Without Wings

By K. Writerly

Two foster siblings, a society of immortal creatures, and an ability that terrifies everyone.

This is me – Lasca Grimshaw, spotlight-shy photographer – shamelessly hiding in the shadows outside my first solo art show, whispering conspiratorially with a handsome stranger about shooting wild horses. Life just doesn’t get any better than this! He’s witty and sexy and, hey I’ll be honest, it’s been ages since I’ve let that particular combination take me home for a night. But then I touch his hand and...!

Here I am, in the middle of the effing Canadian wilderness, in the middle of effing winter, running for my life. An easy recon assignment, I’d thought. Just some mindless intel-gathering, I’d assumed. Yeah, well, you know what they say about those schmucks who assume. And I guess I’d know: Hello, my name is Chez, the Super Schmuck. My enemies are closing in. It’s do or die. Literally. I take my chance. It’s just dumb luck that my hands are bare and I find a patch of skin on the guy and...!

Chemistry exists. Only, it isn’t harmlessly thrilling. It devastates.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K. Writerly
• Release date: Dec 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465832733

K. Writerly

K. Writerly lives with her husband in Japan where she teaches English to adult learners. She writes historical fiction and supernatural suspense novels. She also writes children's books.

Book preview

Without Wings

K. Writerly

Copyright 2011 K. Writerly

Smashwords Edition

Cover illustration and design by Crista Rowe

cristarowe.com

This book is for Ty,

who listened and made suggestions,

but mostly just listened.

(Amazingly enough.)

Table of Contents

The Man outside the Gallery

The Threat in the Forest

The Visitors from L.A.

The Monkey in the Middle

The Admirer at the Restaurant

The Man in the Painting

The Man inside the Mystery

The Woman from the Outside World

The Method in the Madness

The Sitting Duck in the Wilderness

The Man at the Art Show

The Hostage in the Hospital

Epilogue

The Man outside the Gallery

Lasca Grimshaw

I shouldn’t smoke. I know that. But having an art show in this town is like showing up to compete in the Miss America Pageant in an old, stretched-out-of-shape bikini that makes your boobs look like sad little pancakes drooping down your chest. Imagine yourself on the stage, bright lights glaring down on you and your flapjacks. I mean, really. Tobacco is bad, yes, but the motto Just say ‘No!’ just can’t hold up against that kind of misery and mortification.

I shake out a cigarillo from the crumpled pack and light it. My eyes never leave the warm, welcoming light glowing gently through the large picture windows framing the tasteful, impeccably preserved, turn-of-the-century San Francisco gallery entrance. So inviting, so innocuous, so malicious. Yes, it’s best to keep one’s eyes on the lurking predator, isn’t it?

So, I stare at the gallery, try not to think about much of anything, and puff away.

I try not to think… try being the operative word.

Obviously, I fail.

It’s ironic… no, not ironic. It’s somehow morbidly fitting that after all the sweat, tears, nervous breakdowns, near-violent temper tantrums, and packs of cancer sticks that my lungs are surely not thanking me for, I’m outside, huddling in the shadows of my own art show. Hiding.

Paul is going to kill me.

Of course, he’s gotta catch me first…

I take a careful drag on the cigarillo to slow my breathing. Yeah, I should probably take up meditation or yoga or pilates or something – therapeutic bungee jumping, maybe – but tobacco’s faster. And since I’m a casual smoker, it still takes concentration to manage a puff without burning the back of my throat and cooking the inside of my nose like one of Regina’s experimental Thanksgiving turkeys. (Whole turkey plus cranberry sauce plus broiler equals pizza delivery. Just so you know.) Although, after these past two months, I’m not sure if I can still call this a casual habit.

I wince. Can I give it up now as easily as I have in the past? I think back to college finals, student art shows, and job interviews. Maybe the stress has hit me so hard now because I’ve been settled for a while. Comfortable. Nice job, decent connections in the art community, published portfolio, a refrigerator well-stocked with coffee and chocolate – you know, every woman’s dream. Although all that might change now that I’ve painted a bull’s eye on my forehead and strapped myself to a very nice and sturdy, proverbial wagon wheel. Or whatever it is magicians use when they start flinging pointy objects at their smiling, lovely assistants.

