I do the right thing, of that I’m sure. And besides, it doesn’t matter. The past is past, dammit. I have no choice but to put up with it and move on, as I’ve been doing all my disastrous life.

I take a deep breath, over and over again, and force myself to rebuild. I am a businesswoman with a juicy proposal. I am not a dreamy girl who trembles in the presence of tonight’s irresistible protagonist.

I can do it. I can go up to him, say hello, and tell him that I’m not going to tolerate him pushing me away. That five years have passed, that we’re both adults, and that he’s going to have to listen to me.

Clear. Direct. Straight to the point.

Good. I can handle it. No problem.

I take a step toward him, then another.

I straighten up and flash the professional smile I’ve honed over the five long years I’ve worked for the CEO of Dermont International.

On my way to the stairs, I keep my eyes on Marcus because I intend to accost him as soon as I set foot in the ballroom.

He doesn’t see me; he’s fully focused on his companion. I don’t hear their conversation, but Marcus is waving his hands, and I know they’re talking about architecture. I smile fondly as I remember drawing an imaginary skyscraper and moving my fingers as I thought of facades and plans, functionality and design.

His companion makes a comment, and Marcus laughs. His large, sensual mouth curves into a smile that freezes when he looks around… and sees me.

I see fire in his eyes, but it quickly extinguishes, and I almost think I’ve imagined it. Now, when I look again, all I see is indifference. Yet Marcus still projects a certain intensity, an illusion of movement, even though he’s frozen on the stairs.

His eyes don’t leave mine, and I also stay still, unable to move. Almost unable to breathe.

“Marcus,” I say, though I don’t know if I speak aloud or if his name just fills me up inside, as necessary as oxygen.

We stay like that as time passes, with the world paralyzed around us. No one moves, but I have the feeling that I’m spinning in space, rushing toward him. The illusion terrifies me because right now, I know two things: I look forward to being in his arms again, and I am scared to death to face him.

And then suddenly, the world starts moving again. Marcus looks at me a moment longer, and in the few seconds before he averts his eyes, I sense anger and harshness. But I also see something else. Sadness under the ice, perhaps.

I become aware of my limbs again and take a step toward him, knowing this is my chance. For the project and for something deeper that I don’t want to think about because opening that door scares me too much.

But it’s the same. Neither my fear nor the project matters.

Because Marcus doesn’t look at me again.

Instead, he walks past, never once tilting his head, never even slowing down. And I stay, watching him go by, as anonymous as the rest of the women who sigh for him.

What the hell was I thinking?

Marcus has refused to meet with me, obviously. Did I really think that as soon as he saw me, everything would change? That he would run to me, take my hands, and ask how he could help me?

I don’t think so, no. But silly me, I had that hope.

In theory, it seems simple enough. Not easy—no, it’s clear to me that seeing Marcus again won’t be easy—but mechanical. He can do it, mostly because he has to.

But I run out of words.

Instead of adopting the direct strategy of approaching him and talking to him, I’m petrified. Instead of intercepting him, I let him pass by.

Shit!

I’ve misjudged the situation, and if I had any confidence in myself, I’ve completely lost it.

I see Cass across the room, laughing with a woman in a short, skintight dress with sun-bleached hair. She looks at me out of the corner of her eye, and I see her eyebrows rise a little questioningly. Do you need me?

I shake my head and smile. Cass broke up with her girlfriend of many years five months ago and has been pretty much out of the picture ever since. If she’s getting along with that woman, I have no intention of cutting her off.

Besides, it’s time to bite the bullet. I’ve come to defend a project, and there is no way I’m leaving without giving it a try.

Spurred on by my words of encouragement, I start to go after him but stop when they announce that the documentary will be showing in fifteen minutes and that the guests should start heading toward the theater.

The announcement pretty much kills my chances of approaching Marcus alone. First of all, I’m sure he’ll have a few words to say before the documentary starts. Second, the people are packed in so tightly that I have no choice but to move with the crowd.

I let myself be swept away by the human tide and resign myself to accepting that I’ll have to approach Marcus right after the screening or try to get myself into the after-party, a privilege my ticket doesn’t include.

Black-clad ushers, probably University of Southern California film students, guide us into the original Chinese Theatre. It’s one of my favorite places in Los Angeles. When I was a teenager, I used to come here to escape to another hidden reality in this exotic environment. It has been recently renovated, but unlike the glitzy modernity of the ballroom we just left, the Chinese Theatre lobby retains a certain ancient patina, with its statues brought from Beijing and Shanghai, ornate ceiling tiles and sconces, and folding screens that decorate the walls, many of them red, like the countless rugs.

