His Wicked Games (His Wicked Games #1) by Ember Casey

piece, where a slash of
bright red cuts across the canvas.
    If I'm being honest—and I have a strong
appreciation for art, even the weird stuff, so this is saying
something—it’s one of the ugliest things I've ever seen. I don't
know what to make of it.
    “It's… interesting,” I say finally. This has
to be a joke. He picked the most hideous piece in here because he
knew I'd never even consider it. It’s cheating, pure and simple,
and he’s not even being subtle about it.
    “You don't seem impressed.” His voice is
thick with amusement. “Or is it just that I've surprised you?”
    “It's very different than what I expected you
to pick,” I admit, tilting my head to see if it looks any better
from another angle. “Why this one?”
    He steps up behind me, so near that I can
feel the heat of him against my back, even though we don't
touch.
    “What do you see?” he asks. His breath stirs
my hair.
    I'm not sure if the question's a trick. Maybe
he just wants to see me flustered, to see me scramble to compliment
a piece that I clearly don't like. After all the fuss I've made
over the Center and the importance of arts, confessing that I don't
appreciate this particular painting might undermine my points and
give Calder the perfect opening to press his own case against me.
All he'd have to do is claim the same opinion of the art our
students and sponsored artists create.
    But it was probably Calder's father that
purchased this piece, not Calder himself, and I generally trusted
the late Wentworth's taste. Maybe he saw something in this painting
that I don't.
    “It looks like a sun,” I say finally. “A
muted sun—like it's covered in dust. A hopeless man's sun.” I tilt
my head. “Or a hopeless woman's.”
    “My, but that's a depressing interpretation,”
he says. “Is that all you see?”
    “It's your favorite. Maybe you should tell me
what you think.”
    “Mmm.” His hand brushes against my hip. “I'm
afraid I see it a little differently. You see, I have a theory
about abstract art. If an artist wants to paint a sun, why doesn't
he just paint a sun? If he wants to paint a tree or the ocean or
some pastoral scene with shepherds and goats, he can just paint it
outright. Abstract art, on the other hand, is an attempt to depict
something deeper—those subconscious, primal emotions and urges that
can't be expressed in concrete images or terms.”
    “Abstract art is for abstract concepts, you
mean,” I say.
    “Yes, smartass,” he growls in my ear.
    I'm not sure I agree, but I'm willing to play
along.
    “And which 'primal' emotion do you think this
painting depicts?” I ask.
    “Well.” He reaches around me, indicating the
left side of the painting. “This bit here—the strokes are short and
angry. And as you follow them around,” —he gestures with his hand,
pressing closer to me with the motion—”they get shorter, more
agitated. Round and round they go, building frustration.”
    His chest is flush against my back. I can
feel his hard muscles even through the fabric of our clothes, and
once again I'm assaulted by images of him in his room last night.
My initial urge is to jerk away from him, but already my body is
stirring in response to his nearness. Besides, I don't want to
disrupt this flirtation we've started. I just have to concentrate
and stay in control.
    “So you believe this piece represents
frustration,” I say, a little more breathlessly than I intend.
    He gives a low chuckle. “To an extent, yes.
But look.” He shifts, indicating the red slash at the center of the
painting while his other hand comes to rest on my waist. “If the
outer edges represent frustration, what do you make of this
part?”
    I'm not sure how he wants me to answer—and
I'm having trouble concentrating anyway. The heat of his fingers
seems to burn through my clothes. His hand moves ever-so-slightly,
just enough to brush the top of my hip once more.
    “I—I guess the center's the opposite of
frustration,”