I knew he'd asked me to coffee as one professional to another, a way for him to get something to eat while he put up with my questions. I knew he only saw me as the reporter he'd talked to a couple days ago. And I knew the moment he said my name that he didn't have a clue that we'd had slightly kinky sex at a BDSM club the other night.

But that didn't stop me from hoping that he might want something more from me. Like maybe another couple hours of insanely hot fucking.

I considered myself a confident woman, but I hadn't been arrogant enough to think that one night with me had inspired an artist like Jace. Until I saw what he'd been sculpting.

Me.

Or, more specifically, what he would have seen of me while I was bent over the bed as he spanked the hell out of me.

My hips, back, and ass. I hadn't exactly spent much time looking at myself from that angle, but there was only so much I could credit to coincidence.

Now I needed to figure out what I was going to do about it. He didn't know my face, and I didn't have any identifying tattoos, so he could include that sculpture in his show and no one would be the wiser. But could I consider myself an unbiased critic if I'd slept with the artist? If he used me as a model, however unknowingly?

And what did it mean that he sculpted me.

"Chestnut Praline Latte," Jace said as he set my order down in front of me. "And a turkey on rye."

I lifted the cup to my nose and inhaled. "Thanks."

He waited until we'd both taken the edge off our hunger to start talking. "When I was six, my mom and I didn't have any money for Christmas presents, so we went to this mission. Someone – I never could find out who – had donated this amazing art kit, and I started experimenting with everything in it. Paints. Charcoals. All kinds of things. It became how I expressed myself, how I dealt with the world around me."

There wasn't much out there about Jace's life before he came to live with his father at the age of ten. Enough had gotten out about his mother that it was generally assumed that she'd been a stripper, possibly even a prostitute, but Benjamin Gooding had been well-liked and well-connected, so most people didn't bother trying to dig too deep. Now, I wondered if Jace's father had worked to keep things quiet for his son's sake.

He shifted in his seat, some of the ease leaving him. "The thing I loved the most was this little container of sculpting clay. I made all sorts of little things for my mom, for our apartment. One day, I made a special one for her birthday, and when I surprised her with it, the guy she was seeing got upset and smashed it. Every single thing I made was destroyed and thrown away."

My gut told me there was more to the story than he was telling, and the shadow in his eyes said it wasn't good. My heart ached for the little boy he'd been, and I knew I couldn't ask him for any more than that. Not without hurting him more, and I wouldn't have done it even before we slept together.

"That's awful." I reached across the table and put my hand over his. To my surprise, he didn't pull away.

"Thanks." The smile he gave me held a little less darkness in its depths.

The moment gave me the courage I needed to ask one of the questions bouncing around in my head. "Can I ask who the model is?"

His eyebrows shot up. "The model?"

"For the sculpture." I pulled my hand back and tried to pass it off as me wanting a drink. I could feel the flush creeping up my cheeks as I tried to sound nonchalant. "None of your other work had people in it, so I was wondering who not only got you to break away from your usual subject, but brought you back to your favorite medium."

He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck, then up over his head, making a mess of his hair. To my surprise, his ears were turning red. "I met someone who...inspired me."

I tried not to let the hope flickering inside me grow. I didn't want to read too much into his statement. Inspiration didn't mean that he wanted another night with me, especially if he found out my identity.

But it didn't mean I'd be able to just let it go either.

Dammit. I needed to talk to someone about this, which meant I was going to have to confess to someone about everything.

Dammit.

Everett was never going to let me live it down.

* * *

When I was a student at NYU, I hadn't spent much time in the physics department unless I was looking for Everett, so nothing much had changed except for the fact that instead of coming from the Art and English departments, I came from home or work.

Everett had classes today and wasn't working tonight, so I went to the building that held his last class of the day and waited in the hallway. As I leaned against the wall, I tried to run through the outline I held in my head for my article, but every time I came to some conclusion, something else about Jace would draw my attention. I'd either find myself thinking about the heat I'd seen in his eyes at the club, or the way it had felt to dance with him, or how easy it was to talk to him.

"You're late," I snapped as Everett came out of the classroom. "Everyone else left five minutes ago."

Everett raised an eyebrow. "Damn. Someone either needs to get laid or deal with whatever PMS issues you have going on right now."

I sighed. "Shit. I'm sorry." I pushed my hair back from my face. "How about I buy dinner and tell you what's got me biting your head off?"

He scrubbed his palms together. "I get to choose the place."

I glared at him. "Seriously? You're going to negotiate an apologetic gesture?"

He gave me that easy grin that I loved. "Of course."

I rolled my eyes and let myself fall into the ease of being with my best friend. I could have called Lei or Lorde and talked to them, but even as much as I loved them, Everett was the only one I could completely confide in about this. I didn't blurt it out while we were walking though. No, this called for dinner...and alcohol.

Lots of alcohol.

By the time we were both buzzed enough to have the conversation, the diner Everett had chosen was full and noisy, which was good because that meant the chances of anyone overhearing what I was about to say were slim.

"Remember me telling you that I was going to see Jace Randall on Monday?"

"Yes," he said, leaning forward. He knew we were about to get to the good stuff. "I also remember you promising to call me and dish on all the dirty details, but that hadn't happened."

"You're really enjoying guilt tripping me here, aren't you?" I threw a french fry at him.

"I am." He popped the fry into his mouth.

"Well, I've got some great dirty details for you," I said wryly. "You just have to promise that this stays between us because it's a bit...well, you'll understand when I tell you."

"Now I'm intrigued." He leaned toward me ever farther. "My lips are sealed. Spill."

So, spill I did.

I told him about meeting Jace for the first time, and that I'd been attracted but had tried to stay professional. Then I told him about going to the club and watched his eyes grow wider until he finally let out a low whistle.

"So, you're torn between the artist who made you love art, and a mystery man who rocked your world?"

I'd paused to drain the last of my beer, and now I shook my head. "I'm in trouble because my mystery man is the artist."

"No fucking way." Everett's voice was low, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head. "I thought you said you didn't exchange names and you didn't see his face."

"I didn't." I rubbed my temples as my head throbbed. "But I did see the tattoos on his chest and upper arms. Then today, when I went to see Jace to talk about the article, he had his shirt off, and–"

"And you saw the tattoos." Everett whistled again. "Does he know? That you and he–"

"No." I shook my head. "And that's not all. He was making a sculpture when I got there, and it was...me."

"Shit." Everett stared at me. "You really stepped in it, Sav. What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "Why the hell do you think I'm talking to you about it?"