It was magnificent.

As he stared at the immense building, with its vaulted ceilings and domed roofs, the spirals cresting its eaves and the clean lines of the mirrored entryway, Elias found profound pleasure in what he had accomplished.

Of course, at that very moment, he should have been at the opening ceremony. He was supposed to be giving some speech about the ushering in of a new era – and how this extension to the Louvre was proof of a further developing city and the peak of an artistic epoch.

But in all truthfulness, Elias would rather not. He wasn’t good at giving speeches. He preferred staying behind the scenes, which became harder and harder the more he designed. It wasn’t, Elias constantly reminded himself as if he had asked to be thrust into the spotlight. All he had ever really wanted was to see his buildings come to life.

After the first time that one of his designs had been chosen, he was hooked. There was nothing like watching a picture you had in your mind become corporeal – as it was built from the very foundations into twisting masses of iron, glass, and steel that towered far above your head.

He’d been seventeen – and lucky enough to be apprenticed to Renard Trevois – one of the foremost architects of the time. The man had taken one look at the building that Elias had worked on for the past ten years of his life and had ripped the plans apart, declaring them rubbish. Instead of emulating Renard’s style, as the man taught him, Elias went in a vastly different direction.

One that his mentor didn’t approve of.

And so, he’d struck out on his own. After redrawing his plans and effectively trashing his mentor’s workshop in a fit of virile young rage, he’d taken his ideas straight to the European Board of Architecture itself – where a part of him fully expected to be laughed out of the room. There were years-established architects all over the world who never met with the men of the council, and Elias had just marched in, full of vim and vigor.

To his shock, they hadn’t immediately rejected him. Of course, he had interrupted another meeting and so that had caused a stir, but once things had calmed down, the head of the organization himself, Jaques Crousard, had asked to see examples of his work.

And the rest was history.

It was Crousard who had ensured that Elias’ first design be showcased at the New School of Art in Paris, and after that, his next work was quickly snapped up by a hotel owner in Tokyo. After what seemed like a lifetime of being under Trevois’ thumb, Elias finally earned his freedom when he defied the man – exceeding everyone’s expectations.

His father told him that he had an elephant’s bullocks and his mother thought him a tad crazy, but they were both as proud as respectable British parents could be of their son who, at age thirty-three, was literally and figuratively on top of the world.

The hotel in Tokyo had opened up a plethora of new opportunities for him, and Elias wanted to take them all. Unfortunately, he had to pick and choose, or risk stretching himself too thin.

And thus, his greatest adventure had begun.

What Elias hadn’t counted on was that his penchant for design would catapult him into the limelight. He had come from a reasonably well-off family, so fame and fortune had never been his endgame. However, when you were responsible for some of the most recognizable buildings in the world, such a thing was inevitable.

Even years later, he still wasn’t used to the fame.  

All he really wanted was to be alone at his drawing table in his office, but society necessitated a little something more. Of course, more than anything, he adored being able to personally work on the buildings he designed – to be right in the thick of things along with builders and contractors.

One of the most unique things about him, as an architect, people stated, was his willingness to get his hands dirty – to put on a hard hat and get up to his elbows in the mud. Elias had never liked to lie idle and didn’t think that his profession should be an excuse to do so. However, the glitz and glamour that had come to accompany his name only made him want to withdraw all the more. Parties could be nice, banquets tolerable…but every eligible woman between the ages of sixteen and sixty chasing after him in an attempt to “tie him down”? Advertisers wanting to put his face on everything from deodorant to Rolex watch billboards? He was constantly avoiding his phone.

While he felt as if he was constantly running to escape the unwanted attention, Michael, his doctor and one of his best friends, found it all very amusing. The reason that everyone wanted to plaster his face all over the world, Michael attested, was because it was a pretty attractive one, and he should take that as a compliment.

Now, standing in the center of the Louvre entryway, he was faced with his own image reflected back at him over three hundred times and, as always, he was unimpressed. Elias was taller than the average man, that was for sure. At close to six and a half feet, he had to stoop to get into a number of doorways – something he made sure never happened in the buildings he designed. Raven-haired and blue eyed, he supposed he was the picture of the typical Englishman. He currently had a few days’ worth of stubble on his chin that he hadn’t bothered to shave, and his hair was badly in need of a trim.

He always had a sharp dress sense – even as a child, his mother attested. Unless he was going to work on a building site, he wore immaculately pressed slacks – altered for his height of course – a crisp button up and tie with a dark blazer. He was, as Michael often teased him, every British debutante’s dream.

