Dare to Surrender
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Synopsis
HE MEETS HIS MATCH. SHE MEETS HER MASTER. Art gallery curator Joy Montgomery has never liked her body's generous curves. And she's always been too shy to explore her wild side. But tonight, everything is going to change . . . Desperate to save her job, Joy approaches bad-boy artist Ash Hunter and asks him to exhibit his erotic work at her gallery. Ash agrees on one condition: Joy must pose as his model. But business soon turns to pleasure, as Joy experiences a passion beyond her wildest imaginings and Ash finds more than just inspiration in his voluptuous new muse.
Release date: January 15, 2010
Publisher: Forever
Print pages: 353
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Dare to Surrender
Lilli Feisty
Half of being successful was luck, right? So, as she entered the elegant surroundings of the museum fund-raiser, Joy Montgomery
prayed she was about to get lucky.
Scanning the crowded, oversized room, she searched for a blond man with green eyes to die for and a long, lean body she would
never forget.
There, in the corner! Her gaze landed on him and her breath caught. He was more gorgeous than she remembered. He held himself away from the crowd,
which seemed to fade away when he caught her eye for just a second before a group of guests blocked her view.
A petite brunette came toward her. “Joy! I’m so glad you made it!” she said, and gave Joy a hug.
“Wow.” Joy looked around the third floor of the San Francisco Art Museum, the atrium of which had been reborn into a reception
hall for the year’s biggest fund-raiser. The walls were adorned with the museum’s best pieces from their collection, and the
high ceiling opened to the night sky. The large space echoed with conversation, making it difficult to hear.
“So, I see he came.” Joy eyed the tall, lanky photographer, trying to ignore the way her heartbeat seemed to speed up whenever
she looked at him.
Ruby Scott, event planner and the neighbor Joy had come to know and love, looked in Ash’s direction and frowned. “Yeah, I
have to say I’m shocked. He quit his photography, despite the fact that this museum wanted to do a show for him.” She shrugged
her petite shoulders. “He just seems lost somehow.” She brought her attention back to Joy. “And it’s such a shame he’s not
taking photographs now. He was really on the brink of something amazing.”
Joy blinked. “Pardon me? What do you mean he’s not taking pictures anymore? I don’t understand.”
“Who really knows? Artists can be so unpredictable.”
Shit shit shit! Joy had banked on Ash’s being here, and he was. But if he wasn’t taking photographs anymore, how was she supposed to lure
him to the gallery she worked for? Her boss had told her to find an up-and-coming artist, someone edgy. There was nothing
edgier than Ash Hunter’s sexy photographs.
“If he’s not taking photographs, what’s he doing?”
“Not teaching anymore, I know that. He used to be in the Navy. I’m wondering if he’s considering returning to security.”
“He doesn’t look like security.” Joy took in his faded jeans, T-shirt, leather jacket, and black boots. His dirty blond hair
was too long, and he looked like he hadn’t shaved in a day or two. He looked like… an artist.
Ruby shook her head in his direction. “I know. But I think it’s in his blood. He’s not happy unless he’s on the go, and he’s
been in town ever since…”
Joy turned back to Ruby. “Since what?”
Smiling, Ruby shook her head. “Never mind. Anyway, apparently he was quite the hero in his day. Not that he’d ever admit it.”
Ash could stop speeding trains and scale tall buildings—it still wouldn’t help Joy keep her job.
Conveniently, a waiter happened to be passing by with a tray of champagne glasses. Joy plucked off two flutes and downed one,
then looked up to find Ruby staring at her, her face tilted, her blue eyes questioning.
“Everything okay, honey?” Ruby asked.
“No,” Joy said, waving her now-empty flute in Ash’s direction. “My boss wants him—his art, I mean—as an exclusive for the
Cartwright Gallery. If I don’t come back with some sort of agreement, I’ll probably be fired.”
“They can’t fire you for that!” Ruby said. Though her slight frame appeared relaxed, Joy saw that the woman’s gaze never rested
anywhere for long. She was constantly taking in the environment, watching for any possible detail that might be less than
perfect.
But everything was flawless. From the display of a light show on the far wall to the smoked salmon canapés being passed by
a waitstaff that seemed to be made up of supermodels, every last detail had been immaculately attended to.
Ruby Scott was the epitome of detail-oriented. Joy Montgomery was, in a word, not.
