Trust Jeff Tyler to make use of any chance to get some publicity for his gallery.
Naomi blinked into the blinding flashes of the cameras, smiling nervously at the waiting reporters. Jeff had told her to dress nicely for Mr. Mysterious Billionaire—but Jeff had failed to mention that he’d invited the press.
Naomi had put on her favorite black cocktail dress for the occasion. These days, it was also her only nice dress, but it hugged all of her curves in just the right way. And the mysterious buyer wouldn’t know that it had lasted her five years already, after she got it on clearance.
“Smile, baby!” Jeff hissed in her ear, grinning triumphantly at the cameras.
It went on for way too long, but a moment later, she was saved from all the attention when a newcomer entered the gallery. Flashes went off again, and the man froze for a moment, a displeased look on his face.
Then he strode forward, disregarding the gathered journalists—coming straight towards where Naomi and Jeff were waiting.
That has to be the mysterious buyer.
Naomi felt her knees go weak. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting. Eccentric billionaires, in her mind, were old and feeble, with white hair and flashy glasses, spending their afternoons by a pool, where they made bids at art auctions from their phone.
But there was nothing old or eccentric about this man.
He had to be in his thirties, with the broad shoulders and incredible biceps of a man working at a construction site, and not someone who lazed around on a patio all day.
His hair was a peculiar color somewhere between blond and brown, as if he spent enough time outside that the sun had bleached strands to gleaming gold. It looked a little windswept, although surely someone rich enough to drop twenty thousand dollars on a painting wouldn’t walk here.
Perhaps he’d just stepped from the private jet that had brought him here—or a helicopter. She couldn’t quite pin it down, but there was something about him that made her think of gusts of wind tugging at his hair, and the warmth of a gentle summer breeze.
But right now, there was nothing gentle about his expression.
He strode forward with powerful steps, exuding an air of command. He stopped in front of Jeff, displeasure on the handsome, rugged face that made something inside Naomi tighten with unexpected need.
“I said I wanted to meet the artist,” the stranger said, his voice accompanied by an angry rumble in his chest. “I said nothing about reporters.”
“Now, now,” Jeff said breezily, turning to beam at the gathered reporters once more. “Just a bit of fun for the press, won’t take a minute, and then I’ll let you and Naomi have a chat.”
The stranger gave Jeff a disbelieving look, his eyes narrowing with obvious displeasure when another flash went off—and then he turned, and for the first time, Naomi looked straight into his eyes.
She felt as if lightning had struck her. As though someone had pulled the ground away from beneath her feet. She was falling, falling… and yet she was still aware of standing in the gallery, next to Jeff, looking at the stranger in front of her.
The stranger had her dragon’s eyes.
She gasped very softly. She couldn’t look away. His eyes were a light gray—the color of storm clouds, filled with the distant illumination of lightning.
She’d never seen anything like it. She’d never felt anything like it.
No, that wasn’t right. She’d felt it once—that one night of overwhelming inspiration, that final night before the constant worries and work drained away what was left of her creativity.
That entire night, she’d felt as though she was carried along by an incredible force—a storm that had picked her up and pulled her along. She’d imagined riding through thunder and clouds and laughing at lightning, filled with a deep, overwhelming joy at the powers of nature.
That had been the image she’d seen in her mind, the picture she’d painted with bold strokes and little dabs for detail: a dragon, master of the elements, a powerful creature commanding the wind.
Freedom.
That was what the dragon had been—and that was what she also saw in the eyes of the stranger.
“I’m sorry,” he now said, his voice a little hoarse. “I’m Gregory Drago. You must be the artist.”
“Naomi Edwardson.” She gave him an overwhelmed smile.
Again a flash went off far too close, blinding her for a moment so that she flinched.
A heartbeat later, he’d taken hold of her elbow, shielding her from the cameras with his body. At the contact, another shiver went through her. For a moment, she could feel the wind on her face, taste the freedom that had seemed out of reach for so long now…
Then the reporters came forward, clearly overjoyed at the chance to get a picture of the mysterious billionaire protecting the artist.
“Jeff!” Naomi called out, frustrated by the way he’d yet again used her success to orchestrate this ridiculous PR event for his gallery.
But Jeff didn’t answer. As the reporters came crowding closer, she couldn’t even see him anymore. Hadn’t he been right beside her a moment ago?
“Wait a moment—here!” Gregory said triumphantly, still pressed so close that she could feel the heat of his body.
He reached out behind here. There was a sudden click—and then something opened, and she found herself pushed through into what was revealed to be a tiny storage room, crammed full of boxes.
Another storm of flashes was let loose, and Gregory firmly pulled the door close behind them.
And just like that, everything was dark.
She could still hear the sounds of the journalists outside. The door was rattling now, but fortunately there was a key on the inside, which Gregory used to lock it.
It wouldn’t surprise me if the room has a key because Jeff’s having an affair with that new secretary of his, Naomi thought, and then her mind fell silent when she became aware that she was trapped in a cramped space with the most incredibly handsome and charismatic man she’d ever seen.
A man who was forced to stand so close, thanks to the towering stacks of wooden boxes, that her breasts were brushing against his chest.
Naomi felt herself flush, glad of the darkness now.
“I’m sorry,” Gregory murmured. “That wasn’t how I imagined our meeting would go.”
“Oh?” she said lightly, trying to hide the fact that her heart was hammering in her chest. “And do you do this often? Spend ridiculous amounts of money on unsuspecting artists?”
He laughed softly. She shivered again at the way she could feel his breath against her cheek.
“I do collect… and you could say that I have a special interest in dragons. But it’s mostly the older masters. Medieval works too. You know, back when people still thought dragons were real.”
“So mine is an exception?” She swallowed, barely daring to breathe, simultaneously afraid and excited by the way her body kept brushing his in the tiny space.
“It is.” He spoke very softly, although his voice was earnest. “I don’t know how to explain it, but in your painting I saw the same emotion I see in those older paintings.”
“Back when people thought dragons were real.” She felt herself smile at the thought. “I guess you could say that for one night, that dragon was real for me. When I painted him, it was as if I saw him. His power. His joy. His command of the elements. There was something so primeval about him, something ancient. He was the storm. He was freedom.”
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