Page 5 of Doomed

“Bianca Hayes, meet Knox Blackwood. Knox, this is our newest resident artist. Quite talented, as you can see.”

I flash my most charming smile, the one that usually has women melting within minutes. “Bianca. Beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

Her eyebrows arch, and instead of the expected blush or giggle, she merely nods. “Mr. Blackwood.”

Cool. Professional. Completely unimpressed.

Interesting.

“Your work is stunning,” I continue, examining her painting. “What makes it haunting is that balance—dark but elegant.”

“Thank you.” Her voice carries no warmth. She turns back toward her easel as if dismissing me entirely.

Most women would be hanging on my every word by now. This one acts like I’m nothing more than wallpaper.

I step closer to get a better look at her canvas, and my assumptions about abstract blues and grays crumble instantly. The painting depicts two figures intertwined in an intimate embrace, their bodies rendered in exquisite detail. The brushstrokes capture every curve, every shadow, the arch of a back, the curve of a hip. It’s unmistakably erotic, yet there’s an elegance to it that elevates it beyond mere pornography.

“Damn,” I breathe, studying the way she’s captured the tension between vulnerability and power. “You don’t hold back, do you?”

Her hand stills mid-stroke. “I paint what moves me.”

The second canvas beside her easel depicts another couple, this one marked by violent passion. Hands gripping hair, bodies pressed against what looks like a wall. The emotion radiating from the painting is raw, hungry, and almost desperate.

“These are incredible,” I say, meaning every word. “Dark erotica with real artistic merit. That’s a rare combination.”

Before she can respond, Elliot’s phone buzzes loudly. He glances at the screen and frowns.

“My apologies, I need to take this.” He steps away toward his office, already answering. “What’s the problem?”

And then, we’re alone.

I turn back to Bianca, who’s resumed painting as if I’m not standing three feet away. The silence stretches between us until I decide to break it.

“You clearly have a good eye for eroticism,” I say, letting my voice drop to that low register that usually makes women shiver. “I’d love to know where you find your inspiration.”

She sets down her brush forcefully and turns to face me, those hazel eyes flashing with irritation.

“Let me stop you right there, Mr. Blackwood.” Her voice cuts through the air like a blade. “I don’t know what kind of reaction you’re expecting, but you’re not going to get it from me.”

I blink, taken aback by her directness.

“If you can’t maintain a professional demeanor while discussing my work, then perhaps we shouldn’t be working together at all.” She crosses her arms over her chest, the paint smudge on her cheek somehow making her look formidable. “I’m here to create art, not to stroke your ego or play whatever game you think you’re starting.”

The dismissal in her tone hits harder than Morrison’s fist did last night.

The rejection stings. Usually, when someone tells me no, I back off with a laugh and move on to easier prey. Bianca’s attempt to dismiss me, on the other hand, strengthens my resolve to push harder, test those boundaries she’s drawing.

“Easy there, sweetheart.” I move close enough to catch the faint scent of paint and something floral. “I’m simply trying to get to know the artist behind the work.”

“And I’m telling you that’s not necessary.” She doesn’t step back, which I respect, but her jaw tightens. “Please maintain some distance.”

Instead of backing off like a gentleman would, I move even closer. Close enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. The defiance in her eyes only makes her more appealing.

“You know what I think?” I let my voice drop to barely above a whisper. “I think someone who paints passion like this understands it. Lives it.”

My fingers trace the air inches from her cheek, not quite touching but close enough that she can feel the heat.

“I think underneath all that professional ice, you’re burning up inside.”