“Listen, sweetie. I have to get to work, but we’ll talk about this later—I promise we’ll think of something! Right now, don’t
worry about it. Just enjoy yourself.” Ruby took Joy’s empty glass and flitted off to consult with the caterer.
Joy watched her go, her slim body fitted into an impeccably tailored dress. She wondered how one became detail-oriented, a
perfectionist. Joy was a lot of things, but none of those traits were on the list. She could have finished off another degree
with the cumulative time she’d spent looking for her keys, she never remembered any of her three brothers’ birthdays, and
she was always late to work.
And she never seemed to be able to put together an outfit with the flair that some women, like Ruby, naturally seemed to possess.
Like tonight. The flowery dress had seemed an appropriate choice when Joy had pulled it out of her closet earlier that evening,
but now, in a sea of black fashion, she shifted awkwardly on her flats, feeling very out of place in the bright fabric. Also,
unlike most of the other women at the event holding tiny clutches, Joy had her ever-present oversized bag slung over her shoulder.
But she had a panic attack if she went anywhere without it. The bad thing was, she tended to collect random miscellanea along
the way. Every few weeks, she dumped the contents of the bag onto her bed and was always surprised at how much crap she’d
managed to shove in there.
Sighing, she turned her gaze to the paintings on the wall. The gala was a reception for a big museum fund-raiser, but no one
except Joy seemed to be appreciating the wonderful collection displayed around them. Like that piece on the far wall. Her
gaze fell on a vivid abstract and she found herself moving forward, drawn to it. The dazzling colors calmed her; the flowing
composition soothed her. Stopping a few feet from the piece, she uncurled hands she hadn’t even realized had been clenched
and stared.
“You like this?”
Joy snapped herself into the present. She’d been so lost in the art that the room had faded, and she hadn’t noticed Ash approaching.
Now he stood next to her, but he wasn’t looking at the painting. He was looking at her, his eyes intense, unblinking, and
the most beautiful shade of green she’d ever seen—tinted emerald as if laid directly from an artist’s palette—
Shit. Every time she started describing a man in art terms, she knew she was in trouble. What had she said about Cartwright? Oh,
that the shadows of the sharp features of his face were like a study in chiaroscuro.
Big mistake.
She pulled her bag tighter and nodded. “Yes. It’s, um, very moving.” Really intelligent, Miss Art History Major. And it was then that she remembered Ash was an artist himself and was probably thinking she was incredibly dull.
Then she remembered the type of artist he was. She pictured one of the bondage photographs she’d seen at Ruby’s place, and
a tiny erotic awareness tingled over her. Because Ash Hunter didn’t do landscapes or still lifes or abstract art. Ash Hunter
tied women up in ropes and photographed them.
Ash Hunter was considered to be a master of bondage. A tall, sexy, kinky man who actually made erotic art artistic.
At least, he used to be that man. Now it seemed he was just tall and sexy, and she had no idea about the kinky.
She experienced an urge to find out.
“Joy, right?” he said, and she discovered his voice was still scratchy and deep, just as she’d remembered from the one time
she’d met him outside her building. She’d been late for work and had burst outside, slamming the door right into Ash’s shoulder.
“Yes, that’s right; I’m Joy. Montgomery.” She brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “And you’re Ash. Ash Hunter. Oh!
How’s your shoulder?” Her face heated as she remembered their last meeting.
Ash frowned slightly. “Yeah, it took awhile, but I recovered from the incident. Had to have minor surgery, but it’s all good
now. Just a few twinges every now and then.” He rubbed his right shoulder as if massaging a sore muscle.
She jerked back. “What? Oh my God! I’m so sorry; you should have told me! My insurance could have covered it. Though I don’t
have any insurance, well, just a basic plan that probably wouldn’t have helped. Either way, I am so sorry.”
But he was smiling now, the little lines near his eyes crinkling, and she had the unfounded thought that they didn’t crinkle
often.
“Joy. I’m messing with you.”
Relief flooded her and she bit back a smile. “You asshole.”
He quirked a brow.
Crap. First she couldn’t shut up, and now she’d just called him a bad name.
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean that,” she said. “About you being an asshole.”
“Yes, you did.” But his green eyes were softer than before. Like the artist had added a touch of yellow…
She tossed the thought aside. “Fine, but you have to admit it wasn’t nice of you to keep me going like that.”
