Serving Pleasure (11 page)

This was art. The ultimate selfie. She’d be immortalized.

A thrill ran up her spine.

Oh, God. She’d been called shallow and vain before, and maybe she was those things, because the thought of him preserving her likeness on canvas sounded so fucking cool.

No,
New Rana spoke up, concerned and oh so proper. That fun-killing whore.
You mustn’t do this. Mama will murder you.
Her family could find out. Hell, if he had another show in the community, the whole town could find out. That would be terrible for business. Her family had done well for themselves, but their livelihood depended on this place.

She swallowed, hating that she couldn’t just accept everything he had handed her and to hell with everyone else. Why did she have to think?

“I would work around your schedule,” he continued, blissfully unaware of how close she was to accepting his offer. Offers. Whatever. “I would prefer some of it to be during the day, so I can see you in daylight, but I would also not mind evening and nighttime sits.” He leaned in closer, his body brushing against hers. His arms were so damn big on either side of her. “I’m a professional. I’d be happy to give you references to past models.”

Was that code? Did he mean he wouldn’t leap on her upon viewing her naked body? As if she would want him to stay professional, if she did model for him. How was she supposed to sit with him nude, day after day, and not eventually climb him like a tree? Impossible, truly.

At her continued silence, his lips twisted. “You don’t believe me. I’m not always such an animal as I was that night. It had been…a while, for me.”

Oooh. “How long?”

He closed his eyes for a brief second. “A very long—”

The door opened without warning, and they both jumped, Micah taking a few steps away from her.

Leena raised an eyebrow at both of them, but the indulgent resignation in her face made Rana want to punch something. Okay, so maybe this wasn’t the first time she’d been caught with a guy in this office, but it hadn’t happened in a while, now had it?

“Excuse me. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Leena stepped back, like she was going to leave. She was dressed in an elegant pantsuit, which meant her sister had probably come from overseeing a catering event or networking.

“That’s fine.” Micah inclined his head to Rana, avoiding her eyes. “I was just leaving.”

“You don’t have to go,” she blurted out, even though she wasn’t sure what she would say if he did stay.
Yes, we can have sex? Yes, I’ll be your model? Yes, stand still and let me lick you please?

“It’s fine.” He nodded stiffly to them both and walked toward the door.

“I’ll come over—” She stopped. She couldn’t cancel on her date tonight, not when she’d already done it once, and not when the man was probably on his way to the bar. Even if she had a sneaking suspicion she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the kindly sales rep for shit.

Plus, maybe it would be good to have the night to think about all of this. Since she was
trying
not to be impulsive and all.

Thinking was the worst.

His step faltered. He cast a quick glance at her over a broad shoulder.

“Tomorrow?” she finished lamely.

His eyes shuttered, and he gave the barest dip of his head to acknowledge her.

Leena stepped aside to let him pass and continued watching him as he walked down the hall.

Rana folded her arms over her chest, this time to hide her puckered nipples from Leena. What the hell had she been thinking, wearing this bra and this shirt? Never again around Micah. These headlights were totally going to be the death of her.

Not that Leena would notice. She was leaning out the door.

“Do you want my phone? You can take a picture.” Catty, perhaps, but she didn’t particularly care for the way her younger sister was straining her neck to catch a glimpse of her man.

Your man?

Shut up.

Leena snapped out of her trance and came inside the office, shutting the door behind her. Her eyes were big. “Oh my God. It took me a minute, but I just realized who that is.”

“You know him?”

Leena didn’t answer right away, but fanned her face. “Uh, yeah.”

“Right.” Rana cocked her hip. “How do you know him?”

“I keep up on the news.”

Rana tucked her chin to her chest. Figured Leena would know about the local art scene.
Why can’t you be more polished like Leena? Men like a woman who’s cultured, not common.

Rana shoved her mother’s voice aside. “Oh.”

“I heard he had a show. I would have gone, but we had that gig across town.”

Rana tried not to scowl. What if Leena had gone to the show instead of Rana? Her little sister was beautiful, with her shiny, angled bob, her delicate features, and her ruthlessly maintained body. Combined with her sharp intelligence and innate classiness, she was probably a better match than Rana for any man.

Leena has a serious boyfriend. You need to stop.

It would help if Leena would quit looking so damn dreamy eyed. “I should have said something to him. Maybe gotten him to doodle on a napkin. Did he eat here? Oh my God. Maybe he did doodle on a napkin. What table was he at?”

Rana raised an eyebrow. “Hold up. We have linens, not napkins, and he didn’t eat here.”

Leena pursed her lips. “He…came to see you? Oh, wait. Wow. Was he tonight’s date?”

“What? No.” Even to her ears, her laugh sounded forced.

