Tempt Me (14 page)

He could afford to live anywhere—could rent, buy, or build studio space to meet his needs—yet he lived and worked here, in this diverse neighborhood that had more than a nodding acquaintance with poverty. There was more to Rafe Sebastiani than met the eye, not that what met the eye wasn’t pretty damn fine. How was she going to keep from jumping him the minute the door closed?

“Really?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” And she really was. Oddly, learning Wyatt was an incubus had somehow lifted a huge weight from her shoulders, leaving her feeling light enough to levitate off the Jeep’s heated leather seat. She’d spent years beating herself up for her weakness, for not being able to resist Wyatt’s sexual pull. For mistaking sexual attraction for love.

Pheromones.

But this time would be different. This time, she’d be fully in control. She just had to get away from Rafe long enough to slip one of Jack’s pills under her tongue.

Rafe pulled the Jeep into the narrow, triple-deep garage. “Wait a sec.” In a move that had Lukas’s training all over it, he watched the garage door close in the rear view mirror, waiting until it hit the cement with a soft ka-thunk before unlocking the doors and getting out. Reaching into the back seat, he grabbed her overnight bag. “Ready?”

“Yes.” For anything. Everything. Snagging her purse by the strap, she slid off the passenger seat. If it turned out she had just this one night with him, she was going to make it count. 

Rather than take the stairway, Rafe ushered her toward an industrial elevator whose doors he opened and closed by hand. Once inside, he pressed the button for the third floor.

So, they weren’t going to the studio. “Aren’t we working tonight?”

“Yes, but it’s too chilly in the studio for the kind of work I want to do tonight. If I’d been thinking, I would have turned up the heat before I left. Do you mind if we do this upstairs?”

“No, but you have to give me a tour of your studio sometime.”

“Will do.”

Neither of them spoke as the elevator slowly and clankily ascended, her tension rising along with it. Rafe looked straight ahead, his clenched jaw sending his cheekbones into relief. His knuckles tightened on the handle of her overnight bag. His delicious scent darkened, intensified, swirling around them.

She leaned toward him, shivering as her cheek brushed against his hair.
So soft.
Before the night was over, she’d comb it with her fingers, tug it with her fists—Shit. She had to get to those pills in her purse, pronto. 

The elevator stopped moving. “Still okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.” An embarrassed laugh escaped. “Just a little nervous. I’ve never been an artist’s model before.”

“Nothing to it.” He shot her a cheeky wink as he opened the doors and escorted her from the elevator, helping her off with her coat and hanging it up in the entryway’s closet. “You can put your boots there.” He pointed to a tray lying on the closet floor as he took off his own coat. “Need anything before we start? Something to eat? How about a drink?”

Nope, she just wanted to get the work part of the evening done so they could play. Resting a hand on his arm for balance, she lifted her pant leg and unzipped one calf-high boot, and then the other. The sound of the zipper teeth separating seemed unnaturally loud, and went on forever. “Nothing, thanks.” Just a moment of privacy so she could take that pill. “Where will we work?”

“Upstairs. In my bedroom.” He cleared his throat as he kicked off his own shoes. “There’s not enough room for the pose I want down here on the couch. Is that okay with you?”

“Sure,” she said. “Let’s go.” She couldn’t wait to see his bedroom.

They padded up the stairs in their stocking feet. Rafe flipped a light switch when they reached the fourth floor, and she stutter-stepped in surprise. She’d half-expected his bedroom to look like a sultan’s harem or an opium den, but instead, it was bare and sparsely furnished, with an almost monk-like asceticism—until you took a closer look. His bed was a simple king-sized platform with no headboard, but covered in an exquisite quilt, a work of art that exploded with all the subtle shades of the desert. Next to the bed stood a metal lamp, its base and stalk comprised of too many twining bodies to count. Across the room from the bed was a full wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrored panel doors that must hide closets, shelves and storage. No pile of clothes, not a single stray sock, marred the perfection of the glossy wood floor.

“Finally, a flaw.”

“What?”

“You’re one of those neat freaks.”

“No, I’m not.” He grinned. “Believe me, those sliding closet doors hide a multitude of sins.”

And she’d open them and snoop the first chance she got. “So, how does this work?” She fingered the collar of her sweater. “Do I just take my clothes off? Lay down on the bed?”