“You’re right. It was very, very wrong.”
“Now you’re just humoring me,” she said.
“Maybe.”
Silence stretched between them, until she finally had to say something before she exploded. “Actually, I wanted to talk to
you about something. Professionally. Do you have a minute?”
He looked at her a second too long and then nodded. “Yeah. But it’s so loud in here I can barely think. Come with me.”
Leaving no room for argument, he turned and walked to a metal door. Punching a code into a box, he turned the handle and opened
the door, pausing to hold it with one of his long, lean arms so she could head through first. As she passed him, she barely
brushed his shoulder and the heat from his body jolted through her like electricity.
Great. She was hot for the bondage-artist-turned-securityspecialist whom she was supposed to be wooing to the Cartwright Gallery
so she could keep her job.
Crap. That was abso-fucking-lutely the last thing she needed.
As she passed beneath him, Ash caught a whiff of vanilla and his balls tightened. And as he watched the redhead take a few
steps in front of him, her flowery dress swirling around her knees, he nearly went hard. Joy Montgomery. She wasn’t his type,
and yet something about her made his blood run hot. It had that day he’d met her in front of Ruby’s building, and it still
did.
Stopping, she turned and looked at him, not noticing the lock of wild red hair that fell out of the bun she had piled high
on her head. He decided not to tell her; for some reason he found her dishevelment endearing, which confused him. Everything
in its place, that was his credo. And everything about Joy seemed slightly out of place.
He shouldn’t like that, especially not now.
“Why do you have the security code?” she asked.
“Because I have some art here, and I’m too paranoid to let anyone touch it except me.” He moved past her and led the way down
the hall to the last door on the right. Then he pushed inside and flipped on the light.
Clearing his throat, he crossed his arms across his chest. “So, Joy. What did you want to talk to me about?”
But she didn’t seem to hear him. Silently, she stared at a marble sculpture as if it were Jesus.
She took a step closer to the three-foot piece. “My God,” she whispered, releasing her huge gray bag and letting it fall to
the floor with a thud. “This is… beautiful.”
He got compliments on his art all the time, so why did his face heat from her words? “You think so?”
“I think it’s amazing.” She moved her hand as if to touch it but floated her palm a few inches from the piece. “It’s so…”
“Indecent?” He laughed wryly.
“Sensual.”
“I guess that’s one way of putting it.” It was a sculpture of a man and a woman, their elongated limbs entwined, wrapped around
each other. Rope bound them, wrapping and dipping between the forms, appearing and disappearing in the crevices of the sculpted
marble.
“So you’re going to show these here?”
He kicked the tip of his boot against the desk. “Um, no.”
Her eyes widened. “What? Why?”
Why did she seem so concerned? He shrugged. “Because I’m taking a break from all this. Besides, they’re not very good. I’m
just an amateur.”
“No. These are modern and yet… there’s something classic about them. The woman is bound, yet still iconic somehow. Power,
beauty. Reminds me of ancient Roman work.” She bit her lip as she grinned, impish. “They were naughty, too.”
He just shook his head. She had no idea what she was talking about.
“I know what I’m talking about. Stanford art school and all that.” She began digging through her giant purse and finally pulled
out a card. Handing it to him, she said, “I work for the Cartwright Gallery. I would love to show these.”
“So that’s what this is about? You’re trying to get me to show at your gallery?”
“Yes. We’d be delighted to represent you. Both your photography and your sculpture.”
He stepped back. “No way. I’m done.” He had way too much going on, too many people depending on him to waste time taking pictures
and tinkering with marble.
“I’m having a really hard time believing that.” She turned her head slowly, releasing his gaze at the last minute, to stare
at the marble piece again. “I can’t tell if they’re making love, or bound against their will… or both.” Her voice was soft
and pensive, as if she was thinking aloud and had forgotten he was even there. She walked around the sculpture, her eyes taking
in the naked forms, and he saw her breathing go a bit shallow, saw her eyes darken. She bit her fingernail, and he saw her
hand was trembling slightly.
“Oh, Lord,” he said, walking to her, and she inhaled sharply when he closed in. He could smell her arousal. “You’re getting
turned on by a sculpture.”
“I am?”
“Are you?”
“Maybe,” she said softly, her gaze darting over his face. “I like art.”