“Phew.” Leena shook her head. “I mean, he’s hot and all, but he’s probably not what you’re looking for.”

Right. Because there were men you fucked and men you fell in love with and married, and the two could never be the same. How many times had she heard that over the years?
Rana, you’re not dating the right type of man.

“What was Micah Hale doing here then?”

Rana shrugged. “He’s my neighbor. He wanted to talk to me about some stuff. Related to…our houses.”

“He’s your neighbor? Huh.” Leena moved around the desk and dropped into the chair. It was huge and leather, one of the few pieces of furniture in the entire restaurant that remained from when their father had been running the show.

“Why’s that surprising?”

Leena cast her a dry look. “He’s probably rich. He could afford something more luxurious.”

Based on the price of the painting Rana had bought last week, she’d figured Micah did okay for himself. Rich, though? There was nothing about him that screamed rich. “Maybe he doesn’t need anything more luxurious.” Their houses were large for single individuals. She’d tried a condo, but found she hated shared walls. Rana needed space, for herself and all her clutter.

Leena made a disbelieving sound. She was the most frugal of all of them, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have champagne tastes. “I guess so. He’s unlikely to get recognized in your neighborhood, at least.”

She tried to imagine her elderly neighbors knowing about a British artist who painted naked people. “I think you’re overestimating how many people know anything about art.”

Leena stared at her. “Rana…I don’t know who he is because he’s an artist.”

“So how did you recognize him?”

“Wait, do you seriously not know?” Her sister shook her head. “It was all over the news a couple years ago. I think he was famous enough for even our media to care, though it happened in England.”

Rana didn’t watch the news. Well, entertainment news, yes, and she kept up on the big headlines, but she wasn’t a twenty-four-hour news junkie like Leena.

A strange sense of dread crept over Rana. She knew she wouldn’t like what Leena was going to say, but she couldn’t help asking, “What? What happened?”

“I don’t remember exactly.” Leena wrinkled her nose. “Just that some guy tried to murder him.”

R
ana had never been
nervous about knocking on a door before.

She clenched her hand into a fist, apprehension making her stomach rock.
He’s just a man. Not a dragon or a beast. You understand men. You adore men. Get this over with.

She rapped lightly. It was early, the dew on the grass still wet, the sun not quite hot yet. She shifted from one sandaled foot to the other, waiting. She was about to raise her hand and knock again when a scuffling came from behind the door. The peephole darkened, and she raised her chin, doing her best to look calm and collected, though she was anything but.

The lock disengaged, and the door hinges squealed as he opened it. Then he was standing in the narrow opening, frowning at her.

It wasn’t an angry frown. It was a perplexed frown.

She’d said she would come by this morning, hadn’t she? She would have even come by the night before after she’d made it home from her date, but his house had been dark.

Turns out, she hadn’t needed the night to think about his proposal. She’d only needed a few minutes into her date with the perfectly kind and acceptable sales rep to realize she wouldn’t be able to turn her attention to any other man until she dealt with the one occupying her brain.

So here she was. Ready to deal with him.

She pasted a smile on her face, hoping her makeup adequately covered the dark circles under her eyes. “Good morning.”

He watched her warily. “Good...morning,” he said more slowly.

“I brought you buns.”

His eyes dropped to the plate of cinnamon buns she thrust toward him. She’d iced them when they were still warm, so the gooey part was melting over the sides of rolls, pooling on the plate. They weren’t the prettiest things she’d ever made—Devi could whip up baked goods that looked like they belonged in magazines—but she knew they would taste like airy bites of heaven.

She’d considered making muffins as her own private joke, but that would have taken her too long.

“Buns.” His hand made a movement, as if to take the plate from her.

She yanked it back, keeping her smile on her mouth.
Noooooo, sorry, sir.
He wasn’t touching these buns ’til they got some things straight.

Double meaning intended. “Have you eaten yet? I thought we could have breakfast together.”

“Together?” He glanced over his shoulder.

She frowned, a sickening feeling spreading through her stomach. Was he…not alone?

He didn’t
look
like he was in the midst of an orgy. The dark jeans he wore rode low on his hips, his blue T-shirt threadbare. His hair was clubbed back messily in his usual stubby ponytail.

Then again, perhaps this was how he looked in the midst of an orgy. If he strolled up to her like this, she couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t orgy the fuck out of him.

“I’ve found that when people parrot words back at someone, it’s because they’re trying to hide something,” she informed him, trying and failing to control the bite in her voice. “You can tell me to hit the road, if you’re busy.”

His thick brows drew together. “I am parroting, as you put it, because I’m surprised to see you.”

“I told you I would be here today.”

