A Dangerously Sexy Secret Read online

She grinned. “I appreciate a man who knows his Journey lyrics. Sadly, my life is far less fabulous than the song would have you believe.”

  “Is that why you moved to New York?” He leaned against the counter and inhaled the aromas of their dinner. Fresh basil, melting cheese, a hint of something spicy.

  “I’m here for work.” Her answer was carefully worded. Guarded. “But it’s not a permanent position, which suits me fine.”

  Message received, loud and clear.

  But he still wanted to get to know her better, even with her line in the sand. Perhaps “not permanent” was exactly what he needed right now. No pressure, no expectations. Like a dry run for reentering the dating world.

  He could always come back to his life plan later.

  “Are you a New York native?” she asked.

  “I moved from Connecticut a few years ago. I’ve always wanted to live here, enjoy the bright lights and all that.”

  “Do you like it?” She whisked the salad dressing in a bowl, then plucked a teaspoon from a drawer to do a taste test.

  “I do. Especially when I have such interesting neighbors.”

  She smiled, her cheeks flushing a vibrant shade of rose pink. “You mean clumsy neighbors who can’t figure out how to slice an avocado without hurting themselves?”

  “Same, same.”

  She moved about the kitchen with ease, her long skirt swirling around her feet with each dance-like step. There was an airiness to her, a whimsy that was so different from the serious women he was usually attracted to. She bent to open the oven and heat wafted up into the air, carrying with it the scent of her cooking.

  “That smells incredible.” His mouth was already watering, and he’d had some of the best pizza in all of New York. “Don’t tell me you’re a professional chef.”

  “No, just an amateur one. But I did make the base from scratch.” She slid on an oven mitt and pulled out the tray containing their dinner. “I really enjoy cooking. It relaxes me...well, when I’m not cutting myself.”

  “Tell me that doesn’t happen too often.”

  “Thankfully it is a rare occurrence.” She placed the tray down on the stove and Rhys could see she was relying on her uninjured hand to hold the weight.

  “Do you need a hand slicing it up?”

  “No, I’ll be fine. If you could take the wine to the table, that would be great.”

  Moments later they were seated, steaming slices of pizza resting on large white plates in front of them. But the way Wren looked at him made him hungry for something else. A sensual smile curved on her lips.

  “Eat up,” she said, gesturing with her hands. “It’s best when it’s hot.”

  “I like it hot,” he said, picking up the slice and blowing at the steam shimmering off the pizza’s surface.

  “I can see that.”

  “Are you flirting with me?” He bit into the pizza and moaned as the hot, cheesy goodness hit his tongue.

  “What if I was?” She took a bite of her slice and flicked her tongue out to catch a stray droplet of sauce. “Are you open to a little neighborly flirting?”

  She folded both of her feet under her so that she sat cross-legged on top of the chair, tangling the frothy layers of her skirt around her legs. Realizing that she was still wearing her apron, she reached behind herself and untied it. As she pulled the apron over her head, her tank top rode up, revealing a slice of lightly tanned skin and smooth, flat belly.

  She scrambled to tug the fabric back down, her cheeks flushing, but Rhys carried on the conversation, pretending he hadn’t almost choked on his pizza. “Flirting is fine by me. In fact, I’ve been looking for someone to practice my flirting skills on.”

  “Is that so?” She reached for her wine. “Are you a little rusty?”

  “That’s for you to judge.”

  “Go on, hit me with your best pickup line.” Her eyes sparkled and a smile twitched on her lips.

  This was about to go downhill. Fast. Pickup lines weren’t really his style. In fact, he excelled at meeting women in unconventional ways...like having them turn up at his apartment, bleeding.

  He shook his head, laughing, as he took another bite out of his pizza. “I prefer a more casual approach.”

  She planted her fists on her waist and flapped her elbows up and down. “Buck, buck, buck.”

  “You did not just call me chicken.” Damn, the girl had sass.

  “Let me hear your line, then.” She grinned.

  “Oh, you’re on.” He reached his arms above his head, making a show of stretching his neck from side to side. Her eyes skated over him, wide and stormy. “I don’t have a library card, but do you mind if I check you out?”

  “No!” She roared, throwing her head back and letting out a burst of laughter that was belly deep and totally disarming. Totally and richly at odds with the rest of her dainty, fairylike appearance. “That’s terrible.”

  “Are you a fruit, because honeydew you know how fine you look right now?”

  She gasped. “I didn’t think it could get worse—”

  “Are you a parking ticket? ’Cause you’ve got fine written all over you.”

  “Please.” She held up a hand, her shoulders heaving as laughter spilled out of her. The sound warmed him from the inside out. “Stop.”

  “Your body is sixty-five percent water and I’m thirsty.” He pretended to brush the dirt off his shoulders. “I could go all night.”

  “Okay, okay. You win.” She clapped her hands together and bowed. “You are the king of the worst pickup lines I have ever had the misfortune of hearing.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Fair. I promise to listen to you next time.” She drained the rest of her wine and immediately topped them both up. “I’m curious now. How do you usually pick up women?”

