Page 47 of The Stipulation
She studies me carefully. “What do you see?”
“Conviction,” I say. “Reverence. And a little defiance.”
“Defiance?”
“You expect people not to understand it,” I reply. “And you’re prepared to argue.”
Her mouth curves. “I am always prepared to argue.”
“I’ve noticed.”
We stand in silence for a moment, the muted murmur of other visitors drifting through the gallery.
“I know art well enough, but not like you do. I guess to me, art is about status,” I admit. “Acquisition. Investment. Owning something rare. To you it’s … everything.”
She doesn’t look at me. “That’s because you were raised around acquisition.”
“And you?”
“I was raised around preservation,” she says softly. “It gives a very different instinct.”
I study the faces again. The tension. The disbelief. “You’re right,” I say finally.
She arches an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not surprised you know this stuff, but I’ll be honest, I am surprised that you are able to make me see it too. I get that it’s not just a long table and a lot of upset men now.”
A quiet laugh escapes her. “High praise indeed.”
I lean closer, lowering my voice. “You make me see things I wouldn’t otherwise notice.”
Her gaze lifts to mine, her eyes steady, searching. “That’s what art is supposed to do,” she says.
“No,” I murmur. “That’s what you do.”
We move back from the painting, letting the next people in to see it.
Her words, her voice, and the way her passion shows are intoxicating. I want to lean closer, whisper something in her ear, maybe press my lips to her temple, to her neck, anywhere I can. Not here. Not now. Not yet. Focus. But the heat and longing in my gut don’t care.
We move into the next gallery, a collection I’ve never heard of, filled with smaller works and artifacts. Most would skim past, some bored, some dutiful, but Jo’s face lights up like the room is on fire. She’s animated, pointing, explaining, laughing softly at little quirks in the pieces. I can’t focus on the works themselves. Every word, every flick of her hand, every tilt of her head pulls me in.
“You notice that?” she asks suddenly, pointing to a small sculpture. “The way the sculptor has made the folds of the fabric of her skirt. Isn’t it exquisite?”
I nod absently, and she catches me staring, not at the sculpture but at her.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I lie smoothly. “Just agreeing that she is indeed exquisite.”
Her lips twitch, a faint blush rising in her cheeks. “Are you trying to charm me?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “Is it working?”
Her eyes flash, half amused, half aroused. She laughs softly, shaking her head. “You’re incorrigible.”
“And you love it,” I counter, teasing, watching the way her chest rises and falls with each laugh.
Her gaze flickers to mine, just for a moment, and I swear the world stops turning. I can feel it, the pull, the electricity, the same tension from the hotel room, from the vault, but sharper now, more insistent. I want to take her right now. I want her so badly I can hardly breathe. An image flashes into my head of me lifting her into my arms, pressing her against the cold plaster of the gallery wall, letting my hands roam all over her delectable body. Fuck! She has really got under my skin.