Yikes.

I feel myself getting tense again so I carefully inhale another lungful of pollution.

I’m not thinking about much at all (because I’m trying not to give away my position by coughing like a brainless bimbo in a bad horror movie) when I notice someone else standing nearby, looking just as stressed-out as I’m sure I do.

The man on the sidewalk opposite the gallery entrance manages to distract me from my meditation-in-a-paper-wrapper and I watch, intrigued, as he takes a deep breath; his hands curl into fists; he stares at the gallery door with pure pissy determination. I almost ask him what’s brought him here. For an expression like that to be on his face, the story must be worth hearing.

Suddenly – with the look of someone who has just pumped himself up for a couple of rounds with an art critic experiencing espresso-withdrawal – he strides forward and mounts the stairs. (I never thought I’d actually use that turn of phrase in real life, but there’s really no other way to put it.) As he moves more fully into the yellow light, I examine his dark, curling hair – a bit too long for a businessman to get away with, a bit too short for a trendy artist expressing his disdain for conforming to social norms. He doesn’t look like he’s got much money on him, either. Not if his idea of proper attire for an art show opening in this posh neighborhood is a long-sleeve knit shirt, lived-in jeans and worn sneakers. If he actually walks into that gallery, he will instantly become, without a doubt, my new favorite person on the planet.

I gape at him as he scowls at the door and reaches for the handle. I’m not just itching with curiosity now; I burn – no, I blaze with it. What is a guy like this doing at an art show where the prints alone start out at three hundred and fifty bucks apiece?

As he opens the door, shoulders tense, I think about ditching my smoldering and un-smoked excuse and following him back in there… even though I haven’t been summoned yet. What are you doing here? sizzles in my throat like a choking breath of smoke inhaled sideways.

He steps inside.

But then, before the door even closes behind him, before I have time to put out the cigarillo and stalk him with my nosy questions, he’s already ducking back outside and tripping lightly down the stairs. He glances over his shoulder at the warm, welcoming, but totally deceiving light with an expression of apprehension and frustration. His hands fist tighter as he hesitates.

I’m not intrigued anymore. I’m radiating fascination. In gamma waves. If the moneyed patrons inside elegantly swilling their glasses of red wine have scared him off, why would he still be standing here, looking determined? I try, but I honestly can’t imagine what it is that he wants to see so badly in there.

I hesitate for a moment, wondering. And then I have to say: Doesn’t look like a shark tank from the outside, does it?

He startles visibly at the sound of my voice. His eyes – I notice that they’re very dark – focus on me, move over me, and seem to take in everything about me. I wish for just a tiny bit more interest in his expression, though. My ego sighs at the factual evaluation.

A shark tank? he echoes in a voice that’s nearly a whisper.

I tilt my head to the side and evaluate the serene gallery front again. A mosquito light? I suggest, perhaps a bit more accurately.

He parrots my words back to me again. I smile, hoping our conversation will eventually move beyond Simon Says.

"Yeah. Looks beautiful, but when you get too close – zztzzt!" I punctuate the punch line with a motion of my hand. Ash crumbles from the end of the cigarillo and drifts towards the cement. We both watch it fall.

Zztzzt, indeed.

When I look up, his expression is amused. Or, at least, I’d like to think so. I feel the same way, I tell him, waving the cigarillo vaguely.

His gaze moves over me again, reevaluating. A surge of hope makes my ego sit up straight and stick her chest out. I don’t discourage her.

And yet, here you are, he finally replies, looking bemused.

I feel my smile twist into a wry grin. The wild horses are around back.

He tilts his head to the side in silent inquiry.

I explain, going for an inviting tone, You know the saying: Wild horses couldn’t drag me to that art show.