“No, of course not. Follow me.”

They walked to a darkened doorway she hadn’t noticed before. Rafe reached inside and flicked the lights on, illuminating a gorgeous bathroom that made her think of shifting desert sands. “I need to run downstairs for a minute,” he said, setting the overnight bag on the slab of granite supporting a beautiful vessel sink, unmistakably his own work. “Put your clothes anywhere you want. There’s a bathrobe on the hook on the back of the door.” After a slight hesitation, he rested his hands on her shoulders. For some reason, his touch steadied her, settled her nerves. “Take your time.” Lifting a hand, he caressed the hair at her temple. “We have all night.”

Her lower abdomen clutched at his words, but before she could touch him back, he turned and left.

She huffed a nervous breath. All righty then.

She took Rafe at his word that she could put her clothes anywhere she wanted. Returning to his bedroom, she slid back one of the sliding mirrored closet doors. Dozens of pairs of pants hung on clamp hangers, arranged by color gradation from lightest khaki to darkest black. Two beautiful suits hung at the end of the row, next to what was clearly a woman’s bathrobe—heavy purple satin with a shawl collar, fit for a queen, and no doubt left by a former lover. She found an empty hanger, slipped off her own pants, and hung them next to a pair of faded-out cargo pants that looked like Army surplus. Behind the next closet door was a collection of shirts that would make a male model gasp. When she opened a third, she grinned. Instead of the retail precision she’d expected, his sweaters were a jumbled mess. Habit, or nerves? Either brought a sense of relief. She picked up the cable fisherman’s knit sweater he’d worn a couple of days ago and lifted it to her face. Her eyelids drifted closed at the spicy scent, at the drugging, musky essence that swept every intelligent thought away. 

The pills.

She put his sweater back where she’d found it and stripped off her own, leaving her standing there in her panties, bra and fuzzy knee-high socks. Shooting a quick glance at the stairway, she scurried back to the bathroom. If the bedroom had surprised her with its asceticism, this room met her every preconceived notion and then some. There wasn’t a bathtub because the walk-in shower with its multiple shower heads and seating for two took up almost half of the room. The plush, oversized towels hung on heated rods, and the sand-colored tile floor was Caribbean-warm under her feet. Her toes wriggled in pleasure.

“Bailey? You doing okay in there?”

Damn, she hadn’t heard him come up the stairs. “Yeah, give me another second.”

A pause. “I’m going to change. Take your time.”

“Okay,” she sang out. Reaching into her purse, she pawed around until she found her brightly colored “C’mon Get Happy” pillbox. She flipped it open with her thumbnail, plucked a half-tablet out of the box, and slipped it under her tongue. As the bitter pill dissolved, she could hear clothes rustle in the other room. Rafe was changing, and she did the same, slipping out of the periwinkle bra and panty set she’d so carefully chosen. She caught a glance of her naked body in the huge mirror and sighed. The panties’ elastic waistband had carved visible creases into her skin at the hips.

Well, it wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. As a sketcher of naked women, and as a lover with a reputation, the visible indignities that corsets, pantyhose, underwire bras and Spanx left on a woman’s body were certainly no secret to him.

Picking up her mini, she took one final look at her messages. According to Winnie, she and Rafe hadn’t been followed home. Wyatt had left Chadden’s a couple of minutes ago, and the surveillance team had managed to tag his car while he was inside. Turning the mini to vibrate mode, she threw it in her purse.

No more tech tonight. Tonight was for her.

For them.

She slipped into Rafe’s navy terrycloth bathrobe, tying it at the waist and rolling up the sleeves as she left the bathroom. It smelled like him, too—the hint of desert spice, the delicious, drugging musk—but she could tell that the pill was already working. She still felt knee-knocking need, but with the meds on board, her thoughts were so clear she could practically feel her synapses snap. Reaching back to turn off the light, she walked into the bedroom. She might even manage to let Rafe work for a while without jumping his bones.

Or maybe not. Rafe had changed, all right, into faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt that was almost translucent from countless washings. His arm muscles bunched and flexed as he twisted his hair into a sloppy knob at the back of his head, securing it with an elastic band.

Her mouth went dry. Holy Mother, how many men were secure enough in their masculinity to wear their hair in a freaking bun? She wanted to tug on it, mess it up, feel his hair spill over her skin.

