Fierce Passion (4 page)

She took a cake and savored it in tiny bites. “Sometimes I work on the weekends.”

He took a cake from his plate. “What kind of work do you do?”

A partial truth would do. “I’m a photographer.”

“What do you do, weddings, babies?”

A heavy-set man strutted by with a bulldog, their rear ends bouncing in rhythm. She nodded so Alejandro would notice. They tried not to laugh, but couldn’t help it. “I could sit here all day,” she confided. “It’s more entertaining than most films.”

“It is, but tell me about your photography.”

She’d hoped to skip over it. “I do freelance advertising work, print ads, that sort of thing.”

“A cereal box on the table?”

“Sometimes. Now tell me why you’re studying architecture.” She held her breath, and relaxed when he took the bait.

“Barcelona is filled with the most extraordinary architecture in the world, but I plan to work on affordable housing, not mansions for the rich. I want to concentrate on the environment, use solar technology and keep the costs low. Cities shouldn’t have overcrowded slums. Everyone needs a comfortable home.”

When he’d grown serious, she saw him as an attractive man rather than a friendly kid. She hadn’t wanted anything more than an entertaining hour, but there was a huge difference between harmless flirting with a student and playing with a grown man’s emotions. She straightened up in her chair. “Are you considering individual homes rather than blocks of apartments?”

“High-rise slums? Yes. People should have a yard to grow vegetables and a safe place for their kids to play.”

“Suburbs, then. I don’t mean to be rude, but I thought you were younger than you probably are.”

He had a deep, rolling chuckle. “I’m twenty-six. Is that too old for you? Architecture will be my second degree. My first is in business. I must not have impressed you last week. What did you think, that I’m seventeen or eighteen?”

Embarrassed, she licked her lips. “Yes, but if you hadn’t impressed me, I wouldn’t be here.”

He leaned closer. “Whom do you usually hang out with, tattoo artists?”

Startled, she didn’t immediately recall her Goth disguise. “I don’t know a single one, but I’ll bet they’re fun.”

“I doubt it. If you’re not tired of walking, we could go down Las Ramblas to the port.”

It was a casually made invitation, and Las Ramblas was a wide boulevard filled with shops and tourists, not a narrow dark alley. “It’s one of my favorite walks. Give me a minute to finish my tea. Didn’t you bring your books?”

“No, I’m taking the afternoon off.” He leaned back and rested his hands behind his head. “I’ll be finished in June. Then I hope to find work with an established firm for experience before I go out on my own.”

He was such a charming man, she doubted he’d have much trouble finding a job. “It must be wonderful to be able to design a building that could last for centuries. My work is ephemeral, and I capture only moments.”

“All I build now are models. We aren’t too far from my apartment. Do you have your camera? I’d like to have some good photos of my models. In my shots, they look like overturned shoeboxes. I’ll pay you whatever you usually charge.”

Men often offered invitations to their homes, but for the illusion she created, not for the woman she actually was. Alejandro was so unabashedly sincere, however, and she was a spectacular fake. She looked down at her beautifully manicured nails and scooped up the last cake. “I’d love to see your models, but I haven’t done any architecture, and I’d hate to disappoint you.”

“All I have are models, I’m not asking you to photograph La Sagrada Familia.”

She laughed with him. “I love the cathedral, but I’ve not taken my camera there. Maybe I should.”

He ate another cake. “Once you begin looking at buildings, you’ll see them in a whole new way. Details you’ve never noticed will pop out. Can you describe the front of El Gato without looking?”

She closed her eyes. “It’s painted a pale yellow with green woodwork. There are windows across the front, one over the door. There’s the most wonderful aroma coming from inside, baked goods mixed with tangy spices.” She opened her eyes and looked toward the building. “I forgot the sign.”

“I asked about the building, and you got most of it. There’s tile work beneath the windows, but if you’re always seated out here, maybe you’ve missed it.”

She sat forward to look. “I must have seen it when I went in to order but didn’t remember.”

“But you would if you’d photographed the café.”

The bright spark of intelligence made his gray eyes attractive rather than too pale for his dark hair and tanned skin. He’d make a handsome model, she thought and quickly dismissed the idea. “It sounds as though you’ve done some photography yourself.”

He brushed sugar from his hands. “Just for my classes. It’s another thing to get the right light and angle. I’m not any good at it.”

Her tea was already cold, which surprised her. Cold tea was good too, but she hadn’t realized they’d been talking so long. He was so easy to talk to. Too many men spoke only about themselves, as though pretty women couldn’t possibly have interesting ideas of their own. “Maybe I can give you some tips, and I don’t charge for work on Sundays.”

He saw her check her watch, leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Is there someone waiting for you at home?”

“A man, you mean? No, and my housekeeper doesn’t come home from vacation until tomorrow.”

Apparently relieved, he sat back and studied her expression with renewed interest. “You have a housekeeper, what’s her name?”

“Fatima.” She was afraid she’d admitted too much. Models made a far better living than freelance photographers, but Fatima was real.

“Fatima. That’s perfect. Let me guess, is she a petite woman who wears black uniforms with frilly white aprons?”

“No, she’s more generously proportioned, and frilly aprons don’t suit her.”

“So you’re a freelance photographer who lives alone with a housekeeper?”

“No, she doesn’t live-in. She has her own home and family.”

He ate the last cake on his plate. “What about you? Where’s your family?”

The truth wouldn’t hurt. “My father died when I was small, and a few years ago my mother married a French chef. They make their home in Rouen.”

“Do you visit them often?”

“When I can. Now tell me about your family and your father who fears you don’t meet enough women.”

He slumped in his chair and shrugged. “The story is too common to repeat. My father wants me to follow him into the family business, and I worked with him for a while, but my heart wasn’t in it. Architecture is my real passion. My parents are divorced. My mother lives in Greece with her new husband, and my father and his second wife are here and have two young sons. One of them will probably go into the business while I build low-income homes.”