That’s a saying? His brows rise over his dark – are they black or deep brown? – eyes.

It is now, I assure him, cigarillo forgotten. Enigmatic strangers are a far better distraction. Although whether or not this man is better for my health remains to be seen.

He moves now, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Next time you’ll have to make sure you have a shotgun.

It’s my turn to cock my head in question.

He elaborates, For those wild horses. And then he smiles.

I laugh to cover up the fact that my blood has gotten confused about which direction it’s supposed to be going. I say, You really think one shotgun’ll do the job?

They still make Uzis don’t they?

I laugh again, delighted and engaged. Here I am, standing in the shadows just outside civilization, talking to a mysterious stranger about shooting wild horses. He’s reeling me in at an alarming rate. I don’t even have to think about it; if he so much as hints that he’d like to spend the night with me, I’ll agree. I’m a little surprised by the intensity of my reaction. It’s been a while – far too long, in fact – since I’ve acted so impulsively.

I open my mouth to ask him if he knows a good fence – for either unloading the wild horses or acquiring the Uzi – when the gallery door opens wide and a figure I wish (with all my sex-obsessed little heart) I didn’t recognize steps outside. I think about cringing back into the shadows. Maybe chucking the cigarillo over my shoulder, just in case he can see infrared. But it’s too late. He’s got me in his cross-hairs.

Lasca!

I sigh at the scolding. My mysterious stranger still standing opposite the gallery door startles again. Is it my imagination or does he seem to really look at me this time?

Yes, Paul, I mumble, not bothering to make a question out of it; I already know what he wants.

You’re famous in here!

Translation? Well, I’d rather not think any more expletives than absolutely necessary. I’ve far too many other vices already. I imagine Paul says, Please return to your art show and talk to your adoring fans. Yes, that’s what I’ll assume he really means. Something motivating. Something to distract me from the critics and snobs. Something to keep my mind off the fact that there’s a war zone on the other side of that door and, to make matters worse, I’m not allowed to actually drink the glass of wine Paul is waiting to shove into my hand. I reflexively lift the cigarillo and take a last drag, forcing myself to focus on my lovely little fantasy.

I’m famous in the occasional backseat, too, I can’t resist pointing out, if a bit half-heartedly. In all actuality, it’s been ages since the last time I acquainted myself with the unique and challenging dimensions of a backseat. You see what steady employment does to your sex life? It’s criminal, I tell you. Absolutely cruel.

I can feel Paul’s scowl reach out and smack me on the back of the head.

Backseat gymnastics do not pay for film and frames.

Facts. Bah.

Temperamental gallery owners. Double bah.

I tell him, I don’t suppose you’ll play rock-paper-scissors for it?

You suppose correctly.

A wistful sigh escapes me as I kneel down and stub out the cigarillo before slipping the remains into my pocket. I hope the fashion police don’t find out. Or the art critics.

I mumble about the illegality of cruel and unusual punishments. Paul crosses his arms over his chest and looks like he’s debating something that ought to be capitalized. Something like Operation: Drag Artist Into Gallery.

I glance sideways at the reluctant art patron. His gaze is still locked on me. Now I wish I’d introduced myself earlier. I might’ve had time to get his number. Or he might’ve had time to kidnap me. Either would’ve been just peachy.

Back into the shark tank, he murmurs. I think I see the ghost of smile.

If you have an Uzi on you, I’ll be your slave for life, I whisper back, moving toward him and the entrance just over his shoulder.

I don’t think you want to dive in when there’s blood in the water.

Good point. But I smile instead of wince. I’ll remember that. And then I don’t have an excuse to loiter; Paul starts drumming his fingers on the wrought iron railing. I realize dimly that I mirror my mysterious stranger’s earlier pose as I fist my hands, square my shoulders, drag in a deep breath, and (I can’t believe I actually do this) march up the stairs.

