The man—this extremely attractive stranger named Alex—has closed the distance between us. Our bodies are separated by less than three feet. I can smell a hint of his cologne. It’s subtle, which I like. Spicy and warm.

He’s very tall, broad-shouldered, and beneath his sweater I can clearly see the contours of firm muscle. We are staring at each other, neither of us speaking. There’s a slight, somehow knowing smile on his oddly sensuous mouth. Odd because the rest of him is chiseled—not an ounce of softness anywhere. In spite of this, his lips don’t detract from his masculinity. They make it dangerous.

In moments such as this, I’m grateful for my training. Unlike my sister, whose social graces live in her bone marrow, my defenses are akin to hastily constructed armor. Ill-fitting and with gaps. I will be bruised tomorrow.

“Hello,” I say in a wry, slightly bored tone.

His gaze is very direct. Alarmingly so. Though my expression remains carefully neutral, I’m taken aback by the worldliness there. They are the eyes of a powerful man, a man who makes decisions that influence lives. His body is one in its prime—early thirties, perhaps—but he has the eyes of a fifty-year-old tycoon.

The eyes further disrupt the narrative. Fracture it. His jeans are faded, slip-on shoes scuffed, and the v-neck sweater unbranded. No watch to measure wealth. But I can sense it. I am trained.

He is Old, Old Money.

Who is this man?

“Alexander Hughes,” he answers my unspoken question. It doesn’t ring any bells. His head tilts slightly, back toward the photograph. “Is that really you?”

I look past his shoulder. The two women are staring at me. Lillian is as well, and I can tell by her strained expression that she’s thinking, Don’t screw this up. I need this.

I smile at Alex. A coolly calculated curve of my lips. His eyes flicker to my mouth and back up, then narrow. I have unsettled him, as intended.

“It is,” I say with a brief nod.

“Why?”

The question isn’t one I’d been expecting. Before I can fully process it, I ask, “Why, what?”

He smiles and my breath catches a little at the transformation. Now it is I who am unsettled. I quickly reevaluate his looks.

Devastating, I decide.

“Why tattoo your entire back?”

I glance at Lillian but she’s chatting with Alex’s companions. Who are the redhead and the blonde? Friends? Is one of them his girlfriend?

I’m curious because I can’t help it. I long to know more details of his story and also hope he’ll vanish on my next blink. The story is invariably better than the reality.

“Why does it matter?” I ask.

His gaze flickers down my body. An impersonal appraisal that doesn’t faze me. I’m disconnected, protected, and used to it.

He takes me in like facts on a page. Slim black slacks, stilettos, emerald-silk blouse. Creamy skin with fine-boned, aristocratic features from my mother. (Description courtesy of her, of course.) My eyes are pale hazel and my hair is long and straight, falling in a dark sheet down my back.

My strangely, excessively tattooed back.

Alex tries to reconcile the photograph with the sophisticated woman before him. I see the moment he fails.

“What’s your name?” he asks instead.

“Thea.”

“Thea, what?”

“Sands.”

“Huh.” His lips quirk; he glances at my mouth again. “What do you do for a living?”

“None of your business,” I chide, though I soften the blow with a smile.

His eyes warm, crinkling at the edges. “Thea Sands. Thea. Sands.” He taps a finger to his full lower lip as he explores the sound of my name. My gaze is pulled back to his mouth, as he intended.

Suddenly, I feel the pressing burden of maintaining social contact. I’m well trained, yes, but he’s a daunting foe. I’m unable to comprehend the frank interest in his eyes. The game of seduction. He is very good.

Moreover, my armor is rusty. Easily dented. I’m out of practice and not sure how much longer I can last. He’s unusually attractive, exuding dominance and magnetism, and I’ve been celibate for almost two years.

Focus. Control. Poise.

“Are you really considering purchasing the photograph?”

“You heard that, did you?” he muses dryly. “Yes, actually. I might put it in one of my offices.”

My armor suffers a concentrated blow. Cracks spread fast. I blurt, “An office? Not a public space, surely?”

He grins wickedly, fully aware. In total control of the game. I’m giving ground faster than I can rebuild my defenses. I’ve never been a graceful loser.

“I think it will be good for business,” he says blithely.

“What do you do?” I demand, then privately wince.

Smirking, he rocks back on his heels. “None of your business.”

“Well played, sir,” I murmur, and his smile grows.

I take a sip of champagne, fighting to keep my fingers from trembling. Alex glances over his shoulder. His companions are now watching him, their postures strung tight. They are obviously impatient to leave. Or annoyed that his attention is diverted.

Being trained to notice these subtleties, I say politely, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Hughes.”

