebastian’s fantasies to the last detail.

He didn’t dare tell her that.

“All right. Would you like to see the new painting
first?”

“No,” she murmured dismissively. “I like to do
things in their proper order.”

Well,
that
was interesting. He filed that
away for future reference.

He’d already seen the exhibit, so he watched
her—watched her unutterably expressive face express so much awe and
reverence that he wondered how she kept her façade intact for
twelve hours a day when she was “on.” He wanted to ask her, but
figured that he couldn’t get in any more trouble by keeping his
mouth shut. Only, he wasn’t good at that.

“Where are you going?” he blurted as they went from
one painting to the next.

She shot him an annoyed glance, but didn’t answer.
She just went back to her study of Ford’s work. He could tell she
wanted to touch. She shied away from the nudes whose body types
were similar to hers as if it pained her to see them. She was drawn
to the nudes who were smaller and more muscular, less voluptuous
than she. He wanted to call her on it just to see what she’d say,
but he dared not.

Her reaction didn’t surprise him in the least. He
had found that, by and large, straight women who liked Ford’s nudes
invariably compared themselves, figuring out what they wanted to
look like and attempting to visualize themselves as anything other
than what they were. He knew for a fact that Giselle became wistful
over the women who didn’t look a thing like her because she knew
she’d never attain what she saw as perfection. Giselle’s favorite
Ford painting looked like Eilis—

—and every Ford nude Eilis owned had a body type
similar to Giselle’s.

Finally they came to the new piece that hung high up
from the gallery’s ceiling. Sebastian thought it might be Ford’s
finest work ever.

She gasped. “Oh,” she breathed as she stepped back
and took it in. The scar that looked like a tear began to sparkle
as an actual tear tracked down it faithfully. “That’s
shattering
,” Eilis murmured.

“How so?” he asked quietly, not wanting to ruin the
mood, but oh, so curious.

“He—” She stopped. “She— I’m—” She stopped again.
“I’m
her
.” Giselle looked nothing like Eilis, so of
course
Eilis wished to be what she couldn’t. Just like the
rest of womankind. The breath on which she’d expelled her admission
was barely audible. “I want that.”

Of
course
she did.

Sebastian kept his mouth carefully closed, hoping
she wouldn’t have to be reminded that not only could she not buy
any more of these, she had to sell the ones she had. Finally, he
couldn’t stand it and said the most diplomatic thing he could think
of, hoping to distract her enough that he wouldn’t have to be the
bad guy.

As usual.

“Eilis, I’ve decided to let you keep
Morning in
Bed
.”

She turned to him then, wide-eyed. “You— You’re
going to let me keep it?”

“Yes. I’ll have it verified as original and
appraised, have the insurance updated, make sure it’s properly
secured, but I’ll let you keep it.”

The tears welled in her eyes then and they spilled
over. She threw her arms around him and hugged him, and he could
feel her crying. “Thank you, Mr. Taight,” she whispered. “Thank you
so much.”

Sebastian’s eyes closed and he was ever so glad for
all the crisp fabric in between them or she would have surely felt
his arousal. He hesitantly put his arms around her and lightly
patted her back once, twice. He certainly didn’t mind this
particular flavor of a beautiful woman’s attentions but he had
never
gotten a random grateful bear hug from a woman not
related to him.

She was oblivious to the stares they garnered, but
he wasn’t. A beautiful woman. With Sebastian Taight. Who was not
Cinderella. Who was not only not afraid of him, but hugging
him.

It had been preposterous enough when Kansas City’s
moneyed thought King Midas had a lover at all, much less one who
had been swept off her feet and out from under his nose by the
city’s hideously scarred and notoriously ruthless tort
lawyer—until, just tonight, Kenard had most accommodatingly
clarified Sebastian’s relationship to Giselle.

Of
course
Miss Cox wasn’t his lover! Of
course
Miss Cox was his cousin! With that totally logical
explanation, society had gone back to its usual humor about
Sebastian’s social toxicity.

Until Eilis hugged him.

She drew back a few seconds later, obviously
embarrassed by her outburst. “I’m sorry,” she laughed, sniffled,
then wiped her tears with a finger. He actually thought to offer
her his handkerchief, and she took it with a watery smile.

“Where are you going?” he blurted yet again.

Her brow wrinkled in confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“Your vacation. Where do you plan to go?”

She looked in his eyes for a long time, as if
searching for some ulterior motive for asking. Oh, he had one, but
in his opinion, wanting to be around her every day and enforcing
her presence there so he could have a chance at seducing her didn’t
really tip the evil scale too much.

“I’m going to find Ford,” she finally murmured. “I
want him to mak—paint me.”

Well.

He was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be able to
find a convenient time for her to go anywhere.

* * * * *

She couldn’t believe she’d told him that—Sebastian
Taight of all people. And what had almost escaped her mouth! She
could only chalk it up to her shock that he had just
known
she was the same Miss Logan who dressed in sensible shoes and the
classic Coco Chanel suit at work.