I try not to think about the man still standing in the shadows, watching me, inviting me back into a nice little escapist fantasy of flirting. I think about making it up each individual step. And when I manage that, I think about stepping into the gallery. And then it’s too late to run for it; it’s time to think about art, rich people, and money. It’s time to smile and compliment their taste and intuition, over-developed and gratuitously polysyllabic though it may be… and, unfortunately, often is.

But, in the end, it isn’t as bad as I’d thought it would be. (The fact that I’d initially likened it to a carnival event with contestants pitching knives at me as I cringe, strapped down to a large wooden board does not escape me. Obviously, that’s not a difficult situation to improve upon. From my point of view, anyway. The art critics might disagree.)

So, all in all, when all is said (and, unfortunately, quite a lot had been said) and done (not that there’d been much of any actual doing but you get the point) I seem to have escaped relatively unscathed. But then again, tomorrow’s society page hasn’t been printed yet. I wouldn’t put it past the city’s most verbose critic to have composed the entire column before he’d even picked up his first glass of complimentary wine. I could just about see the words scrolling behind his Buddy Holly glasses. I’m pretty sure I’d glimpsed them rolling along his scalp under the gelled comb-over.

On the plus side, Paul is euphoric. It’s too bad he’d waited until the end of the show to change his attitude. I could have used a little pick-me-up back when I’d been sure I was in the midst of committing professional suicide.

Well, Lasca. I’m glad we did it, he says. Like I had been the one assisting him and not the other way around. But then, that’s Paul.

Does this mean we’re going out and getting schnoggled? I wheedle, clasping my hands in front of me like a kid asking if it’s time to go on the Easter egg hunt yet.

Unfortunately, Paul doesn’t seem familiar with the most basic of non-art-related terms. Schnoggled? he repeats and the echo makes me think of the dark stranger, the wild horses, the deep end.

In that order.

I grin and think of Freud, too.

I’ll give you a hint, I tell Paul. There are no gymnastics involved.

The light comes on. Ah, drunk.

I’m surrounded by nerds with money. Yes, Paul. Drunk.

Love to, but can’t.

You’re going to make me drink alone? In a bar filled with incoherent football fans swinging stale beers around like megaphones? You’re a cruel man.

No, I’m a romantic.

I give him a long, suspicious look. This has something to do with tomorrow being Valentine’s Day, doesn’t it?

And the fact that I’m still in love with my most beautiful fiancée.

She’s the only fiancée you have, I point out with an exasperated glower.

Paul barks out a laugh. Then, unexpectedly, pulls me into a hug and kisses me on the cheek. You were magnificent tonight. Utterly charming. I have no words to describe it.

I sigh. I can see I’m going to have to find myself another art pimp. You’ve finally run out of pleasing adjectives. It’d taken longer than I’d thought it would, actually.

He laughs again, herding me out the door and locking up behind us. Can I give you a ride anywhere?

Like where? The dark and echoingly vacant photo lab at work? My equally empty matchbox of an apartment? The football bar? There’s honestly nowhere I want to be right now. And, actually, now that I think about it, nowhere sounds like an interesting place to spend the night. Maybe I’ll do that.

I shake my head. Thanks, but I’m good.

Never, Paul replies, rallying his charm. You’re too wise to be good.

Nice one, I commend him. I suppose I’ll keep you after all.

Grinning, he shakes his head and jangles his keys.

Drive with style, I say.

He laughs again, pressing the handy-dandy switch on his swanky-looking remote to unlock his sparkling new, black Mercedes.

I’ll call you after the weekend, he promises, sliding into the driver’s seat. I wave. He revs the engine and the car prowls off into the night, in search of prey.

Oops. National Geographic moment.

For a minute, I just stand on the stoop, letting the softly lit windows keep me company. I’m not surprised that I can’t resist taking a moment to bask in the here and now: here, at one of the most exclusive galleries in town, and now, at the conclusion of my show opening. It would take a more seasoned artist than I am to not turn around and admire the prints Paul had chosen to display – one in each window – for all the world to see.

