She hesitated over the cut-glass decanter of perfume, remembering how Mikhail had described her scent. With a shrug, she touched it to pulse points. It hardly mattered if it appealed to him. She was wearing it for herself.

Satisfied, she checked the contents of her purse, then her watch. She was a full hour early. Blowing out a long breath, she sat down on the bed. For the first time in her life, she actively wished for a drink.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, after she had wandered through the apartment, plumping pillows, rearranging statuary then putting it back where it had been in the first place, he knocked on the door. She stopped in the foyer, found she had to fuss with her hair another moment, then pressed a hand to her nervous stomach. Outwardly composed, she opened the door.

It didn’t appear he’d worried overmuch about his attire. The jeans were clean but faded, the high-tops only slightly less scuffed than his usual work boots. His shirt was tucked in—a definite change—and was a plain, working man’s cotton the color of smoke. His hair flowed over the collar, so black, so untamed no woman alive could help but fantasize about letting her fingers dive in.

He looked earthy, a little wild, and more than a little dangerous.

And he’d brought her a tulip.

“I’m late.” He held out the flower, thinking she looked as cool and delicious as a sherbert parfait in a crystal dish. “I was working on your face.”

“You were—what?”

“Your face.” He slid a hand under her chin, his eyes narrowing in concentration. “I found the right piece of rosewood and lost track of time.” As he studied, his fingers moved over her face as they had the wood, searching for answers. “You will ask me in?”

Her mind, empty as a leaky bucket, struggled to fill again. “Of course. For a minute.” She stepped back, breaking contact. “I’ll just put this in water.”

When she left him, Mikhail let his gaze sweep the room. It pleased him. This was not the formal, professionally decorated home some might have expected of her. She really lived here, among the soft colors and quiet comfort. Style was added by a scattering of Art Nouveau, in the bronzed lamp shaped like a long, slim woman, and the sinuous etched flowers on the glass doors of a curio cabinet displaying a collection of antique beaded bags.

He noted his sculpture stood alone in a glossy old shadow box, and was flattered.

She came back, carrying the tulip in a slim silver vase.

“I admire your taste.”

She set the vase atop the curio. “Thank you.”

“Nouveau is sensuous.” He traced a finger down the flowing lines of the lamp. “And rebellious.”

She nearly frowned before she caught herself. “I find it attractive. Graceful.”

“Graceful, yes. Also powerful.”