Nathan didn’t like the violence that perked to life inside him at the thought of another male being with Jordana. Especially one with less obsession for her than him.
Not that Nathan was worthy of her. His background made him unfit for anyone, but particularly a woman as pure and clean as Jordana.
He had already brought her too close to his world. And he knew he would have taken things much further last night if not for running into her undeserving, would-be mate.
He had to be done with Jordana Gates.
Already she was starting to mean more to him than he cared to admit, and that, if nothing else, was cause enough for him to keep his distance.
Even if that meant watching her bind herself in blood and vow to a male she would never love.
By five o’clock that afternoon, Jordana had already put in an eleven-hour day at the museum.
She’d gone in alone, hours before anyone else had shown up for work. After everything that had happened the night before, the solitude of her workplace had been welcome, even more needed than sleep.
Jordana had eventually left La Notte around two in the morning, accompanied back to her apartment by Carys and Rune. Elliott had been long gone by then. He’d politely turned off the lights and locked up for her, apparently departing her life as ambivalently as he’d entered it.
Jordana wasn’t sure how she would break the news of their split to her father. Then again, dutiful Elliott probably had taken care of that for her too.
Instead, she had chosen to put all of the drama and emotional stress on hold for a while, letting her work at the museum absorb her. It was the one thing she had that had always been hers all on her own, historic art being her passion.
Her personal sanctuary and escape.
Fortunately, her work was giving her plenty of things to think about, aside from the sudden mess of her private life. The exhibit’s grand opening was little more than twenty-four hours away and was nearly sold out. She and Carys had reviewed the final list of preparations top to bottom twice today, ensuring that everything was in place for a successful event.
Still, that didn’t keep Jordana from obsessing over the details yet again. She was in her office on the phone with the local florist when she felt a queer prickling of the fine hairs at her nape.
Was someone in the closed exhibit room outside?
It couldn’t be Carys. She’d left just a few minutes ago to pick up a last-minute printing order across town. As for the rest of the museum staff, most would be packing up and preparing to close for the night.
But there was definitely someone in the exhibit. Jordana felt the presence like a cool hand settling against the back of her neck. She felt observed somehow, much as she had been in the parking lot the other night. Anxiety spiked through her as she ended her phone conversation and walked out of her office.
A man stood inside the closed exhibit.
Dressed in a rumpled, rain-dappled gray overcoat, he pivoted to face her as she approached. He was tall and fit beneath the drooping coat, worn jeans, and faded T-shirt. His short, bland brown hair was combed neatly to the side.
Everything about him was average and nondescript, except for his eyes. An arresting shade of peridot, they held her in an unrushed, considering stare.
Although nothing about him broadcasted a threat, Jordana’s senses remained alert, expectant in some odd way. “I’m sorry, but the exhibit hasn’t opened to the public yet. You can’t be in here.”
“I won’t stay long,” he said. “I only wanted to come in and have a quick look.”
She frowned. “I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave. We have tickets for sale at the museum website, or you can come back tomorrow evening at the grand opening and purchase a ticket at the door.”
He didn’t acknowledge the offer or her request for him to go. Slowly, fluidly, he strolled from one art display to another.
“A Canova,” he said, walking over to the clear case containing a marble bust of Beatrice from the famous, epic poetry of Dante Alighieri. “An impressive piece.”
Jordana followed the man to the sculpture, taking in his modest attire more closely now. None of his clothes looked newer than a decade old, and they fit him like they’d been broken in on someone else and cast off years later. His brown leather loafers were scuffed and scarred, faded and timeworn like the rest of what he wore.
“Canova is considered one of the greatest neoclassical sculptors,” Jordana said, unable to resist sharing her knowledge of the collection. “He was probably the most famous artist of his day, but I don’t find many people who know his work on sight. Particularly the lesser-known pieces like this one.”
“More’s the pity.” Her uninvited visitor’s mouth curved in a faint smile. “Canova’s work is exquisite, no question. There is a calmness to his sculpture, from the smoothness of his subject’s skin, to the fluid form of each curve and the flawless stroke of every line.”
Listening to him speak so eloquently and so well informed, Jordana suddenly felt awkward for insisting he’d have to pay to view the art that belonged by rights to the world. In spite of her earlier misgivings about him, she found herself intrigued.
He went on, still studying the sculpture. “The perfection of Canova’s work—the pure idealism of it—invites the eye to linger, to study and admire.” The man glanced to Jordana. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Jordana shrugged. “Honestly, I find it too perfect. His art is too … I don’t know. Too controlled, I suppose.” She gestured to a neighboring marble piece, one of the collection’s most important acquisitions. “Take this Bernini bust, on the other hand. Look at the energy of his work. It’s unsettling, unrefined. Aggressive.”