HIS PRICE OF DESIRE

UNEASE

The coffee shop was quieter than normal on Wednesday afternoon, giving me too much time to think. Tomorrow I will see Damien again. Tomorrow I would sit in that velvet chair and he would gaze at my face and paint what he saw there. The anticipation was nearly tangible, a tightness in my chest that would not give no matter how many deep breaths I took.

"Table three needs bussing," Sarah shouted, pulling me from my daydream.

I winched a tray and headed for the window booth, grateful to have something to do with my hands. I piled plates and cups on it, and caught another glimpse of myself in the glass. Did I really look like his sister? I'd been studying my own face in the mirror this morning, trying to see things from Damien's point of view. But I just seemed to be myself. Dark hair that never quite behaved. Eyes that were too serious. A face that was plain in every way.

What did his sister look like? How did she die? And why would he not talk about her?

Questions had been piling up in my mind ever since I'd learned about that ancient interview. I'd even gone as far as Googling "Damien Vale sister death" but found nothing. Whatever had taken place, he'd managed to keep it completely out of the press.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, expecting Maya, but Damien's name flashed instead.

I have a question about tomorrow's session. Can you arrive thirty minutes early?

My fingers trembled slightly as I typed: Yes, that's fine. 6:30?

Perfect. Thank you, Lila.

He'd used my first name. In person, he'd been calling me Miss Monroe, maintaining that professional line. But in text, he was less formal. I didn't know whether that meant anything or if I was reading too much into it.

"Who's got you smiling like that?" Sarah appeared at my side, grinning.

I did not know I was smiling. I quickly locked my phone. "Nobody. Just a friend."

"Must be some friend to make you look like that."

I didn't say anything, just went back to the kitchen with the tray. But Sarah was right. There was something in Damien's message that had caused warmth to seep through my chest. That he was thinking about tomorrow's session, that he wanted longer with me, that he'd written thank you like my agreement was anything.

This was dangerous territory. I was supposed to be keeping professional boundaries, not being moon-eyed over texts from my boss. But I could not help myself. There was a charisma to Damien Vale, something that pulled me in despite all reasonable warnings.

That evening, Maya and I prepared dinner together in our tiny kitchen. I'd bought real ingredients with my new financial independence: fresh pasta, vegetables, chicken, cream for sauce. It was indulgent after weeks of ramen.

"You're different," Maya said as she chopped tomatoes.

"Different how?"

"I don't know. Lighter or something. Less tense."

"Money decreases tension."

"Is that all it is?" She raised an eyebrow at me. "Or does it have something to do with your secretive billionaire?"

"He's not my billionaire. He's my boss."

"A boss who texts you and makes you smile."

I felt color rise into my cheeks. "It's not like that."

"Lila, I've known you for twelve years. I know when you're interested in someone."

"I'm not interested. I'm curious. There's a difference."

"Is there?" Maya laid down her knife and looked at me straight on. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're displaying all the indicators of attraction. You're always looking at your phone. You talk about him in that careful way people do when they're trying not to reveal too much. You're jumpy and anxious and excited all at once."

Was I? Maybe. I'd been so focused on the pragmatics of the deal, the money and the opportunity, that I hadn't let myself think about the other thing. The flip in my stomach when Damien looked at me. The way my skin had hummed where he'd touched me. The fact that I'd spent an entire night trying to draw his face from memory.

"Even if I were interested in him, which I'm not saying," I hedged cautiously, "it wouldn't make a difference. The contract specifically outlines professional boundaries at all times."

"Contracts can be renegotiated."

"Maya…"

"I'm just saying, if there's anything going on with you two, be careful. Billionaires don't play by the same rules as the rest of us human beings. They're used to doing what they want and having the power to make things extremely difficult if you're not careful."

Her voice echoed in my mind later that night as I tried to figure out what to wear to tomorrow's session. Did it even make a difference what I wore? Damien had already seen me in jeans and a sweater and hadn't seemed to notice. But thirty minutes early meant something other than painting. Maybe he wanted to talk. Maybe he had questions about the contract or the sessions ahead.

Or maybe he was interested in me in the same way that I was interested in him.

I settled on dark jeans and a comfortable grey sweater, easy and casual. Then I climbed into bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the hours until I saw him again.

Thursday crawled by with agonizing slowness. Every customer at the coffee shop took forever to decide what they wanted. Every minute on the clock took forever. I checked my phone obsessively, half expecting Damien to cancel or change the time.

But the single message I got was from Maya: *Be careful. Text me when you arrive and when you leave.*

I left work at five-fifteen and went home to shower and change. Maya was still at her office, so I had the apartment to myself. I got dressed in my own sweet time, then sat on my bed with forty-five minutes to waste, too nervous to do anything productive.

I set out for Tribeca at six-fifteen.