Unfortunately, Elias couldn’t afford to be bothered with women. Certainly, there were times when he had a physical need – and when such a need occurred, there were any number of women ready and willing to assuage him. But they understood perfectly that he wasn’t looking for commitment – not for marriage, children, or any of the trappings of a domestic lifestyle. As things were, he couldn’t count on which city he’d be in from one week to the next – and he certainly didn’t need anyone other than his parents badgering him about such things.

“Aren’t you supposed to be giving some sort of speech?” He turned to see Dr. Michael Tate leaning against one of the elegantly mirrored walls, sipping at a draft beer. Apparently, his anonymity had allowed him to do what Elias couldn’t: take advantage of the open bar that marked the occasion. Of course, the moment the man of the hour tried to get a drink, he’d be swamped. But not Mike. Mike was blessed enough to be able to fade into the background.

With a sigh, Elias shoved his hands into his pockets almost churlishly. “You didn’t even get me a pint?”

Mike merely smirked, shaking his head. “What the bloody hell are you doing hiding out here anyway? Isn’t this supposed to be your crowning achievement?” Crossing the entryway, the dark-haired man met his friend in the middle, swinging an arm around his neck companionably. “I mean, Christ, you designed an expansion to the Louvre. How many people can say they’ve done that?”

“Right.” Elias rolled his eyes, ducking out of his friend’s hold before plucking his beer glass from him. He indulged in the cool, frothy drink, downing perhaps half of it before returning it, much to Michael’s chagrin. “I designed it and now I don’t even get to enjoy it.”

“Bullocks,” Michael returned skeptically, his green eyes narrowing. “You can go wherever you bloody well please. You’re Elias Johnson.”

“Exactly,” Elias pointed out with a long-suffering sigh. “I can’t do anything precisely because I’m Elias Johnson.”

His companion merely shrugged, finishing the rest of his beer. “So, I suppose that means you won’t be making any speeches today?”

Turning from him, Elias strode leisurely out of the entryway and into the main atrium, in which an immense crystal chandelier was hung. From here, he could hear the low murmur of the opening ceremony taking place several rooms beyond and frowned at the sight of the crowds. “What I want to do…” he punctuated slowly, “is to get back on the first plane to London and come back in a year, in the middle of the night. Maybe then I’ll get to appreciate the damn thing.”

He raised his head to stare upward at the wide panes of glass that replaced a portion of the roofing, allowing for an unfettered view of the Paris night sky. He remembered standing atop the highest beam before the walls had begun to be covered, and seeing the entirety of the city laid out below him like a sparkling gem.

The world was absolutely beautiful…it was just that people had to keep mucking it up.

“Well, what’s stopping you?” Michael came up behind him, still toting his empty beer glass. “I’m sure they’ll get along fine without you, now that the building’s complete. Obviously, they’ll miss your rousing testimony to your own success, but somehow, I think they’ll survive.”

A snort of laughter escaped Elias. “Thanks for reminding me why I keep you around.”

“My pleasure.” Michael quipped back with a small smirk. “Though you are overdue for a prostate exam. Perhaps we should take care of that before you leave…”

Elias shot the cheeky physician a warning look. Overdue or not, he wasn’t letting his friend probe him unless he beat him into submission. He still had bad memories of the first time he’d let this man examine him. For his own health, his arse…Michael had been hell bent on killing him. “Come one step closer and I’ll shove something up your arse.”

Michael chuckled good-naturedly. “So very charming. No wonder you’re beloved the world over.”

“I was never cut out to be a media darling,” Elias returned evenly, his eyes fixed on the newest speaker who had just stepped onto the stage at the other end of the museum. The man was, no doubt, meant to replace him, the poor sap. But why interrupt him just now? “It has never been my thing.”

“Yet you continue to indulge people.” Michael followed his companion’s gaze, arching a brow as scattered applause for the new speaker reached them.

“So, I can continue designing, yes.” Elias asserted, turning to face his companion once more. “If I have to grease a few palms to keep on doing what I love, then, so be it. You, of all people, should know that, Mike.”

His friend merely sighed, eying his empty beer glass regretfully before he spoke again. “So, is that what this ‘contest’ is all about, then?”

At the mention of the thing, Elias swallowed a groan. Bloody hell…with all the activity that evening, he’d almost forgotten about the damned contest.

It hadn’t even been his idea really – rather, Mary, his publicist’s. She insisted to him that he needed to be more relatable as an artist – more approachable. When he’d challenged her, suggesting that one of the most interesting things about artists was their aloofness, she hadn’t been impressed. He just needed one stunt, Mary assured him, to endear him to the common folk for a little longer. Once every little while to make sure that people remembered his name.