  “I’m a bit out of practice.” He figured honesty was the best policy. Besides, the last thing he wanted to do was talk about the sad state of his love life right now.

  “Me, too.” She nodded to herself. “Looks like we’re in the same boat.”

  Over the course of the next hour they finished the whole pizza and made a start on another bottle of wine. A delicious and languid feeling spread through him, loosening his limbs and his tongue. Maybe it was her incredible cooking, the good drink or some combination, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt as connected to another person as he did with Wren.

  She unwound her legs and untangled her skirt, stretching her arms back and thrusting her breasts forward. His mouth watered as the fabric stretched, making it sheer enough that he could see the shadow of her nipples through the fabric.

  Nope, that woman did not need to wear a bra at all.

  * * *

  “THANKS FOR SHARING the pizza with me,” she said, trying to sound casual. “I get a little excited when I cook and I always end up with way too much.”

  “I’m open to helping you deal with any leftovers that might come up.” Rhys flashed another pearly white smile and Wren wondered how many times that smile had drawn women to him. “But let me at least do the dishes.”

  “No way. You saved me from bleeding all over the building, trying to find bandages.” She held up a hand. “Dinner was my treat. The dishes can wait.”

  “Well, thank you. It was delicious. You sure you’re really not a chef?”

  “No, I’m an artist.” The words slipped out and brought with them an immediate sense of guilt. “Well, what I mean to say is that I work in a gallery.”

  “That’s not what you said.” His dark eyes scanned her face, curiosity obviously piqued. “You called yourself an artist.”

  Shit. She’d been so desperate to have that title for so many years that clearly the idea still floated around in her brain like a piece of f
lotsam waiting to trip her up. Being an artist was no longer her dream. And after she finished using her art as a cover to find out what happened to Kylie, it would be out of her life for good.

  “I dabble,” she said eventually, waving a hand as if to dismiss the idea.

  “What sort of art?”

  She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Painting.”

  “I’m always fascinated by artists. I look at a painting and have no clue how the inspiration would have come to them, or how they would even know where to start.” He shook his head in wonderment and it was like a knife twisting in her chest.

  Years of her life had been devoted to the inspiration that had clogged her head. More years had been spent perfecting her technique, channeling her passion. Years that were now a total waste.

  “What do you do?” she asked, desperate to steer the conversation away from the part of her life she wanted to leave behind.

  “I’m in IT for a security company. It’s like getting to solve a giant puzzle every day.” He laughed. “Nerdy but true.”

  “People keep telling me that nerds will rule the world one day, if they don’t already.”

  “I guess you could say that.” Darkness flickered across his face before the smile returned, bringing a cheeky glint to his eye. “I don’t suppose you want to show me any of your paintings? If they’re half as good as your pizza, I’m betting you’ll be the next Picasso.”

  “I don’t know about that,” she said, knotting her hands in her lap.

  “About being Picasso or about showing me your work?”

  Part of her balked at the idea of showing him her art—of showing anyone her art—but his face was totally earnest. His interest in her work appeared genuine, and besides, what harm could it do?

  This is New York, not some tiny hick town that thinks a woman’s body is a product of the devil.

  “I’m no Picasso, let’s be clear about that.” She pushed up from her chair and motioned for him to follow. “Come on, my work space is through here.”

  Rhys’s presence filled the air around her as they walked, his steps mirroring her own. He said nothing as she pushed open the door to her bedroom. Her mattress rested on the floor since she hadn’t bought a bed frame yet. The quilt she’d been using as her duvet was draped over it, creating a white puddle of fabric around the edges of the mattress.

  Early evening light filtered into the room, highlighting the stack of canvases that she’d leaned against the wall. She’d brought ten in total. Eight complete and two works in progress—though she hadn’t touched a brush to them in over six months.

  The canvases had been a requirement for the portfolio portion of her interview at Ainslie Ave, the gallery where she now worked as an assistant and acted as a mentee slash intern to Sean Ainslie himself.

  “These are just experiments,” she said, reaching for the first two in the stack. One was a vivid fall landscape and the other depicted a young student hunched over a writing desk. She’d modelled the girl on her sister, painting her long blond locks in wild swirling strokes, mimicking the fury of the student’s pen scratching across paper. “They’re nothing special.”

  “Do you really think that?” His eyes never left the paintings. They darted and scanned as though he was committing the images to memory. She watched for some sign of judgment, but he simply stared at the paintings in a way that felt fiercely intimate.

  And terrifying.

  “This one was from my abstract phase,” she said, brushing off his question. The third canvas was a garden, but to the untrained eye the angular swipes of green paint could be anything at all.

  A swamp monster, perhaps.

  “And this one was a gift for my mom.”

  Her mother had a thing for roses and her garden back home was filled with them. Wren had painted her a small canvas for their guest room. It showed a single American Beauty bloom, just like the flower that had won her mother first place in the county fair a few years back. It’d hung on the wall until Wren had sneaked it out one night after “the incident.” Nobody seemed to have noticed its absence.

