The CEO Buys In
Page 37
With a sudden movement, he crossed his arms and yanked his T-shirt up over his head. As he balled it up and tossed it out of her sight, she found her gaze riveted by the movement of muscles under taut skin. Her fingers twitched with the desire to trace the sculpted planes of his abdomen. It was a crime to conceal all that male beauty under a business suit.
He turned his head toward her, and she dragged her gaze up past the dusting of hair on his chest to meet his heavy-lidded eyes. He’d caught her looking at more than his closet. She brazened it out. “How do you have time to stay in such good shape?”
“I exercise at night.” His voice was deep and seductive. He moved his hands to the waistband of his pajama pants.
Chloe’s curiosity had its limits. She scurried backward far enough to have no possible view of the interior of Trainor’s closet. She thought she heard a satisfied chuckle, but it was so low it might have been her imagination.
Deciding to make it clear she wasn’t looking, she walked farther away to examine two paintings hanging on the same wall. Painted in bold colors and strokes, they looked as though they were of the same landscape but interpreted by different artists. Intrigued, she leaned in to read the signatures and gasped. One was signed “P Gauguin,” and the other signature read simply “Vincent.” She knew enough about art to recognize that meant Vincent van Gogh.
Having a Van Gogh was mind-boggling enough, but having a matching Gauguin must make the two paintings nearly priceless as a pair. She stared at the two masterpieces. If this was what Trainor kept in his bedroom, she needed to look more closely at the art in his living room.
“I bought those when I took Trainor Electronics public. They were my first significant purchases of art. I should donate them to a museum, but when I see them I remember ringing the opening bell at the New York Stock Exchange. Heady stuff for a computer nerd.”
Chloe jumped as Trainor’s voice came from directly beside her. The thick carpeting had muffled his footsteps. “It’s amazing to see them side by side,” she said.
She sneaked a glance sideways. He stood with his hands in the pockets of a pair of pressed khaki trousers, his eyes fixed on the artwork. His messy bedhead had been tamed into tidy waves that touched the collar of a blue-and-white-striped button-down shirt, open at the neck. Letting her gaze slide down to his feet, she felt a sense of loss at seeing them encased in shiny burgundy loafers. He was back in his version of a uniform.
“Like a high school essay,” he said. “Compare and contrast. Which one do you like better?”
“I don’t know enough about art to choose,” Chloe said, dragging her attention back to the paintings.
“What? No opinion from the strong-minded Ms. Russell?” There was a teasing note in his voice that made her insides go soft.
“Sometimes beauty should be appreciated, not judged,” Chloe said. “Besides, the two pictures belong together. Choose one and you lose all that extra resonance.”
He ran his index finger along the carved gilt frame of the Gauguin as his expression turned serious. “You make a good point. I’ll strongly suggest that whoever acquires them next hangs these together permanently.”
“And I guess they’ll listen to you.”
“Until I’m dead.”
“According to Dr. Cavill, that could be any day now.”
Trainor gave a little snort of disgust and turned away from the paintings. “Let’s prove him wrong.”
For a moment Chloe thought he was heading toward the bed, and her heart gave a leap of anxiety and excitement. However, his path took him to the door, and she realized that Trainor’s way of warding off death was not to make love but to work.
Nathan pressed his palm against a touch pad, and a section of the wood paneling slid aside. The lights glowed to life automatically, illuminating sleek desks and banks of cutting-edge computer equipment. At the same time, the window wall went from shaded to translucent, offering a view of Manhattan’s towers. This room was all his; he’d designed it and equipped it, mostly with electronics of his own personal design.
“Holy Batcave!” Chloe said as she stepped into the room and turned slowly.
“Two superheroes in one morning,” Nathan said. “I’m flattered.” But he enjoyed watching the mixture of wide-eyed admiration and cynical amusement in her expression. She’d looked at his favorite paintings the same way, although there had been some extra element then, a cautiousness. She didn’t trust him.
And with good reason. He’d brought her to his office via the internal elevator that served only the three floors of his home. Being in that enclosed space with her had tested every ounce of his self-control. The faint floral hint of what must be her shampoo entered his lungs with every breath he drew in. He could see the rise and fall of her breasts under the white blouse she wore. He imagined pushing her against the wall of the elevator, shoving her skirt up to her waist, and burying himself in her while she wrapped her legs around his hips—those spike heels digging into him as she moaned the way she had last night.
Instead he’d put his hand at the small of her back as the elevator doors opened, a gesture that could be attributed to courtesy rather than an overwhelming desire to touch her somewhere. Anywhere.
It was a mistake. The warmth and movement of her body went straight from his palm to his groin.