His eyes are suddenly on me, unsmiling and intent. My spine stiffens with the effort of holding his gaze.

“I hope you enjoy the photograph,” I add. “I’m sure your clients—whoever they are—will appreciate it.”

He makes a small noise in his throat that I can’t decipher. Is it a laugh? I have no reference point for it. His hand slips into a front pocket and emerges with a business card, which he offers to me.

I hesitate noticeably. He chuckles, a sonorous sound that lifts goosebumps beneath my blouse. “My card. Someday you might want to see where you’re displayed.”

My armor is mostly gone. A few pieces cling to my face, dragging, making my lips numb. I lose the battle against his words, my pale cheeks flooding with color.

Damnit.

Alex notices, of course. His gaze sharpens, cutting and slicing through my tattered poise like a machete. He murmurs, “Or perhaps you’d prefer I restrict it to private viewings.”

His eyes are dark. Burning and dark. The ocean at sunrise.

I smile tightly and take the business card, carefully avoiding his fingers. I glance at it but can’t focus enough to read the black print. Control. With the last of it, I look into his eyes.

“Buy it and it’s yours to hang wherever you wish. Have a good evening, Mr. Hughes.”

“You as well, Ms. Sands.”

But he’s speaking to my back. My tattooed back. Because I’m already walking away.

* * *

I’m still awake when Lillian’s key sounds in the door. Before she enters, I flip on the light beside the couch. I don’t want her to know I’ve been sitting in the dark.

“Holy shit,” she groans, slamming the door and dropping her heavy purse to the floorboards. She kicks off her heels and pads barefoot across the narrow foyer, past the galley kitchen with its granite breakfast bar, and into the living room. It’s not a long walk.

Our two-bedroom condo is located in the heart of downtown San Diego, on the fifteenth floor of a high-rise just off Market Street. Although not cheap by any stretch, it’s a far cry from the mansions we both grew up in. At just over a thousand square feet, it’s compact and contemporary. We adore it.

With a sigh, she drops onto the couch beside me. “I’m beat.”

I hand her my cup of still-warm tea. “Chamomile,” I say as she wraps her fingers around the ceramic.

“God bless you.” She takes a sip and moans. “Almost as good as vodka.”

I exhale shortly in humor. “So? Spill. How many photographs did you sell?”

She grins at me, dark eyes sparkling. “One.”

I blink, confused by her celebratory air. “One?” I repeat cautiously.

“Yep,” she says happily. “Only one.”

“What the fuck, Lil? What am I missing?”

“I sold your photograph for eight-thousand dollars.”

I almost fall off the couch as I spin and slip sideways on the leather. “What?” I shriek.

Lillian’s smile turns triumphant. “Three buyers wanted it. There was a bidding war. One of them upped their offer to three thousand, another to five. The third offered eight and walked away the winner. It was all very gentlemanly.”

“Wow,” I breathe. “Who bought it? And please don’t tell me some crusty old man.”

“You know exactly who bought it. Mr. Alexander Hughes. Goddamn, that’s one sexy man.”

My stomach turns over, the sensation not wholly unpleasant. “Eight-thousand dollars?” I echo softly.

She nods happily. “I knew that photograph was going to be a hit. I can’t thank you enough.” She hands me the cup of tea, now empty. Her eyes narrow shrewdly beneath black bangs. “Were you sitting in the dark?”

“Maybe,” I concede.

She clicks her tongue. “I worry about you, Thebes.”

She’s called me Thebes since high school. I’m not Greek and neither is she. The nickname is as old as our friendship—thirteen years—and though it began as a joke neither of us could now remember, it evolved into an endearment.

I don’t believe it’s possible to fully understand another human being. Not while separated by boundaries of flesh and thought. But Lillian knows me very, very well.

“Don’t worry,” I tell her, but know she will continue. “I’m sorry I bailed early.”

“He got under your skin, huh?”

In the privacy of our own home, I don’t bother lying. “Jesus, he really did. Don’t people know it’s gauche to maintain eye contact while speaking with someone?”

Lillian giggles, a high-pitched, bubbly noise that escaped maturity. I love the sound because it’s as vibrant as she is.

“You’re just so damned mysterious. Mr. Hughes looks like a man who tackles mysteries for a living. He wants to solve yours.”

“Profound, Lil.”

Her nose wrinkles as she swallows a laugh. “You really have no idea who he is, do you?”

I lift his business card from the coffee table. “Alexander Hughes. That’s it. And three phone numbers. Who has three phone numbers?”

Lillian snatches the card. “You didn’t Google him?”

“What’s the point?”

Her brows lift. “Seriously? Because you’re dying to know who he is. Because he broke the mold and dared to speak to your ice-queen socialite shell. He doesn’t make sense and you’re intrigued.”