Just like that, a vision hit him, of Joy, bound. Restrained. His. Desire flooded him and he could not resist drawing closer, felt his body tighten with awakening. “Tell me what else you like.”
It seemed insane to be talking to her this way, but he couldn’t stop, and he took one of her wrists in his hand and encircled
her. Despite her full breasts and hips, she had a small frame, and he took a moment to feel the elegant bones beneath her
soft skin. “You have such delicate hands, Joy.”
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.
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.
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 pause. . .
prayed she was about to get lucky.
Scanning the crowded, oversized room, she searched for a blond man with green eyes to die for and a long, lean body she would
never forget.
There, in the corner! Her gaze landed on him and her breath caught. He was more gorgeous than she remembered. He held himself away from the crowd,
which seemed to fade away when he caught her eye for just a second before a group of guests blocked her view.
A petite brunette came toward her. “Joy! I’m so glad you made it!” she said, and gave Joy a hug.
“Wow.” Joy looked around the third floor of the San Francisco Art Museum, the atrium of which had been reborn into a reception
hall for the year’s biggest fund-raiser. The walls were adorned with the museum’s best pieces from their collection, and the
high ceiling opened to the night sky. The large space echoed with conversation, making it difficult to hear.
“So, I see he came.” Joy eyed the tall, lanky photographer, trying to ignore the way her heartbeat seemed to speed up whenever
she looked at him.
Ruby Scott, event planner and the neighbor Joy had come to know and love, looked in Ash’s direction and frowned. “Yeah, I
have to say I’m shocked. He quit his photography, despite the fact that this museum wanted to do a show for him.” She shrugged
her petite shoulders. “He just seems lost somehow.” She brought her attention back to Joy. “And it’s such a shame he’s not
taking photographs now. He was really on the brink of something amazing.”
Joy blinked. “Pardon me? What do you mean he’s not taking pictures anymore? I don’t understand.”
“Who really knows? Artists can be so unpredictable.”
Shit shit shit! Joy had banked on Ash’s being here, and he was. But if he wasn’t taking photographs anymore, how was she supposed to lure
him to the gallery she worked for? Her boss had told her to find an up-and-coming artist, someone edgy. There was nothing
edgier than Ash Hunter’s sexy photographs.
“If he’s not taking photographs, what’s he doing?”
“Not teaching anymore, I know that. He used to be in the Navy. I’m wondering if he’s considering returning to security.”
“He doesn’t look like security.” Joy took in his faded jeans, T-shirt, leather jacket, and black boots. His dirty blond hair
was too long, and he looked like he hadn’t shaved in a day or two. He looked like… an artist.
Ruby shook her head in his direction. “I know. But I think it’s in his blood. He’s not happy unless he’s on the go, and he’s
been in town ever since…”
Joy turned back to Ruby. “Since what?”
Smiling, Ruby shook her head. “Never mind. Anyway, apparently he was quite the hero in his day. Not that he’d ever admit it.”
Ash could stop speeding trains and scale tall buildings—it still wouldn’t help Joy keep her job.
Conveniently, a waiter happened to be passing by with a tray of champagne glasses. Joy plucked off two flutes and downed one,
then looked up to find Ruby staring at her, her face tilted, her blue eyes questioning.
“Everything okay, honey?” Ruby asked.
“No,” Joy said, waving her now-empty flute in Ash’s direction. “My boss wants him—his art, I mean—as an exclusive for the
Cartwright Gallery. If I don’t come back with some sort of agreement, I’ll probably be fired.”
“They can’t fire you for that!” Ruby said. Though her slight frame appeared relaxed, Joy saw that the woman’s gaze never rested
anywhere for long. She was constantly taking in the environment, watching for any possible detail that might be less than
perfect.
But everything was flawless. From the display of a light show on the far wall to the smoked salmon canapés being passed by
a waitstaff that seemed to be made up of supermodels, every last detail had been immaculately attended to.
Ruby Scott was the epitome of detail-oriented. Joy Montgomery was, in a word, not.
“Listen, sweetie. I have to get to work, but we’ll talk about this later—I promise we’ll think of something! Right now, don’t
worry about it. Just enjoy yourself.” Ruby took Joy’s empty glass and flitted off to consult with the caterer.
Joy watched her go, her slim body fitted into an impeccably tailored dress. She wondered how one became detail-oriented, a
perfectionist. Joy was a lot of things, but none of those traits were on the list. She could have finished off another degree
with the cumulative time she’d spent looking for her keys, she never remembered any of her three brothers’ birthdays, and
she was always late to work.
