The Playboy's Ménage (The Billionaire Bachelors Series) by RG Alexander Page A
Authors: RG Alexander
Ads: Link
batch of my famous walnut chocolate chip cookies to the salon today. My baby has to eat, right?”
“Hello, Nancy Drew. Call me as soon as you know. Love you, Chaz.”
“Love you, Holly.”
She hung up and slipped the phone into the pocket of Peter’s shirt, walking out of his office and staring at the closed door at the end of the hall. She hadn’t been in there yet, and she needed something to distract her. She started toward it, her mind racing.
Damn Bill. Damn Ms. Anonymous. Holly laughed wryly. While she was at it, she could damn herself as well. How was she any better? She got paid to write tell-alls and scandalous autobiographies. Sure, there were one or two important books mixed in with the rest, but in the end the only difference was she got permission to publish other people’s dirty little secrets.
Not exactly the great novelist her professor predicted bragging about.
She opened the door and every disturbing, anxious thought in her head disappeared. This wasn’t another bedroom. It was an artist’s loft. Ribbons of early morning light streamed through a narrow skylight and lit up the paintings and framed sketches on the wall as well as the table of smaller busts and sculptures.
She stepped inside, taking it all in. The closest painting was of a woman’s hand resting on her naked hip. That was all. The detail and soft brushwork were so skilled she could almost see the pores on her skin, the fine hairs on her forearm. It was beautiful.
It was Peter’s. These were his work, there was no doubt in her mind. She looked at everything more carefully. They were all pieces of a woman. Long legs tangled in sheets. The delicate shell of an ear leading to the nape of a neck. One of the paintings had a woman bending over in the shower, her leg on the rim of the tub as she ran a washcloth over her body. Holly could see the dark hair upswept in a messy bun, could see the line of her spine and the shape of her thighs.
Even the tattoo on her ankle was clearly visible. A broken heart.
She lifted her hand to her mouth in shock. He’d painted her. Why? When? Had these all been done in college? They must have, because the flowers tattooed on her shoulder weren’t anywhere to be found.
Her gaze fell on the chair in the corner, open sketchpad beside it. She moved closer and studied the drawing. This was new. She could see the tattoos on the sensual woman clearly as she rode her bearded lover, her legs wrapped around his waist. His sleeved arms supported her, knuckles white as he held himself back, letting her set the rhythm. They were lost in each other, unaware of anything else. Unaware of the artist.
Peter had drawn this? She remembered the moment, and the one that followed it. She’d looked over her shoulder and begged him to join them. He had. They’d come together that night with an intimacy, a tenderness that none of them had expected. All of them wrapped around each other, a part of each other. She’d never felt so connected to anyone. Henry, too, had admitted to her that what they’d shared, the three of them together, was like nothing he’d ever known.
But that wasn’t what Peter had drawn. He’d left himself out of the picture. An observer. Did he still feel that? Was he still holding back?
She reached down to turn the page, to see what else he’d captured with his detailed eye when the sound of the door opening made her whirl around in surprise. “Peter.”
Holly moaned softly. He was naked and aroused. How was she supposed to think with that kind of distraction? “These are beautiful.”
He clenched his fists at his sides. “It’s something to keep my hands busy.”
Her heart was racing. She knew she’d exposed him, made him feel vulnerable. She moved closer to him until she was standing beside the table, her hand reaching out to caress a small sculpture of her naked body. “I can’t help being flattered. I do love your hands. I wish I could see things the way you do.” She forced a
“Hello, Nancy Drew. Call me as soon as you know. Love you, Chaz.”
“Love you, Holly.”
She hung up and slipped the phone into the pocket of Peter’s shirt, walking out of his office and staring at the closed door at the end of the hall. She hadn’t been in there yet, and she needed something to distract her. She started toward it, her mind racing.
Damn Bill. Damn Ms. Anonymous. Holly laughed wryly. While she was at it, she could damn herself as well. How was she any better? She got paid to write tell-alls and scandalous autobiographies. Sure, there were one or two important books mixed in with the rest, but in the end the only difference was she got permission to publish other people’s dirty little secrets.
Not exactly the great novelist her professor predicted bragging about.
She opened the door and every disturbing, anxious thought in her head disappeared. This wasn’t another bedroom. It was an artist’s loft. Ribbons of early morning light streamed through a narrow skylight and lit up the paintings and framed sketches on the wall as well as the table of smaller busts and sculptures.
She stepped inside, taking it all in. The closest painting was of a woman’s hand resting on her naked hip. That was all. The detail and soft brushwork were so skilled she could almost see the pores on her skin, the fine hairs on her forearm. It was beautiful.
It was Peter’s. These were his work, there was no doubt in her mind. She looked at everything more carefully. They were all pieces of a woman. Long legs tangled in sheets. The delicate shell of an ear leading to the nape of a neck. One of the paintings had a woman bending over in the shower, her leg on the rim of the tub as she ran a washcloth over her body. Holly could see the dark hair upswept in a messy bun, could see the line of her spine and the shape of her thighs.
Even the tattoo on her ankle was clearly visible. A broken heart.
She lifted her hand to her mouth in shock. He’d painted her. Why? When? Had these all been done in college? They must have, because the flowers tattooed on her shoulder weren’t anywhere to be found.
Her gaze fell on the chair in the corner, open sketchpad beside it. She moved closer and studied the drawing. This was new. She could see the tattoos on the sensual woman clearly as she rode her bearded lover, her legs wrapped around his waist. His sleeved arms supported her, knuckles white as he held himself back, letting her set the rhythm. They were lost in each other, unaware of anything else. Unaware of the artist.
Peter had drawn this? She remembered the moment, and the one that followed it. She’d looked over her shoulder and begged him to join them. He had. They’d come together that night with an intimacy, a tenderness that none of them had expected. All of them wrapped around each other, a part of each other. She’d never felt so connected to anyone. Henry, too, had admitted to her that what they’d shared, the three of them together, was like nothing he’d ever known.
But that wasn’t what Peter had drawn. He’d left himself out of the picture. An observer. Did he still feel that? Was he still holding back?
She reached down to turn the page, to see what else he’d captured with his detailed eye when the sound of the door opening made her whirl around in surprise. “Peter.”
Holly moaned softly. He was naked and aroused. How was she supposed to think with that kind of distraction? “These are beautiful.”
He clenched his fists at his sides. “It’s something to keep my hands busy.”
Her heart was racing. She knew she’d exposed him, made him feel vulnerable. She moved closer to him until she was standing beside the table, her hand reaching out to caress a small sculpture of her naked body. “I can’t help being flattered. I do love your hands. I wish I could see things the way you do.” She forced a
Similar Books