Personally, Elias was pretty sure he was guaranteed a place in the annals of history by the physical marks he’d left on the world, but he was paying Mary, so why not take her advice once in a while?

And so, the contest had been born – some amateur event that allowed designers from all over the world to submit their projects to him in a bid to design his “new residence.” Of course, Elias had no intention of actually living there. He had enough money to build fifty houses that he would never live in if that was what was necessary. The point was the principle of the thing. It sounded exciting that he was going to let a complete stranger design for him – and people were eating it up.

In the week since the contest had been opened, they’d had over three million submissions – more than he could ever possibly go through. To assist him, he’d employed the help of over one hundred other architects, who went through plans around the clock, whittling the mountain down to a more manageable pile of ten or twenty that he’d ultimately choose from.

Though the entire thing was pretty much just a glorified publicity stunt, Elias did have his standards. He favored clean, crisp lines, and modern designs with just the slightest touch of baroque flair. Hypothetically, he wanted a space both open and intimate – nothing that screamed opulence, nor feigned poverty. As his mother constantly reminded him, he was looking for perfection.

And perfection didn’t exist.

But, ultimately, Elias would be forced to choose a winner. And, once he did, he’d have to work with the person he’d chosen until their project was complete – which meant more time away from his own work. To say the least, he was far from excited about the prospect. What was more, there was only a week or so left until he would have to pick a winner.

“I’m hoping to have it all over and done with within six months,” he finally answered Michael, crossing his arms firmly over a broad chest. “I can’t afford to waste any more time with the bloody thing.”

“As I’m sure whoever you pick will be sufficiently chewed to a pulp by the time you’re done with them,” his friend rebutted with no small amount of snark. “And be running for the hills.”

“All the better,” Elias breathed, running a hand over the prickly hairs covering his chin. “I’ve no patience for anyone without a backbone. It’s the only way you get anywhere in this business.”

“And… I suppose it makes no sense that you chew up backbones and spit them out like toothpicks?” Mike jibed, before exhaling a long sigh. “Trust me, I’m far more worried about whoever you chose than I’m worried about you, Eli. You’re going to rip an aspiring mind to shreds.”

“What I will do,” Elias replied crisply, “is challenge them. Which is precisely what they will need at this stage in their career. It will be a trial by fire – the most telling kind.”

At the reverence in his tone, Michael merely laughed softly, shaking his head. “I’ll be sure I’m on hand to extinguish any flames, then.” With that, he set his glass down at the end of a grand staircase, winking at Elias’ frown of disapproval. “Shall I get you one this time, then?”

Elias ran fingers through his mussed raven-haired locks, trying not to think of the trials to come in the next few weeks. Even contemplating looking at the designs of the finalists was enough to make his head throb. “Two, if you can carry them”.

Michael smirked, nodding in his direction understandingly. “Whiskey it is, then.”

**

When the bell sounded, signaling the entry of a customer, a dark head was buried deep in a textbook and the only greeting it provided was a quick flash of a hand.

“Hey, Bernie.”

Portly Bernard Barnes stopped cold in the doorway, arching a brow at the small figure enclosed behind the check-out desk of the corner store, before shaking his head with a slow smile. How the hell did she do that?

“We got in a shipment of Watermelon Snapple this morning. I put a couple in the front of the case for you.”

Bernie’s face lit up in appreciation. “You’re a gem, Cat.” With that, he started for the back of the shop, grin firmly in place.

From behind the register, Catherine Harris peeked over her book at one of her everyday customers, sparing him a small, impish smile as he extracted four bottles of Watermelon Snapple from the case. Bernie was predictable. He came in every morning on the way to work at precisely seven fifty-two, ordered a small coffee and an egg sandwich. Then, every evening on the way home, he showed up at four twenty for his Watermelon Snapple and Snickers bars.

And he, of course, was only one of a plethora of people who frequented the shop. If Cat hadn’t seen them around the neighborhood – a place she knew like the back of her hand – then she’d seen them in the three years she’d worked at the corner shop. Some of them came in at the same time every day, and some of them ordered the same thing, but she’d always had a head for places and names.

And her customers liked that.

It was one of the two things about her job that made shit salary a little bit better. Cat had always liked meeting people and hearing about their lives – and during her shift, she heard all kinds of juicy gossip. Part two of the advantages was, surprisingly, the large amount of downtime. She only got paid seven dollars an hour, but Moe’s shop was on the outskirts of the city, which meant that the busiest hours were the morning ones.

