Red Hot Obsessions (8 page)

His eyes darken. “You’re leaving it up to me?”

A flutter stirs in my gut, but I don't want him to know how much his suggestive gaze affects me. I need to hold the power here.

I shrug. “You suggested the game. You should name the prize.”

His mouth curls. “That's some dangerous power you've given me.”

I match his wicked smile with one of my own. “You better not abuse it.”

“Even if I think you'd enjoy it as much as me?”

I don't dignify him with a response. Instead, I turn and begin walking down the length of the gallery.

“I'll go easy on you,” he calls after me. And then, far too quickly, “If you guess incorrectly, then you have to give me a kiss.”

A kiss. All things considered, he could have suggested something far worse. I pause as if considering.
Let him think he’s thrown me off-kilter.

“How many guesses do I get?” I ask.

“As many as you want. As long as you pay up every time you’re wrong.”

I can definitely see this game spiraling out of control very quickly. Better place a limit on things.

“Let’s make it a one shot deal.” I tell him. “It’ll be more interesting that way.” Even though I know my odds aren’t good, it’s still better than trusting myself to kiss him a dozen times. “What happens if I’m right?”

“Then you don’t have to kiss me,” he says, grinning. “Unless you want to, of course.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “This bet’s a little one-sided, don’t you think?”

He shrugs. “You’re the one who told me to name the stakes.”

He’s right, of course. And I’ll play along. If indulging him gets me any closer to recovering the pledge money, I’ll do whatever it takes.

“All right,” I call back to him. “It's a deal.”

The corner of his mouth curls up in that charming little half smile of his. He spreads his arms wide.

“Make your guess,” he says, his eyes gleaming wickedly. “I’ll be waiting.”

“How do I know you won't change your answer if I guess correctly?”

“You can trust me,” he insists.

I'm not sure I can, but this is going too well for me to want to pick a fight. He seems to be enjoying our little game, and I mean to play him for all he's worth.

I continue my stroll down the gallery, scanning the art on either side of me as I pass, looking for anything that jumps out from the others. I'm at a major disadvantage here, that much is certain, but I'm willing to lose this battle if it means ultimately winning the war.

Still, the competitive side of me wants to give it my best shot. I'd really love to see his face when I get it right. My eyes roam over the collection. There are paintings of every style and medium I can imagine, as well as sculptures of clay, wood, metal, even marble.

I stop in front of an oil painting depicting a nude woman lying on a bed of wildflowers. Her arm is curled around her head, her leg slightly raised. It's a very sensual image, and I raise my eyebrow and look back at Calder.

“Interesting choice,” he says, moving closer. “I'll admit, this piece certainly has its charms.” His eyes roam over the canvas before flicking back to me. “You're wrong, though.”

“I never said this was my guess.”

“No? I believe you were about to.”

“Then perhaps you should exercise a little patience next time,” I say lightly, brushing my finger across the end of his nose. “Let me have a real guess, or you forfeit the prize.”

The amusement deepens on his face.

“Very well, then,” he says, gesturing toward the rest of the room. “Make your pick.”

But my eyes fall to the painting beside the lounging nude.

“Is that…” I step forward, peer down at the tiny plaque beside the work. “This is a Ludlam. A fucking Ludlam!”

“Ludlam?”

“Benjamin Ludlam,” I explain. “He’s probably my favorite contemporary artist. He’s freaking brilliant—his work combines modern techniques with a style reminiscent of the Pre-Raphaelites.” I shake my head.

“I can’t believe you have this,” I continue. I’ve heard of Ludlam’s work going for upwards of half a million dollars at auction—though, now that I think about it, that’s probably pocket change for the Cunninghams.

That thought brings me crashing down from my high. Half a million dollars could do so much for the Center. As much as I love seeing this painting in person, I can’t forget why I’m here.

“But I’m supposed to be finding
your
favorite piece,” I tell Calder sweetly. “Not picking my own.” I brush my fingers against his cheek as I turn and move back toward the Center of the gallery.

