Nightbloom (8 page)

Paxon’s brow creased together. “Do you regret it?”

“No! Of course not. I just, I just don’t like people talking about me.”

He laughed, giving me a soft kiss. “That’s the price of lifting the veil, angel. Everyone will take notice of the beauty beneath.”

I gulped.

“By the way, I was serious about needing a good curator for our gallery. Are you still interested?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. That would be really great.”

“Good. Can you meet me at the gallery tomorrow morning around eight a.m.?”

“Sure, it’s a date. I mean, well, not a date. Just a meeting.”

He laughed, pressing his lips to mine, opening them just a little to lick inside. Heat flared once more. Such a new sensation, it struck me dumb every time.

“Mmm,” he hummed against my lips. “Don’t think I’ll ever get enough of that.” He stepped back, beat his wings once and landed on the stone railing. “Tomorrow morning is a business meeting, Ella. Our first date is tomorrow night.”

He lifted off into the night. The rush of wind from his beating wings washed over me, caressing me with his masculine scent.

“Our first date.” I smiled up at the Morgon man fading away against the night sky. “Our first date?”

What in the world would I tell my mother?

I stood outside the door of the Flaming Hearts Art Gallery
staring at the Nightwing crest emboldened on the glass door—three black dragons encircling a red heart of flames. Deep breath in, I pushed open the door and entered.

At once, a sense of comfort and peace washed over me. This always happened when I entered into an environment filled with artwork. Something about such a space gave me a sense of belonging.

“Hi. You must be Ms. Barrow.”

A slender Morgon with wings of deep purple greeted me, extending a dainty, pale hand. Even her black hair had a purple sheen. “My name is Elsibeta Violetvale. Mr. Nightwing is expecting you.”

I shook her hand, mesmerized by her delicate wings. She fluttered them, something I’d noticed female Morgons do from time to time.

“I’m sorry.” I tried not to gape. “I’ve never seen a Morgon with wings like yours.”

Her expression softened. “The Violetvale clan is very small, mostly living in a remote village beyond Drakos near the Sabine Province.”

“How, if you don’t mind me asking, did you end up here?”

“I don’t mind.” She waved me into the gallery and led me through an office door behind the counter. “Our clan is a very passive one. We don’t function well in most cities, especially Drakos, which is—shall we say—an aggressive atmosphere to live in.”

“Oh. I see.”

She exuded serenity. Even her voice was soft and melodious.

“Gladium isn’t exactly happy-go-lucky,” I remarked.

She laughed, a smooth sound. “Not entirely, but Gladium is much more tolerant and accepting than many places. Have you ever been outside of Gladium?”

“No. Never.”

We passed through a back room with oil paintings, marble statues, and bronze sculptures, some boxed, some ready for display, and headed down another short hallway on the other side.

“You are fortunate. This is the most pleasant place I’ve ever lived, other than my home, of course.”

“Why did you leave?”

She turned her violet eyes on me.

“I apologize. That was a personal question.”

“It’s not so personal. I left because I love art. Although the people of my village have rudimentary talents, I wanted to see what other artists of the world could create. I realized that my heart felt incomplete, restless. I needed more than my home could offer.”

I sighed, a heaviness coming over me. “I know that feeling. Very well, I’m afraid.”

“Then we’re kindred spirits, you and I.”

I pondered her words—meek, unsure Ella a kindred spirit with this lovely creature before me, bound by a deep love of the arts and a desire for more out of life. It took me a second, but I realized that, indeed, we were. “Yes. I suppose we are.”

She smiled and gestured toward a doorway.

Hands clasped behind his back, Paxon gazed out an open window into a small courtyard where a fountain bubbled among a garden of wildflowers, the entire space encased in a greenhouse dome, creating an artificial summer. His wings were folded tight against his back. Dressed in black slacks and a starched blue shirt of a shimmery material, he looked every bit the dashing businessman—poised and controlled. I recalled how his steady eyes had lost their composure last night.

As if sensing my presence, he faced the door.

“Ella. Come in. Have a seat.”

So proper. So formal. I was glad I’d dressed in full interview attire—straight black skirt and white blouse.

