She looked up at me, her eyes soft, her lips full. Her hair fluttered in the ocean breeze. On an objective level, Tiffany was truly gorgeous. Anyone who said otherwise was in denial.

I knew from years of experience that her beauty was a dangerous lure. She loved to use it on me more than anyone else in her life. She’d almost reeled me in a hundred times over the years with that same angelic look, but I knew well the devil that waited in her darkness. Because of that, no matter how much of a wreck my life had been at any given point, I’d always managed to break free of her grasp just in time, right before she could swallow me whole and no doubt shit me out the other end when she got bored.

Luckily for me, I’d become permanently immune to her gamesmanship the second Samantha had walked into my life.

“Tiffany…”

“Yes, Christos?” she asked hopefully.

“…don’t.”

“Don’t what?” she played innocent ignorance perfectly. Gazing up at me from beneath her delicate brow and flawlessly shaped eyebrows, she coquettishly caressed my arm with her fingertip.

“Don’t play me.” I yanked my arm away.

The beauty on her face was replaced by pragmatic frustration. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

I waited her out.

“I don’t care about the painting, Christos. I never have. It’s you I want.”

I sighed. “I’m off the table, Tiffany. If you want, I can take the painting back to my studio and go over it with a microscope.”

She cocked her hip to one side and planted a defiant fist on it. Her nose tilted up commandingly. “Not good enough. Either you get rid of that Floozy Footstool you’re dating, or I want a new painting.”

I cocked an eyebrow at her. “Leave Samantha out of this. Your painting will be fine, Tiffany. You’re over-reacting.”

“No!” she pouted. “The painting is worthless! I won’t accept it!”

Now I was irritated. “You want me to redo it? Whatever. I’ll take this one home and knock out a copy in a few days. Then you can have two. Put one in your private jet, or where the fuck ever.”

Changing tactics, she smiled hopefully, “But we had so much fun doing that painting together.”

“You had fun, Tiff.”

“I thought you had fun too,” Tiffany mused.

“You’re kidding, right? I let you micro-manage that painting as a favor to you and your dad. Remember how many times you changed your swimsuit?”

“I wanted to pick the perfect suit. Can you blame a girl for wanting to look her best?”

“Uh-huh,” I said sarcastically. “Remember how many comments you made like, ‘Don’t make my thighs look fat,’ and ‘Show more cleavage,’ and ‘My waist is slimmer than that.’ Remember all that?”

She looked guilty as hell. “Maybe.” Denial.

“Don’t play dumb, Tiff. You may as well have painted it yourself, for all the artistic input I had. I’ll do a copy for you, from the original, if you really want it. But I won’t pose you again.”

She looked slightly chastised, a rare thing. For a moment, she chewed on her lip, unsure what to do. Then, in a little girl voice, she said, “Christos, I really just want you to paint me nude again. Then we won’t have to worry about the swimsuit,” she murmured sensually.

I didn’t like the way she said “we.”

The previous nude of her was the one I’d been finishing up when I’d started mentoring Samantha. I remembered working on it clearly. Every time I’d give Tiffany a break from posing, she’d flirt like crazy, giving me the come-hither bedroom eyes, leaning her exposed breasts into me fifty times a minute. Normally, artists’ models would put on a robe between poses and take some time to themselves. Not Tiffany. She was naked the entire time, and followed me all over my studio, hanging off me like an out-of-work prostitute.

“And I promise,” she said breathily, “no micro-managing. I’ll do whatever you say,” she winked suggestively. “Just you and me in your studio, like last time. I’ll pay for it. Fifty thousand cash, up front. Straight to you, no gallery commission to Brandon.”

She wasn’t trying to buy a painting, she was trying to buy me. “You’re nuts, woman,” I scoffed.

“But it was so romantic. You and me in your studio, the artist and his muse.”

“You’re not my muse, Tiff.”

“But I could be, again. If you let me,” she said demurely.

“You never were. Sorry.”

“Please, Christos?” she begged, reaching out to me again.

“No, Tiffany.”

“No, what?” Brandon asked. Where the fuck had he come from? It didn’t matter. I was happy for the reinforcement.

“Christos refuses to paint me again,” Tiffany whined.

“No,” I corrected, “I’m happy to do a copy of the poolside portrait for her.”

“So what’s the problem?” Brandon asked.

Sensing defeat, Tiffany struggled with herself. Her face contorted angrily. “The pool painting is ruined!” She stomped her feet on the deck of the yacht.

Welcome to Tantrum Town, population one.

“Okay,” Brandon soothed. “Christos already said he’d paint another one.”

“That’s not good enough!” she shouted.

Brandon suddenly looked squeamish, and for a second, slightly sniveling. He was unsure how to proceed.

I stifled a chuckle. Yes, Tiffany could ruffle even Brandon’s unshakable feathers.

“So what would you like, Tiffany?” Brandon asked calmly, having regained his composure.

“I want Christos to pose me for a new poolside painting.”

I’d had it with her manipulations. “Has she paid you yet, Brandon?” I asked. I still didn’t have all of the money from my show, which meant not every buyer had cut a check to the gallery, which was normal.

Brandon chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” Tiffany hissed.

“Why no, Tiffany’s father still hasn’t issued a payment,” Brandon said, a bemused grin stretching over his perfect teeth.

That was news to me. I’d hoped the Kingston-Whitehouse check might be one of the first to come in, considering how long my family had known theirs. Why wasn’t I surprised? Oh yeah, it was the Kingston-Whitehouses.

“Slow pay, huh?” I grunted, looking at Brandon. “It’s been almost two months, Tiffany. You took possession of the painting, and your dad still hasn’t cut a check? Come on. At this point, it’s not even yours. Your dad having money troubles?” I jabbed.

Tiffany frowned.

“No deal,” I said, a tinge of irritation breaking through my voice. “Keep the painting, Tiff. It’s on the house.” I glanced at Brandon.

He nodded, smiling furtively at me. We both knew with all the recent interest in my art, we had far bigger fish to fry than the Kingston-Whitehouses.

“But it’s ruined!” Tiffany shouted.

“Throw it over the side of the boat, for all I care,” I growled. I’d always hated that painting anyway. It was nothing more than hack-work for the all-time, ultimate, pain-in-my-ass client.

I’d already wasted enough time on Tiffany. I turned on my heel and went looking for Samantha.

I just hoped that Tiffany and her family wouldn’t bite me in the ass in the coming weeks, because they were sharks and always struck the second you weren’t looking.

Fucking Tiffany.

My New Year was already looking like a disaster, and I was less than three hours into it.

Could it get any worse?

CHRISTOS

The yacht arrived back in the harbor several hours after midnight.

Everyone on board was tired, buzzed, or completely asleep on one of the yacht’s many cushioned surfaces when the crewmen moored the boat to the docks.

Tiffany hid in her cabin while people disembarked. I think she wanted to avoid me after our discussion.

Samantha and Madison had their arms around Kamiko as they led her along the docks. She was still somewhat hammered. Brandon joined them to help with Kamiko.

Romeo walked over to me and Jake as the seven of us ambled toward the parking lot.

“Christos,” Romeo pleaded earnestly, “I’m so sorry about Tiffany’s painting. None of it was Sam’s idea, it was all mine. I drank too much and Tiffany was being a class-A bitch to Sam. I couldn’t help myself.”