Page 137

Not glancing.

Watching.

My fingers tighten slightly around the stem of my champagne glass.

I tell myself not to look.

Then I do.

My gaze moves across the room, past a cluster of collectors near the center display, past Julian speaking with an older couple, and toward the darker edge of the adjoining gallery.

Ross is standing there.

Everything inside me stops.

Then it all starts at once.

My pulse slams hard enough that I feel it in my throat. Heat moves through me so quickly it is almost dizzying, followed by a cold rush beneath my skin.

FUCK.

He is already looking directly at me.

There is no possibility that I imagined it and no possibility that he has not recognized me.

He looks older.

Not old.

Worse.

He looks…better.

The silver at his temples is heavier now, threaded farther into the dark hair above his ears. His face has hardened slightly with time, the angles more pronounced, the authority in him no longer something he has to establish when he enters a room. It is simply there.

His suit fits him perfectly. His shoulders look broader beneath the dark jacket, his body still carrying the same powerful solidity I remember far too well. His eyes have not changed. Neither has his mouth. That controlled, unreadable expression is exactly the same.

My body recognizes him before my pride can intervene. A memory flashes through me with humiliating precision. Those hands on me. His voice against my ear. The absolute certainty with which he once touched me because he knew I wanted him to.

I crush the memory before it gets any farther.

This man broke my heart.

That matters more.

Daniel is still speaking beside me.

I force my attention back to him.

“Sorry,” I say. “What were you saying?”

Daniel glances toward the other side of the room and then back at me.

“I was asking whether you’re staying for Frieze next month,” he says.

“No,” I reply. “I’ll be back in San Francisco long before then.”

I do not look at Ross again.