I sat and passed him my resume from a leather portfolio, noticing his gaze wandering down my legs. Someone didn’t have his mind on business. I sat up straight and waited while he perused the two-page document. I cupped both hands on one knee, heart thumping hard, pretending to have patience.

He glanced up. “Your thesis for graduation was ‘The Emotional Impact and Abstract Beauty of Mixed Mediums’?”

I nodded, knowing my closed-lipped smile was forced and tight.

“And your final project was a form of this art?”

Another nod. No smile. Heart pounding right out of my chest.

“Ella. Please relax. You already have the job. I’m just curious about you as an artist.”

I still couldn’t speak. My art was personal. I had only shown it in college when I was forced to, when there was no other way out or ahead.

“I would love to read this thesis sometime.”

“You can.” Clearing my throat, I tried to hide the nervous thread twanging my voice. “It was published in
Illumination
Magazine
this past December.”

He eyed me carefully, certainly taking note of my stiff posture. Putting the resume on the desk, he folded his hands.

“Okay. The position available is as co-curator with Elsibeta over this gallery. We’re considering expansion, so you’ll need to work every other weekend to scout for new and upcoming artists for exhibition. We have a steady clientele of local artists, mostly Morgon, but I’d like to expand to include more human artwork, which is the reason I’m specifically looking for a human curator. Elsibeta can acquaint you with the style we tend to feature and exhibit, however, I have no doubt with your credentials that you’re more than qualified for the position. You’d also alternate opening exhibits with Elsibeta. I’ve been leaning too heavily on her with the workload. I need another curator, especially with a new gallery looming in the near future.”

During this stream of information, which was music to my ears, my heart soaring at the prospect of working with art every single day, he kept his business-face fixed and his words steady.

“Would you like time to consider, Ms. Barrow, or will you accept this position?”

Ms. Barrow? I beamed. “I accept.”

“Good.” A tight nod. He stood and came around the desk, then lifted me to my feet. “Now that business is adjourned—”

He planted a steaming, mind-blowing kiss on my lips, one hand wrapping my nape, the other wandering low on my back, pulling me closer. After thoroughly loosening my body of nerves, he pulled back a fraction, dark hair falling over his forehead, partly obstructing his eyes.

“Paxon…that’s not very professional.”

“That was nothing.
This
isn’t very professional.”

His hands slid to my bottom and pulled me firmly against him. I whimpered at the intimate sensation of his hard body—all of him—pressed so deliciously against mine. His mouth slanted at the perfect angle to coax my lips wider. He showed me how a woman was supposed to be kissed—not sloppy and overeager like Clayton, but slow and tender and glorious. The only way Paxon could.

He lifted me onto the desk, then trailed his fingers up the backs of my calves and hiked up my skirt where his fingers lightly gripped the backs of my knees. I skimmed my hands over his chest and up to his shoulders, hard muscle tight beneath his starched shirt. Sealing his mouth over mine, tasting, devouring me, his hands eased under my skirt and up my legs to my thighs, his thumbs rubbing along the inside.

Every time a guy had tried this sort of thing before, my impulse was to close my legs, my body growing cold under his touch. With Paxon’s hands on me, my body longed to open. Some primal instinct gripped me hard, forcing me to acknowledge that he was meant to touch me, that his lips were meant for my skin, that he was born to give and take pleasure from me alone.

He nipped the line of my jaw to my neck, dragging his teeth, sensitizing my skin to his touch. One hand rose higher on my thigh, pushing the skirt as he went.

A nagging notion warned me this was the only reason a Morgon man would want me. It sounded distinctly like my mother’s voice. I fought to push the thought aside.

“You’re like a drug to me. I want more of you.” His words sent my mind reeling. He sucked hard just beneath my ear, definitely leaving a mark, before trailing back to my mouth. “I want more.” He pressed a hard kiss, prying my lips apart and stroking in deep. His hand wrapping my thigh squeezed a little tighter as he eased back, his heated gaze surely a mirror of my own. “But I’d better wait.”

I said nothing in reply, my brain fuzzy from the moment of passion. The first time I’d ever forgotten myself and fallen into such a moment.

