A Dangerously Sexy Secret. Stefanie London

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.”

      “You’re welcome.” Her voice was a whisper as he walked out of the room, leaving her alone to ponder why the fates had decided yet again to use her art to humiliate her.

      “Maybe you should take a hint,” she muttered to herself as she placed the remaining paintings back where they belonged. “Listen to your parents and get a real job.”

      She would. Just as soon as she figured out what had happened to Kylie, she would head home and enter the real world.

       3

      WREN SAT BEHIND the sleek chrome-and-marble desk that crowned the entrance to the Ainslie Ave gallery. Her boss was expecting a potential client for a private viewing, so he was locked away in his studio preparing, which left her with a few precious moments of solitude to do some digging.

      Hopefully, the chance to snoop would not only yield some valuable information but also help her to keep her mind off Rhys. And how he probably thought she was a nut job after the way she’d ordered him out of her apartment last night.

      She cringed. The whole evening had been going so well. They’d had a great rapport and she’d gotten definite vibes of interest from him. Heated glances, an invitation to make a move. Then she’d blown it.

      “Rookie move, Livingston,” she muttered to herself as she clicked out of Sean’s calendar. “You don’t think before you act.”

      It was a criticism that had been handed to her over and over by her parents. Most of the time it followed, “Why can’t you be more responsible, like your sister?” Wren had never been too good at plotting out her moves before she made them. Often guided by impulse, she’d landed herself in hot water on a few occasions and had earned herself a bit of a reputation—unfairly, in her opinion—for being a wild girl.

      She wasn’t wild. Irresponsible, perhaps. Spontaneous, definitely. But certainly not wild in the sense that they meant it back home.

      Not that anyone believed her.

      Shaking off the well-worn thoughts, she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. Her self-loathing could wait. She’d been working here for exactly three weeks now and all her preliminary searches had turned up zilch. Well, unless you counted a snarky online review of an exhibition Sean had run two years ago...which she didn’t.

      Sliding down from her stool, she padded quietly across the showroom floor. The place was silent save for the swish of her skirt against the polished boards. The other two interns, with whom she shared reception duties and a cramped studio space, were painting today. She’d gotten to know them quite well in the last few weeks—thanks to the assistance of her amazing chocolate brownies—although she could tell both girls believed Sean Ainslie was a god among men.

      The paintings in the showroom had been switched around this morning after Sean’s conversation with the client. He’d since selected a shortlist of works that he thought would suit the client’s needs. The rest of the paintings were locked away in some specially designed climate-controlled room to which Wren had not yet gained access.

      Sean Ainslie came from money; she knew that for sure. His wealth wasn’t due to his art, although he’d had moderate success with a collection of paintings depicting the burned-out carcass of the iconic New York yellow cab. Yet the paintings he had ready for viewing were entirely different in feel and style.

      Wren studied a smaller canvas, which showed an ice-cream cone melting in the sun. The painting had a slight cubism feel to it, the shapes on the waffle cone exaggerated and angular. Sharp. The vibrant colors seemed at odds with Sean’s darker, grittier pieces.

      “Why were you drawn to that one?” Sean’s voice echoed against the high ceilings and bounced around, causing Wren to jump.

      “It’s different from your other works.” Wren pressed a hand to her chest and felt her heart beat wildly beneath her skin. Sean unnerved her, especially his ability to sneak up on her out of nowhere. “I was wondering what inspired it.”

      “I used to visit Coney Island with my grandfather when I was a kid.” He came up behind her and stood close. Too close. “Everything about that place was so...plastic. It felt unreal to me, even back then. Like it was something I’d made up in my head instead of being a real place.”

      The scent of stale cigarette on his breath made Wren’s stomach churn. She tried to subtly put some distance between them by pretending to look more closely at the painting. “I’ve never been there.”

      “Don’t bother. It’s a cesspool.”

      “Right.” She nodded.

      “Have you got the coffee on?”

      “Yes.” Taking the opportunity, she stepped away from him and returned to her post at the front of the showroom.