The photograph in the left-hand window shows a blurred sea of humanity caught writhing to the heavy beat of electronic lust-music in a rave I’d visited while on my quest for darkness in the city. Just off-center, barely illuminated by the lights, is the completely still figure of a captivating woman. Captivating, but I can’t call her beautiful. Her long, ebony hair is braided intricately, but somehow looks wild. Her gaze is so direct she seems to be a professional model instead of a stranger on a dance floor. There’s an edge about her. Something predatory. Something hungry. I’d hand-colored her irises in the black and white photograph. They’re an odd, dark red hue that I can actually remember having nightmares about. Still, the red had been preferable to the flat, soulless (or perhaps soul-devouring) black that I’d captured on film.

Shivering, I turn to the right-hand window and savor the compassion-inducing antidote to the unsettling stare now haunting the shadows behind me. In this monochrome image, a little boy, perhaps five years old, stares into the camera lens. He has recreated himself as Dracula via a flimsy, store-bought costume and a trickle of artfully applied red paint (hand-colored by yours truly) at the corner of his mouth. But as obviously fake as it all is, the tears that have carved trails through his white face paint are real. He holds in his hands the remains of his badly torn polyester cape – a casualty of that year’s Halloween trek. His tear-smeared lashes and puffy eyes implore: fix what I have destroyed.

Oh yeah, my art is all about happiness and light. All that’s missing are the kicked puppies.

Lovely.

With a sigh, I turn away from the cheerful images on display…

And just about have a heart attack.

My dark stranger is standing on the sidewalk again, right where I’d left him a little over two hours ago. If only it were this easy finding my office keys in the bottom of my portfolio case…

I’m startled, yes, but it would take a stronger woman than I am to keep myself from relaxing in response to the soft smile curving his lips. (And somehow, those lips are even more kissable than I remember. Excuse me while I locate my brain. I think I hear it keening in a corner, dribbling all over itself with lust.)

Lasca Grimshaw, he says quietly. You’re not leaving without your wild horses?

I remember that my hand is clutching the wrought iron railing for support. Deliberately, I uncurl my fingers to prevent a conflict of interests from arising when my legs decide they can handle the steps. I take a deep breath. They know the way home.

Ah, I am relieved.

Relieved? It’s my turn to be the tropical bird as I wonder over the strange cadence of his statement.

He watches me negotiate the steps. I’m not familiar with any establishments that cater to feral ungulates.

Whoa there, boy. Dumb it down for the unread masses.

He chuckles. I think you can make an educated guess.

Or at least a good one, I admit. I snort then, replaying his insanely sexy scientific jargon. Feral ungulates, I mutter. That sounds about right. Then I reply to his initial confession. You must be new in town if you haven’t found the ungulate district.

I am, he admits, inclining his head towards me.

Hm. I can see how not knowing where to take a girl and her herd of undomesticated hoofed herbivores might present a problem for you.

He laughs, and I really, really like the sound of it.

I continue, "Lucky for you, I’m not in the habit of going out with wild horses."

He catches both my inflection and look of frank appreciation right between the eyes.

Score! I think. I vaguely consider cupping my hands around my mouth and making that roaring-crowd-noise that just about every pubescent boy knows how to do by the time he’s gotten tall enough to actually fling a basketball through the hoop.

In a voice that seems almost subdued, he replies, I doubt that I am wild enough for you.

That sounds like a challenge. Could I be this lucky? No, wait. Please don’t answer that. Fortunately, my live-in devil’s advocate is busy getting a pedicure – taking a break from dishing out all the negativity he’d dumped on me earlier this evening.

Opposite me, my mystery man considers me with a startled expression. I have to burn through the adrenaline and hormones to realize that he’s not kicking the conversation ball back to me.

I think I’ve just weirded you out, I venture.

He coughs out a soft laugh and seems to start breathing again. I think so, too, he admits.

After an hour or so, you’ll get used to it, I promise.

Will I?

