Charles, there is something about you that I find inspiring. And I can’t rest until I know exactly what that is.”
Jordan was gone before she could respond.
Sasha exhaled, her eyes pressed closed momentarily. She’d hoped that Jordan’s attraction to her would make her job easier. But her attraction to him would surely make the situation more challenging.
Still, this was an opportunity she couldn’t pass up. So she’d have to put on her big-girl panties, keep Jordan Jace out of them and pull herself together.
* * *
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but the gallery is closed now.” Jordan’s assistant, a pretty woman with mousy brown hair, sparkling blue eyes and oversize glasses, approached Sasha.
She stood from the red sofa where she’d been seated. The glittery heels she’d chosen to wear were gorgeous, but her feet were killing her.
“I’m waiting. For Jordan.” Sasha suddenly felt incredibly self-conscious. How many art groupies had sat in the same seat spouting the same line?
The woman frowned. “Did Jordan ask you to wait for him?” The question felt accusatory.
“Yes, I did.” Jordan walked over to the woman and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Sasha Charles is my guest this evening.” He turned to Sasha. “Sasha, meet Lydia Dyson, my right hand here at the gallery. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“Nice to meet you,” the woman said, though her tone indicated otherwise. She squinted at Sasha as she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. When her eyes met Jordan’s briefly, she smiled. “He’s being too kind, of course. I’m incredibly lucky that I get to work with the great Jordan Jace.” Lydia gazed at him adoringly. A fact that seemed to go right over Jordan’s head. “But I appreciate the compliment, anyway.”
“I’ll lock up tonight. You head on home. And come in a few hours late tomorrow. I insist,” he added, before Lydia could object. Jordan broadened his smile. “Take a couple of bottles of champagne on your way out. You’ve earned them. Tonight was magnificent.”
Lydia perked up and nodded. The woman turned and walked away, tossing a good-night over her shoulder.
“Hey.” Jordan shoved his hands in his pockets, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that sparked something inside her.
“Hey.” Sasha tightened her grip on her clutch. Heat filled her cheeks.
“I’m glad you stayed.” He indicated a doorway at the back of the studio and they both walked toward it. “Can I get you a glass of wine or a bite to eat?”
“I’ve had quite enough tonight already, thank you.” Sasha held up a hand. There was no way she could pull off this encounter successfully if she wasn’t completely sober. Not with electricity dancing up her spine as she walked beside this man.
“As you wish.” He opened the door, which led down a narrow corridor.
Sasha halted in her tracks and took a deep breath. Her eyes met his. “Look, Jordan, I appreciate the chance to tour your studio. But if the invitation is really just the modern-day equivalent of offering to ‘show me your etchings’...”
Jordan’s deep belly laugh made her cheeks burn, but she couldn’t help chuckling, too. He raised his hands, his palms facing her.
“I have every intention of being a gentleman tonight. I assure you.” He grinned. “I just thought you might like to see the method behind my madness, so to speak. Of course, after tonight...well that, love, is up to you.”
Sasha exhaled and headed down the brick corridor. Her heels clicked against the concrete floor as Jordan walked beside her.
Finally, he opened another door and turned on the light. The unfinished brick walls, stained concrete floor and steel beams overhead gave the cavernous space the same spare, raw feel as the gallery.
“My assistant hosed down the floor this morning, but it is still a working studio. So perhaps you should be careful with that lovely dress.” Jordan held the door open.
“Lydia hosed down the floor?” Sasha gathered the hem of her dress in one hand and followed Jordan into the studio.
“No, Lydia is my gallery assistant,” Jordan clarified. “A young man named Marcus Whitten is my studio assistant.”
“I see.” Sasha surveyed the space. It smelled of welded metal, but it was surprisingly clean for a studio that housed rolls of sheet metal and industrial shelving bearing metal pipes, buckets of nuts, bolts, chains and a variety of other cast-off pieces of metal. “And what does a sculptor’s assistant do? Besides hose down the floor?”
“Thankfully, quite a bit.” Jordan beckoned her farther into the space. “When I started out, I did everything myself. The salvaging, the cutting and prepping and all of the welding. Sometimes I worked on more than one piece at a time, but it could take weeks or even months to complete them.”
“And now?”
“Now I have Marcus. Quite the promising sculptor in his own right. But for now, he helps me out with the grunt work around here. Frees me up to focus on the artistic bits.”
“He’s paying his dues, I suppose.” Sasha strolled along the space with Jordan. Past heavy tools and stockpiles of salvaged metals and reclaimed wood.
“As did I.”
“You? Doing grunt work?” Sasha stopped and turned to him, barely holding back an incredulous grin. “Why do I find that so difficult to believe?”
“Doesn’t fit the millionaire playboy narrative, I know.” He chuckled. “But it’s true. I studied studio art in university for a couple of years. University life and rules didn’t quite agree with me. So I left.”
“Now that, I can believe.” Sasha tried not to allow herself to be drawn in by those glittering eyes and that infinite charm, enhanced by a very sexy British accent. It was a losing battle. “I doubt your parents were very happy with that decision.”
“They weren’t.” For the first time, there was a flash of darkness in his expression. “I’m the black sheep in the Jace family. The sole artist in a family full of bankers. My mum and dad thought I’d gone mad when I left university and went to work as a studio assistant for a mere pittance. Truthfully, they still think me a bit bonkers.”
Sasha’s heart ached for Jordan. He behaved as if he was unconcerned about the opinions of others. Though clearly, he was wounded by his parents’ rejection of his career choice.
The topic of his parents was a subject best avoided for as long as possible.
“Did you work for a sculptor?”
“Eventually.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, his confident smile fixed firmly in place again. “But first I was assistant to a painter and then a multimedia artist. Then I went to work for a remarkable sculptor who worked with clay.”
“Your apprenticeships served you well. I can see the influence of all three mediums in your work.” Sasha turned her attention to an assemblage of scrap