For the rest of the day she just had to make sure that she kept the shop tidy, greeted customers, and kept an eye on things – which was easy enough.

“Long day today?” As Bernie set his loot on the counter before her, Cat put aside her book with a small smile at his inquiry.

“Not really. I’ve been trying to get a bit of studying in while it’s dead.” She rang up his Snapples and candy bars, along with a box of Marlboro Lights.

“Studying, huh? European architecture again?” He glanced down at the thick, peeling volume on the counter next to her before shaking his head slowly. “Isn’t building just a lot of math? Definitely not my area of expertise.”

Cat laughed softly, patting the book lovingly. The local library had offered to give it to her in lieu of throwing it out, and she’d been forever grateful. She must have read through the book, which detailed some of the beginning and intermediate principles of architecture, at least five times in the past year. Her mother thought she was slightly obsessed and maybe she was right.

But was it really so bad to lose herself in her dreams sometimes?

“Well, there is math,” she conceded, bagging his items for him “But I like to think of it as art. All those numbers eventually combine to make something that speaks more to the eye than to the logical mind…at least for those who didn’t design the thing.” She added sheepishly, with a slight blush.

Visibly amused, Bernie merely chuckled as he paid for his items. “But I’m guessing you want to design?”

The young woman sighed whimsically, resting her chin in cold palms as the very prospect warmed her. “That would be something, wouldn’t it?”

“You’re a smart one, Cat.” Bernie winked at her winningly. “If anyone deserves to get out of here, it’s you.”

Catherine only flushed in embarrassment, shaking her head as she snapped her book shut. “No…I can’t leave. Who would run the shop?”

Her customer rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “I dare say Moe could run it himself. It’s not like he’s got much else to do.”

Well, that was certainly true. As far as Cat knew, on the days that Moe did come in, he posted up in the back room and fell asleep watching Seinfeld reruns until it was time for her to leave for the day. But, if she suggested that he actually run the shop, she was pretty sure the tiny, irate man would just blow her off.

“Yeah, well, maybe I’ll have a discussion with him.” Her smile lacked any real enthusiasm, but Bernie was too busy breaking into his first Snapple to notice.

“You do that, Cat. Have a good one.” And just like that, he was gone with the tinkling of the bell.

Leaving the young woman alone, once again, with her book. Cat barely hesitated a moment before opening it again. She knew that it was slightly obsessive that she read the same book over and over, but this was the book that had taught her everything she knew about architecture.

One of her last links left to her father.

As her slender fingers slid over the outline of the Eiffel tower on the first page of the chapter on Parisian architecture, she sighed.

He had been there more than his fair share of times. Her father, that was. When he’d been alive, he’d been a translator for some huge corporation that had sent him all over the world. He used to make Cat and her mother laugh by calling them to tell them good morning in French, good afternoon in German, and good night in Spanish. Taylor Harris had a penchant for languages that bordered on the supernatural, and at the time of his death, he’d been fluent in no less than six.

He’d managed to impart quite a bit of French on his daughter before he died, and to this day, Cat’s mother’s face glowed with pride when she conjugated simple verbs. It was those times that she felt closest with her father, and could forget the acute pain of his loss.

At least, her mother always reassured her, the cancer had taken him quickly. By the time the doctors found it, it had been far too late to do anything but make his last days comfortable. And so, they had.

Taylor Harris had died with a smile on his face, and that was how Cat liked to remember him. It was a lot easier than recalling how his death had stripped them of any and all income they’d had. How he’d left behind reams of medical bills that had rendered them destitute within weeks. They’d had to leave the bright, airy New York apartment where she’d grown up for the suburbs of Detroit, which were rough even on good days.

Nothing had been the same since.

Cat’s mother had struggled every day to raise her daughter – to put her through school and keep food on the table. The little girl had only been eight when her father died, and Cat often remembered the first years after his death as some of the darkest. Naomi Harris had turned to drink to keep her exhaustion and desolation at bay, and more often than not, Cat had been forced to fend for herself – cooking and cleaning for two people.

Of course, by the time she’d been halfway through high school, her mother had begun to clean up her act – she’d returned to the real world and discovered that Cat needed her just as much as she needed her daughter – and she’d ponied up. Catherine had never really blamed her for the dark years. It was a time in which she’d been in a pretty difficult place herself as she and her mother had come to grips with the situation they found themselves in.

