Dare to Surrender Page 2

  She scoffed and shifted uncomfortably. “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Do you like to be tied up?”

  “That’s a preposterous question!”

  “Do you?”

  She inhaled, looked to the side, and he thought she might not answer. But then she turned back, lifted her chin, and met his gaze. “I… I don’t know. I’ve never done it.”

  He tightened his grasp around her wrist and was satisfied when she gasped; it was a gasp of pleasure. “Never tried it?”

  “No.”

  Her wrist in his hand, he backed up, backed her against the desk. “That’s a shame.”

  “I’ll be sure to rectify the situation as soon as I meet another man who’s into bondage.”

  Her words sent an unfamiliar twinge through his gut; he wasn’t used to feeling jealous. He never cared enough to be jealous. But the thought of another man binding her made something inside him constrict. Better to put that thought right out of Joy’s head.

  Releasing her wrist, he lowered his mouth and placed a soft kiss at the base of her neck. “No other man, Joy. Me. Let me.” Lust thundered through him, and he knew he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  “This is crazy….”

  “I know.”

  “I want your art,” she said, but her eyes were dark with desire for more than just his art.

  Stubborn little thing. He kissed her on the other side of her neck, and she braced herself on the desk, dropped her head back to allow him better access.

  “Meet me tomorrow night, Joy. Come to my place and we’ll talk.”

  And I’ll tie you.

  “No,” she whispered.

  He froze. “Is there someone else?”

  He hadn’t survived being a SEAL with shoddy observation skills, and he picked up on the way the muscles in her neck tensed at his question. But she hadn’t answered yes, so he let it go. For some reason, the thought of her having some other guy sniffing around only made him more aggressive. Possessive.

  He slid his hand into the curve of her waist, felt her warmth through the loose fabric of her dress. Her body felt tight when he’d expected soft. With his fingers, he grazed the dip of her waist, palmed her rib cage and gently cupped her breast. A visible shudder ripped through her, and when he lightly touched her nipple through the fabric of her dress and bra, she moaned.

  “Tomorrow night?” he asked again, this time against her lips.

  “I see so much of you in that piece.”

  She was gazing over his shoulder, presumably at the art. “It’s sensual and restrained, demanding yet flowing. It’s sex and yet more than just erotic.” She looked at him. “It’s obviously your work.”

  He just stared at her.

  “Why are you stopping this? Creating art?”

  He pushed away. “It wasn’t meant to be a career. I needed a break, a distraction.”

  “From what?”

  “Listen, I really don’t want to talk about that right now.” He scribbled his address on a piece of paper. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  “Is this your only sculpture?”

  She must have seen his gaze dart to the wall cabinet, because she jumped up and yanked the doors open; damn, she was more observant than he’d given her credit for. Inside were a few dozen pieces, ranging from six inches to a foot high. Her gasp was audible. “Oh, holy fuck!”

  “You have a mouth on you, don’t you, sweetheart?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Sorry. It’s just that these are amazing. You have to show them!” Straightening, she turned to face him. “Seriously. Let me—I mean the gallery—represent your sculpture.”

  “No.”

  Just then his cell vibrated, and he saw a text from Ruby telling him to get his ass out there to meet one of the owners of the museum. Somehow she’d pried out a promise from him to schmooze with the bigwigs tonight. “Damn. I gotta go. Just turn off the lights and shut the door behind you.”

  Lifting her chin, she stared at him. “I’m not done with you.”

  He met her stare. “I’m not done with you, either. See you tomorrow night. Eight o’clock—my place.” Giving her no time to protest, he walked out the door and let it shut behind him with a firm click.

  Chapter Two

  Joy stared at the closed door. Excitement buzzed through her, and she wasn’t exactly sure why. Well, Ash’s hands on her body, the way he kissed her—melted her—was an obvious reason. But her gaze drifted to the erotic sculpture, and she felt it in her gut, in her heart and between her legs. She’d always been responsive to art, but this was ridiculous. This was a physical reaction; just looking at it made her damp, made her nipples tingle.

