Taming Mariella Page 7

  “I won’t.”

  His gaze became serious. “And protect that soft heart of yours.”

  She jumped down from the table and turned to look directly at him.

  “I think you’ll enjoy this project.”

  She studied him a moment. “You talk about me, but what about you. Don’t you care about this project?” “No.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “Why? Don’t you care about his legacy?”

  “His legacy?” Ian sneered. “He already has a legacy. He made half of it in bedrooms and hotels across America. As if the world needs another bunch of self-serving pictures. He liked sharing the vision of his own arrogance.”

  Mariella stiffened, offended by the harshness of his tone. “Jeremiah’s pictures touched people. They were beautiful.”

  “Of course,” he said in a bland tone. “That immediately gives them value. You only like beautiful things.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Pictures should show us reality.”

  “Beauty is part of reality too. Not just the heartache and pain and ugliness you like to show.”

  “You sell lies and illusions. You make people want things they don’t need. You make people want things to be different than what they are. Your pictures cause nothing but self-hatred.”

  “And yours preach the world’s sorrow without offering any reprieve. What are your solutions? You are an observer, but what actions do you leave your reader to take? Don’t get on the high moral road with me. Anyone who thinks suffering is the only reality is also showing an illusion.”

  Ian opened his mouth then stopped. “Let’s not argue.”

  She nodded. “Fine.”

  “However, we have to come to an agreement.”

  “I think we already have. I care about this project and I expect to be able to make all the important decisions.”

  “That will not be possible. You see, since I am paying for this project the final decisions will be mine. You will need to follow my instructions.”

  “But Jeremiah selected me because he knew I would honor him by doing what he would want, unlike you—”

  Ian held up a hand. “Let’s begin with one agreement. I’m not interested in hearing your description of what my father would or would not have wanted. Do the project. I am in charge of the purse strings. The final word will be mine.”

  Mariella shrugged. “I will complete the project as Jeremiah would have wanted. And will do my best to also meet your requirements,” she said not sounding as though she would try very hard.

  Ian narrowed his gaze. “I’ll make sure you do.”

  “At least we understand each other.”

  “Yes, now let’s understand something else.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

  Chapter 7

  Mariella didn’t want to enjoy it. In fact she told herself not to. She told herself to remain rigid, stiff and inflexible until he stopped. But he didn’t stop and for a moment she indulged in the delicious taste of his lips and his warm, firm body pressed against hers. She could feel the heat of his fingers through her robe, wondering if they could melt the fabric away.

  His lips insisted that she answer his kiss and she couldn’t deny him that demand. She felt herself falling into an abyss of emotions she couldn’t understand or control and vainly fought against them. She struggled to free herself. “What are you doing?”

  His arms tightened around her. “Kissing you,” he said, pressing his lips against her mouth once more. “Don’t you know what a kiss is?”

  She turned her face away. “I don’t want this.”

  “Don’t you?” he whispered. He kissed her cheek then her neck.

  She shut her eyes trying to block out the thrill he sent through her. “You’ll have to control your attraction to me if we’re going to work together. Now let me go.”

  He couldn’t obey her. He liked holding her close. It was the only way he could be certain that she felt as he did. She could not put on her ice princess act when she was in his arms. He saw Mariella’s beauty up close. Her smooth skin had felt warm and soft beneath his kiss. And the brilliance of her large black-brown eyes and silken lashes came through. She was more than beautiful, she was delicious. Like a French pastry—exquisite to look at and even better to taste.

  “Are you finished?”

  “Almost.” He kissed her forehead then released her. “I’ll control myself, but can you do the same?”

  “What?”

  “Are you going to lie and say you don’t feel anything between us?” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, that’s right. You don’t lie.”

  Mariella turned away and went into the kitchen.

  Ian laughed. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

  “You irritate me.” She poured herself a drink.

  He reached for the glass. “You shouldn’t have.”

  She slapped his hand away. “I didn’t.” She lifted the glass and took a sip, her brown eyes meeting his over the rim. “If you’re thirsty you can pour your own drink.”

  He rested a hand on the cabinet behind her. “I prefer what I see in front of me.”

  She took another sip, her gaze never wavering from his. “You don’t scare me.”

  He let his finger trail up the glass. “I’m not trying to scare you.”

  “Then what are you trying to do?”

  “Do you want me to tell you or show you?”

  “I want you to leave.”

  “I’ll leave once you explain those pictures.”

  She took another sip then licked her lips.

  His face changed, but not as she expected. There was a sensitivity in his gaze of a true artist staring at an object he admires. It was what she’d seen in his work, a depth of emotion Jeremiah never showed and she wasn’t comfortable with it. Lust she could handle, but his gaze proved far more intimate, as though he was seeing a part of her she didn’t want revealed.

  Mariella set her glass down with a clatter. “I’m going to get changed.”

  “Can I watch?”

  “No,” she said, glad he was back to his glib humor.

  “Why not?” He picked up her glass, finished its contents then set it down. “I’ve seen you in less.”

  Mariella stared at him, not sure what annoyed her more, how he made himself at home or the fact that his manner was so effortless. “That was different.”