They had never managed to recover and still felt the pang of poverty acutely. While their apartment was bigger, Cat never did have the opportunity to attend University. She didn’t have anywhere near enough money – even after working at the corner store for what seemed like forever. At one point, she’d saved up enough for a single semester of courses, and it had been absolute heaven. That was, of course, before a fire had damaged their apartment and eaten up the rest of her funds, dashing those particular dreams.

But, while she stood behind the register in the corner shop, twenty-six-year-old Cat sometimes lost herself in what could have been. Her father, with the tales of all his wanderings, had instilled in her a desire for travel and a lust for adventure. Though she hadn’t been beyond the Michigan state line since she and her mother had moved to Detroit, she visited places like Dubai and London every night when she closed her eyes.

And she pictured what it would be like to add her mark to the famous skylines emblazoned across her mind.

It was these dreams that had driven her to send one of the many buildings she’d drawn in her spare time off to Europe, knowing that she’d never hear anything back. Impulse had woken her the night after she’d seen a special on the news detailing how Elias Johnson, the best-known architect currently living, was looking for new talent to design a new personal residence for himself.

While Cat’s mother had oohed and ahhed at the prospect, her daughter had merely scoffed, even as her heart ached. There was nothing she’d like more than to jaunt off to Europe and have the opportunity of a lifetime.

Put poor, skinny young women with too many freckles and lacking college diplomas couldn’t be architects.

No matter how much they dreamed.

In fact, every time Cat recalled the drawing she’d sent in, the more embarrassed she felt. It had been rudimentary – fewer plans than an idea of a building – one with wide, modern pillars at the entryways and an open floor plan. Floor-to-ceiling windows served in the place of many walls, providing the entire structure with an open, airy feel – but necessitating an isolated property. Honestly, when she pictured it now, she winced. Certainly, an architect of Elias Johnson’s caliber didn’t want every Tom, Dick, and Harry seeing him naked every time he got out of the shower.

Though, she supposed that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Leaning over the front counter behind which she stood, Cat peered at the cover of the city papers on the rack just inside the shop. The front page had a picture of the man standing in front of his newest project – an extension to the Louvre museum in Paris that had opened just the previous week.

Though she had only seen Johnson’s face a handful of time, it astounded her, how young the man looked every time. Young and devastatingly handsome. Men like Elias Johnson knew they were attractive. How couldn’t he? With those clear blue eyes, gorgeous raven-esque hair, and beginning of a beard gracing his chin? The man was dressed in a suit, but it was clear that the body inside said suit was not only statuesque but well-kept as well. It probably came from all the hands-on work he was rumored to do on his projects.

It was a curious approach to architecture, but part of Johnson’s allure.

Oddly enough, little was known about the man’s personal life. Unlike other famous personalities who practically shat dollar bills, Johnson didn’t make it a priority to make his business public knowledge. If anything, the man was somewhat of a recluse – only appearing for grand opening and banquets – and only then reluctantly.

He was an artist, people asserted, and that was that. Atop that, he was a rich artist, so the man could do whatever the hell he pleased.

Including search the world for the next big name in architecture.

Sighing, Cat glanced at the clock above her head. It was close to five o’clock – almost quitting time. She had to run a few errands before she got back to her mother…which meant banishing her dreams for a while.

Closing her book, the young woman shoved it in the bag she kept under the register along with a pad she doodled her designs on whenever she had a moment. They were the two most precious things she owned – her gateway to another world.

A world she would never see.

**

Elias gazed critically down at the five drawings on the table before him. They were the final submissions that he’d chosen from the thirty submitted to him at the beginning of the week. Though he had pretended to take the process arduously slowly, he admitted to himself that he’d thrown half of them out the moment he looked at them. They lacked originality – spontaneity. That was the problem with most architects these days. They were so busy emulating those who had already come and gone that they had no time to cultivate a sense of creativity.

The remaining ten had quickly been wormed down to five on the basis of sheer size.

Elias didn’t want a mansion – something that ostentatious wasn’t what he needed. When he mentioned this to Michael, the man jibed that it didn’t really matter as he wasn’t planning on living in the thing. Elias had, of course, unceremoniously banned his friend from his office to continue his selection process.

Whether he was going to live there or not wasn’t the point. If he was going to spend more than five minutes in the company of the contest winner without losing his temper, the person was going to have to be some kind of creative. Elias couldn’t stand to be bored. It was one of the things that had led him to rebel against his former mentor in the first place.

So now, here he was, looking over his final five options. It was obvious that four of them had come from top architecture schools. The styles were a bit dated, but the space was well used, and he could picture at least three of the buildings by the English seaside.