  “You’re very talented,” Rhys said, his gaze finally traveling back to her. “You’ve been blessed with some creative hands.”

  “I’m sure my parents would rather I’d been blessed with a head for numbers.” The words came out stinging with truth. “My sister is going to be a doctor, so by comparison art is probably not the job they would have chosen for me.”

  “But you’re working in a gallery, too?”

  Wren dropped down onto the floor and sat cross-legged. After a moment, Rhys followed her. The rest of her canvases sat against the wall, facing away from them like a group of children who’d been sent to the naughty corner.

  “Yeah, I’m an assistant for an artist who has his own gallery. I organize his appointments and manage his calendar. I also greet people who come to meet him at the gallery.” She toyed with the end of her long silk skirt, twisting the fabric around on itself. “Then I get to paint in his studio and he gives me critiques and tips. Plus, I learn about how the gallery is run and get to watch him with potential buyers. Stuff like that.”

  “And you think you’re not an artist,” Rhys scoffed.

  Con artist, maybe.

  “It sounds weird to call myself that.” She shrugged. “I guess it’s a leftover doubt from my family always nagging me to get a real job and work in an office. Like you.”

  “Working in an office does not mean you’ve made it in life.” He leaned back on his forearms and surveyed the room. “Trust me.”

  His large form was so appealing laid out that way, a dessert for her eyes. All that sculpted muscle and sexual magnetism made her body thrum. And here he was, on her floor right in front of her. A gift for the taking.

  Debs’s words floated around in her head: You won’t regret it. Sex is a very natural and healthy part of life.

  She’d tried to enjoy sex with Christian, but it had been very repetitive. Her ex had only ever wanted to be on top and had complained when Wren had suggested they try other things. It was something he’d thrown back in her face when he’d discovered her secret paintings.

  But something deep down told her that Rhys would be different. That being with Rhys would be different.

  “You’re looking at me very intently, Wren.” His lips wrapped around her name in the most delicious way.

  “I am.” Tension built inside her, filling her chest and stealing her breath. “Is that a problem?”

  “No problem. I was only wondering if you’re planning on making a move.”

  Was she? Shit. She’d told herself she had time to get to know him before she acted on her attraction, and then she’d cut herself. Now they were here. And she desperately wanted to find out if her theories about him were true.

  “If you’re not...” His brown eyes were lit with fire. “I will.”

  Please. Please, please, please.

  She opened her mouth to respond when a crash shattered the quiet, halting her words. The stack of paintings behind Rhys had slipped, put out of balance by her removing the heavier ones that had been holding them in place.

  “I’ll get them.” She scrambled to her feet in an attempt to prevent him from getting there first, but she accidentally leaned on her injured hand.

  “It’s fine, I’ve got it.” He reached for the paintings, his frame stilling suddenly.

  Wren’s face filled with heat. She didn’t need to guess which painting he’d discovered.

  “Wow.” The word was so filled with shock that it made her stomach twist into a knot. “This is...”

  “I wasn’t going to show you that one.” She walked over to the pile and started replacing them against the wall, flames licking her cheeks.

  He held the painting in his hand—the one that had
been the cause of her troubles back home and, most ironically, the one she secretly thought of as her best. It was of a woman, her legs open and her head thrown back in ecstasy. Eyes closed. Lips slack.

  The shades of pink and red and brown blended together, raw and earthy. It was intensely sexual, so much so that Wren wasn’t sure how she’d painted it. At the time her brush had moved as if of its own accord. The painting wasn’t hers; it belonged to someone else. To something else.

  “Please give it to me.” She held out her hand, hating the way her voice trembled when it should have sounded cool and unaffected. But those were two things that her tender heart had never been able to master.

  She was always affected by what other people thought.

  “Please,” she demanded, this time louder.

  Rhys handed her the painting, a strange look on his face. It wasn’t outright disgust, as had been Christian’s expression. But she couldn’t handle even the mildest form of judgment right now. Not about this.

  The only reason she’d even brought the damn thing with her was because Kylie had mentioned that Sean Ainslie had a thing for nude portraits.

  Now the damn thing was humiliating her again.

  “I think you should go,” she said, fighting back the wave of shame as memories assaulted her.

  You’re depraved, Christian had said when he’d discovered this painting along with the twelve others in the collection. All nudes, all women. You’re a sexual deviant and you’re using me as a cover.

  It wasn’t true. She had simply been fascinated by the idea of female sexuality. Enamored by it from an artistic standpoint...not that anyone in her damned hometown would understand that. All they had seen were things that should be hidden away.

  “Wren,” he started. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I’m not ashamed,” she lied. “I would just prefer it if you left now. Please.”

  He hovered for a moment, his eyes, which had darkened to almost black, flicking between her and the canvas that she held tight to her chest. Protecting herself or the painting, she wasn’t sure.

  “For what it’s worth, I think your paintings are incredible,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Thanks again for dinner.”