Monday, July 1, 2013

The Object of His Desire by PJ Adams

Back on the stairs, I paused before that painting once again.
“He’s about my ten greats-grandfather, on the Dutch side.”
Will. Somehow he’d stolen up quietly to stand behind me while I studied the painting. I was by no means an expert, but it looked genuine to me. The frame alone looked centuries old and you could see the brush-strokes.
Then Will’s words sunk in.
Rembrandt had painted this family. Will’s family. The family Ethan had married into. We’d grown up in a well to do New York family living in Connecticut; we were accustomed to big cars and big houses, but this was another world entirely.
“Wow,” I said softly, my best effort to fill the silence. Hell, I felt myself coloring up again, and I resented him then for making me feel like that.
“You like?” he said, a sudden light coming into those dark eyes. “Art’s been a bit of a thing in the family. You want to see more? Come on. Come have a look.”
With that, he took my hand and we were hurrying back up the stairs and onto a corridor that led off a kind of mezzanine area. There were paintings all along this passage, but we barely paused. As we rushed, I tried to take them in: lots of pastoral miniatures... landscapes, horses, hunting. I was suddenly convinced that I was being led past a collection that would take pride of place in any big city museum.
Will burst through a set of double doors, dragging me in his wake. His grip on my hand was tight, almost painfully so, but I didn’t want it to stop, and so I felt cheated when he released me and swung his arms wide, taking in the whole of the bedroom we’d just entered.
A four-poster bed occupied one side of the room, draped with wispy white fabric, and the whole room was flooded with light from a wall of south-facing windows.
I turned, and gasped. A single, massive canvas occupied the wall opposite the bed, the only color in the room, a wash of vivid orange and yellow daubs.
I looked at Will, and then, pointedly, at the bed. “You think you’re going to get me into bed so easily, you’re going to have to do a whole lot better than a measly Van Gogh, sunflowers or not. You got that?”
Those eyes briefly clouded, and I thought he was pissed with me, and then he tipped his head back and laughed, and we were rushing back out into that long corridor once again.
The next bedroom was darker, largely because the walls were heavy with paintings of rural scenes. I didn’t recognize the artist, but I was sure I should have been able to.
The next room had another single large canvas opposite the bed: rolling fields, a band of dark trees, a country mansion added almost as an afterthought, a mere element of the broader landscape. It was Yeadham Hall, seen from the chapel.
“Constable,” said Will. “Friend of the family. We have a few more of his in the vaults, but we keep this one out for obvious reasons.”
“It’s going to take more than that. Where do you keep the Gauguins? Anything more modern? A bit of Warhol, perhaps? Some Jackson Pollock?”
You and your big mouth, girl . I could tell from the look on his face that he could rise to that challenge.
“Is there anything you don’t have?” I asked softly.
He shrugged, spread his hands wide. “We have everything,” he said, simply. “We’re a wealthy family.”
“And you?” The spoilt son... his family owns all this, but what did he do, apart from brag and try to look important? Tough life.
“Me? I run it all. I have power of attorney.” A broad sweep of the arm. “All this... it’s mine.”
He stepped towards me, but I was having none of it. All that college girl stuff – the blushing, the getting flustered, the idle daydreaming – all that was over with. He was an annoying, self-centered jerk. Yes, that semi-slept-in look might be carefully engineered, with his carefully tended stubble and his – I could see now – very expensive tailored suit, but he was arrogant and he thought phone-calls were more important than his sister’s wedding and he thought he could get me into bed just by flashing his wallet and his Van Gogh, as if I was some up-market hooker.
His hand was at the back of my neck, suddenly, his strike like a viper’s.
His lips were hard against mine. Clumsy. Hungry.
I put my hands to his chest and pushed, sharply, and he staggered back, caught as much by surprise as by the force of my push.
I stepped back, found the door, turned, and then I was running back along that corridor, tottering in my Jimmy Choos and intensely aware that I was in this stranger’s vast home, running from him, in very high shoes and no panties.


The Object of His Desire by PJ Adams

When Trudy goes to her estranged brother's wedding, the last thing she expects is one of those moments: a handsome stranger, their eyes meeting across a crowded room... a tempting, but dangerous stranger. Determined to find out more, she discovers that dark secrets bind him to her brother; she also learns that he's the kind of man who gets what he wants, and what he wants right now is Trudy.
Introducing her to the world of the super-wealthy, he showers her with designer clothes, shoes, and diamonds, whisking her off to dinner dates by private jet... what more could a girl want?
But as she finds out more about him, Trudy begins to wonder if she can ever love a man she can never fully trust. A man involved in murder and blackmail, who may just be using her as an alibi. Should she run or let herself fall for him? And will he give her a choice?
A passionate erotic romance, where scandals buried away in the past lead to murderous intrigue in the present, in the intensely steamy world of the super-wealthy and powerful.

Available for Kindle:
Amazon US:
Amazon UK:
... and other ebook formats.
Also available in paperback:
Amazon US:
Amazon UK:

Thanks for stopping by and best of luck with your book,


No comments:

Post a Comment