the truth was she’d grown to trust Rhys, and it was clear she wasn’t getting very far on her own. Obviously it would have been better to obtain proof before involving him, but the fact of the matter was that he was already involved.
She’d involved him the second they slept together.
And she didn’t want to lie anymore, not now that they were more than neighbors.
All she could do was hope that he was the good man she believed him to be. That he’d be able to look past her indiscretion to the bigger problem—Sean Ainslie.
“Did you know who I was when you moved into your apartment?”
“No,” she said, glancing at the burger she now had no appetite for. “You being my neighbor is a coincidence.”
His deep brown eyes were coldly assessing. “Did you sleep with me to make me trust you?”
A lump formed in her throat. “How could you even ask me that?”
“There’s so much you haven’t told me, I want to be sure.”
“I’m a painter, not an actress.” She pushed her fries around with a fork. “I can’t fake feelings any more than I can fake orgasms.”
It hadn’t sounded all that dangerous in her head but the moment she’d said the words aloud her stomach pitched. Feelings. What on earth did that mean and why the hell had she clued him in?
He appeared as baffled by her admission as she was. “You do realize that you’ve admitted to lying to me and now you’re claiming to have feelings for me?”
“It’s complicated,” she muttered.
“I’d say it’s more than complicated.”
“You know what? Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s incredibly simple.” Frustration roiled within her, but she couldn’t take it out on him. She’d done wrong, here. But if she could make him see it was all with good intention, he might help her. “I get that I’ve screwed up. I’m sorry for not being totally honest with you. I’m sorry that I let us cross a line knowing it could make things hard for your job. But I am not sorry that I’m here trying to get some justice for my best friend.”
“What did you think was going to happen, Wren?” He rubbed at the back of his neck, a crease forming between his dark brows. “That you would come here and play spy like you’re in a goddamn Hollywood movie? That you would magically find this evidence on your own and wrap everything up with a neat little bow?”
She tamped down the urge to argue with him. She needed him, needed to regain his trust. “Maybe.”
“If Sean did assault your friend, what did you think he would do to you?” His voice was getting harder, louder. “What if he hurt you the same way? What if you weren’t as lucky as your friend?”
That’s when she saw it. His feelings…for her. He was angry and terrified. For her.
“I’m smart, Rhys. I know how to play him.”
“I don’t want to insult your intelligence, Wren, but what you’ve done is pretty damn stupid.” His fists clenched. “And dangerous…and possibly illegal.”
Cold fear dripped down her spine. “What happens now?”
“I don’t know.” His fingers dug deeper into the muscles of his neck. “But I do know you’re not going near Sean Ainslie until we figure it out.”
“I have to go to work. It’ll tip him off if I don’t. And I have to keep an eye out for Aimee.”
“Why?”
“She had bruises on her arm.” Wren popped a fry into her mouth and tried to force herself to eat, but it tasted like nothing. “Finger-shaped bruises. She said Sean had gotten rough with her, but when I tried to talk to her about it again today she clammed up and said she overreacted.”
He shook his head, the disgust evident on his face. “Did she say what caused him to get angry?”
“Not really. She said they were arguing about a painting. He wasn’t happy with what she’d done. Artistic differences, I guess.”
“That doesn’t seem like a reason for him to get physical.”
“Do you think men who hurt women have their brains wired properly?”
He grunted. “Point taken.”
“I’m convinced he’s hiding something in the storage room.” She gave up eating and instead pushed her food around on her plate. “That’s got to be the reason he freaked out and called your company when I tried to get in. He’s meticulous about making sure no one gets inside.”
“How so?”
“He gave me this big spiel on my first day about how it’s full of valuable paintings and that when we’re setting up for a showing, only he is allowed to get the paintings out. I wasn’t sure what to make of it at first—I mean, a lot of artists are eccentric and private, but he flipped out when he thought Lola was trying to get inside one day when she was mopping the floors.”
“Have you ever seen him go into the room?”
“No, he must wait until we’re all gone for the day. Or maybe he does it early in the morning.”
“Do you think he has any paintings that are worth a lot of money?”
Wren shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. I don’t think he sells as many paintings as he’d like people to believe. His style is…eclectic. But not in a good way.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s no common thread or general theme. A lot of artists will experiment and try new things, but in Sean’s work, I can’t even see an attempt to build upon a particular style or technique.”
“What’s he like as a teacher?”
“Pushy, talks a lot of shit that doesn’t mean anything.”
“What about the other girls?”
“They eat it up.” Wren shook her head. “They’re young and grateful that someone has given them an opportunity in an industry that’s so competitive. They believe he can turn them into wunderkinds.”
“That’s not the case?”
“Not from what I’ve seen. But maybe I’m just jaded and that’s affecting my view.”
Wren had worked with several different art teachers over the years. They’d all given her different advice that often clashed and contradicted. Art, she’d come to realize, was like cutting out a part of your soul and showing it to the world. It hurt when people rejected what you’d made because they were, in essence, rejecting you.
And the closer you got to painting something from deep within, the more likely you were to end up bleeding.
“Why
