I hadn't planned on discussing my personal experience with his art. I hadn't planned on discussing anything of a personal nature, actually, and certainly not on my end of things. This was supposed to be about him, about his show, but he completely disarmed me. He was nothing like I expected. I hadn't read anything negative about him, so it hadn't been like I'd walked in the door thinking he was this playboy partier or anything like that. His past wasn't well-known, and I hadn't tried to dig into it because this was supposed to be about his art.

I told myself this was why I was so enthusiastically describing the way his work made me feel, how I saw it. It had nothing to do with the need to tell the person who'd opened my eyes to the world in a new way just what he'd done for me.

It wasn't until I finally stopped talking that I realized I'd been going on for nearly five solid minutes while he just sat there and listened. Not for the first time today, my face was red.

"Thank you." His tone was sincere, his eyes kind.

And yet, under that kindness was a heat that spoke to me in a different way.

A way I wanted to ignore, even as I wanted to embrace it.

"Sorry about that." I gave him a rueful smile. "When I got the assignment, I told myself I wouldn't do that."

He smiled, leaning toward me. "It's been a long time since I've seen someone be that passionate about art – any art – let alone mine. Most of the people I talk to have all sorts of pretentious words they like to use, but not a single one of them mean anything."

A moment settled between us, and I knew it could turn so many different ways. Awkward as we realized we'd gone a step too far toward personal. Romantic as we gave in to the connection I knew was between us. Or I could make sure things went the way they were supposed to go. The way they should have gone from the beginning.

"Art is important to me." I hoped my smile was more professional than it felt. "And I believe that yours is exceptional."

"I thought an art critic wasn't supposed to come in with any biases." He sounded like he was teasing, but I could tell we were back on solid ground.

I laughed. "If college taught me anything, it's that no one goes into any sort of review or critique without any biases."

He leaned back in his chair, everything about his body language more relaxed than it had been. "Where do you want to start?"

"Can you tell me a bit about the show that's coming up?" I set down a small notepad on the table. "Like why you chose this particular event."

"It's a great charity." There wasn't a trace of deceit or self-satisfaction in his voice. "Clean drinking water is more important than most people realize, and if I can help raise money by talking to a reporter and donating some art, I'm glad to help."

"There doesn't seem to be much in the way of details of what's going to be shown."

A shadow seemed to settle over him, and he shrugged, but I could still see something negative lingering there.

"We haven't really decided on a theme," he said finally. "A way to present the work. There's nothing really...clear about it."

I nodded, knowing it wouldn't do any good to push at the moment. "Okay. Let's shift away from your work then. You don't really do many interviews, and the ones you have done don't really talk much about your art."

He shifted uncomfortably. "Most reporters are more interested in my bank balance and my family connections than they are in art."

"Well, I'm not most reporters." I hoped he didn't paint me with the same brush as my peers – pun intended. "If you want to talk about how your bank balance and your family connections affect your art, you're more than welcome to, but otherwise, I'm not planning on writing anything about either of those subjects."

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing as if he was studying me. "So you want to know about my influences? Want me to say how I studied the greats like da Vinci and van Gogh? Or maybe one of those new controversial artists who like to smear shit on things that everyone thinks are important and call it making a statement?"

His questions weren't angry, but I caught a definite edge to them, as if they were a test rather than rhetorical. I wasn't sure what he was waiting to hear, but I gave him the truth.

"I've never been one of those people who thinks that the popularity of a particular artist or subject is what makes it quality. Most of the ones who use sensationalism to sell their work don't actually have any talent." I tapped my pen on the notebook. "But I also don't think that, just because something is popular, it isn't any good either. I judge purely on the art itself."

He nodded as if I'd said something right. "All right then, let's talk artistic influences."

The next thing I knew, almost two hours had passed. Jace answered all of my questions, but it had been more than an interview. Even though we kept our conversation completely professional, there had been an undercurrent I couldn't deny.

When his phone rang, a part of me was actually relieved. I admired him as an artist, and I wanted to write my best work so that others could see how amazing he was as much as I did for my own benefit. I didn't want to do anything that could screw it up.

I gave him a brief wave as I stood, silently letting him know that I would see myself out. He nodded and smiled, then turned his back on me, stepping out of the kitchen. I felt a mild pang of jealousy as I wondered if he was talking to his girlfriend. He hadn't said anything about his romantic life, but all that meant was that he was good at keeping things quiet.

I put my notebook back into my purse, then figured the least I could do since he bought me dinner would be to clean up a bit. I tossed the empty cartons and bottles into the trash, then opened the fridge to put the leftovers away. As I closed it and turned away, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something fall. I picked it up and realized it was a matchbook, the sort that some hotels and clubs still passed out for advertising.

It was plain and black, with two words written in fancy script.

Gilded Cage.

I'd never heard of it, and I had no reason to think that I'd be interested in whatever club or hotel this matchbook was from, but I still slipped it in my pocket. If it was a club, maybe it was worth checking out. Everett would probably be game, even if it was a straight club. If it was a gay one, that might be what I needed too: to find out that Jace was gay. That would make it a whole lot easier to just admire his looks and not keep thinking about what it would be like to feel his hands all over my body, his mouth moving down...

Shit.

I needed to go home and get a cold shower. Now.

* * *

"What do you mean you didn't see the paintings for the show?"

I tried not to flinch as spittle flew from my boss's lips and showered the top of his desk. I wasn't the kind of person who judged others by how they looked, but when a person's actions made them into a pervert, it did tend to influence how I saw their appearance. Thinning brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and an extra hundred fifty pounds on a six-foot frame – none of those things would've screamed please keep your hands off me, but the lecherous look in those dark eyes of his...yeah, those made me do everything in my power to keep at least one piece of furniture between Abel Updike and myself.

"I got backstory today," I said, keeping my voice even. "I'll speak to Mr. Randall in a day or two about a private showing so I can get an impression of the paintings on their own, then I'll attend the show to see how they look in the space."

Abel rolled his eyes and leaned back. The chair creaked in protest, and I waited to see if, this time, it would give up the ghost. "When I did my doctorate thesis..."

I tuned him out. I wasn't trying to be rude, I'd just heard this speech before. At least a dozen times before. He'd talk about how he did his doctorate thesis on artists in the French Renaissance, neglecting to mention that the online school where he'd gotten his Ph.D. had since gone belly up. Once he explained the topic in the most possible condescending tone possible, he'd continue on for another quarter of an hour or so about how he'd write all of the copy if he could, but he was so busy that it wasn't possible and blah, blah, blah.

I let him go through it all again while I mentally went through the contents of my closet. When I got home last night, I texted my friends about Gilded Cage, but none of them had ever heard of it, and even if they had, they wouldn't have been able to go with me until the weekend.

It was a club. I might have focused on being an art critic, but I knew how to investigate. I didn't know what type of club it was, but I managed to find an address. Now, I was thinking I might take a trip tonight just as something to do to get my mind off of how much I wished I could tell Abel exactly what I thought of him.

And if I happened to see a handsome artist there, I might feel obligated to have a dance or two with him.

Purely out of politeness, of course.