The fifth, however…

He didn’t know what to make of it. For starters, the building was drawn on what appeared to be common construction paper, rather than an architect’s drawing template. Most of the lines had been free handed and there were very few calculations substantiating the numbers. This differentiated the piece from its fellows entirely – both that and the fact that the design was like nothing he’d ever seen.

Modernity with a touch of antiquity – more windows than walls, designed for an isolated property. Windows in place of barriers, however, were a clever way to make a smaller space feel more open – creating intimacy without sacrificing actual floor space.

The crudest design was, by far, the most prolific one.

He tugged it across his desk to look over it. At the obvious discolorations on the paper, he imagined spilled coffee and oily breakfast foods.

Where in the world had this come from?

A quick cross-referencing of the number on the back with the database Mary had created for him revealed that it was from Detroit, Michigan in the United States. Upon reading the information, Elias frowned.

He didn’t know much about the smaller corners of the US, but Detroit was a city famous for its abrasiveness and danger. That someone living there had created this…it was…intriguing, to say the least.

Opening the main drawer before him, Elias extracted a ballpoint pen, his blue eyes locked on the drawing. He crossed out a few of the balustrade details along the front side of the structure before adding a second floor that would be more closed than open to allow for a modicum of privacy. However, he continued with the expansive feel of the first floor, working on the building until it resembled something that, startlingly, he found himself tempted to see brought to life.

Setting the pen down, Eli scratched at the stubble on his jaw. He was exhausted. He had been up for the past forty-eight hours working on coming up with a winner for this ridiculous contest and the sleepless nights were taking their toll.

However, for the first time in what had to be at least twelve of those hours, he suddenly felt his pulse increase as he contemplated the building that he was faced with. It would, he realized, be magnificent. The lines were perfect, and would complement the breezy English seaside beautifully. Storms and sunny days would be equally reflected in the strong, but flexible frame of the structure, which would be comprised mostly of windows.

But they couldn’t be normal plate glass. It would be too insubstantial.

Wracking his brain, the man turned the paper over to jot down ideas, only to find that there was already quite a bit of text scribbled on the back of the plan.

Tempered Glass was scribbled in one corner. Cools slower, less likely to rupture under strain. Steel frame with reinforced bolting for extra strength. Cement foundation bored down into sand in event of tropical locale to prevent erosion.

Elias continued to scan the notes, his eyes growing wider and wider. Whoever had written these obviously had only the most rudimentary knowledge of architecture – but that simplicity imposed fewer limits on their imagination, allowing for a more innovative design.

It appeared that he had a winner – though he’d hardly expected to find a design he was so personally enamored of.

Turning the paper back over, he scanned it to find the name of his first – his only apprentice – and his eyes fell on a signature scribbled in the lower left-hand corner.

Catherine M. Harris.

**

Cat stared at the gold-scrolled paper sitting in front of her on the kitchen table. Though she’d read it over several times, her mind still refused to comprehend the information on it.

“Cat…oh my goodness, Cat! I’m so proud of you.”

Even as her mother hugged her tight enough to cut off her breathing, Catherine still continued to stare, numb, down at the letter before her.

Dear Catherine Harris,

It is the pleasure of Elias S. Johnson to congratulate you on submitting the winning entry in the race to design his newest residence. After looking over your design, Mr. Johnson has selected your work from over three million applicants and requests your presence in London no later than Friday, February 12th, to begin discussing the work on the new building. Enclosed are your plane tickets, as well as reservations for your accommodations in the city. Someone will arrive at Heathrow Airport to meet and carry you to your home for the next six months. Mr. Johnson looks forward to meeting the creator of such an innovative design and, again, warm congratulations!

Mary Steinhart

Publicist – E.S. Johnson

Beneath the letter – which her mother had opened ahead of her out of curiosity – were, indeed, two tickets that comprised a first trip to London along with details for a stay at The Savoy for a full six months.

She couldn’t even imagine how much something like that must cost – more money than she’d ever seen in her entire life…

It was impossible. She, of all those three million people who had entered, she had won? With her small, grubby drawing that was more an idea than an actual plan?

“Am I…dreaming?” she finally managed, swallowing thickly. “Shit. Pinch me, Mom.”

Naomi Harris immediately complied, hard, and her daughter yelped, leaping out of her chair. “Ow! That fucking hurt!”

“It was meant to,” Naomi returned triumphantly, her hands on her hips as she beamed across the kitchen at her daughter. Her smile, Cat realized, must be a mirror of her own.

And she was smiling. Once she started, she couldn’t stop – and the young woman found that her hands were trembling uncontrollably. It was real…She was going to London to meet one of the most famous men in the world…to design the house that he would live in!

