“Ready?” Marian asked, standing next to the door.
Lila glanced around at all the ridiculous black-lights that had replaced the spotlights over her paintings and sighed. “Ready as I ever will be,” she replied. She hated shows-she could never understand why her studio had to be transformed in order for her work to be appreciated.
Lila watched another group walk into the gallery. Most of them were the usual type of patrons-rich playboys showing off for their model dates, middle-aged women desperately trying to be hipsters and beatniks, and self-proclaimed “art critics” who loved nothing better than to look down their noses at everyone else. But there was one man mingling with the latter group that just didn’t seem to fit. He was tall and thin, but he wore a close-fitting shirt with the sleeves rolled up that showed he was still definitely muscular. He had dark hair pulled into a short ponytail-just long enough to show it was slightly curly. His skin was a beautiful bronze-obviously Mediterranean-but paler than anyone she’d ever seen. He wasn’t speaking much, and didn’t really seem to even be listening to the conversation, though he would occasionally absently nod his head as if in answer to a question. She could only see the profile of his face, but the bone structure was perfect, reminding her of Greek and Roman statues of their gods.
“Who is that?” Lila asked Marian, motioning towards him.
Marian giggled. “Gorgeous, isn’t he?” she sighed. “His name’s Nikolai Romanov. He’s Russian, I think-”
“Balkan, more likely,” Lila muttered absently.
“He’s a big art dealer in Seattle,” Marian continued, ignoring the correction. “You’re pretty lucky to have him show up here-he rarely does shows.”
“Mm-hmm,” Lila replied, still distracted. She just couldn’t take her eyes off of him. Suddenly, he turned his head toward her and smiled slightly. For a split second, their eyes met-his were dark, like his hair, but intense; she felt like they were burning into her soul. Embarrassed, she quickly turned away. Her face felt hot, and she was sure she was blushing-she felt ridiculous, like a teenager. But somehow, she felt compelled to look up again, and was surprised to see him walking toward her. He moved amazingly quickly, even though he didn’t seem to be rushing.
When he reached her, he held out his hand. “You must be the artist,” he said. His voice was low and quiet, but she had no trouble hearing him, even with the din of all the other voices in the room. He had a strong, but not overpowering, Eastern European accent; combined with the steady rhythm of his voice, it was almost hypnotic to listen to him. Now that he was close up, she could see his eyes were a warm chocolate brown, and his hair a darker shade of the same color.
For a moment, she just stood there, as if in a trance. Finally, she took his hand-his grip was strong, but still gentle, and his skin was cool and soft-and he shook hers. She could feel herself blushing again and nervously stammered “Lila...”
“Kelly,” he finished, smiling that slight, warm smile again.
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