Chapter 2

“You see, ’tis not just anyart studio, my friend. This one belongs to Skylar Novak.”

“I know that.”

“You do? A splendid start. But how well do you know the manhimself?”

“I…I…what I mean is…I…I…” poured from my mouth, the suppressed idiot inside me revealing himself and embarrassing the stuffing out of me.

“Some say Novak is more than just a brilliant artist, you know?”

“Actually, I don’t know,” I admitted. “I met the man only last evening.”

The black silhouette of a head nodded. And I thought I detected a tsking sound. “Ah, I see…you sought him out, like many others have done through the years, did you?”

“It was the other way around.”

“Truly?” A note of genuine interest filled the melodic voice. Or interest masquerading as sarcasm, I couldn’t be certain.

Instinctively, I puffed out my chest and flexed my arms. “Are you calling me a liar?” I asked, my voice rising a level in pitch along with my defenses, much to my regret. I hated confrontation of any sort, especially with a stranger who likely, for all I could surmise, had been standing here in this otherwise abandoned corridor just itching to slay his first victim in a bloody-crime-spree weekend.

Finally, the unseen man stepped forward. I held my breath and felt the muscles in my arms coiling in preparation for the defensive. Then, for some odd reason, I started to relax, but not of my own volition.

Light from the lone bulb reflected off large leather boots, then tight-fitting jeans, then the hem of a knee-length leather jacket. A silver belt buckle momentarily ricocheted a shard of light into my eyes before I saw a T-shirt—skin tight—which covered what appeared to be a lean yet muscular torso. The man was donned entirely in black—black denim, black leather, black cotton. No wonder he had blended so perfectly into the shadows.

I swiftly sized up his frame and deduced him to be about even with my own six-foot-two stature. And I wondered whether I could either make it back to the elevator before he stabbed my gut with a sharp blade or if I could hold my own in a one-on-one fisticuffs festival. Quickly taking a mental inventory of my skills as a fighter, I thought perhaps the latter result might apply. Nevertheless, I preferred to avoid the situation if possible.

“And Novak recruited you to sit for him this morning, did he?”

Still unable to view the stranger’s face, I battled to hold my growing irritation—and fascination—in check. I still couldn’t determine whether this guy meant any harm. After all, why wouldhe be lurking in a dark hallway of an office penthouse unless he had mischief in mind? On the other hand, a professional mugger would have found a more populated location to ply his trade. Still, I told myself, no sense rushing headlong into danger. No sense employing the skills I had learned in karate class all those years ago and instigating a fight from what could still be nothing but a harmless encounter.

I tried to keep my voice as light as possible, yet found myself taking a step backward. “And that is your business, how?”

“Oh, I suppose it is not,” he responded, his own voice revealing no indication of evil intent. “’Tis just that I am always intrigued by the type of models Novak actually hires to pose for him. The occasions are all too rare, I am sorry to say. I must admit, however…” A lengthy pause. “He certainly has exceptionaltaste.”

The unexpected compliment made me blink several times. Heat flared in my cheeks. Suddenly, I felt painfully exposed in the realm of the corridor’s only light source, especially when this man insufferably remained, for the most part, cloaked in shadow.

As if reading my thoughts, he took another few steps forward, finally revealing a face that not only stunned me with its attractive features, but also inspired a closer examination. I originally estimated his age to be in the mid to upper twenties. Still, I couldn’t be sure, since a pair of celestial blue eyes, housed above high cheekbones, bore a wisdom far beyond those years. A slender nose resided above a generous mouth, partially shielded by a black mustache. What appeared to be a three- or four-day-old beard stubble darkened his firm jaw line, giving him a scruffy yet not unappealing look, and long dark hair cascaded in waves down to his shoulders. Recalling an episode of Buffy the Vampire SlayerI had once watched a long time ago, I instantly thought of a biker vampire. Then a rock star from the ’80s. Then a pirate in black leather. Yes, that’s what the man looked like, with his captivating good looks and attire—a biker-slash-rocker-slash-pirate. A wild, yet thrilling, combination.