Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty-Six

H e came.

Ariel knew the exact moment Cooper set foot in the gallery because the hair on the nape of her neck snapped to attention, as did most of the women in the room.

To give her credit, she averted her gaze after the first soul-wrenching moment when their eyes met and what could only be described as sizzling heat arced between them across the room.

But that one, loaded moment was all it took for her to imprint his powerful image on her brain: black jeans, black T-shirt, black leather jacket, the bad-boy wardrobe looking way too good on the uptight corporate shark.

Throw in the cocky grin, the sardonic glint in his too-blue eyes, and a natural confidence that turned heads, and she knew she'd have trouble getting through the rest of the evening.

He could've played fair and avoided her.

Since when did a guy like him, used to getting whatever he wanted in life, play fair?

"You can run but you can't hide," Cooper said, sneaking up on her in the studio kitchenette while she hunted for extra plastic cups under the sink.

Ariel's head snapped up and she avoided clunking her head on the rusty metal sink by an inch.

"Nice view, by the way."

With heat flushing her cheeks, she wriggled backwards from her awkward position and hoped her butt didn't look big in the crushed velvet hot pants, before mentally slapping herself for caring.

"What are you doing here? I told you not to come."

He leaned against the doorjamb and grinned, sending her pulse hammering. "In answer to your first question, I'm here because I'm interested in art. As for you telling me not to come, surely you know that I love a challenge?"

She clenched the bag of cheap plastic cups in her hand so hard they crackled. "That's what I am to you, isn't it? A challenge. ‘Let's see how much I can suck up to the flighty artist and watch her capitulate and hand me her gallery on a platter.' Well, I've got news for you, bozo. It isn't going to happen."

She expected him to frown, to glower, to muster that stern business expression like yesterday when he'd presented his lousy pitch. Instead, his infuriating grin widened.

"You're stunning when you're angry."

A tiny thrill of happiness shot through her—a girl had her pride, after all—before she fixed him with a glare designed to intimidate. "And you're full of it. Now, if you don't mind, I have to get back out there."

"Oh, but I do mind," he murmured as she attempted to push past him and, short of plastering her body against his in the doorway, she stopped and waited for him to lower his arm.

He did.

Only as far as her waist.

"You can keep running from me all night but I'm not going anywhere. We need to talk and I'm not leaving until that happens."

He soft words dripped with gentle persuasion but she barely registered them as the light touch of his hand resting on her waist sent her hormones into a tailspin. The warmth from his palm scorched through the snug velvet hugging her waist, branding her skin and enticing her to do all sorts of crazy things, like slide into his arms for an all-over body experience of that seductive warmth.

Stupid. She knew his touch didn't mean a thing. She knew flirting was second nature to a successful guy like him. And she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she should boot his butt out the door so quickly he wouldn't have time to register it.

Instead, she tilted her chin up, looked him straight in the eye, and said, "If you're sticking around, make yourself useful. I could do with a spare pair of hands."

With that, she plucked his hand off her waist, holding it a fraction too long before dropping it and walking away without a backward glance.