  “How? Did they do a lot of airbrush or was the body not yours?”

  She walked away.

  “I forgot,” he called after her. “You’re not getting paid.”

  She halted, halfway past the living room, then slowly turned. “You don’t like models, do you?” she said, now certain that the look she’d seen in his eyes earlier had been her imagination.

  Ian rested his hand on the wall and shrugged. “Not as a general rule.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re basically irrelevant.”

  “I see.” She rested a hand on her hip and cocked her head to the side. “Could I ask you a question?”

  He stared at her, cautious. “It’s not like you to ask permission.”

  “It’s a personal question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  In an instant, her face and body posture altered as though a goddess had suddenly inhabited her. Her skin seemed to glow, her face even more engaging than usual and for a second Ian wasn’t sure he wanted her to ask him a question. Her brown seductive eyes reached him across the room as did the sudden low huskiness of her voice. “Do you know what Desire is?” He swallowed as her fingers toyed with the sash of her robe while she walked toward him with a slow easy gait that emphasized the tantalizing sway of her hips. “Desire is longing. Desire is needing. Desire is wanting.” She stopped in front of him close enough for him to smell the lavender lotion she’d used earlier. “Do you have Desire?”

  He had more than desire. If he wasn’t careful his pants would unzip themselves.

  Fortunately, Mariella folded her arms, breaki
ng the spell, her eyes bright with triumph. “How much do you think that was worth?”

  He grinned. “Duvall, I’d buy whatever you were selling.”

  “Good. So long as you know I’m not for sale.” She touched the tip of his nose. “And if I were, you wouldn’t be able to afford me.”

  He grasped her wrist, his palm hot against her skin. “But my father could?”

  She pulled her wrist free, her face falling with disappointment. “You don’t understand anything.”

  “Then tell me. I’m really bad at reading minds.”

  She shook her head.

  “What’s the price of admission? I’m willing to pay. We’d have fun together.”

  “There’s more to life than money.”

  “I know.”

  It was his tone rather than his words that caused her to stop and really look at him. There was a sincerity that she hadn’t sensed before, as though he’d revealed a layer of himself that he’d only allowed in his pictures.

  “You look surprised,” he said, amused.

  “You are confusing.”

  “Or you’re just confused.” He shoved a hand in his pocket. “You’re not the only person that people take at face value.”

  “How come your pictures are so dark?”

  “Because that’s how I see life.”

  “But your life is…”

  “Perfect?” he finished. “Where did you read that?”

  “I didn’t have to read it. I can see it. You don’t want for anything. You know you’re incredibly handsome, well educated and financially successful and have the resources to do whatever you want to in life. You have a booming business and work with your family. Yes, I’d say your life is perfect. Are you actually going to tell me that it’s not?” “No.”

  She paused then said, “But then I could be wrong.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze cautious but at the same time curious. The expression didn’t last. He glanced away placing a barrier between them. “You have a nice place.” He pointed down the hall. “Is that your bedroom?”

  “Don’t you go in there!” she demanded as he walked past her.

  He halted in the doorway and stared inside. “Son of a—”

  She stopped before she collided with him. “What is wrong with you?”

  He pointed to the series of three photos on the wall above her bed. “Where did you get those?”

  “Jeremiah gave them to me,” she said, unsure of the edge in his tone.

  “Damn it, I told him to get rid of those.”

  “Why?”

  He spun away. “Because they’re mine.”

  Mariella stared at the images in horror. “But they can’t be.” She followed him down the corridor. “They’re not your style.”

  He stopped and looked at her. “Yes, well that was me before—” He shook his head.

  “Before what?” she pressed.

  “Let’s not shatter any illusions today. I have the perfect life and you…” He picked up the photos on the table and waved them in front of her. “And you are just an innocent woman mistaken as my father’s mistress.” He tossed the pictures down, then barged out the front door and closed it.

  Mariella stood staring at the door. This was the second time he’d shut a door in her face and she didn’t like it the second time around, any more than the first. She flung open the door, but he’d already gone. She slammed the door closed then kicked it. He was so aggravating. She didn’t care what he thought of her. She didn’t care if he didn’t believe her; he wasn’t any different than most people who always thought the worst of her.

  Mariella went back into her bedroom and took down the photographs he’d claimed were his. She didn’t want any part of Ian Cooper in the privacy of her bedroom. She brushed off some dust that had accumulated on the frames, and stacked them on her kitchen table. She had to give them away. She laid them side by side. Jeremiah hadn’t told her they were his, but she’d just assumed they were because they were in his style.

  How had the photographer of these changed so much?

  And why had the sight of the delicate, joyful scenes caused him pain? That was the brief emotion she’d seen on his face before anger replaced it.

  Did he feel a sense of betrayal? She could understand that. She’d felt it the moment Ian had shown her the photographs of her in Jeremiah’s bedroom. He had promised her that he’d burn them. But she was beginning not to trust anything he had said. She’d wanted to give a dying man some pleasure, fulfill a fantasy, but that wish seemed silly now.