“Wow,” I say drolly, even though she’s right. If it had occurred to me to Google the man, I would have. Instead, I’d been writing pointless stories in my head. “I take it you know who he is?”

She nods buoyantly. “We chatted for a while. I’ll give you a hint. Restauranteur.”

Dots form, fuzzy lines connecting them. “He’s one of those Hughes?”

“One of those,” she confirms. “Middle son. Three wildly successful restaurants on the East Coast and two in Los Angeles. I knew he looked familiar, of course. He pops up now and again on TMZ and gossip blogs.”

“Good for him.”

“Whatever. You only hate that shit because your mother beat it into your head that ladies don’t watch trash television. Or go clubbing, go to bars, or have steamy affairs with billionaire playboys.”

“The last bit is common sense,” I note.

“Does that mean you don’t want to know what Alex and I talked about?”

“Damn you. Tell me.”

She pauses for effect. “You, of course.”

My heart flutters. “Is that so?” I ask, then straighten in alarm. “You didn’t actually tell him anything, did you?”

Lillian shakes a finger at me. “You know me better than that. I kept it vague. You’re an interior designer who works for an architect in San Diego.” She frowns. “He said that was odd. Is it?”

I shrug. “Somewhat.”

She gasps. “Wait, did you tell him your name?”

I roll my eyes—and quail inside. “Like he’d track me down. Ridiculous. There are hundreds of architects in the city.”

“I don’t know,” she muses in an abruptly serious tone. “He doesn’t strike me as a man who backs away from a challenge.”

“What challenge? There’s no challenge.” I shake my head in affront. “Why is he in San Diego?”

“Opening a restaurant. Duh.”

I smirk. “There you have it. Limited time frame. Working entrepreneur. He won’t have time for distractions.”

“He has the photograph. He’s not going to forget about you that easily.”

I wave a hand dismissively. “He has a photograph of a woman. A woman who is not representative of me. I know what you’re trying to do, Lil. It’s not going to work.”

She sighs. “I just want you to live a little. It’s been over two years since—”

“Gah!” I interject sharply. “Don’t speak the name!”

“Sorry,” she says softly. “But I’m telling you, if Alex Hughes tracks you down and wants to ravish your body, you should let him.”

I curl my lip in distaste. “No thanks.”

Lillian drags herself off the couch. “I know when to retreat,” she says, stumbling tiredly toward the bedrooms. “Are we still doing that thing tomorrow?”

“You mean Chelsea’s wedding?” I ask dryly.

“Vomit.”

“Pretty much,” I agree. “Night, Lil.”

She waves over her shoulder. “Sweet dreams, ice queen of Thebes. Dream of your playboy prince. Because I know he’s dreaming of you.”

She isn’t expecting a reply, and I don’t offer one. A few minutes later, I head to my room and fall into bed.

My body is tired but my mind wide awake, so I lie under the covers staring blankly upward. On the ceiling of my bedroom, the shifting, pulsing lights of the city come together in an alien cinema.

The story unfolds in my mind’s eye. A whirlwind romance. Alex Hughes courting me. Dominating me. Stronger. More willful. He is powerful and determined enough to strip away my defenses. The woman revealed isn’t repulsive to him but perfectly imperfect. He wants to keep my heart safe. He wants to love me.

I fail to hold the narrative. It’s too farfetched and, if I’m honest, pitiful.

I think instead of the woman in the photograph. The me who is not me. Passionate and imaginative. I’m both, actually, but only in my work. It’s part of the ephemeral web that ties Lillian to me and vice versa—an acknowledgment of artistry.

She captures the world through photographs. I create worlds inside of rooms. Blank walls, blank spaces. I build the narrative from clients, from the architect’s primary vision. The dimensions and surfaces from floor to ceiling. The size, number, and placement of windows. There’s a sizzling promise in empty space. It’s waiting to be filled.

The architect dreams, and I help make the dream reality. I’m very good at my job.

My father is quietly proud of my work ethic. My mother is vocal in her belief that I’m wasting my life.

I have a Business degree from USC. After my second year, I wanted to drop out and go to art school. I was threatened with disinheritance.

Sometimes perspective is a bitch. I can’t go back in time and I’m generally in acceptance of the past. But if I were to live the same life over, I hope that I would find the courage to conquer fear and follow through.

Familial obligation of higher education aside, my mother hadn’t actually expected me to work for a living. Or move out of the stately Sands residence in the La Jolla hills the week after graduating college. Or refuse an allowance. Or sell all my designer clothing and jewelry in order to make a downpayment on a condo. Or lose my heart and virginity to a broke musician.

The last choice is the only one I regret.