She’s silent for a while, and my skin’s hot under her scrutiny. She likes what she sees, and she likes what she felt when I had her in my arms. I imagine that’s what she’s thinking about right now. Not the painting.

“He was known as the master of light,” she replies quietly, joining me in front of the art. I look at her, willing her to talk and indulge me more. This is nice. It’s calm and peaceful. “He didn’t think that the subject was of any importance,” she goes on. “It didn’t matter what he photographed. To him, the subject was always the light. He concentrated on controlling it. See?” She points out the reflections across the rippling water. “That’s what’s so fascinating. It’s the light.”

I nod thoughtfully to myself, impressed and quite charmed, but what’s standing beside me is more intriguing. More beautiful. And, ironically, the source of light she radiates is really fucking fascinating. I turn my stare back to her as she continues. “These rowing boats, as lovely as they are, are just boats, but see how he manipulates the light? He didn’t care for the boats. He cared for the light surrounding the boats. He makes inanimate objects interesting, makes you look at the photograph in a different . . . well, a different light, I suppose.” She cocks her head thoughtfully, lengthening the column on her neck, revealing perfect, smooth, taut skin. Jesus, the woman is like nothing else I’ve seen. And what she just said about that painting rings so fucking true for how I’m feeling recently. Seeing things. Imagining myself in a different light. Her light. Because it’s fucking bright and blinding, and within her light, I’m just as inconsequential as Cavalli’s boats.

I let her finish her observations, quite happy to watch her, admire her, but then she looks up at me, and my bubble is popped. She’s back in the room with me, and I can see her mental battle has returned.

“Please don’t,” she whispers.

“Don’t what?” I know damn well what, and she needs to understand that there is absolutely nothing in this world that could stop me. Except her. She could stop me again, and I would be crushed.

“You know what. You said I wouldn’t have to see you again.”

“I lied.” I’m honest. I’ve got to be honest. “I can’t stay away from you, so you do have to see me again . . . and again . . . and again.” I say it slowly, and she inhales as she starts retreating. She’s trying to escape the sparks flying. They’re everywhere, uncontrollable and violent.

“You persistently fighting this is only making me more determined to prove that you want me.” I keep my eyes on hers. “I’m making it my mission objective. I’ll do anything.”