Jacqueline dropped her stare to the table.
“Where do you need to go, Jacqueline?”
“You can call me Jackie. Lots of people do.”
“Where do you need to go, Jacqueline?” Remy repeated.
Okay, obviously, he was not lots of people. She cleared her throat. “I don’t technically have a place in mind. A destination, I mean.” Not yet. When you were running blindly, you didn’t plan. You fled.
“Uh, huh.” Another sip. How much coffee was left in his mug? “So you don’t have a place to go…and I noticed you didn’t exactly have a purse or wallet on you.”
No.
“Do you have access to a bank account?”
If she accessed her account, he would find her. Or his goons would. She had to go off-grid and stay there for a while.
“Do you need money, Jacqueline?”
Again with that sexy rumble. When he said her full name, her stomach clenched. Odd because she’d always hated her name. So formal. Stuffy. But Remy made it sound sensual. Beautiful. Jacqueline pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m not taking money from you.”
“Last night, you said if I got you away from the bastard on the bike, you’d do anything to repay me.”
Her stomach didn’t just clench. It dropped. She also leapt to her feet and her fast movement sent her chair slamming down onto the floor behind her. It hit and sounded like a whip cracking. “I’m not sleeping—” Jacqueline began hotly.
His soft laughter cut through her words. “You are obsessed with that. I told you before, not on my agenda. I don’t routinely pay women for sex.” A wink. “I don’t have to do that.”
Right. Sure. Now she could feel the burn in her cheeks. No way would Remy be paying for sex. Not a guy who oozed hotness and sex appeal the way he did. She needed to calm down and be grateful to the man who had literally been her hero the night before. “I’m sorry, I misunderstood, I didn’t—”
“Ever done any nude modeling?”
Her jaw hung open.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
It was a no. Her mouth snapped closed.
“Are you interested in doing some nude modeling?”
She backed away. Forget the clothes, she should probably make another fast getaway.
“I’ll also take that as a no,” he said. “Pity. I bet your body is perfection beneath that hideous dress. By the way, tell me you didn’t pick it out.”
Jacqueline kept inching back. “Look, if you have some kind of fetish, I am not your girl.”
Remy didn’t rise from his seat. He did put down his coffee mug and lock his dark and intense gaze on her. “You are most definitely mine.”
Goose bumps rose on her arms.
“My muse,” he continued carefully. “I’m sure you noticed that I’m an artist.”
“Hard to miss all the paint.” And canvases.
“I’d been going through a bit of a dry spell, then you fell into my life. So to speak.” His words were so easy and casual, an exact match for his expression, but Jacqueline could have sworn that a thread of tension hummed beneath that light surface. “I saw you and felt inspired.”
“I’m not sure what that means.” She’d inched so far away that her back hit the counter.
“You don’t need to be afraid of me.” He rose but didn’t approach her. Just stood there, all towering and tall. Remy had to clock in at a few inches over six feet, and he was solid muscle. She knew, she wouldn’t be forgetting the sight of his bare chest anytime soon. “Hurting women isn’t a hobby I have.”
“That shouldn’t be a hobby anyone has.”
“Agreed.” His head dipped toward her. “I want to paint you, Jacqueline.”
For clarification, she noted, “You want to paint me…naked.”
“Nude.” His lips twitched. “And, yes, that would be nice, but since you seem a bit…prudish…about the situation, feel free to keep your clothes on for the process.”
Her chin jerked up. “It’s not prudish to be uncomfortable getting naked in front of a stranger. That’s totally normal behavior.”
His broad shoulders rolled back. “If you say so, but I’ve never had a problem getting naked.”
Of course, he hadn’t. “Who are you?”
“Told you my name before. It’s Remy.”
Yes, she knew that. What Jacqueline had meant was—
“Part-time artist. Part-time hero. At your service.”
He kept disarming her. “Remy,” she tasted his name and liked it. She’d actually known a Remy or two in her day. “Are you, by any chance, from New Orleans?” She probably shouldn’t have asked but… “Popular name there,” she added quickly. “You know, because it has a French origin and so many people in New Orleans are…” She stopped.
His brows wiggled. “You’re an expert on names?”
“No. I remember random facts. I-I read that some place. I do a lot of reading.”
“Do you now?”
Hadn’t she just said as much? Besides, she owned a small bookstore. Reading went with the territory. As long as she could remember, she’d always loved escaping into books.
“Not from New Orleans,” Remy added as he continued to stand by the table. “Remy is a nickname.”
Okay. “So you won’t call me Jackie, but I’m supposed to use your nickname?” Hardly seemed fair.
“No one calls me by my full name.”
Curiosity pulsed inside of her. “And that full name would be what?”
He took a few steps toward her. “Rembrandt.”
She blinked. “Like the artist?”
His jaw tightened. “Just call me Remy.”
But he wasn’t Remy. He was Rembrandt. And he was an artist just like his namesake. An artist who wanted to paint her.
He stopped right in front of Jacqueline, and she could have sworn that the heat from his body slipped out to wrap around her. “You’re clearly running from something.”
More like from someone. “What gives you that idea?”
His hand lifted, and he brushed back a lock of her hair. The same lock she’d tucked behind her ear moments ago. The dang thing had slipped forward once more. When his hand drew close to her face, she stiffened. A move Jacqueline couldn’t help. She stiffened. Maybe even flinched.
His jaw locked. “Who hurt you?”
“I haven’t been hurt.” Yet. That would be why she was running. “I just wanted to start over.” She would miss her old life. She’d worked so hard to get it.
A faint line appeared between his brows. “You wanted to run away in your wedding dress—”
“Not a wedding dress. It was just a white dress, okay? And I didn’t know the engagement party was going to happen. That was sprung on me. Before I understood what was happening, the ring was on my finger, everyone was clapping and…” And she needed to stop talking about this. “It wasn’t going to happen. There was never going to be any marriage.”
“Because you didn’t love the groom?”
Dammit. “Because he utterly terrifies me. Happy?”