  And yet there was nothing vulgar about the piece. As she ran her fingertips over the cold marble curve of the female’s breast, she was touched by the beauty of it and how it made her want to be that woman. Powerful submission. She’d never felt the desire to be bound, but that was all changing as she touched the smooth marble rope sculpted by Ash’s hands.

  It was a crime to keep these pieces hidden. She moved to the cabinet where more than a dozen smaller, varied versions of the larger sculpture rested. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure the door was firmly shut, she gently lifted one of Ash’s sculptures and held it in her hands. So beautiful, so smooth; it made her pulse race. Glancing at the dingy metal cabinet and back to the art in her hands, her heart sank at the idea of returning it to such a dull home.

  When she was nineteen, she’d lived in Paris, as an art history student. During a private tour of the Louvre, she’d discovered the museum had hundreds of works in storage and had nearly cried when she’d found out the majority of the massive collection would never be seen by most people. She felt a similar reaction now, and before she even knew what she was doing, she pulled a wool scarf out of her bag, wrapped the piece of marble in the thick, soft knit, and placed the whole thing in her purse. Then, with a deep breath, she did as Ash had asked: She turned off the lights, shut the door behind her, and left.

  Clutching her oversized purse to her chest, Joy paused just a few feet from the museum exit. Her belly was a blender of anxiety as she looked through the glass doors. Was she really going to do this?

  Deep breath. Push through.

  Damp San Francisco fog hit her bare arms as she ran down the stairs, and she fully expected alarms to go off, or Ash to chase her down, yelling, “Stop! Thief!”

  But none of those things happened. As she hurried up the street, her heart began to slow down and her hands went from full-out shaking to minor trembling. By the time she hit Market Street, she could breathe normally again.

  Almost.

  What had she done?

  Oh, just stolen a piece of art from a museum.

  She’d stolen. A piece of art. From a museum! Museums were sacred, a sanctuary in a world that seemed to value art less and less every day.

  Pardon me, why am I in this handbasket, and where are we going?

  Hell. She was going to hell. Or jail. Probably both.

  And if Ash noticed the piece was missing, he’d be the one to send her to either of those places. If he found out what she’d done, how could she ever explain herself?

  It’s for his own good.

  Don’t be ridiculous. This is for you, Joy.

  Shaking the voices out of her head, she briskly continued her pace up Market Street. She could have taken a cab, but she needed to burn off some of the excess energy coursing through her blood. Because she’d committed a crime.

  A felony, in fact.

  What the hell had she been thinking?

  That those pieces were too beautiful to be kept in an old metal cabinet. That maybe if she showed her boss one piece by Ash Hunter, he wouldn’t fire her. And if she couldn’t come to an agreement with Ash, she would, of course, return it. But hopefully everything would go according to plan, and meanwhile she could keep her job and convince Ash to let her curate a show for him and no one would be the wiser.

&nb
sp; You’re not thinking, Joy. You never think.

  Her grandmother’s words slammed into her head; how often had she heard them? Impulsive, irresponsible, hasty. She’d been hearing it her whole life, and now, striding through San Francisco with a piece of stolen art in her handbag, Joy thought maybe her grandmother was right.

  But it was too late now. She couldn’t just go up to Ash and say, “Oopsie! Look what happened to fall into my purse!” So she kept walking.

  The neighborhood became more dodgy as she headed west, but Joy barely noticed the panhandlers and wackos as she whipped around a corner and headed up the hill. A man asked her if she wanted to buy some “good shit,” but she politely said no and went on her way. She had found that most “bad” parts of cities could be successfully navigated if she walked fast and looked like she knew where she was going. San Francisco, Paris, Rome, Munich—they all had their bad sides, and Joy had been mugged only once. And that had been in Barcelona; it was a very unpredictable city.

  Now she hugged her purse close to her side. If anyone tried to steal from her, she would have to use her rusty self-defense moves. No way was she letting this artistic treasure out of her hands.

  On the way, she paused briefly to admire a spray-painted mural. The graffiti was beautiful, and she recognized the artist. Well, she recognized his work, even if the artist himself was a total mystery. His murals just appeared, as if overnight, and they were special. She recognized the pure, raw talent of the artist, and not for the first time she wished she knew who had created it. She dug a business card and the tape she carried for just this purpose out of her purse and stuck the card to the wall. She had no idea if the artist was getting her cards; he certainly had never called her. But she couldn’t help but hope he would, someday.

