Descent (Black Heart Romance presents Heaven & Hell)

might when they’re standing guard over the president. He looks over as Calvin enters the room, then
immediately looks back at me.
I flash Calvin the brightest smile, holding up my paint brush. “You’re home.”
His gaze rakes over me in his pricey dress shirt, now splattered and dyed with various shades of
paint. I watch his eyes register the damage to the rug, and as he walks around the couch, he notices
that, too.
As he gets closer to me, my heart begins to race, but I try not to let it show. I don’t want him to
know he’s making me nervous. He’s not even trying to, I just feel like a child who knows I’ve
misbehaved and now I’ll surely be punished.
And with him, I’m not sure what that punishment might be.
He says nothing about the mess I’ve made. His gaze flickers to the pages I illustrated, spaced out
across his rug. “Lovely.”
I blink. “Oh. You think so?”
“Mm-hmm. I like your color choices. The snow is a perfect finishing touch.” He leans down to
kiss me on the cheek. “I like you wearing my shirt, too. I see you did miss me today. Needed my scent
all over your body.” He caresses my cheek, looking more amused than annoyed. “Don’t worry,
sweetheart. You’ll get plenty of it later.”
I blink up at him, confused. He’s not even mad.
Rats.
I know he saw the paint I flicked all over the place, but just in case he missed it—the paint is
white, like the couch, so maybe he didn’t notice that.
“I got paint everywhere. I hope you don’t mind. I’m quite messy when I’m working.”
He smiles faintly. “Not at all, my love. We can turn one of the spare bedrooms into your studio if
you’d like.”
Goddammit, why isn’t he mad?
I scowl up at him and he smiles back, then he turns away and walks into his office with his
briefcase.
I’m still sitting on my legs holding a paintbrush and pouting when he comes back in.
“Chef Ryan will be here soon,” Calvin says, flicking a glance at my outfit, his gaze lingering on
the swatch of skin exposed below my neck. “You should finish what you’re working on so you can
clean yourself up before dinner.”
“I ruined the couch,” I state, still clinging to the idea that perhaps he doesn’t realize the extent of
the damage. “The rug, too. This won’t wash out.”