He scanned the room along with her until his gaze settled on the back of a leather armchair while he pictured bending her over it and sliding his hands up her thighs before he . . .
He turned his head toward her, and she dragged her gaze up past the dusting of hair on his chest to meet his heavy-lidded eyes. He’d caught her looking at more than his closet. She brazened it out. “How do you have time to stay in such good shape?”
“I exercise at night.” His voice was deep and seductive. He moved his hands to the waistband of his pajama pants.
Chloe’s curiosity had its limits. She scurried backward far enough to have no possible view of the interior of Trainor’s closet. She thought she heard a satisfied chuckle, but it was so low it might have been her imagination.
Deciding to make it clear she wasn’t looking, she walked farther away to examine two paintings hanging on the same wall. Painted in bold colors and strokes, they looked as though they were of the same landscape but interpreted by different artists. Intrigued, she leaned in to read the signatures and gasped. One was signed “P Gauguin,” and the other signature read simply “Vincent.” She knew enough about art to recognize that meant Vincent van Gogh.
Having a Van Gogh was mind-boggling enough, but having a matching Gauguin must make the two paintings nearly priceless as a pair. She stared at the two masterpieces. If this was what Trainor kept in his bedroom, she needed to look more closely at the art in his living room.
“I bought those when I took Trainor Electronics public. They were my first significant purchases of art. I should donate them to a museum, but when I see them I remember ringing the opening bell at the New York Stock Exchange. Heady stuff for a computer nerd.”
Chloe jumped as Trainor’s voice came from directly beside her. The thick carpeting had muffled his footsteps. “It’s amazing to see them side by side,” she said.
She sneaked a glance sideways. He stood with his hands in the pockets of a pair of pressed khaki trousers, his eyes fixed on the artwork. His messy bedhead had been tamed into tidy waves that touched the collar of a blue-and-white-striped button-down shirt, open at the neck. Letting her gaze slide down to his feet, she felt a sense of loss at seeing them encased in shiny burgundy loafers. He was back in his version of a uniform.
“Like a high school essay,” he said. “Compare and contrast. Which one do you like better?”
“I don’t know enough about art to choose,” Chloe said, dragging her attention back to the paintings.
“What? No opinion from the strong-minded Ms. Russell?” There was a teasing note in his voice that made her insides go soft.
“Sometimes beauty should be appreciated, not judged,” Chloe said. “Besides, the two pictures belong together. Choose one and you lose all that extra resonance.”
He ran his index finger along the carved gilt frame of the Gauguin as his expression turned serious. “You make a good point. I’ll strongly suggest that whoever acquires them next hangs these together permanently.”
“And I guess they’ll listen to you.”
“Until I’m dead.”
“According to Dr. Cavill, that could be any day now.”
Trainor gave a little snort of disgust and turned away from the paintings. “Let’s prove him wrong.”
For a moment Chloe thought he was heading toward the bed, and her heart gave a leap of anxiety and excitement. However, his path took him to the door, and she realized that Trainor’s way of warding off death was not to make love but to work.
Nathan pressed his palm against a touch pad, and a section of the wood paneling slid aside. The lights glowed to life automatically, illuminating sleek desks and banks of cutting-edge computer equipment. At the same time, the window wall went from shaded to translucent, offering a view of Manhattan’s towers. This room was all his; he’d designed it and equipped it, mostly with electronics of his own personal design.
“Holy Batcave!” Chloe said as she stepped into the room and turned slowly.
“Two superheroes in one morning,” Nathan said. “I’m flattered.” But he enjoyed watching the mixture of wide-eyed admiration and cynical amusement in her expression. She’d looked at his favorite paintings the same way, although there had been some extra element then, a cautiousness. She didn’t trust him.
And with good reason. He’d brought her to his office via the internal elevator that served only the three floors of his home. Being in that enclosed space with her had tested every ounce of his self-control. The faint floral hint of what must be her shampoo entered his lungs with every breath he drew in. He could see the rise and fall of her breasts under the white blouse she wore. He imagined pushing her against the wall of the elevator, shoving her skirt up to her waist, and burying himself in her while she wrapped her legs around his hips—those spike heels digging into him as she moaned the way she had last night.
Instead he’d put his hand at the small of her back as the elevator doors opened, a gesture that could be attributed to courtesy rather than an overwhelming desire to touch her somewhere. Anywhere.
It was a mistake. The warmth and movement of her body went straight from his palm to his groin.
He scanned the room along with her until his gaze settled on the back of a leather armchair while he pictured bending her over it and sliding his hands up her thighs before he . . .
