Sure, the light was great for her work. But no amount of comfy furniture or cozy throws ever made it feel warm.

“I’ve been watering your plants and drinking your booze since you pulled the runaway act. You’re welcome, by the way. Anyway, with all this press about the accident, your name and your paintings have been splashed all over the fucking place. So when a tech guru from Silicon Valley in town for a conference came sniffing around for a Ballard original, I took her to your place. Don’t worry. I hid your laundry under the sink first.”

She’d left the place a wreck. Paints, brushes, drop cloths everywhere. She’d packed in a whirlwind, leaving discarded clothing and toiletries scattered across every flat surface.

“I feel violated.”

She sensed rather than witnessed Brick’s reaction. When she glanced over her shoulder, he was standing, hands fisted at his side, a scowl on his handsome face. She shook her head at him.

“The price tag will make that go away,” Raj said with confidence.

“I doubt that,” she said dryly.

“The whole behind-the-scenes, art-in-its-natural-habitat thing added a few pretty G’s to the asking price.”

“What was the number?” she asked.

“A hundred thousand dollars.”

Remi’s knees went weak. She took a shaky step toward the table and gave up, sinking to the floor. “What did you say?” she asked, rubbing two fingers to the spot between her eyebrows that felt like it was going to explode.

“Your first six-figure price tag, bro,” he said smugly. “They only go higher from here.”

Her head was spinning.

“Remington,” Brick growled.

She ignored him.

“Is that the dick who answered your phone the other night?”

Her gaze slid back to the man in question. “Oh, it better not be.” The glare she leveled at him should have made him weak in the knees, should have at least had the survival instinct to cover his crotch kicking in.

Instead, he doubled down and stared back. “Get. Off. The phone.”

“Raj, I have to go murder someone.”

“I expected a little excitement out of you. But I guess that’s what I get for representing temperamental pains in the asses. You’re out of good wine, by the way.”

Remi disconnected the call and climbed back to her feet.

“Did you answer my phone, talk to someone, and not tell me about it?” She congratulated herself on how deadly calm she sounded.

The man didn’t even have the good grace to look embarrassed.

“I did. You were passed out. I thought it might be an emergency. Who made you feel violated? Was it that Rajesh guy?”

“How dare you!” she snarled. “I don’t even know what to yell about first. The fact that you keep invading my privacy—”

“You’re in my house.”

“That can be remedied,” she said, striding for the doorway.

He stepped in front of her, a wall of muscle and angst. “No. Not until you tell me exactly what the fuck is going on.”

She went toe-to-toe with him, tipping her head back so she could look at him. “I don’t owe you a goddamn thing!”