  Catching some movement out of the corner of her eye, she quickly turned and continued on to her destination. Minutes later she was in the lobby of a huge, old apartment complex and running up three flights of stairs. As usual, an array of appetizing scents accosted her as she made her way upstairs. Her mouth began to water, and as she got closer to Erica’s door, Joy’s stomach was downright grumbling at the spicy scent of curry coming from apartment 305.

  Erica was Joy’s oldest and best friend. At thirty-two, Erica had recently ditched her ten-year stint as a waitress to attend culinary school. Like many of the students, she lived in this building, which was just across the street from the San Francisco Culinary College. Because it housed mainly culinary academy students, the decrepit building was always permeated with an array of delicious scents, and, in the heart of a semester when everyone was practicing for midterms, the smells escaping through apartment doors were downright mouthwatering.

  Tonight was no different. Joy rapped on the door, and seconds later Erica was there, smiling and pulling her inside. “You made it!”

  Joy hung her coat on a rack. “Of course. And I’m starving!” Apparently thievery could make a girl hungry, but she kept that little discovery to herself. “Something smells delish.”

  Erica pulled a white kitchen towel from the pocket of a floral apron. Underneath she wore a sleeveless blue sundress that was probably vintage from the fifties. The old-school dress contrasted nicely with her thin arms, which showcased her colorful tattoos.

  “Come into the kitchen.” Erica wore her pinkish hair in a high ponytail, and she brushed a strand behind her ear. Her alternative look didn’t negate the fact that Joy’s best friend was gorgeous—tattoos, pink hair, pierced nose, and all.

  The apartment was small but cozy. An old, worn table and the mismatched chairs surrounding it took up most of the space. The kitchen was tiny but perfectly organized, with pots hanging from a rack over the stove and spices lined up and clearly labeled on a wall rack. Erica’s place was the exact opposite of Joy’s in terms of organization.

  Joy took a seat on a well-worn upholstered dining chair, placing her bag gently beside her.

  “Taste.” Erica placed a spoon before Joy, and she took a bite of green curry.

  Joy’s eyes drifted shut as a wave of curry-induced ecstasy washed over her. “Oh my God. You’ve added a bit more lemongrass this time, haven’t you?”

  Straightening, Erica looked pleased. “Damn, woman. You’re good.”

  “Learned from the best.”

  She thought she saw the faintest blush tinge Erica’s cheeks, but that seemed highly unlikely; she’d never seen her friend blush in all the time she’d known her. Of course, she’d never seen Erica take a chance such as dropping her reliable job as a waitress to join the competitive, male-dominated chef world, either. But Joy never thought she’d commit an art felony. After tonight, she was beginning to think anything was possible.

  “So! Tell me about the gala. Did you get the exclusive you were looking for? Did you get Ash Hunter?”

  Joy shifted in her seat, the thought of Ash—of his hands on her skin—causing her body to heat. “Not exactly.”

  Erica glanced over her shoulder. “What do you mean, not exactly?”

  Arranging the silverware on the table, Joy avoided Erica’s knowing eyes. The woman knew her all too well. “We still have some details to work out.”

  “But you think he’s willing to work with you?”

  Me, Joy. Let me. His words flooded her head, and she felt the back of her neck heat.

  Repressing a shiver, she nodded. “I think so. We’re going to, er, talk more tomorrow night.”

  Erica opened a bottle of chardonnay, poured two glasses, and set one before Joy. “You like this guy.”

  Joy shook her head. “Not like that. I don’t think.” She couldn’t think. “I don’t know.” Her wrist still tingled where he’d held her.

  Delicate hands. She laughed and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I need him—his art, I mean—or I’m going to get fired.”

  Erica placed two huge bowls of curry on the table. “I seriously doubt that, Joy. I mean, not after what went down between you and Cartwright.”

  Joy heard the bitter edge to her friend’s words but ignored it. Sometimes Erica could be a tad overprotective. What had happened between her and William Cartwright, the man from England who owned all the galleries worldwide, was that she’d had a weeklong affair with him, had fancied herself in love, and then he’d gone back to London without so much as a thank-you or good-bye, unless one counted the dismissive e-mail he’d sent when he returned to London.