I feel his eyes boring into my back as I move away from him and continue my inspections. This collection really is amazing—but I never expected any less from Wentworth Cunningham, the man who gave us so much support throughout the years. He was truly a man who loved and respected the arts.

I stop the next time in front of a stretch of wall devoted entirely to colorful Pop art. It's an eclectic collection, that's for certain, but it's clear that someone with practiced taste and a refined eye selected these pieces. I stare at a multi-media work depicting a brightly painted bus with a series of even brighter advertisements pasted to its side.

All the time I’m contemplating my decision, Calder’s eyes are on me. I don’t even have to look—I can feel it. It's like a tickle on my skin, a sensation creeping up my spine. I don't think these particular works would count among his favorites. They're too modern, too strange.

On the opposite wall I spot another glass case, and I wander over to have a look. I know without glancing up that Calder's eyes follow me. I sense them sliding over my body as I move. A rush of pleasure surges through me. It's intoxicating, even this small taste of power, but it's also terrifying. I can’t fuck this up.

I lean over the glass case, making sure Calder has a nice, clear view of my backside. I've always been proud of my ass. If it wins me a few points for the Center, all the better. Meanwhile, I'm perusing the items inside the case. These pieces appear to be crafted entirely of ivory. My eyes lock on one of the larger works, a long curved tusk depicting a scene at sea. On one side of the carving, there's a large ship with a number of men—some scrambling about the deck, others brandishing harpoons. On the other half, a sperm whale rises from the water, its teeth bared at the sailors. It's the sort of scene that a young, adventurous boy would love.

I glance up at Calder, who's come to stand beside me at the case. Instead of focusing on me, his gaze moves about the ivory carvings below us. His face is carefully calm. I'm not sure what to make of it.

He seems to be studying the pieces in the case as carefully as I, but I don't miss the way his gaze lingers on the same work I noticed, the long tusk with the ship scene.

“That's it,” I say softly.

He blinks, look up at me, as if I've interrupted some deep thought.

“What did you say?”

“That's it.” I nod at the tusk. “That's your favorite thing in here.” He doesn't have his father's appreciation for form or technique or history; no, his favorite will be the one that speaks to him on an emotional level, one that inspired and excited him as a child.

His gaze shifts back to the tusk. He stares at it for a long moment, his eyes flicking between the sailors and the whale. I watch him with interest, no less because, for the briefest of seconds, he looks almost boyish. But quick as a flash, the wistfulness disappears, and his usual expression returns.

“You're wrong,” he says. “It's a remarkable piece, to be sure, but I'm afraid you're incorrect.”

I don't believe it. I stare at him, trying to catch the lie in his eye, but the openness of even a few seconds ago is gone. In its place is the guarded, smug Calder he prefers to show me.

“No. You're wrong. You can deny it if you want, but that piece means something to you.”

“I never said it didn't,” he replies. “It's a charming scene. Nineteenth century. I believe my father acquired it from a museum.”

He's cheated, and I know it. He might act indifferent, but it's obvious that he has some sort of emotional reaction to this tusk. Still, if he refuses to acknowledge it, there's nothing I can do. I won't press the issue. This whole game was about flirting, not delving into his emotions. Disappointed as I might be, I have a job to do.

“Well,” I say. “If this isn't your favorite, which is?”

The question seems to knock the last of the shadows from his eyes, and he flashes me a smile before guiding me back toward the center of the room.

When he stops, we're standing in front of a round, abstract painting that is, by all accounts, exactly the opposite of any choice I would have made. It's small, probably only a foot and a half in diameter, and composed almost entirely of jagged, angular shapes in shades of taupe and tan and bronze. The shapes curve around the center of the piece, where a slash of bright red cuts across the canvas.

If I'm being honest—and I have a strong appreciation for art, even the weird stuff, so this is saying something—it’s one of the ugliest things I've ever seen. I don't know what to make of it.

“It's… interesting,” I say finally. This has to be a joke. He picked the most hideous piece in here because he knew I'd never even consider it. It’s cheating, pure and simple, and he’s not even being subtle about it.

“You don't seem impressed.” His voice is thick with amusement. “Or is it just that I've surprised you?”