His shrug was jerky. “You went on that date last night.”

Rana squinted at him. “I already canceled on the guy once. I couldn’t cancel on him again for another dude. I’m not a flake.”

“You didn’t come home that late last night.”

She raised her chin at his moody tone. Oh, she did not like that tone. Now she only wanted to orgy the fuck out of him a little. “What are you saying, that I should have come over the second I got home to answer your out-of-nowhere proposition? Okay, first of all, don’t track my comings and goings. That’s weird, and I thought we both decided not to do any more weird shit.”

“I can’t help hearing your vehicle,” he said, snooty as can be.

“Try,” she returned. “Secondly, what was I supposed to do, walk up to your house in the dark? Put your damn porch light on if you want someone to think you’re home.”

He frowned. “I don’t quite know if I have a porch light.”

“Then don’t bitch at me for not dropping everything and running over right away. Not when you were the one who changed all the rules to start with.” She took a deep breath and lifted the plate. “Now do you want my buns or not?”

His nod was brief but quick enough that some of her ire was appeased.

Still, he was slow to step aside. She walked past him, her arm tingling where it brushed against his chest.

For a second, as she came inside, she wondered if she was in the wrong house. Surely, this bland, beige house did not belong to the passionate artist standing behind her, right?

Like her home, his had an open floor plan, so she could see into his dining area to the left and the living room to her right. The family room was tucked away, but she was certain it was probably as boring as this.

Sure, his studio was all white and sterile. She had figured that was an artist…thing, though, like he wanted the white background.

Where was the art? The interesting colors? The bold statement furniture?

The bare walls were a standard off-white that was common to rental properties. There was no furniture at all in the dining room, and the living room held only a beat-up brown couch and a small television, which looked like he might have picked up from someone on craigslist.

Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t seen a moving truck pull up to the house with Micah’s belongings. His car had one day simply appeared, and that was that.

He had moved from another country. It took time to furnish a home. Or maybe he liked living like a college frat guy? Or perhaps he was terrible with money, and he frittered away those big checks from his art on hookers and blow.

Because what did she know about him, really? Not much. Not nearly enough for her to be here.

Too bad she was too entranced to stop herself.

The door closed behind her. “Apologies.” He spoke stiffly. “My place isn’t fit for company.”

He walked past her and scooped up the mail sitting in a huge stack on the third step. He hesitated, his head turning this way and that, looking for a place to put it.

Oh. Oh dear.

He was embarrassed. He hadn’t been ill at ease at the thought of her walking in on his nonexistent orgy. He’d been worried she would judge his home.

Her heart tugged. She transferred the plate to one hand, barely conscious that she was using what Leena called her waitress hold, and cocked her hip. “Any of that mine?” She nodded at the stack of mail in his hand.

The corner of his mouth kicked up. Was…was that a smile? Had she, by chance, amused him?

It was close, but she was going to hang in there for the real deal.

He dropped the mail back on the stairs. His shirt rode up as he bent, revealing a strip of smooth brown skin. “I told you, I merely looked at your mail. I didn’t touch it.”

“That’s what all the mail bandits say.” She started toward the kitchen. “Shall we eat?”

“Right. Yes.”

Since baking calmed her and she spent a decent amount of time in her kitchen, Rana had put some money into updating hers. Micah’s landlord had…not. A yellowish fridge sat in the corner, next to an older model stove. The wooden table and pair of chairs looked similarly rundown. However, a shiny microwave sat on the chipped Formica table, new and out of place amongst the dated fixtures.

“I was intending to buy furnishings before I had guests.”

The defensiveness in his voice made her heart twinge. “Babbleposh, Jeeves.”

“Babble—?”

“It sounds like something you Brits would say.”

“Someday, I’d love to hear what you imagine my people are like.”

“Stiff. Formal. Everyone’s a time traveler, a wizard, or works for MI6.” She placed her plate on the table, pretending not to notice the legs wobbling a little at the weight.

“That’s not quite right. Only some of us are wizards. The rest are Muggles.”

Ack. She shot him a narrow look, inwardly delighted. “Okay, we’re going to put a pin in this convo for right now, but later you and I are going to have a lengthy Harry Potter discussion.”

She went to the counter. The first cupboard held a set of plates, and she grabbed two and brought them back to the table.

“I apologize for the mismatched plates.”

Yeah, that formal part of her assessment was spot-on, huh? His accent had grown more clipped. “Stop worrying. Our underpants no-no areas have bumped, and you told me you’d like a repeat. I’m hardly a guest.”

He was silent for a second. “Are you always so…?”

She arranged a bun on each plate carefully, as if the gooey lopsided treats needed to be plated properly. “So…what?” She sat down, and then kicked the other seat out from the table, looking up at him expectantly.