  Joy didn’t.

  “Have you even heard from him lately?” Erica spooned a heaping bite of curry into her mouth and chewed with vigor.

  “Just work-related stuff,” Joy muttered, not wanting to admit some of those “work-related” e-mails had definitely been flirtatious. Like when he ended one with a P.S. What are you wearing?

  She’d ignored it.

  “So if your boss here wants to fire you, just go over his head.”

  “No way. I’m not using sex as a means of keeping my job.” Joy took a bite of curry, closing her eyes and savoring the salty-sweet flavor.

  “You like it?”

  Joy opened her eyes to find Erica watching her expectantly. “I love it. Thanks for this; I needed it.” Glancing at her bag, she took another few gulps of wine and ignored the flutter of nerves when she remembered the stolen item inside her purse.

  “Everything okay?” Erica asked, refilling Joy’s glass.

  “Yes.” Again she brought her wine to her lips and took a deep swallow. “Definitely. Everything is going to be just fine.”

  An hour later, Erica put a slightly tipsy Joy into a cab and sent her home. She waited until the taxi’s lights had faded before she turned and went back inside her building. Just like every time she said good-bye to Joy, she wondered when the woman was going to see how beautiful she was, how good she was. In fact, she was so pure of heart she made an easy target for assholes like the owner of the gallery she worked for, that loser Cartwright, to prey upon.

  Fingering the amethyst pendant hanging on a silver chain around her ne
ck, she bounded up the stairs back to her apartment. Joy didn’t think Erica knew how much he’d hurt her, but she did know. When Joy hurt, Erica practically felt it herself.

  When they’d met, Erica had been waitressing at a hip restaurant popular with Stanford students. Serving a bunch of preppies wasn’t exactly Erica’s dream job, but she made three times the tips that she would have in any other area.

  Thanks to a ludicrous zoning regulation, she’d been forced to go to school with the upper class her entire life and, as a result, had always been the outcast. The poor kid. The girl in the hand-me-downs.

  Despite Joy’s privileged upbringing, she was somewhat of an outcast herself, and she came into the restaurant often to study. Always alone, Joy would pore over her huge art history books as she ate crème brûlée and drank coffee.

  One night some frat boys were giving Erica a hard time, trying to get her to leave work and go back to their place. When one went so far as to put his hand on her arm, Joy had jumped up and thrown hot coffee in his face. Erica could tell Joy had been surprised by her impulsive action, but ever since that moment, they’d been the best of friends.

  In her apartment, Erica cleaned up the dishes and sprayed down the kitchen. Then everything was clean, and there was nothing left to do. Tapping her foot, she looked around her empty apartment. Something on the floor caught her eye, and she bent to pick the item up. A ponytail holder. Joy was constantly losing the things. Smiling, Erica went to the dresser, lifted the lid off a box, and dropped the piece of elastic inside, where it joined about twenty of its friends. Yeah, Joy was a bit of a mess sometimes, but she was an intelligent, lovable, beautiful mess. And if one more guy hurt her, he’d have Erica to answer to.

  The sculpture was even more beautiful than she remembered.

  When Joy arrived home, she placed it on her dresser and tried not to stare at it. She needed a distraction, and she had just the thing. After she changed into leggings and a half shirt, she pulled out a DVD and slid it into the player. She’d started belly dancing about four years ago, and it was her secret passion, one only she knew about. Far too insecure to ever dance in public, she performed her hobby only at home, in her bedroom. It always distracted her from her worries, and the exotic music seemed to sink into her bones, inspiring her to move. But now, as she danced to her most recent belly-dance DVD, for some reason she couldn’t totally distract herself from the sculpture on her dresser. It was like the figures were watching her. Her first audience. Was that why she danced extra hard? She worked up quite a sweat as she moved her hips, undulated her abdomen, and snaked her arms. And after, as she changed into an old T-shirt, washed her face, and brushed her teeth, she couldn’t stop her gaze from drifting back to the sculpture’s sensual form.