The subway seemed even more crowded than usual, or maybe I was just hyperaware of every delay, every stop. When I got to Damien's building, it was six twenty-eight. I was going to be exactly on time.

The doorman recognized me this time and handed over the key card with a professional nod. I rode the elevator alone, watching the numbers climb. Thirty floors between the street and Damien's world.

The doors opened directly into his penthouse, as they had before. But this time, Damien was waiting right there, as if he'd been waiting for my arrival.

"Lila," he said, and something in the tone of his voice made me catch my breath. "Thank you for coming early."

"Of course." I stepped out of the elevator, and the doors closed behind me with the same soft, firm click. "You said you had a question?"

"I do. But first, would you like a drink? Wine, perhaps?"

Wine. A change from the previous occasion's strictly business attitude. "Uh, sure. White wine, if you've got it."

"I've got a lovely Sancerre. Follow me."

He led me through the living room, past the millions of dollars' worth of paintings and sculpture, to a kitchen that was all glossy surfaces and high-end appliances. Everything looked barely used, less a home than a showroom.

Damien poured two glasses of wine with a practiced fluidity. He handed one to me, and our fingers brushed together. That same electricity I'd felt before ran through me.

"To your portrait," he said, raising his glass in a small toast.

"To the portrait," I returned, taking a sip of the wine. The wine was crisp and perfect, probably more than my weekly grocery bill.

Damien leaned against the counter, watching me over the rim of his glass. "I required more time tonight because I've realized I must get to know you better."

"Know me better?"

"For the painting. I must see what lies beneath the surface. The expressions, the mannerisms, the tension you carry in your shoulders. But I'll not be able to find those things if you're performing for me."

"I'm not performing."

"Aren't you? You were nervous last time. On guard. You moved cautiously, as if you were afraid of giving too much away."

He was right, of course. I had been on guard. I was always on guard.

"And you think wine will get me to be less cautious?" I questioned.

"I think talking might. Tell me something true about yourself, Lila. Something you don't usually tell people."

The inquiry appeared perilous and intimate. However, something about how he posed it, the innocent curiosity in his eyes, made me feel like telling the truth.

"I'm afraid I'm not really good," I whispered. "I'm afraid I've only convinced myself I can be an artist because I need it to be true. Because if I don't have art, I don't know who I am."

Damien hesitated, and I regretted the confession instantly. It was too much, too vulnerable. But then he did speak, and his voice was gentler than I'd ever heard it.

"That's not an uncommon fear among artists. The difference is that most people with true talent recognize it last. They're too close to their own work to see its value."

"And you think I have true talent?"

"I wouldn't have chosen you otherwise."

"Why did you choose me?" The question slipped out before I could trap it. "Seriously. Out of all the art students in New York, why me specifically?"

Damien's expression altered, his face more closed off. I expected for a moment that he would refuse to answer, reminding me of the contract rules. Instead, he set his wine glass down and looked me straight in the eye.

"Your sister," I said, an echo.

His gaze fastened on mine. "Because when I saw your self-portrait at the student exhibition, I saw something I'd been searching for. A particular imperfection in your eyes, in the manner you'd rendered your own vulnerability. It reminded me of someone I'd lost a long time ago."

My heart was pounding. "Your sister."

His eyes widened in surprise, his usual control cracking. "How did you…

"I found an old interview. You mentioned her briefly. You said she died when you were twenty-one."

Damien was silent for a long while. When he did speak, his voice was wary, defensive. "You've been researching me."

"Wouldn't you? If you were me?"

"I suppose I would." He picked up his wine glass again, although he did not sip. "Yes, I did have a sister. Elena. She died fifteen years ago. And yes, you do look like her. But that isn't the only reason I chose you."

"What's the other reason?"

He moved in, closing the distance between us. I could now smell his cologne, pricey and subtle. His voice was low and solemn when he spoke.

"Because I see something in you that most people miss. A survivor's resilience under layers of self-doubt. A fierce determination that you don't even realize is in yourself. I want to capture that. I want to paint the reality of who you are, not just what you show the world."

I couldn't breathe. He was so close now, close enough that I could see the flecks of gray in his dark eyes, close enough that if I leaned forward we would be touching.

"Damien…" I started, not even knowing what I was going to say.

But I didn't have the chance to. Because just then, his phone rang, breaking the moment. He stepped back immediately, pulling the phone from his pocket and checking the screen.

His expression darkened. "I have to take this. Go to the studio. I'll be there in a minute."

He turned and walked away, already talking in a low voice I couldn't hear on the call. I was still standing in the kitchen, my heart still racing, trying to process what had just happened.

He'd compared me to his dead sister. He'd talked about painting the truth of who I was. He'd stood so close I could feel the heat of his body.

This was more than a professional model relationship. Much more.

And as I walked to the studio on shaking legs, I knew with absolute certainty that I was in serious trouble.