Is that Intrigue I see peeking out at me through his expression? Perhaps Intrigue would like to meet Mischievous? I think they’ll get along…

Survival of the fittest? I counter through an impish smile.

My name is Gianni, he says suddenly.

That sounds like a pick-up line to me. (FYI: my tone does not in any way disparage pick-up lines, neither Gianni’s adorably sincere attempt nor pick-up lines in general. It’s been months since I’ve had the pleasure of hearing one directed at me. Ever since things had started snowballing toward this art show, actually. Oh, the evils of success, how I despise thee.)

He tilts his head to the side and smiles widely. I suppose I could have asked you to go get schnoggled with me.

The answer would have been the same.

Which is?

Where are we going?

A moment of doubt pulls his expression into a thoughtful frown. I’m not sure. Where were you going before I asked about your conspicuously absent wild horses?

Feral ungulates, I remind him, tacitly giving him permission to impress me with his vocabulary.

He laughs.

Actually, I was headed… nowhere at all.

Gianni considers this for a moment. Would you like some company?

Do you happen to know some brave soul who would volunteer?

I do, he says. Then he offers me his arm and I have to wonder exactly which century this man thinks he’s living in.

Not that I’m complaining.

But I am staring.

Gianni’s smile fades. As he shifts his weight to take a step back, I snap out of it, stepping with him and accepting his arm. I smile apologetically. Sorry. Photo geek moment, I explain as we start moving down the street.

Excuse me?

I heave sigh. I will restrain myself from begging to take you back to my studio and spend a couple rolls of film on you only if you allow me the occasional moment of blank-eyed, moronic staring.

That’s quite a promise, he observes with another soft laugh.

Highly disciplined professional hanging on your arm, here. Able to overcome the temptation of a photo shoot in the blink of a shutter.

And other temptations? he teases.

You’ll just have to see for yourself. And oh, boy, I hope he does…

Luck is with me. He seems to seriously consider it. That… could take a lot longer than just one midnight stroll.

In that case, I’ll extend your visiting privileges.

That’s very gracious of you, your honor.

Rule number one, I warn him. Flattery will you get lots of really cool stuff.

For instance? he counters looking vitally curious.

A free photo sitting.

He laughs again.

So, I begin, preventing him from inquiring about the existence of rule number two. (It does exist and it concerns the critically important technique required for fixing my coffee in the morning.) Instead of educating him on morning-after etiquette, I open up my own line of questioning, How was it you found your way to my show, anyway?

I saw your book, he says simply.

I gape at him. Where on earth did you manage to dig up a copy? I’d financed the publication myself, so to say that copies are limited would be something of an understatement. I’d been just plain lucky that I’d been able to find a press within my meager budget.

In Chicago.

"Come a little ways, haven’t you? To not actually go in and see the art show itself?"

I didn’t come to see the art show, he tells me with a smile that’s as pointedly charming as my tone had been wry.

Our gazes hold for a few steps and then I sigh. Flattery again. Okay, what do you want? Cool stuff up for grabs, here.

He smiles, his gaze now fixed on the sidewalk ahead of us. I’m perfectly content with having met the artist, he assures me with an endearingly daring glance. The fact that she is devastatingly enchanting is an unanticipated bonus.

He’s killing me with the sincerest charm I’ve ever been destroyed by. I make a feeble attempt to save myself.

If you don’t stop that, I’m probably going to toss myself off the roof of my apartment building tomorrow morning when I read how badly Charles Duvenot disagrees with you.

Charles Duvenot?

San Francisco’s art-critic-for-hire. Don’t boost my ego without supplying her with a good parachute.

I’ll send one Priority.

Global Express?

It will not only have a tracking number but be hand-delivered on a velvet cushion.

Nice.

You get what you pay for.

Still, that’s some parachute.

In some things, it would be inexcusable to settle for second best.

It’s completely unfair how you can say stuff like that and make it sound like you actually mean it.

Would it help if I told you I spent a lot of time practicing in front of a mirror?