“What?” he asked, glancing at her over his shoulder as he pulled back the quilt, exposing showy white sheets.

“Nothing,” she croaked. A tray sat on the bedside table, holding a bottle of red wine, a corkscrew, a carafe of water, a couple of tumblers, and a sleeve of Girl Scout cookies—Trefoils, if she wasn’t mistaken. She swallowed back a nervous giggle as she approached the bed. “Um, so how does this work?”

He fussed with the pillows, making a cozy-looking nest. “I’d like to sketch you reclining against these pillows, if you don’t mind.”

“Nope.” The bulge straining the button fly of his ancient jeans sent her confidence flying. Opening the robe, she let gravity take it to the floor. “Where do you want me?”

Rafe’s eyes widened slightly as he gazed at the skin she’d just exposed. “Right up here is fine,” he said, clearing his throat as he gestured to the pile of pillows. “Go ahead and get comfortable.” As she climbed onto the bed, she saw him mouth a curse.

She barely bit back her grin.

As he poured a tumbler of water from the carafe and drank, she tried to find the body position that would provide maximum pillow coverage. If she casually hugged one of the bigger pillows, it would cover her...no. She took a deep breath. No. If she was going to sleep with the man, she could scrape up the courage to pose for him first.

What would he see with his artist’s eye? Other than elastic marks on her hips?

The mattress dipped as he knelt on the bed. “Do you mind if I shift you a little?” The expression in his eyes reminded her of a tawny jungle cat—a hungry one. “There’s a particular body line I’d like to work on tonight...”

“Sure,” she squeaked.

He started moving the pillows around, disturbing her nest. “What I’d like you to do is lie on your back, with your upper torso supported by the pillows.”

She eyed the pillow pile. “Where does my head go?”

“On this side. Tipped back, here.”

The slightly arched position would jut her breasts to the sky. Embarrassment flashed, but quickly receded. Rafe had never given her any reason to think he found her meager breasts inadequate. In fact, the position he’d requested suggested he found them visually interesting indeed. “Okay.” She moved onto the pillows, and lay back. Though his touch was nothing but professional as he helped her move into position, her nipples pebbled, and gooseflesh sheeted her skin.

“Cold?” He made a minute adjustment to the angle of her chin.

He was kidding, right? “No. How long do I need to stay like this?”
How long until I can jump you?

His nostrils flared slightly. “Ten minutes?”

Could she last that long? The pose was...diabolical. She was stretched on a rack of soft, down feathers, displayed for his pleasure. She wanted to writhe, to shift against the sheets, to get some relief from the achy desire coalescing between her thighs.

“Doing okay?” There was the slightest wisp of amusement in his voice.

He knew exactly what he was doing to her, damn it. Well, two could play the tortuous foreplay game. “I’m fine,” she said, shifting her shoulders slightly on the pillows to draw his attention to her breasts again. She flicked a pointed glance at his groin. “How about you?”

Swearing under his breath again, Rafe reached for his sketchpad and charcoals. “This shouldn’t take long.”

But it did—longer than she wanted it to, anyway. He sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, in her line of sight, but tantalizingly out of reach. As the minutes passed, as the charcoal scratched and stroked against the paper, he looked at her over and over again, but there was a distance in his eyes, as if he looked both
at
her and
through
her to some internal vision that only he could see.

He certainly had no difficulty focusing on his sketching with an erection that, if anything, had grown larger rather than subsided. Occupational hazard? Maybe, maybe not. All she knew was that she was having a devil of a time fulfilling her sole responsibility: lying perfectly still. It was all she could do not to squirm, to writhe, as the charcoal whispered against the paper, as the air stroked her skin with a touch so light it tortured rather than soothed.

“What’s that cute little pout for?” he murmured, smudging a shadow onto the paper with the pad of his thumb. From this angle, his cheekbones looked as sharp as skate blades.

“I’m not pouting.”
Much.

“If you could only see the expressions chasing across your face.” After one final glance, Rafe gave a satisfied sigh and closed his sketchpad with a snap. Uncrossing his long legs, he leaned over. She heard him set the pad on the bedside table and toss the stubby stick of charcoal on top. A delicate glissando echoed in the room as a glass was filled with liquid. As she stretched her arms overhead, she couldn’t quite find the muscular will to turn her head to see whether he was pouring water or wine.