And she never seemed to be able to put together an outfit with the flair that some women, like Ruby, naturally seemed to possess.
Like tonight. The flowery dress had seemed an appropriate choice when Joy had pulled it out of her closet earlier that evening,
but now, in a sea of black fashion, she shifted awkwardly on her flats, feeling very out of place in the bright fabric. Also,
unlike most of the other women at the event holding tiny clutches, Joy had her ever-present oversized bag slung over her shoulder.
But she had a panic attack if she went anywhere without it. The bad thing was, she tended to collect random miscellanea along
the way. Every few weeks, she dumped the contents of the bag onto her bed and was always surprised at how much crap she’d
managed to shove in there.
Sighing, she turned her gaze to the paintings on the wall. The gala was a reception for a big museum fund-raiser, but no one
except Joy seemed to be appreciating the wonderful collection displayed around them. Like that piece on the far wall. Her
gaze fell on a vivid abstract and she found herself moving forward, drawn to it. The dazzling colors calmed her; the flowing
composition soothed her. Stopping a few feet from the piece, she uncurled hands she hadn’t even realized had been clenched
and stared.
“You like this?”
Joy snapped herself into the present. She’d been so lost in the art that the room had faded, and she hadn’t noticed Ash approaching.
Now he stood next to her, but he wasn’t looking at the painting. He was looking at her, his eyes intense, unblinking, and
the most beautiful shade of green she’d ever seen—tinted emerald as if laid directly from an artist’s palette—
Shit. Every time she started describing a man in art terms, she knew she was in trouble. What had she said about Cartwright? Oh,
that the shadows of the sharp features of his face were like a study in chiaroscuro.
Big mistake.
She pulled her bag tighter and nodded. “Yes. It’s, um, very moving.” Really intelligent, Miss Art History Major. And it was then that she remembered Ash was an artist himself and was probably thinking she was incredibly dull.
Then she remembered the type of artist he was. She pictured one of the bondage photographs she’d seen at Ruby’s place, and
a tiny erotic awareness tingled over her. Because Ash Hunter didn’t do landscapes or still lifes or abstract art. Ash Hunter
tied women up in ropes and photographed them.
Ash Hunter was considered to be a master of bondage. A tall, sexy, kinky man who actually made erotic art artistic.
At least, he used to be that man. Now it seemed he was just tall and sexy, and she had no idea about the kinky.
She experienced an urge to find out.
“Joy, right?” he said, and she discovered his voice was still scratchy and deep, just as she’d remembered from the one time
she’d met him outside her building. She’d been late for work and had burst outside, slamming the door right into Ash’s shoulder.
“Yes, that’s right; I’m Joy. Montgomery.” She brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “And you’re Ash. Ash Hunter. Oh!
How’s your shoulder?” Her face heated as she remembered their last meeting.
Ash frowned slightly. “Yeah, it took awhile, but I recovered from the incident. Had to have minor surgery, but it’s all good
now. Just a few twinges every now and then.” He rubbed his right shoulder as if massaging a sore muscle.
She jerked back. “What? Oh my God! I’m so sorry; you should have told me! My insurance could have covered it. Though I don’t
have any insurance, well, just a basic plan that probably wouldn’t have helped. Either way, I am so sorry.”
But he was smiling now, the little lines near his eyes crinkling, and she had the unfounded thought that they didn’t crinkle
often.
“Joy. I’m messing with you.”
Relief flooded her and she bit back a smile. “You asshole.”
He quirked a brow.
Crap. First she couldn’t shut up, and now she’d just called him a bad name.
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean that,” she said. “About you being an asshole.”
“Yes, you did.” But his green eyes were softer than before. Like the artist had added a touch of yellow…
She tossed the thought aside. “Fine, but you have to admit it wasn’t nice of you to keep me going like that.”
“You’re right. It was very, very wrong.”
“Now you’re just humoring me,” she said.
“Maybe.”
Silence stretched between them, until she finally had to say something before she exploded. “Actually, I wanted to talk to
you about something. Professionally. Do you have a minute?”
He looked at her a second too long and then nodded. “Yeah. But it’s so loud in here I can barely think. Come with me.”