I snort. If I could believe it, maybe…

We banter back and forth quietly along the empty street. It’s a nice neighborhood and all the houses are dark. He eventually asks why I chose darkness as the theme for my book and I end up explaining that the remainder of the series is meant to be its exact opposite: light. I tell him I’m still working on it and ask if begging him to sit still for my camera would do any good. He laughs again, but doesn’t say no.

Sometime later, we end up at a very posh, very exclusive-looking hotel. Gianni pauses at the entrance and tries to make me a bargain: if I wait in the lobby, he’ll go fetch a bottle of wine from his room and couple of glasses – we can drink it anywhere I want.

Then why would I wait in the lobby? I ask. I’ve been known to let my hormones take me out for walks with cute boys in the evenings, so it should come as no surprise whatsoever that I have an excellent recipe for success in situations like this one. Up until a few very long months ago (back when my every waking moment wasn’t devoured by sheer, mindless panic over my impending doom, er, I mean my art show), I would have delivered this line with wide, innocent eyes. But not now. Now, with him, things seem different. I’m different. I’m inexplicably Very Serious. And I’m never serious about strangers and sex. It goes against my personal code.

I shiver.

It’s kind of scary how much I like this traveler who has followed my trail all the way from Chicago. I consider my burgeoning obsession with him as we ride up the elevator together in sudden silence. He looks a little embarrassed, actually.

Is this the first time a girl has invited herself up to see your room? I ask playfully, purposely making it sound like we’re a couple of high school students and his parents are downstairs in the living room gossiping about us and worrying if it’s too late to give their son the Sex Talk.

I get the soft laugh I was going for.

You’ve caught me, he replies. His eyes sparkle at me when he glances sideways.

But I haven’t caught your last name yet. I hadn’t noticed the lack of information until we’d tripped into the awkward moment after the elevator doors had closed.

It’s di Peleo, he tells me. Giancarlo di Peleo.

But… Gianni, I summarize.

He shrugs, his eyes studying me. Whichever you prefer.

The doors open and he gestures me into the softly lit hall.

Most people have a clear preference for either their given name or the shorter version of it, I muse in a whisper as I follow him down the hallway, noting the silk wallpaper and artfully placed arrangements of fresh flowers.

I prefer the one you like, he replies in a murmur.

Is it hot in here or am I having a hormonal moment?

I notice that there are unusually large stretches of wall between the doors in the hallway. I begin to suspect that the word room is not going to very accurately apply to Gianni’s temporary residence.

I’m right.

At the end of the hall, Gianni turns to his left and unlocks the room that is – presumably – his. He enters first and holds the door open for me. I goggle.

Looks comfy, I choke out, taking in the luxurious sitting room and expansive wet bar. Not a single stick of it looks like it’s made out of laminated plywood or tempered glass. Beyond, I think I see patio doors through the sheer curtains. I turn my gaze back to him as he moves past me toward the bar. You’re destroying my first impression of you, I alert him.

He glances up from behind the (no doubt) real mahogany bar. Which was?

A simple guy with a really good story as to how he ended up trying to bully himself into going into a swanky art gallery.

And what’s my story now?

I trail my fingers along the loveseat. Leather. It figures. A rich putz, I grumble.

He laughs.

My eyes narrow. I’ll have you know that I’ve just lost an entire evening of my life to dealing with talkative rich people. I’m not tolerating any more.

He arches his brows at me.

I sigh. Although I guess I should have known from the syllables.

Grinning widely, he shakes his head like he can’t quite believe I’d actually said that. He ducks down for a moment and comes back up with a bottle of wine and two glasses. A glass of wine, he says, as I promised. And, he continues as he retrieves a corkscrew, if you’d just agreed to wait for me in the lobby, you could have avoided subjecting yourself to this gross overindulgence.

More syllables, I groan even as I wander over to the bar.

Gianni bites his lip, but the smile leaks out anyway. He picks up the wine.

Wait! I eye the bottle suspiciously. That wasn’t hand-delivered on a velvet cushion, was it?