Suddenly weak-kneed, she slumped to the floor of their small kitchen, much to her mother’s alarm. “Cat! Are you alright?”

“I’m…I’m fine,” the dark-haired girl breathed, trying to keep from hyperventilating. “I just need to breathe.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake, breathe! You can’t be dying right now!” Her mother exclaimed in exasperation. “You have to go to London in a week!”

“Mom…” Cat slowly began to shake her head as doubts she never imagined having to face began to surface. “I can’t…I…he’s the best in the world and I’m just an amateur! I barely have a semester of community college under my belt! This was a bad idea.”

“Cat, I love you to death, darling, but do yourself a favor and shut up.” Kneeling before her daughter, the middle-aged woman took the young woman’s face between hands weathered from years of physical labor. Labor that she had performed tirelessly in the hope that Catherine would get one chance, just one, like this. “You are a brilliant young woman, and just because I haven’t been able to give you the chances you deserve doesn’t mean anything about your talents.” Her eyes shone with tears as she brushed strands of her daughter’s dark hair from her face.

In that face, she saw a mirror image of herself from thirty years before – slanted, lovely almond-colored eyes and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of a sharp nose. Full, rosy lips and a fall of dark, wavy hair that often refused to be tamed. Cat’s slender form was the result of years of scant meals, but she had her mother’s minute waist and ample bosom – something many young men had come calling after.

But Catherine had always been more interested in furthering her future than chasing men – it had only taken one to break her heart, prompting her to decide that she didn’t need any more of that in her life, thank you very much.

She worked so hard that it hurt her mother to watch, knowing their financial situation would probably never allow for her daughter to get the education she longed for. What twenty-six-year-old woman still took care of her parent, instead of the other way around? And yet, not once had Cat complained. Not even in the days where she’d had to take care of a woman who was drunk more than she was sober, and pined for her dead husband day and night.

No.

Cat deserved this. And if Naomi had to truss her up and deliver her to the airport herself, her daughter was going.

“Everyone can see how talented you are except you, darling,” she encouraged the young woman with a smile. “This is your moment. Are you really going to just let it pass by?”

Exactly one week later, Catherine Harris found herself in the first-class section of British Airways on a flight out of Detroit and into the unknown. At least four times in the past week, she’d convinced herself not to go, only to realize that she was being silly.

Johnson had chosen her design, hadn’t he? The man wasn’t one of the world’s greatest architects for nothing. He had a very particular eye – so something about her work must be worth his attention.

It was this thought that bolstered her courage as she flew across the Atlantic – that, and the fact that she was far too surprised at the luxury she was afforded to stay nervous for very long. Cat had never even been on a plane before, let alone flown first class. The fact that her seat turned into a bed and she was served not one, but two delicious, high-class meals overwhelmed her. She was offered unlimited champagne and wine – which she didn’t exploit, but certainly indulged in, and a selection of movies that put her Netflix subscription to shame.

There was far too much to see and do for her to fall asleep, and she found herself with a sense of almost childlike excitement as the thought of working with one of the most imposing men in the world was, for the moment, pushed from her mind.

But eventually, the plane landed – and reality crashed back down around her.

As she left the safe, plush interior of the plane, her heart rate increased twofold. Someone was coming to get her. They would take her to her hotel and then, sometime tonight, she would come face to face with Elias Johnson.

The young woman clutched her one and only architecture book to her chest like a security blanket, straightening her spine and taking a deep breath. Though she might not be the worldliest person in existence, Cat could certainly handle herself. She’d grown up in the rough suburbs of Detroit and worked for a living for almost as long as she could remember.

It made no sense to be scared now…did it?

As she waited for her single bag near the luggage carousel, Cat received an overdue text message from her mother. Upon reading it, she smiled.

Knock them dead, Kitty Cat!

<3 Mom

Knowing that she had the support of the woman who meant more to her than anything in the world bolstered her spirits.

When Cat finally found her bag, she left the arrivals section of the airport with her head held high. After all, Elias Johnson had personally chosen her as the designer for his newest residence. They might even become close friends and fellow architects! Who knew? In this day and age, anything was possible.

She just needed a few hours to sleep and freshen up, and then she would show the man her enthusiasm, persistence, and drive…

As she scanned the crowd, searching for her ride, the young woman’s smile faded at the sight that greeted her. There was a crush of people at the gate that separated arrivals from the rest of the airport and, for a moment, Cat thought it was simply a sign of how busy Heathrow was. However, she soon realized that the throng of people weren’t all waiting for loved ones.