Leaving no room for argument, he turned and walked to a metal door. Punching a code into a box, he turned the handle and opened
the door, pausing to hold it with one of his long, lean arms so she could head through first. As she passed him, she barely
brushed his shoulder and the heat from his body jolted through her like electricity.
Great. She was hot for the bondage-artist-turned-securityspecialist whom she was supposed to be wooing to the Cartwright Gallery
so she could keep her job.
Crap. That was abso-fucking-lutely the last thing she needed.
As she passed beneath him, Ash caught a whiff of vanilla and his balls tightened. And as he watched the redhead take a few
steps in front of him, her flowery dress swirling around her knees, he nearly went hard. Joy Montgomery. She wasn’t his type,
and yet something about her made his blood run hot. It had that day he’d met her in front of Ruby’s building, and it still
did.
Stopping, she turned and looked at him, not noticing the lock of wild red hair that fell out of the bun she had piled high
on her head. He decided not to tell her; for some reason he found her dishevelment endearing, which confused him. Everything
in its place, that was his credo. And everything about Joy seemed slightly out of place.
He shouldn’t like that, especially not now.
“Why do you have the security code?” she asked.
“Because I have some art here, and I’m too paranoid to let anyone touch it except me.” He moved past her and led the way down
the hall to the last door on the right. Then he pushed inside and flipped on the light.
Clearing his throat, he crossed his arms across his chest. “So, Joy. What did you want to talk to me about?”
But she didn’t seem to hear him. Silently, she stared at a marble sculpture as if it were Jesus.
She took a step closer to the three-foot piece. “My God,” she whispered, releasing her huge gray bag and letting it fall to
the floor with a thud. “This is… beautiful.”
He got compliments on his art all the time, so why did his face heat from her words? “You think so?”
“I think it’s amazing.” She moved her hand as if to touch it but floated her palm a few inches from the piece. “It’s so…”
“Indecent?” He laughed wryly.
“Sensual.”
“I guess that’s one way of putting it.” It was a sculpture of a man and a woman, their elongated limbs entwined, wrapped around
each other. Rope bound them, wrapping and dipping between the forms, appearing and disappearing in the crevices of the sculpted
marble.
“So you’re going to show these here?”
He kicked the tip of his boot against the desk. “Um, no.”
Her eyes widened. “What? Why?”
Why did she seem so concerned? He shrugged. “Because I’m taking a break from all this. Besides, they’re not very good. I’m
just an amateur.”
“No. These are modern and yet… there’s something classic about them. The woman is bound, yet still iconic somehow. Power,
beauty. Reminds me of ancient Roman work.” She bit her lip as she grinned, impish. “They were naughty, too.”
He just shook his head. She had no idea what she was talking about.
“I know what I’m talking about. Stanford art school and all that.” She began digging through her giant purse and finally pulled
out a card. Handing it to him, she said, “I work for the Cartwright Gallery. I would love to show these.”
“So that’s what this is about? You’re trying to get me to show at your gallery?”
“Yes. We’d be delighted to represent you. Both your photography and your sculpture.”
He stepped back. “No way. I’m done.” He had way too much going on, too many people depending on him to waste time taking pictures
and tinkering with marble.
“I’m having a really hard time believing that.” She turned her head slowly, releasing his gaze at the last minute, to stare
at the marble piece again. “I can’t tell if they’re making love, or bound against their will… or both.” Her voice was soft
and pensive, as if she was thinking aloud and had forgotten he was even there. She walked around the sculpture, her eyes taking
in the naked forms, and he saw her breathing go a bit shallow, saw her eyes darken. She bit her fingernail, and he saw her
hand was trembling slightly.
“Oh, Lord,” he said, walking to her, and she inhaled sharply when he closed in. He could smell her arousal. “You’re getting
turned on by a sculpture.”
“I am?”
“Are you?”
“Maybe,” she said softly, her gaze darting over his face. “I like art.”
Just like that, a vision hit him, of Joy, bound. Restrained. His. Desire flooded him and he could not resist drawing closer, felt his body tighten with awakening. “Tell me what else you like.”
It seemed insane to be talking to her this way, but he couldn’t stop, and he took one of her wrists in his hand and encircled
her. Despite her full breasts and hips, she had a small frame, and he took a moment to feel the elegant bones beneath her
soft skin. “You have such delicate hands, Joy.”
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.
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.
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 pause. . .
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