Read Riveted (Art of Eros #1) for Free Online Page B

strawberries was, he needed her less skittish and more trusting, becoming very aware to tread lightly. She reminded him of a deer waiting for the gunshot in the forest. He read her well enough to know she would try to bolt at the first sign of danger.
    He couldn’t quite get a handle on his attraction for this woman, yet it didn’t matter, she pushed all the right buttons for him. Mac appreciated her lack of seductive plays. She was strong yet flirty, a dangerous combination for any man. Her appeal was that she was herself. She didn’t know how much of true self she revealed to him. He had made a living out of reading people by watching them carefully; most times, it was a matter of life or death. He found all aspects of her fascinating, from spirited to fearful. He would need to dig a little deeper to find out where all that fear stemmed from.
    After she devoured the strawberry, she watched the hunger on Mac’s face. As her body remembered her past, she jerked back away from him then stiffened for a minute at the sensation of being watched by someone. The hair on the nape of her neck stood on end as goose bumps formed down her arms. This tingling sensation had nothing to do with Mac. Maybe she was just being paranoid, but it set her on edge. She didn’t want to swivel around and seem obvious, so she stayed focused on the plate in front of her. From the shadows lurked a formidable enemy.
    Even in the shadows, tucked away, you flinch as you sense me waiting for you, watching your every move. My time will come eventually. I need to wait it out. Lover boy doesn’t stand a chance in hell.
    Mac drew her attention back to him but missed her brief discomfort. “So, tell me about how and where you grew up.”
    “I grew up in Connecticut in a very wealthy but diverse community. My father, Antonio Luccenzo, is a world-renowned sculptor and my sisters, mother, and I are very well taken care of because of it. My mother, Guilianna, was an actress when she met and married my father. She gave up her career when she got pregnant with me. Mama taught her girls to be very independent and, as it turns out, we are all artists in our own right. We’ve had no choice but to stand on our own because Papa travels a lot for his international gallery openings.”
    She was comfortable with her affluence but hesitated, playing with the fringe on her sarong. As she glanced up, his soft eyes were totally focused on her. The undivided attention made her a bit self-conscious. Her late husband showed no interest in anything she had to say. God knew when Papa was home it was all about him and his world of art.
    She continued her story in a quiet voice. “When I was little, I was a dancer. I loved to dance; jazz, ballet, modern, any movement I could express with my body. Mama took me to all my rehearsals and recitals. Then I grew into a woman’s body full of curves. Curves and dancing don’t exactly go together. I couldn’t stay as thin as I needed to continue on that path and be successful. It ended my dancing career, and I headed full-on into sculpting, my second passion.”
    Not sure why she wanted to share this piece of herself and having exposed more than she wanted to, she bathed in his comfort. For some reason, she fought to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over. That simple shift from dance to sculpting served as a catalyst to the domino effect in her life. She buried her nails in the palm of her hand as a distraction from the familiar pain of loneliness, regret and the echo of Papa’s criticisms that boiled to the surface. Mara didn’t want to reveal her weaknesses hidden behind the steel-riveted impediment. Sadness dulled her eyes once again.
    Mac lightened the mood, “I think we all give up childhood dreams at some point. Mine was to become a dragon trainer.” He winked at her and she laughed, a relief to a tense moment. She realized how well he had read her and tried to comfort her with humor.
    “So, it sounds like your