Raising Hell (5 page)

“I guess you could say I escaped to here.”

“A common tale,” he said.

“Blond girl comes to the city to be a model,” she said with a wry gin. “I never said my story was original. But it is mine.”

“So you left home to find fame and fortune?”

Her brow creased. “I don’t have anything against either, but I really came because I couldn’t stand the thought of living my life without options in Alabama. I wanted more than working in the office at my daddy’s church, answering phones, and calling people to make good on their pledges. And even if I could convince Daddy I didn’t want to do that, well what then? Work at the Piggly Wiggly? My grades weren’t good enough for a scholarship, and Daddy said he wouldn’t pay for anything but the county junior college.”

“Sounds like a bastard,” he said, and felt a secret pleasure at that. At least the man his father wanted to punish deserved it.

“He loves me. He just has a different view of the world, you know? Thinks working in the church and getting married and having babies is all a girl should want. But I wanted more.” She drew in a deep breath. “So I decided to be the stereotypical small-town girl and rebel against my daddy.”

“You came here.”

“Sure did. I banked on the one thing I knew I had. The one thing that might be worth something.”

“Your looks.”

“Everyone has always told me I’m pretty. And I’ve always secretly agreed with them.” Her cheeks flushed.

“They—and you—were right. You definitely have the looks.” Her decision to rebel against her father impressed him. For that matter, maybe he was even a little jealous of the decision. That, however, wasn’t something he intended to think about.

She shrugged. “My daddy would say pride’s the biggest sin of all, and I guess he’d be right, since New York pretty much turned its back on me.”

“It won’t anymore,” he said. “Not if I paint you.” He took her hand. “And you are beautiful. It’s not pride, Delilah. It’s honesty and self-awareness.”

“Maybe. But it doesn’t matter anyway, you know? Because my looks are what got me here. And now that I’m here, I’m staying. I may not be a model, but I’m going to stay. I can study and take night classes and maybe even get into NYU.” Her chin lifted, just a little. “I can do it, you know.”

“I believe you.” He did, too. “And you could do it a lot faster with a model’s salary.” He took her hand. “I sense a ‘but,’ though.”

“You’re either perceptive or I’m transparent. But, yeah. There’s a ‘but.’ Because even if I go to school and become a teacher or an accountant or something, I’m still going to crave this, you know? Because I really did want it. And for more than a way to escape, and for more than just a little rebellion against my dad.”

“You wanted your fifteen minutes.”

“No, it’s not the fame. It’s really not. It’s the experience. The whole shebang. Something I can pull out and look at and think, yes. Once upon a time Delilah did something a little crazy. And she had a great time doing it.”

She tugged her hand away from his, and the heat from her touch dissipated, leaving him cold and hollow.

“That sounds really silly, doesn’t it?”

“Not at all,” Nick said. He understood the need to fulfill a wild urge. To let passion rule over intellect. “Was that what you had planned tonight? To go a little crazy?”

“Hardly.” She grinned, clearly amused by the thought. “Maybe that’s my problem. Even when I want to go wild, I don’t quite know how.”

Nick shook his head, not understanding.

“I volunteer at an arts center,” she said. “They have painting, writing, pottery, all sorts of classes. But they also teach basic literacy. Hardly going wild in the big, bad city.” She shrugged.

“But you chose a little wildness tonight,” he said. “You chose me.”

Her eyes widened, and she nodded, just a little. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

“But I still don’t understand the sketch,” he said. “Why do you want me to sketch you? And why now?”

“This may sound silly, but I’d pretty much convinced myself today that I’d lost the chance to experience being a model. I figured I gave it my best shot, but got nowhere. So maybe it was time to face facts. Start applying for schools. Quit thinking about modeling.” She drew a breath. “But now I’m thinking that if you sketched me, I’d know what it feels like. And if it’s anything like what I’ve imagined, then I’ll keep at it. At least for a little longer.”

He watched her, for the first time wondering if he
could
take her soul. The women he’d painted before had been beautiful but careless with their soul, with their essence. Women who would willingly trade their bodies to get what they wanted. Women, in other words, who would have given him exactly what he’d taken merely for the promise of a brief moment of fame.

The stealing of a soul was a complex process, and he’d never much analyzed it; he simply
did.
But the one thing he knew was that it always started with the loosening of inhibitions. And with those previous women, that step had essentially already been accomplished. It had been nothing to steal a hint of their soul and the women had hardly missed it at all.

With Delilah, the task would not be so easy. Certainly he wouldn’t even bother trying with a mere table sketch. But perhaps the sketch would entice her.

And entice her he needed to do. Whereas his previous models’ ambition stemmed from vanity, Delilah’s stemmed from a sense of self. Internal rather than external. A trickier proposition, to be sure. And for the first time, he doubted his ability to satisfy his father’s quest.

No.
He could do this. He
had
to do this. The woman might be more of a challenge, but certainly the task was not impossible. All that was needed was more finesse. More creativity. And a little bit of time.

Certainly, it would be necessary to get close to the woman. Close enough to earn her trust. Close enough to unravel some restraints. And, more important, close enough to steal.

Lila fidgeted on her stool,
unnerved by how much she’d revealed to this man. He probably thought she was an idiot, the way she’d blathered on and on. There was something about him, though. Something that drew her in and, apparently, affected her as potently as a few strong drinks.

Lord knew, he loosened her tongue. Not to mention that his mere proximity left her feeling warm and decadent. Itchy, even, but in a wholly sensual way. Like she might die if he didn’t scratch the itch… and she might melt if he did.

“So will you?” she asked, shaking off the languor in her bones. “Will you sketch me now?”