“It's very different than what I expected you to pick,” I admit, tilting my head to see if it looks any better from another angle. “Why this one?”

He steps up behind me, so near that I can feel the heat of him against my back, even though we don't touch.

“What do you see?” he asks. His breath stirs my hair.

I'm not sure if the question's a trick. Maybe he just wants to see me flustered, to see me scramble to compliment a piece that I clearly don't like. After all the fuss I've made over the Center and the importance of arts, confessing that I don't appreciate this particular painting might undermine my points and give Calder the perfect opening to press his own case against me. All he'd have to do is claim the same opinion of the art our students and sponsored artists create.

But it was probably Calder's father that purchased this piece, not Calder himself, and I generally trusted the late Wentworth's taste. Maybe he saw something in this painting that I don't.

“It looks like a sun,” I say finally. “A muted sun—like it's covered in dust. A hopeless man's sun.” I tilt my head. “Or a hopeless woman's.”

“My, but that's a depressing interpretation,” he says. “Is that all you see?”

“It's your favorite. Maybe you should tell me what you think.”

“Mmm.” His hand brushes against my hip. “I'm afraid I see it a little differently. You see, I have a theory about abstract art. If an artist wants to paint a sun, why doesn't he just paint a sun? If he wants to paint a tree or the ocean or some pastoral scene with shepherds and goats, he can just paint it outright. Abstract art, on the other hand, is an attempt to depict something deeper—those subconscious, primal emotions and urges that can't be expressed in concrete images or terms.”

“Abstract art is for abstract concepts, you mean,” I say.

“Yes, smartass,” he growls in my ear.

I'm not sure I agree, but I'm willing to play along.

“And which 'primal' emotion do you think this painting depicts?” I ask.

“Well.” He reaches around me, indicating the left side of the painting. “This bit here—the strokes are short and angry. And as you follow them around,” —he gestures with his hand, pressing closer to me with the motion—”they get shorter, more agitated. Round and round they go, building frustration.”

His chest is flush against my back. I can feel his hard muscles even through the fabric of our clothes, and once again I'm assaulted by images of him in his room last night. My initial urge is to jerk away from him, but already my body is stirring in response to his nearness. Besides, I don't want to disrupt this flirtation we've started. I just have to concentrate and stay in control.

“So you believe this piece represents frustration,” I say, a little more breathlessly than I intend.

He gives a low chuckle. “To an extent, yes. But look.” He shifts, indicating the red slash at the center of the painting while his other hand comes to rest on my waist. “If the outer edges represent frustration, what do you make of this part?”

I'm not sure how he wants me to answer—and I'm having trouble concentrating anyway. The heat of his fingers seems to burn through my clothes. His hand moves ever-so-slightly, just enough to brush the top of my hip once more.

“I—I guess the center's the opposite of frustration,” I say, noting the softer, curved lines.

“You could say that. The cause of the frustration, maybe, but also its cure.”

I'm not sure what he means by that. I'm too distracted by the way his hand has shifted again on my hip, sliding slowly downward.

Easy, I tell myself. Stay in control.

“But why is this one your favorite?” I press.

“Mmm.” His warm breath rushes across my ear. “Because I think the artist has captured it perfectly. Haven't you ever felt that—that restless agitation? Like you were going to burst? Like everything in the world was going to crumble down around you unless you calmed the disturbance pulsing through you?”

“I… don't know.”

He leans forward, and his lips brush against my ear. My heart pounds against my ribs, and what little breath I have left catches in my throat.

“What are you doing?” I ask him.

He responds by tilting his head and kissing the side of my neck, first just below the ear, then lower. His mouth begins a slow trail down toward my shoulder, and the sensations that dance across my skin at the contact make my head buzz.

“Mr. Cunningham, I—”

“Calder,” he murmurs against my neck. His voice is deeper, but there's still a hint of amusement there. “I'm just trying to show you what I mean about the painting.” His mouth brushes against the place where my neck meets my shoulder. His tongue slips out, flicking softly against my skin, and I suck in a breath.