Page 9 of It Hurts Me

He didn’t speak, and his silence countered my icebreaker. His eyes had been almost black the last time I saw him, but now that it was daylight, they were brown like a hot cup of coffee. There was so much confidence in his stare, like he thrived on others’ discomfort. “I hope you’ve become a better driver since.”

I gave a slow nod. “It’s not my fault there was a pile of shrapnel in the road?—”

“It’s your fault you didn’t see it,” he said. “We can’t control what happens to us, but we can control what we happen to.” He stepped away to the gallery opening as if the matter had been settled.

I watched him pass, seeing the way the muscles of his incredible physique shifted and moved underneath his clothing.

“Let’s get this over with.”

I grabbed my pen and notebook and followed him into the other room, seeing him walk through the gallery and barely glance at the Tuscan landscapes.

“So you’re nice enough to pull over and change a lady’s tire in the rain, but then you’re an insufferable asshole the rest of the time?”

He slowly turned his head to look at me, a slight look of surprise on his face.

“I’m not going to put up with your attitude just because you’re a client. Helping someone choose their artwork for their space is a very intimate task, and if you’re going to be a dick to me, then this isn’t going to work.”

His hard expression didn’t change, but he absorbed my gaze like I was one of the paintings on the wall.

I held his stare and didn’t back down, waiting for him to blow up and scream at me.

But the corner of his mouth rose in a subtle smile. “Fair enough.”

He was so hot when he looked angry, but that smile made him even hotter. It took me a second to snap out of it. “I get the impression you don’t care for the landscapes?—”

“I didn’t change your tire to be nice.” He cut me off like I hadn’t spoken. “I don’t do nice. I did it to get your ass off the street, as I already said.” He stepped away and moved down the wall of paintings, snapping back into his foul mood just like that.

I followed him. “Why did you want me off the street?”

He walked past more landscapes and barely looked at them.

I suspected I wouldn’t receive an answer. “What are you interested in? I have historical pieces. I have nude pieces. Religious stuff. I also have some collector’s pieces created during the Renaissance.”

“Nude pieces?” he asked.

“Portraits of naked men and women. They tend to be a favorite of most of my clients.”

“I’m in my study to work, not be distracted.”

“Alright, then let’s look at the historical pieces.” Our galleries were separated into sections, the lighting different to match the moods of the artwork. I showed him the displays of the Greek ships as they sailed on Troy, Alexander the Great in the battle of Persia, Mussolini minutes before he was executed.

He stopped and stared at those for a long time, taking in the artwork with a curious eye. His arms crossed over his chest, and he stared at the image of Mussolini with the most interest. “He was my great-grandfather.”

“Mussolini?” I asked in surprise.

He nodded without taking his eyes off the painting. “His daughter Edda was my grandmother, although I don’t remember her. My family has a bloody history, and it only got worse as the line went on.”

Dictatorship had clearly been passed through his bloodline, judging by the way he spoke and treated others. “Do you like the painting?”

“No.” He stepped away. “I don’t want my ancestor’s final moments haunting me in my study.” He went past the other artwork, looking at history told by artistic historians. These weren’t paintings created during the time the events took place, but modern painters who’d taken a stab at a historical narrative.

I was quiet as I watched him look at all the paintings, taking them in with interest. “Are any of these suitable for you?”

“I respect the work, but no, they aren’t suitable.”

For a man who wanted artwork on his walls, he didn’t seem to care that much for it. “Then let’s check out the other exhibits.” I took him to the others we had. It was no surprise that he didn’t care for the watercolor section full of lilies and ponds. He didn’t like the religious section either and even said, “I don’t believe in that bullshit.”

At some point, we ran out of artwork. “Well, I don’t have anything else to show you. I can make us an appointment with our other galleries in the city?—”