They were clustered around someone – clamoring for a look, in fact – and when she pushed through enough of the crowd to see exactly who they were looking at, her heart stopped.

It appeared that she wouldn’t have any time to prepare thoroughly for her meeting with Johnson after all.

He had come to her – and the moment his icy blue gaze locked with hers, she forgot how to breathe.

**

Elias was not happy.

Of all the days for his driver, Charles, to call out sick, it had to be today. It wasn’t that Elias begrudged the man a sick day – if he had the runs, he had the runs. What irked him was that the replacement driver who was supposed to pick up their contest winner from the airport had, somehow, gotten lost.

On the way to Heathrow.

Bloody hell, anyone who could read could drive to the damned airport! But of course, not this bloke. Of course, he himself had been passing Heathrow on his way back from the building site for his new home when Mary had called him.

It would be a nice gesture, she insisted, if he went to pick up the girl personally rather than allowing her to wait until the bumbling driver found his way through traffic. It was on the way, and couldn’t he imagine how grateful the Yank would be!

The only thing that Eli could imagine was how severely he was going to ream out the driver who had gotten lost. He’d been looking to a quiet evening at home until he had to report to The Savoy to meet his ball and chain for the next six weeks, and now, that time was to be cut short.

No matter how intriguing the design might be, the fact that he would have to work with an amateur still rankled him – and now, he was in the middle of Heathrow waiting on said amateur to arrive. Five members of security had to be enlisted to keep the throngs off him – another detail Mary hadn’t counted on – and Elias simply prayed that Catherine Harris’ plane hadn’t been delayed.

He didn’t even have a picture to find her with. Mary told him that the girl would be wearing a red sweater, blue jeans, and a green down jacket, but that could be literally half of the population of London.

The fifteen minutes he stood at the arrival gate seemed to stretch into an eternity as he scanned the crowd over the crush of people trying to get a good look at him. God…what was so damned special about him? He just wanted to sequester himself away and design for the rest of his waking hours. Little else mattered to him.

After seeing perhaps three women who might have matched Mary’s description, Elias was on the cusp of calling his publicist to demand more details.

And then, he saw her.

Despite the fact that he’d never seen a picture of Catherine Harris, the moment the diminutive woman wheeled her single suitcase past the barrier, his entire body took notice.

She was tiny. Could only be a few inches over five feet at the very most, with the largest and most arresting almond-colored eyes he’d ever seen. A smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose lent her an almost childlike innocence…

That was immediately counteracted by the fullness of her small mouth and the undeniable curves beneath the jacket she wore. A tiny waist juxtaposed with the deep V of cleavage and generous hips made his throat dry. The woman had an innate sensuality in the way she walked – and she obviously had no idea the effect she had on men.

That much was apparent from the hesitant way she carried herself. This was not a woman who knew the world was hers for the taking. This was a woman who had never felt the very real heat of unquenchable desire – who had never writhed beneath an able man as he taught her slowly about the limits to which she could push her body.

He wondered, vaguely, if she’d ever even been properly kissed. Had a man ever sipped from that lovely, rosebud mouth of hers to sample the sweetness beyond?

All at once, those breathtaking eyes of his locked with hers, and the streak of want that shot to Elias’ core was enough to make his breath catch in his throat. The raven-haired man was very rarely prone to intense displays of emotion – unless they pertained to his work. His architecture was his one great love – the thing he thought more beautiful, more entrancing than any corporeal person he had ever encountered.

At least, until Catherine Harris.

As she slowly began to walk towards him, Elias realized that he had a very real dilemma on his hands. He was going to have to work in close quarters with this woman for the next half year – in the same room with her, his eyes devouring her curves as his body ached for her in a way that it had for no woman before her.

If he was to address this problem properly, that meant that he had one of two options: He could send her right back to the United States on the plane she had arrived on – concoct some excuse about how there had been a mistake and she wasn’t actually the architect they sought. Such a move would, undoubtedly, crush her; and call Elias sentimental, but not even he could be cold-hearted.

Which left only one viable solution: He would have to tell her. She would know exactly how much he wanted her and, when the time was right, he would use every skill in his employ to make her his. Their contract wouldn’t be only a professional one, but a physical one as well.

“Hi.”

She herself snapped him from his reverie. It was criminal that a woman who had been traveling for the past eight hours should smell as good as she did – like lilac and lavender – but he forced the revelation to the back of his mind.

“Hello, Catherine.” He took the hand she extended with a small, but very genuine smile. “It’s lovely to meet you. Welcome to London.”