  Nothing had happened between them. Yes, she’d allowed him to kiss her, but it had never gone beyond that. It was just a night of make-believe. Cast now in the cruel daylight, it looked sordid and cheap and that was how she felt. That was probably how Ian saw her. She didn’t care. She began to tear up the pictures. Damn Jeremiah. She jumped when someone knocked—no, pounded—on the door. She gathered herself together and answered. She nearly fell apart again when she saw Ian standing there.

  “I forgot my briefcase,” he said gruffly, pushing past her.

  She grabbed the framed pictures. “You forgot these too.”

  He took the photographs, opened his briefcase and tossed them inside.

  Mariella winced from the lack of care in which he handled them. “Please don’t throw them away,” she said as he snapped the briefcase shut.

  He paused. “Why not?”

  “Just don’t.”

  He tapped the handle of his briefcase but didn’t move.

  The puma image came back to her. In his dark clothing he was a violent contrast to her light décor. He didn’t just walk, he prowled, except now—when the air around him seemed as motionless as he was and she couldn’t guess what his next move would be. He would make an intriguing study, yet she couldn’t imagine taking his picture. He was too vibrant, too real to allow anyone to capture him in such an ordinary two-dimensional form. A part of her wanted to run, knowing that it would be a wise decision to put as much distance between herself and this man as possible, but another part wanted to stay by his side. She didn’t move as though if she did he would vanish.

  Mariella swallowed, taking the risk anyway. “If you are going to throw them away, you might as well give them back to me.”

  He raised a brow. “Are you going to hang them back up even though you know they’re an Ian Cooper original?” he said, but there was a huskiness in his tone that hadn’t been there before. It was rolling, deep with a hint of danger like the darkest jungle and wild thoughts entered her mind although her words were innocent.

  “No, I’m going to hang them up trying to forget that.”

  His eyes dipped to her mouth. “Do you think you can?”

  She licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. The heat of his body reached out to her, and she fought the urge to move closer. “Can what?”

  He raised his penetrating gaze to her face. She felt even more like prey. “Forget me.” He opened the briefcase and handed back the framed photos. His fingers brushed hers, by accident or design it didn’t matter—it had the same effect. All her senses came alert and she was suddenly painfully aware that they were alone and that anything could happen and that she wouldn’t stop it although she knew she should.

  She gripped the framed pictures to her chest. “Yes,” she whispered.

  Ian’s gaze left her face and landed on the photos of her on the table. Although his expression didn’t change, how he felt about her was clear. She could see him judging and condemning her, but when his gaze returned to her face demanding an explanation she boldly stared back refusing him one. The tension between them continued to escalate and she gripped the photos until she feared that the glass in them would shatter. But she still didn’t move because she knew that as much as he angered her, she wanted him. She wanted to have him crush her body to his once more; she wanted those delectable demanding lips on hers. She wanted those dark eyes to strip her bare layer by layer then she wanted his hands t
o do the same. Her body tingled at just the thought, but Ian broke the spell by turning away and snapping his briefcase closed as though closing any possibility of a relationship between them as well. “I’ll call you to set up a meeting.”

  She nodded and set the framed pictures down.

  For a moment, Ian looked at her then without warning pulled her roughly into his arms. “Dammit, right now I don’t care if you were his,” he growled. “I will later, but not now.” Then his hungry mouth was on hers smothering her lips with a savage mastery that sent bouts of ecstasy through her. He held her close against his hard body and the warmth that radiated from him felt like an inferno. Every part of her grew moist with anticipation and wanting. “I dare you to forget me,” he whispered, his breath hot against her neck. They fell back on the table, Ian trapping her between his arms. “No, you won’t forget this.” He pushed back her robe to reveal her shoulders and pressed his lips to her bare flesh. He then kissed his way down her chest, then darted the moist tip of his tongue in the crevice between her breasts.

  She arched toward him, lifting his shirt up so she could explore him as he explored her. He raised his head, his eyes bright with triumph, but they soon darkened again and he squeezed his eyes shut. “I can’t,” he ground out. “All I see is you and—” He pushed himself away and Mariella became painfully aware of the damaging photos that lay on the table beside her. She sat up, grabbing her robe tight around her.

  Ian pressed his fists to his eyes, his voice raw with torment. “God, why him?” He let his hands fall then said in a flat dejected tone, “Forget it, I know why.”

  “Ian.”

  He stepped back and waved his hands as though warding off evil. “Don’t say anything. Right now I’m willing to believe any lie that you tell me.”

  “I don’t lie.”

  He seized a picture and shook it in front of her. “Then tell me what the hell this is.”

  For once she wanted to explain, but didn’t know how. “It’s not what you think.”

  “Oh no?” He raised his brows, surprised. “Should I read what’s on the back?”

  Hot tears burned her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “We were friends!” She scooped up the rest of the photos and threw them at him. They scattered like a deck of cards. “He was one of my best friends and he was dying and I wanted to make him happy, okay? That’s all. He was supposed to destroy them, so he deceived us both.” No longer able to meet his hard stare, Mariella fell to her knees and began to pick up the pictures, desperate for something to do.