“You’re so beautiful, Ella.”

My eyes fell, marveling at his large tan hand still gripping my pale thigh. The artist in me loved the contrast. A sudden, naughty thought flitted through my mind, that our skin tones were complimentary and would make the most perfect lovers for an artist’s canvas—bodies entwined, hard and soft, fair and dark.

“I love the way you blush so much.”

“I’m blushing?”

“Profusely.”

He kissed me. Sweetly. Slowly.

I arched a brow at him. “Is this part of the salary or just one of the perks of the job?”

He laughed. “No, angel. In this, you own me, not the other way around.” His expression became solemn all of a sudden. He curved a hand over one cheek. “It’s true, you know? I’m afraid to admit it, but I can’t help it. Something about you makes me want to tell you everything. Give you everything.”

Deep brown eyes captured me, showing a vulnerability I never thought to see there. I swallowed the lump in my throat. He knew I was incapable of responding. He lifted me off the desk, sliding my skirt back into place, his grave expression fading behind his charming one.

“Interview is over.”

“Do you interview all your employees in this fashion? Or am I getting special treatment?” My tone was teasing, but part of me wanted to ensure I wasn’t one of many.

“Special treatment, of course.”

“Of course,” I said, noting the slight dip in my voice, hoping he couldn’t hear the doubt inherent there.

He leaned across the desk, picked up my portfolio, and handed it to me. With one finger, he lifted my chin, forcing me to look at him. “You’re special beyond compare, Ella. Don’t ever think otherwise.”

He brushed his index finger across my cheekbone, then dropped his hand to twine his fingers with mine and guide me out the door.

“Elsibeta can get you started, let you get acquainted with the office. Do you remember how you came in?” he asked with a gesture down the hall.

“Yes, but I thought—”

He planted a soft kiss on my lips, then headed swiftly in the other direction toward an outer exit door. His wings raised as if readying for flight.

“Wait. You’re leaving? Where are you going?”

“Things to do, pretty Ella.” He stopped at the exit and winked at me. “I’ve got a hot date tonight.”

My heart skipped a beat. I heard him whistling as he disappeared through the door.

Descending the marble staircase, voices floated up from the front parlor. My mother’s high-pitched laughter echoed through the halls. I’d been preoccupied all afternoon preparing for my date with Paxon, so I hadn’t been aware of my parents’ evening plans.

Paxon had called at the gallery before I left, giving me an address, a time, and telling me to dress warmly. After what felt like hours, standing in my closet and staring at my wardrobe, I finally decided on tight-fitting black pants, a gray, button-up cashmere sweater, and my dark red, double-breasted wool coat. Glimpsing myself in the wall-mirror in the foyer, I liked that my blond braid wrapped neatly over one shoulder into a golden rope against the red. My nerves were out of control. I’d fussed over myself so long, wanting to look just right for him. Still, the effort seemed to be worth it. I gave myself an approving nod before heading into the front parlor to say goodnight to my parents before I stepped out.

Clayton stood next to my father, who clapped him on the shoulder before heading toward the arched entrance where I remained frozen in place.

“You two have a nice night.” Dad smiled down at me, placed a kiss on my crown, then carried his cocktail into his study across the hall and closed the door.

Clayton observed me from top to bottom with narrowed eyes and a forced smile. Mom stood up from the gold brocade sofa.

“You didn’t tell me you and Clayton were going out tonight, Ella.”

“We weren’t.” I cleared my throat. “We aren’t.” My voice was sharp.

Mom turned a confused look on Clayton. He laughed that fake, I’m-so-amazing laugh, which raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

“You must’ve forgotten,
baby
. I have reservations for us at Vallero’s. Besides, you certainly look ready to go out.” An accusatory tone.

“Yes, dear. You look very pretty.”

“Who were you going out with if you’d forgotten about our plans?”

Clayton’s gaze made me shiver as he walked toward me in a slow, determined gait.

My mother, obviously sensing some tension, rose and laughed. “Oh, I’m sure she didn’t forget.”

“Actually, Mom, there’s something I need—”

“I brought your comm device.” Clayton stood directly in front of me, blocking my mother. “You left it in my car the other night.”