I knew why I hadn’t, of course. It was because I wasn’t certain that my advances would be welcome, and I wasn’t a big fan of disappointment.
Yes, I thought that he was attracted to me—I’d felt that zing when our hands brushed and the trill of electricity in the air when we stood close together.
At least once or twice when I’d caught his eyes the illusion of friendship had turned to ash—burned away by the heat I’d seen in him. But those moments lasted only a few brief and fluttering seconds. Just enough to whet my appetite, and to make me fervently hope that the heat I saw was real—and not simply the desperate reflection of my own raging desire.
Because what assurance did I have that it wasn’t all me? Maybe I was projecting attraction where none existed and, like a moth, I was going to get singed when I fluttered too close to the flame.
Still, I’d never know if I didn’t go all in and find out. Maybe I’d fumbled the ball with my crappy conversation, but the night was young, and I gave myself a mental pep talk as I wandered the gallery, gliding through the flotsam and jetsam of gossip and business talk. Everything from catty comments about other women’s clothing, to speculation as to the best place for a post-gala meal, to praise for the undeniable skill of the various artists represented at the opening.
A few people I knew casually made eye contact, politely shifting their stance as if to welcome me into their conversation. I pretended not to notice. Right then, I was lost in my own head, trying to wrap my mind around what I wanted and how I intended to get it.
The gallery was shaped like a T, with the main exhibit hall—which displayed the work of tonight’s two featured artists—being the stem, and the crossbar being the more permanent exhibits. I’d been to the gallery before, so I knew the general layout, and I wandered the length of the room to where the two wings intersected.
There was a velvet rope blocking guests from entering the permanent area, but I’ve never paid much attention to rules. I slipped between the wall and the brass post that held the rope secure, then moved to the right so that I would be out of sight of the rest of the guests. After all, I wasn’t in the mood for either a lecture on proper party etiquette or company.
The last time I’d been in this area, the section had still been under construction. The walls had been unpainted and the glass ceiling had been covered with a dark, protective film. The long, narrow room had been gloomy and a little claustrophobic. Now it extended in front of me like a walkway to paradise.
Tonight, the glass ceiling was transparent. Outside, lights mounted on the roof shone down to provide the illusion of daylight, and all around me the area glowed with artificial sunlight and the bright colors of the various pieces on display.
Beautifully polished teak benches ran down the center of the room, each separated by bonsai trees, so that both the seating and the decoration were as artistic as the architecture and the contents. And yet there was nothing overpowering about the room. Even tonight, with the hum of voices flowing in from the main gallery, I felt the blissful freedom of solitude.
With a sigh, I sat on one of the benches, realizing only as I did that I’d chosen this spot for a specific purpose. The image in front of me had caught my eye. No, more than that. It had compelled me. Drawn me in. And now I sat and studied it.
I knew a little bit about art, though not as much as my father. And certainly not as much as Cole. But it’s fair to say that I’ve paid my dues in the kind of art gallery that caters to clients who embody that perfect trifecta of too much money, too much time, and too much property.
I couldn’t count the number of days I’d spent in high heels and a pencil skirt, extolling the virtues of a particular piece. I’d rave about the astounding deal the buyer could get because our client—“no, no, I can’t share his identity, but if you read the European papers, you’ve surely heard of him”—was desperate to unload an original master that had been in the family for generations. “Hard times,” I’d say with a resigned shake of my head. “You understand.”
And the buyer would frown and nod sympathetically, all the while thinking about this amazing bargain, and how they could one-up the Smiths at the next garden party.
I’d never sold an actual work by an actual master in my life, but the pieces I had passed held an equal appeal, at least to the eye if not to the investment portfolio.
But this painting before me put all the others I’d dealt with to shame. It was the view of a woman from behind. She was seated on the edge of a fountain, so that from the artist’s perspective she was seen through shimmering beads of water that seemed to form a living curtain. A kind of barrier between her and the world. It gave the illusion that she was a creature of pure innocence, and yet that was not an asset. Instead, her innocence rendered her untouchable, even though it was clear that all anyone had to do was slip through the water to reach her.
The angle of view was such that her hips were not visible. Instead we saw only the curve of her waist, the unblemished skin of her back, and her blond hair that fell in damp curls that ended near her shoulder blades.
There was something familiar about her. Something magnetic. And for the life of me, I had no clue what it was.
“It’s one of my favorites.”
The familiar deep voice pulled me from my trance. Flustered, I turned to face Cole, then immediately wished I hadn’t. I should have taken a moment to prepare myself first, because I heard my own gasp as I sank deep into those chocolate eyes.
“I—” I closed my mouth. Clearly I had lost all ability to think or speak or function in society. I fervently hoped the floor would just open up and swallow me, but I’d be okay with an alien abduction, too.
Neither of those things happened, though, and I found myself just sitting there staring at him while the corner of his mouth—that gorgeous, rugged, kissable mouth—twitched with what I could only assume was amusement.
“I’m sorry I slipped back here. It was getting too crowded in there for me, and I needed some air.”
Concern flickered across his face. “Is something wrong, Catalina? You looked preoccupied.”
“I’m fine,” I said, though I trembled a bit, unnerved as always when he called me by my given name. Not that he actually knew my real name. As far as Cole and all my friends in Chicago were concerned, I was Katrina Laron. Catalina Rhodes didn’t exist to them. For that matter, she didn’t exist for me, either. She hadn’t for a long, long time.