“It’s a noble calling.”

“Thank you for seeing it that way. Do you love photography?”

“Yes, I do, and I understand why you’d not want to continue with work you don’t love. Parents can demand too much from their children, and it’s important to break free.”

“Like your Goth pursuit. Do you wear it in Paris?”

She wore it only on Sunday afternoons. “No one notices what I wear in Paris. Are you ready to go?”

He rose, helped her from her chair and took her hand. “Tell me if I’m walking too fast. Most girls have to run to keep up with me.”

Their hands fit together comfortably, and she squeezed his fingers. “My legs are almost as long as yours.”

He stopped to look and nodded. “You’re almost all legs, aren’t you? I like that in a woman.”

“Most men do.”

Las Ramblas followed a centuries-old pathway along a dry riverbed to the sea. In the eighteenth century, the wide boulevard had been bordered with monasteries and convents. Universities had followed. Now it was home to an opera house, luxury hotels, and a remarkable palace designed by Antonio Gaudí. Expensive boutiques, flower stands and an outdoor market at Plaça de la Boqueria drew tourists as well as locals and created a lively mix of the past and present.

He led her down a side street to a four-story building that was more than a century old. “It’s divided into studios for artists. There are benefits to living in my office. I never have to put anything away before I go home.”

The elevator was framed by a gilded cage and creaked as it rose slowly to the top floor. He unlocked his door and gestured for her to precede him. The high-ceilinged room had a bath and kitchen at the far end. Three large windows faced south and provided spectacular light. There was a drawing table placed beneath one window and a computer and printer beneath another. Two long tables filled the center of the room, and the loft overhead held his bed. A futon sat against the wall along with a sleek racing bicycle that looked expensive.

Ana walked around the tables slowly. One was stacked with his working materials; his finished models sat in the center of the other. The tiny houses were perhaps six inches square with beautifully painted windows and doors. Solar panels rested on the slanted roofs. “You’ve built a whole town here. I love it.” She bent down to study the row of houses resting on painted gardens.

“You don’t have to pretend to be more excited than you really are. I can take a noncommittal shrug.”

He had no idea how greatly she was pretending, although not about his models. “I like your work, or I wouldn’t say so. Your craftsmanship is superb. These don’t look like overturned boxes at all.”

She pulled up a chair and drew her camera from her bag. “What are you doing, taking photos while you’re standing looking down?”

“Sometimes. I either get too close or stand too far back. Whatever you do will be an improvement. The houses are built of modules that can be combined to create larger homes.”

“I see.” She worked until satisfied she’d caught the models in the best light and entered the photos in his Mac. “How do these look?”

He leaned over her shoulder. “You’ve made the little village look real. If all your work is this good, you ought to be photographing more than cereal boxes.”

He was wearing the Gucci cologne from the ads she’d done with Gian Carlo. It held a hint of a shower-dripped forest while the more seductive Aragon had the darker essence of the restless sea. Disappointed in the direction of her thoughts, she took one of his business cards with his name and number stacked beside the computer. “May I?”

“Take two or three. You might meet someone looking for an architect. Do you have cards? I want to see you again.”

She slipped out of her chair. “I’m sorry, I didn’t bring any. But I want to see you again too.” She raised her arms to encircle his neck and pulled him down for a good-bye kiss. He tasted of cinnamon, and one kiss wasn’t nearly enough. She pressed closer. His first kisses were easy and sweet, and hers filled with a sad longing. She’d had such good intentions, but he was man, not a boy who needed to be protected from the desire curling low in her belly.

He picked her up, swept the cardboard and glue off his worktable, sat her down on the end and stepped between her knees. She laughed with him and unbuttoned his shirt. Coarse black curls covered his chest and narrowed to a thin line toward his belt. She traced the path with her fingertips.

“You better have condoms,” she whispered, “or I’m not going any lower.”

He spread kisses along her jaw, drew a condom from his back pocket and laid it on the table within easy reach. “I hoped I could talk you into coming here.” He fumbled with the buttons on her shapeless blouse, but her purple lace bra stopped him cold. “This is like unwrapping a present. Why do you wear such baggy clothes?”

She cupped him through his jeans and felt his heat. “I like being comfortable. Don’t you?” She unfastened his belt.

“Comfort,” he repeated hoarsely. “You’re amazing.”

In more ways than he knew. She kicked off her boots and slid her arms around his waist to pull him closer. She didn’t want to think at all, but simply feel and forget. He was muscular and lean, fit as he’d claimed, and his solid warmth was so good to rest against. This wasn’t a pose for a camera, but real, and she meant every tender caress.

He picked her up to slide her pants down over her hips and found her purple thong. “I swear I thought you’d wear black boxer shorts.” He tugged her pants over her knees and let them drop on the floor.

“The Goth image needn’t go that far.” She nibbled his earlobe and kissed the smooth hollow behind his ear. She helped him peel off his shirt and licked his collarbone.

He shivered. “Where did you learn that?”

“Trial and error,” she purred against his lips. She’d studied with a master, but clung to Alejandro rather than her memories. “Tell me what you like.”

“Everything,” he murmured. He unhooked her bra, tossed it over his shoulder and bent down to kiss her pale pink breasts. He sucked the rosy crests and rolled them between his fingertips. “You’re so pretty.”

She pinched his flat nipples and felt him flinch. “You’re a very handsome man, tall enough for me, and you make me laugh.” She wrapped her legs around his hips and squeezed tightly. They fit together remarkably well, like lost pieces of a puzzle found at last. He pushed down his jeans, pulled on the condom with shaky hands, and she drew her thong aside to welcome him.