He doesn’t pause as he expertly pares the – What do you call it? A wrapper? It’s a bottle of wine that’s been somehow separated from its natural, five-star-restaurant habitat, not an eighty-nine cent candy bar, for the love of Post-modernism… Anyway, he peels off the wrapper-like thing to access the cork.

He assures me, Velvet? Oh, no. Just satin.

His smile does really, really interesting things to the temperature in the room.

Oh, well, as long as it was only a satin cushion, then, I manage, trying not to think about the waste of money.

He shakes his head again, perhaps wondering at my mental soundness. The cork makes a soft pop! as it’s eased out of the bottle. I can’t help the baleful look I give the parchment-like, calligraphy-detailed French label.

I think I’ve weirded you out, Gianni tells me, pouring a glass.

You just might have, I concede.

He moves on to pouring the second. I notice he handles the bottle like a snobby waiter at one of those exclusive French restaurants I’ve never been to. But, hey, I have a TV, you know? They show stuff like that in the Saturday night movies. Sometimes.

After an hour or so, you’ll get used it, Gianni says, redelivering my line with finesse I’m sure I hadn’t managed.

It might take a bit longer than that.

Take as long as you need. He slides one glass over to me and lifts his in a toast.

Here’s to distracting me from thinking about how much money you’re spending on my glass of wine, I offer.

To distractions, he replies.

I sip. It’s nice. It’s really nice, but it’s still just a glass of wine to me. I very deliberately do not glance around me at the excesses of the room. I hope you’re still planning on sending me that parachute. It’s a long way down from up here.

His expression softens. I think he understands that I’m not exactly talking about the fact that we’re on the top floor of the hotel.

I haven’t forgotten.

I take another minuscule sip. Gianni watches me. Then he glances sideways toward the suspected balcony doors.

Come on, he says. The first distraction.

I wait as he pulls back one sheer curtain and unlocks the glass door. Again, he gestures me ahead of him and the night air washes over me as I step outside.

Yup. Balcony.

But he’s right; the view is a beautiful distraction. The lights of downtown glow in the distance above the low skyline, but my gaze is drawn to the gently-lit, well-ordered streets with their graceful lines, sloping grade and subtle colors crisscrossing more immediately beneath us.

I lean against the balcony railing and let my eyes follow the shapes and angles and hues until I find myself studying the way the light reflects off of Gianni’s skin. I study his hands as they cradle the wine glass, the soft fracturing of the light against the liquid in the crystal, his Adam’s apple where it tents the skin of his throat, the line of his jaw, the planes of his face. All of it is beautiful, calls to the artist in me, awes me, but it’s his eyes that capture me.

I realize suddenly that I have been captured. How had that happened?

I’m not doing very well with the first distraction, am I? he asks softly.

No, it’s a great view. This one’s better.

He draws in a careful breath. Watching him as I am, I can see it start as a reflexive gasp but then his chest slows in its expansion as he struggles to stay cool. Maybe I’m not the only one experiencing sudden temperature fluctuations.

He looks away toward the cityscape, but I can’t. If God had shown up on my doorstep and offered to make me the perfect subject from my specifications, Gianni would have been the result. He’s too beautiful for me. I can see that now. It’s weird, too, how I hadn’t really noticed how stunning he is until he’d spoken, smiled, seen me.

I look at my wine and fight off another sigh.

I could probably manage a bottle of Blue Nun, if you’d rather have that.

He smiles at me with cautious warmth. I meet his gaze and feel my bones melt. How unfair. This had all started out as my show, and his charisma has pulled the rug out from under me. (I’d had plans for that rug, after all. Especially if the bed happens to be more than four yards away.)

I shake my head. You handle weird a lot better than I do. It’s something of a unique experience for me.

And weird for you is money? he asks. I can see he’s puzzled by me. It’s a look I easily identify; a lot of people are puzzled by me. They might have even formed a support group about it.

I point to myself. Foster kid.

I’m… sorry.