He leaned back, his silver-gray eyes examining her with an almost feral intensity as he looked her up, then down. She tried to sit still, but couldn’t quite manage. The heat of his gaze was so intense it might have been a caress, and her nipples peaked under his scrutiny, raising hard nubs under the soft Lycra of her top. Instinctively, she started to cross her arms over her chest, but fought the urge, keeping them at her sides, and feeling more exposed—and more turned on—than she ever had in her life.

His inspection finished, he met her eyes, the corner of his mouth curving up into a silent smile. He turned away, saying nothing, then took a quick sip of his scotch. He reached for two cocktail napkins, pulled them close, then patted his mouth with one.

Honestly, she wanted to scream. “Well?” she demanded, forcing her voice to remain calm and steady.

“Of course I’ll sketch you,” he said. He met her eyes, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “In fact, at the moment I can think of only one thing I’d like to do more.”

“Oh.” She knew she shouldn’t ask, but she couldn’t help herself. “What’s that?”

One beat, then another. Her heart pounded in her chest, the rhythm so intense she was certain everyone in the bar could hear it.

And then, just when she was certain he wasn’t going to answer, he traced the curve of her cheekbone with his thumb, then leaned close. She closed her eyes as his lips brushed her hair, and his voice was a whisper against her ear, sending shivers trilling down her spine. “The only thing I want more than to sketch you,” he murmured, “is to paint you.”

Lila exhaled, her eyes still closed, her body burning from the remnants of his breath caressing her skin. That hadn’t been the response she’d expected. But somehow his words were all the more erotic, holding a promise of things more decadent and revealing than mere sex.

“Shall I?” he asked.

And then, opening her eyes to look at him, she nodded.

He grinned and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket to produce a stick of charcoal.

She lifted an eyebrow and he shrugged. “Accountants carry calculators,” he said. “It’s not that surprising.”

“Do you have a pad in there, too?”

He drew the napkin closer. “No need. Now sit quietly,” he directed. “And watch me.”

He cupped her face, tilting her head just slightly, then urged her hand up until she found herself resting her chin on her fist, watching him from this posed position. And watching the image of herself come to life on the tiny cocktail napkin.

He started with a sweep of the charcoal. One line that seemed to have no connection to her at all. No connection, that is, except for the smoldering way that he looked at her. A smoky gaze that seemed reflected in the smudged charcoal image emerging on the paper.

The curve of her jaw. Then the line of her neck. A flick of his wrist and the tendrils of her hair seemed to materialize from so many lines on the paper. And then, most miraculously of all, he caught the expression in her eyes. And, seeing that, she knew that he could never doubt that she’d agree to be painted. Because her expression was rapturous. And she knew the truth of what he’d sketched. Because with every piercing look—with every sure stroke of the charcoal—Lila realized that she couldn’t walk away without letting him paint her. His scrutiny made her feel both alive and unique. And even if she never did another bit of modeling, the portrait he’d create would fulfill her fantasies. More, Nicholas Velnias would be giving her the chance at immortality. And, really, what girl could say no to that?

‡
Chapter Five

N
ick leaned against the door frame
and peered into the only fully enclosed room in his entire loft. In front of him, Delilah frowned at her duffel bag, then withdrew a crumpled dress and tried to shake out a few wrinkles. As far as he could tell, she didn’t realize he was there, and for a few moments longer, he wanted to simply watch her.

They’d left the bar for her apartment, where they’d gathered a few of her things before coming back to his place. He’d led her through the loft, trying to see it with her eyes. The wide-open space, filled with the scent of turpentine and oils, of fresh canvas and sawdust. Canvases and bits of wood for frames leaned haphazardly against the walls. Tubes of paint, mason jars with soaking paint brushes, and dozens of pages ripped from magazines littered the floor and covered the five utilitarian worktables that ringed the room and constituted the only furniture in the loft other than a luxurious bed, a small dining table, two spindly chairs, and an armoire for Nick’s clothes. Nick had never before focused on the spartan quarters, but now he had to wonder what she must think of him. Devoted to his art, he presumed, and that was the truth. Once he’d found the loft—once he’d installed rows of windows to let in the light—all he’d cared about was painting. Food and sleep were afterthoughts. Even sex, though the rush that came from watching an image come forth on a canvas was often more than enough to make him hard. Fortunately, his previous models had always been understanding and flattered, if not downright demanding.

He’d built the guest room about a year ago after he’d been frustrated one too many times by the inability to get in touch with his current model when he woke up at 3 a.m. with the urge to paint.

Now he watched Delilah, and while his fingers itched to paint her in the moonlight, he also wanted simply to touch her. The urge was so overpowering that he almost took a step forward. He reined it in, though. Time enough for that after he’d begun the task of capturing her image on the canvas.

She looked up at him, a question in her eyes. “You’re staring.”

“Yes. I am,” he said. “Studying the way you move, the flow of your body. The way your clothing hugs your curves as you go back and forth from the bed to the closet.”

“Oh.” She pulled a T-shirt out, scowled at the wrinkles, but didn’t bother shaking it. She put it in a bureau drawer, then started to fold up the now-empty duffel. She stayed focused on the job, her face turned away from him. Even so, he could see the way her lips curved in pleasure, as if the thought of him watching her gave her a secret little trill of delight.

Interesting.

“But you’re not going to be painting me moving,” she said.

“Perhaps I just like watching you.”

“Yeah?” Another shy look. “I guess that’s a good thing since you’ll be looking at me for a while.”

“A very good thing,” he said.

“So, um, am I kicking you out of your bedroom? Because I can just sleep on a couch or something.” A little crease formed over her nose. “Not that I saw a couch…”