Harriet gave him a wide smile and an encouraging nod. He held out his hand. The woman cradled it between her own and inspected his palm as if it were a map she was trying to read.
Until Rowan’s voice cut through the room. “Put your hand away, Nick. Harriet, you know better.”
Harriet dropped his hand like it was hot. She bowed slightly, turned on her heel, and took off before Nick could even thank her for the umbrella. It didn’t matter. When he saw Rowan, he lost all ability to speak.
She was a vision in red that outshone anything in the gallery, her black hair cascading around the lace trim on her shoulders. A goddess in stilettos. He desperately wanted to touch her. It would be transcendent. He needed to tell her. He needed to break open his soul and use his finest words to woo her into his arms.
He swallowed, cleared his throat, and said, “Hi.”
* * *
The dress wasworth every penny she’d paid for it and then some. Nick’s stare was a palpable thing that seemed to burn at her neck before tracing its way over her shoulder and around her waist. His mouth hung open, speechless. He was speechless.
Harriet passed her on her way to the office, setting her hand on her forearm to get her attention. “This is a bad idea, Rowan. You’re playing with fire,” she whispered before disappearing into the back room.
Rowan knew what she meant. The more time she spent with Nick, the more likely he was to remember their first meeting and that she’d stolen the Raindrop of Heaven from the Stevensons. He might be a homicide detective, but she was sure his knowing she had committed grand larceny wouldn’t go over well. And if that wasn’t enough to make him hate her and potentially arrest her, ruining her most important identity, she was sure the part where she’d forced him to drink the forget-me-juice would.
She didn’t want him to hate her. At the moment she wasn’t sure what she wanted from him, but it definitely involved him looking at her the way he was right now.
“Hi,” he said.
She gave him a warm smile. “Hello.” When he didn’t say anything else, she added, “Don’t ever let Harriet read your palm.”
“Why not?”
“She thinks she can tell people’s fortunes, and her readings can be disturbing. She’s got a penchant for the morbid.”
“I’m a homicide detective. I deal with morbid every day.”
“Trust me. It’s creepy.”
“If you say so.”
She allowed her gaze to linger on his threads. Perfect clubbing gear. Dark-wash jeans, fitted shirt, jacket. She loved that he wasn’t clean-shaven and wondered what his scruff would feel like against her skin.
He puffed out his chest, smoothing his jacket and flashing her a crooked grin. “What do you think? Will they let me in?”
“I’m not sure. Which club?” She grinned.
He deflated. “Ouch.”
“I’m joking.” She placed a hand gently on his arm and watched his face soften with her touch. His eyelids sank halfway, his stormy gray eyes darkening. Under her skin, her dragon twisted and her heart rate quickened. Odd. It was rare for her inner beast to be so active, but she seemed incredibly interested in this human man. She cleared her throat and removed her hand from his arm, gesturing toward the paintings. “You see blood? I overheard you speaking with Harriet.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah.” He winced. “Is that disturbing to you? I promise I don’t usually see blood everywhere.”
She laughed. “No. Able’s work reminds me of blood as well.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “Harriet sees fruit, a broken pomegranate to be exact. Others see flower petals. One art dealer I know swore he thought it was representative of fire. One of the things I love about Able is he draws out our subconscious biases.”
Nick frowned. “Are you saying you and I have a bias for blood? That’s pretty grim.”
She shrugged. “It’s a grim world.”
For a moment he stared at the paintings, growing uneasy and fidgeting with his pocket. She regretted her last comment. It wasn’t attractive to let her inner darkness out. She should have said she saw fabric, or paint. She did run a gallery after all.
“What happened to you?” he asked evenly.
