Elanor is the artist he met in France?
“She agreed to meet with the full intention of seducing me, but what she didn’t count on was that I was already in love with someone else, and I wanted nothing to do with her plan.”
I put my head into my hands. “Elliot,” I whisper.
He hugs me and pulls my head to his. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
A thought comes to me and I pull back to look at him. “How much did you pay for those paintings?”
He puffs air into his cheeks. “Around twenty million dollars.”
I put my hands over my mouth as my eyes widen in horror. “You idiot. Daniel is completely right, you do have more money than sense. They’re abysmal, Elliot.”
His face softens, then he smiles and chuckles.
“I would have given you those paintings for free,” I scoff. “Hell, I would have paid you to take them away.”
He tips his head back and laughs hard, as if the weight of the world has been lifted.
“Oh no.” I stand as another thought comes to me. “What about Elanor?”
He falls silent, his eyes hold mine.
“Elliot, what about Elanor?”
“She will be dealt with by the law.”
“No.” My chest tightens. “I don’t want . . .”
He takes my hands in his. “We’ll talk about Elanor on Monday,” he says sternly.
“Monday?”
“For now”—he kisses me softly—“I just want to talk about us.” He kisses me again as he holds my head to his. “Can we just fix us before we worry about your witch of a sister?”
Elliot Miles calling Elanor a witch brings an unexpected smile to my face, and I know it shouldn’t, but it does.
“You think this is funny?” He smiles as his lips take mine; he walks forward and I walk back.
“This just confirms what I always knew,” I reply.
“What’s that?” He smiles against me.
“You are an idiot.”
In one sharp movement, he bends and throws me over his shoulder. I laugh out loud and he slaps my behind. “Where’s your bedroom, wench? You’re about to get it.”
“Aren’t you all wanked out?” I laugh as I hang upside down. “I saw the blisters.”
“Behave.” He slaps my behind again.
He carries me into the bedroom and throws me on the bed, and I bounce as I land.
With his eyes locked on mine he takes his shirt off over his head. His chest is broad with a scattering of dark hair, his tanned shoulders and arms cut with definition, his stomach rippled with muscles. But it’s his eyes that arrest me, filled with desire and love and a sense of belonging.
Home.
In slow motion he slides down his trousers and my breath catches. No matter how many times I see him naked, I’m never prepared for his powerful beauty.
Elliot Miles is a million things, but most of all . . . he’s mine.
He crawls over me. “You owe me for the hell you’ve put me through,” he says as he nips my hip bone through my dress.
“Oh.” I sit up, remembering something. “Come.”
“What?”
I jump up and take his hand. “I have something to show you.” I drag him out into the other room and hold my hand up toward my easel.