He came to sit slowly, lowering into the chair. The cheap wood protested as he settled his bulk in it, making her wonder if he had even purchased the few furnishings in this house for himself.

“Provocative?”

She liked the way his full lips shaped the word. Provocative. It was a better word than what other people had labeled her with at an early age. Like “outrageous” or “drama queen” or “attention whore”. “Sometimes. But I’m never really trying to provoke anything.” She grimaced. “Sorry. I’m usually just saying whatever’s in my head.”

“Don’t apologize,” he rumbled. “It’s rather refreshing not to wonder what a person is thinking.” He sounded as surprised by that admission as she was.

After a beat, she gave him a small smile. He might say it was refreshing, but everyone, including the people who loved her, eventually grew exasperated with her lack of filter. “Right.” She picked up her cinnamon roll and pulled off the outer ring. “Well? Go ahead. Try my buns.”

“Are you going to keep this play on words going for a while, or…”

“Yes. Because I’m emotionally twelve, and I giggle every time I say the word buns.” She widened her eyes. “Guess what happens when I meet a man named Richard? Oh, man. So many dick jokes.”

He looked down at his plate. “This was nice of you.”

She peeled off the second layer of the roll, discarding it. “I’m not the chef in my family, but I am a good cook. Especially when it comes to baking.”

“I believe you.” But he made no move to pick up his roll, only watched her as she took a bite of hers.

She closed her eyes, letting the cinnamon and sugar melt over her tongue. Damn, but she had a sweet tooth. If her slowing metabolism would allow it, she’d eat nothing but dessert for every meal.

Her eyes popped open when Micah shifted across from her. She finished her roll in a couple of bites and snagged another one, unraveling this one as well.

“Why do you do that?”

“I only like the center.” She ate the stripped roll in a few bites. “It’s the best part. The part with the ooey-gooey cinnamon.”

“Then why not make only centers?”

She cast him a chiding look. “That would be cheating. I like to work a little for my pleasures.”

“Ah.”

He still hadn’t touched his roll.

“Are you…allergic to something? Gluten-free?”

He shook his head. “I don’t care for sweets overly much.”

She considered that, and then quickly swapped plates with him, giving him her leftovers. “There. I’ll handle the sweetest part. You can eat the parts I don’t like, how’s that?”

His mouth kicked up. “I don’t eat much in the mornings, also.”

She surveyed his huge form skeptically. “In my experience, men who look like you are always hungry.”

“Men who look like me?”

“Yeah. You know.” She puffed up her cheeks and straightened, putting her arms out at her side to simulate his bigness. “Tall and jacked? All massive muscle? You must need like ten thousand calories a day.”

His mouth edged up a little more. A few more jokes and maybe she would get a smile out of him. “I drink a lot of protein shakes.”

“Ew.” Rana wrinkled her nose. “Protein shakes? You’re making me hurt.” She nodded at the plate. “Try it.”

He paused for a beat and then picked up one of the pieces she had shredded. He shoved it into his mouth with no reverence for the treat. His face changed as he chewed, his jaw slowing before he swallowed. “This is good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m fairly competent.”

“I never said you weren’t.” His hand hovered over his plate. After a second’s hesitation, he picked up another piece and ate it in a single bite.

“Better than a protein shake?”

“I don’t usually think about what things taste like. But yes,” he continued, before she could flinch from that sad remark. “This is better than a protein shake.”

She touched the tips of her sticky fingers together and glanced at the empty counter. “Do you have any napki—?”

A big hand wrapped around her wrist and extended her arm over the table. His head dipped, and his lips closed over her thumb. Her abs clenched when he drew the finger inside his mouth, rasping his rough tongue over it.

He cleaned off each of her fingers, sucking her pinky for a second before releasing it. Her chest felt too tight. She could tug her hand away from his grip, but she wouldn’t.

“I Googled you.”

The words fell in the silence with the weight of an atomic bomb. His face shuttered, and he drew back, releasing her. “Did you, now.” His voice was soft. “And what did you find?”

“I found your Wikipedia page. Read that. I know you were raised in London, and you have no siblings. You got your first big break when you were nineteen. You were considered a prodigy. By the time you hit thirty, you were pretty much famous and rich. It was a brief page.”

“My mother considers it her life goal now to keep it brief and pleasant,” he said. “Editing Wikipedia may be one of the few technologically savvy things she is capable of. What else did you see?”

She swallowed. “There were lots of gallery showings you did, plus some hits on people selling your art on the private market. For a lot, by the way. I mean, I thought your stuff at the gallery here was priced high, but that’s nothing compared to the stuff on, like, auction sites.”