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“If I’d taken a second to think, I would have left this in the boat. At least that way you’d have something dry to go home in.”
Alex had gone quiet. I glanced over at where she was on the path, fastening her sandal. Except she’d stopped. Her gaze was stuck on my chest, her mouth open.
I moved in on her and reached to tap her chin. “No eyeing up the staff, princess.”
That’s exactly what I was. An employee. No matter what that look had told me, I could never be anything else. Just had to tell that to my dick.
Chapter 15
Alexandra
Raphael followed me into the trees to the park’s stone wall. He offered a hand, but I didn’t take it. In the boat, I’d had the strongest urge to lean in and kiss the man, and it had taken almost everything in me to resist.
The dip in the water worked wonders to cool me off.
I climbed to the first branch.
Raphael watched me, something obviously on the tip of his tongue. He had already given me a game plan for getting back. A taxi would meet us on the road the other side of the wall. Any words we had left to say to each other in private needed to be now.
“At the garden party, I saw ye react to something. I don’t want to overstep, but it’s played on my mind. I wouldn’t be a good bodyguard if I didn’t ask.”
Right. We’d reverted to our roles, then. “What did I react to?”
“A display of paintings.”
Good God. His powers of observation knew no bounds. “I used to paint.”
“As of…?”
“A week ago.”
“Why did ye stop?”
Another branch and I’d straddled the wall. He tapped my foot to remind me to wait for him there—his solution to not leaving me unprotected on either side.
“Let’s just say I discovered I was a terrible artist and it was the wake-up call no one else had the guts to give me.”
In a scramble, Raphael was beside me. He scanned the road and came back to me, his eyebrows merged in an expression of concern, and his shirt clinging to that insanely toned body.
We were both soaked. No doubt wearing a layer of grime from the lake as well. I didn’t regret it. Not after it had awarded me the sight of him half-naked. That image was branded in my brain, adding to the previous time he’d stripped his shirt for me.
It had the bonus of helping me distance myself from feeling bad about my art.
“How well did ye trust the opinion of the naysayer?”
I tilted my head. “They were strangers.”
“Were any a talented art critic?”
“I… I’m not sure.”
“So what gave them the right?”
I huffed, trying to pull together the errant parts of my reasoning. “It was an exhibit. Everyone there had an interest in art in some way. The woman didn’t know the painting was by me, but she called people over to say how awful it was.”
Recognition flared in his eyes. “This was my first job with ye. I saw something happen but couldn’t work out what. Ye put a painting in the exhibition? Which one?”
I groaned. “I don’t want to tell you.”