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I nod, keeping my gaze fixed on her face, reading each micro-expression that flits across her features. "I know you're an art history major, so I thought you might enjoy it."
Shock flashes briefly in her eyes before she schools her features. "You actually remembered my major?"
The corner of my mouth quirks up into a half smile. "I make it my business to know things, Clara." I close the distance between us until only a foot of space remains. She sits very still, watching me cautiously. "Especially when it comes to beautiful works of art," I add with a wink.
A pretty blush creeps up her neck to bloom on her cheeks as she glances down, avoiding my gaze. "I see."
My smile grows at her reaction. I can't resist teasing her a little. Her discomfort is unusual and alluring in my world, where women normally throw themselves at me. "So does that mean you'll accompany me, then?"
Clara hesitates, biting down on her full bottom lip with her teeth as she seems to ponder her decision. I can almost see the wheels turning rapidly in her mind as she debates if this is some sort of trap on my part. She finally looks up and gives a small, tentative nod. "Alright, Antonio. I'll go with you to the gallery today."
Triumph surges hotly through my veins. "Excellent. I'll have Dante bring the car around in an hour." With a parting grin, I turn and saunter from the library, each step fueled by anticipation now that I've secured her company for the day.
Exactly an hour later, I make my way back downstairs, where Clara waits. She wears a pretty floral sundress and strappy sandals. The hem of the dress swirls around her knees as she walks, offering an enticing flash of leg. Desire spikes through me as I appreciate how the silhouette flatters her slender curves. Dante holds the door to the town car open for us and I follow Clara as she slides into the backseat.
There has been an undeniable spark between us from the start, though she runs hot and cold. But I intend to thaw that reticence today.
When her gaze finally lifts to meet mine, I offer her a roguish grin. "You look lovely, Clara."
A blush steals over her fair cheeks at the compliment and she glances down, toying nervously with the thin gold chain around her neck. "Thank you," she murmurs.
We fall into silence as the car glides through the open gates once more, leaving behind the sprawling grounds, heavy with security. Out of the corner of my eye, I observe Clara subtly checking the mirrors, her fingers continuing to fiddle with her necklace in a nervous tell. She's anxious about leaving the relative safety of the mansion for the first time since her arrival here. Of course, she's apprehensive about going out in public with me. To her, I represent danger and inevitably draw more of the same like a magnet. I make a mental note to keep a sharp eye on our surroundings today.
I turn my head, about to ask what she's been reading recently, but I catch her stifling a yawn. There are faint smudges under her eyes that even makeup can't fully disguise. "Did you not sleep well last night?"
Clara startles a bit, as if she didn't realize I was scrutinizing her so closely. "Oh. I guess I didn't," she admits with an apologetic look. "Just had a lot on my mind."
I nod, reading between the lines. She's been on edge in my home. I can't fault her for that. "I hope today provides a pleasant distraction then," I offer sincerely, holding her gaze.
The faintest ghost of a smile touches her lips. "I'm sure it will. Thank you again for thinking of me." Her eyes dart away once more, unable to maintain contact for long.
We lapse into silence again for the remainder of the drive, though the earlier tension seems to have dissipated. Every now and then I'll catch her subtly checking the mirrors again or fiddling with her necklace. She's still anxious. I let her be, not wanting to agitate her further.
When we finally pull up outside the imposing edifice of the Cortland Gallery, I step out onto the sidewalk and offer Clara my hand to help her from the car. The brief contact of her soft palm sliding against mine sends an electric spark racing up my arm. I tuck her hand into the crook of my elbow and escort her up the granite steps. Dante strides ahead to hold the engraved bronze door open for us.
We step into the light-filled atrium, and I hear Clara's soft intake of breath as she gazes upward. "It's stunning," she murmurs reverently, craning her neck to take in the soaring vaulted glass ceiling high above us. Tall palms in sleek planters line the perimeter, lending an oasis-like feel.
I watch her in amusement as she slowly turns in place, keen eyes taking in every architectural detail. The apprehension from earlier seems to melt away, replaced by open wonder. It reminds me how very young she still is in so many ways.
"Why don't I give you a tour?" I suggest with an indulgent smile. "We can start in the east wing with the older European works."
Delight sparkles in her emerald eyes. "They're my favorite period?"
I wink. "Like I said, I make it my business to know." Although, it was little more than a lucky guess.
Over the next hour, I leisurely accompany Clara through the various galleries, listening contentedly as she speaks passionately about brush techniques, composition styles, and the different art periods represented. With each new room we explore, more of the walls she's erected seem to crumble away. The art brings out a captivating vibrancy in her that I find myself wanting to keep seeing again and again. It's a glimpse of the real Clara buried below the fear and mistrust.
In the contemporary gallery, she pauses before a chaotic abstract piece, tilting her head contemplatively as she studies the riot of color and haphazard brush strokes. "This makes me think of my mother," she says softly. "She always loved bold, provocative pieces like this that evoke raw emotions. She said true art lies in the chaos." A wistful, melancholy smile graces her lips. "Like the artist's soul is splashed directly onto the canvas."
I think of my own mother - the steadying backbone of our family, and I feel a pang of sympathy for Clara's loss. "She sounds like an incredible woman," I reply gently. "I can understand why you feel close to her through the art she loved."
I make a subtle gesture in Dante's direction and he slips from the corner of the room to fulfill the task I gave him prior to our departure.
Clara meets my gaze then with renewed shy vulnerability, a sheen of tears making her green eyes glitter. In this moment, her loneliness and grief are laid bare. "I miss her every day," she confesses in a whisper.
It's the most honest she's been with me and I feel honored by this glimpse past her walls. I step closer, overcome by the urge to comfort her. "You still have a part of her with you, Clara. She gave you a lasting gift."
I reach out and lightly brush my knuckles over her cheek and down her neck to the pendant she still fiddles with. "Don't ever let that go."
