I thought my legs would give way as I watched those curious onyx irises rove all over my body. I trembled under his scrutiny, knees weak, heart fluttering.

Italian, I thought. Austin had been right. Elpidio definitely looked Italian.

It felt as though minutes passed in silence as we stood motionless, not knowing what to say.

Trying to salvage a modicum of professionalism, I snapped out of my stupor and stepped forward, timidly holding out my hand.

“Hello…” I said in a cracking voice.

Elpidio’s stern gaze never once drifted from mine, his dark eyes stabbing. “I’m Aliyana. You… you must be Elpidio?”

In a second, I witnessed paleness spread on his cheeks and his eyes dropped to the ground, his shoulder-length brown hair falling to cover his face. He was protecting his anonymity. Vin had told me how uncomfortable he was with any acclaim or recognition. His mentor clearly wasn’t lying.

“It’s okay,” I rushed out. “I’m the curator of your exhibition. Your being here stays with me. I’m ethically bound to protect your anonymity if you so wish.”

Elpidio’s shoulders seemed to relax some at that, and sighing reluctantly, he raked back his long hair from his face and raised his head.

This time I could see him more clearly. He was ruggedly edgy, and on his left cheek, he wore a tattoo of a black crucifix just below his eye. He simply screamed danger. His eyes were unnervingly assessing as though he had no trust in me, or toward anyone else for that matter.

Suddenly, Elpidio reached forward and encased his hand in mine. When our hands touched, I lightly gasped, the heat of his palm searing. I’d forgotten I’d been holding my hand out to greet him, too entranced by his unrefined looks and silent temperament.

“Aliyana,” he said gruffly. My heart skipped a beat on hearing his husky drawl.

“Elpidio,” I flustered. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to finally meet you,” I said breathlessly. His mouth tightened as though my enthusiasm were lost on him or irritated him. I couldn’t decide.

Clearing my throat, I released his grip and gestured to the developing exhibit. “What do you think?” I asked nervously, a subtle tremble in my voice. I moved beside him to face the gallery. “I’m an avid admirer of your work, so this is truly a dream come true for me to design this exhibit.”

Elpidio remained silent, so I turned back to him, and his dark eyes were narrowed as though in displeasure as our gazes collided. A flush of heat spread through my body under his heavy attention. I could feel my cheeks blazing.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, nervously threading my fingers through my long hair.

Elpidio’s expression stayed blank, the further narrowing of his eyes the only change in his look. Elpidio turned his gaze back to the expanse of gallery and slowly tilted his head, studiously scrutinizing something in front of us. Reflecting his stance, I tried to follow his gaze and see what he was seeing.

Elpidio glanced at me again, and for a moment, I felt like I’d seen him before. That split second glimpse of his dark eyes revealing a familiarity to his face. But then the moment was gone as quickly as it came and he walked forward.

Elpidio stopped at his sculpture of a man folded over, head cradled in hands, legs tucked into his chest… and tragically, every inch of his body was pierced with black painted marbled knives, the knives cracking the white Cararra marble as though he were being torn apart by the blades.

“Elpidio?” I questioned, and he looked up at me.

“Elpi,” he said coolly, and a shiver rippled down my spine at his dominating tone.

“Elpi… okay,” I whispered in reply. The way he stared at my lips a little too long, flustered me.

Reaching out his hand, he ran his calloused tattooed fingers along the curve of the sculpture’s back and looked at an empty space in the corner of the room.

I watched him closely examine his pieces with precise care.

Elpidio suddenly stood and pointed to the far corner. “This one should go there.”

My heart raced with excitement as I moved to join him, leaning over his shoulder to see the exact spot to which he was pointing. As I stood there breathing lightly, I sensed his body growing tense at our close proximity. This close, he smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and the oaky cedar musk of his cologne.

He smelled good… too good. So good it was pushing the boundaries of my professional conduct.

The heavy muscles and cords in Elpidio’s arms tightened. He ran his hand through his hair once more. I surmised that he did this when he was feeling nervous.