However, inside the theater, technology reigns. The IMAX screen is huge and ultra-modern, and I can’t deny I’m thrilled to know I’m about to see both Marcus and his work projected in this most impressive format.

I take a seat along the aisle in the back row because I figure I’ll have a better chance of avoiding the crowd if I can go looking for Marcus as soon as the documentary ends. The theater isn’t quite full, and when they dim the lights, there are about four or five seats between me and the next person. Better this way. I’m tense and nervous, bombarded by memories that threaten to unhinge me. I’m tired of fighting them. After the documentary, I’ll be strong again. But for the next seventy minutes, I want to step back in time and soak up Marcus and the stunning images of the world he has created.

The guests applaud as a man I recognize as Marcus’s companion on the stairs steps onto the stage and introduces himself as Michael Prado, the documentary’s director.

“As many of you know, I am a board member of the National Architectural and Historic Protection Project, and as such, I’ve had the privilege of observing the evolution of many talented young architects. Some have excellent skills. Others have good business sense. And there are those who have an innate ability to merge form and function, location and purpose. However, only once have I seen all those attributes embodied in a single man. And that man is here tonight. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Marcus Steele.”

There is much applause as Marcus walks up the steps two at a time and greets the crowd before shaking hands with Prado.

“Thank you all for this warm welcome,” he says as soon as he picks up the microphone. “And thank you, Michael, for your incredible compliments. As you may have noticed,” he continues, turning to face the audience without turning his back on the director, “a documentary like the one Michael has directed is a tremendously invasive beast. And I say that with the greatest respect and love,” he adds as everyone bursts out laughing.

“He’s trying to say I got in his way,” Michael jokes.

“Or that I got in his way,” Marcus adds, handling the crowd with undeniable skill. “But seriously, I owe a great debt to this man. He proposed the documentary to me even before the board of the Coalition for Contemporary Arts and Sciences chose my project for their museum. And while I can’t say I was prepared for my process to be subjected to such scrutiny, I do know that the experience has been instructive and rewarding. I’ve had the luxury of seeing my work with different eyes. That is an exceptional gift that should not fall on deaf ears. It has taught me to respect my vision but also to open my eyes.”

I look at him, fascinated by how easygoing and comfortable he seems in front of the public.

He steps forward on stage and gives the impression that he’s looking at each and every one of the spectators.

“And now I’m pleased to announce the US premiere of Stone and Steel and offer you a taste of another kind of collaborative effort. Michael Prado’s interpretation of the trials, tribulations, and successes that surrounded the financing, construction, consecration, and inauguration of the famous—or infamous, according to some—Amsterdam Museum of Arts and Sciences.”

He falls silent as the audience applauds again, and I’m amazed at how much he reminds me of Nick Dermont. Not only in his physical appearance—both are dark and manly—but in how well he handles fame and his people skills. If he ended up with a pitch to sell a product, I’m pretty sure he’d be a millionaire tonight.

But tonight, nothing is being sold. This evening is a celebration, and after a few more words about the history of the project, Marcus invites the audience to sit back and enjoy the documentary.

When the lights go out and the curtain opens, I lean back in my chair as the volume of the music rises and the screen fills with light and movement. The camera rises in a magnificent shot that starts from the ground and ascends faster and faster until it reaches the emblematic blunt cornice of the museum and finally opens the shot to include the blue sky and the sun.

The screen turns blinding white as the opening credits roll, and a close-up of Marcus Steele appears, bent over a table stacked with blueprints, his hair blowing in the wind and jeans hugging his muscular thighs. He is deep in conversation with another man, but his words are drowned out by the clear, slow voice of the narrator.

I look at the screen, mesmerized by the man who fills it. The passion and precision of his movements captivate me. He is absorbed in his work, devoted to it. There is an authority in what he does. Solemnity, even magic.

And the deep emotion I perceive in his face warms my skin, and my heart races.

I have seen that same fire, that same determination. I have seen him happy and ecstatic. I have held him in my arms, and I have felt his passion, and the intensity of that man has burned me.

My chest tightens, and my hands start to ache. I realize I’m gripping the arms of the chair tightly. Worse, I’ve stopped breathing.

Air, I think, and prepare to get up. I just need to go out into the lobby. Maybe go to the ladies’ room to freshen up my face.

But as I start to get up, someone sits in the next chair.

Marcus!

I haven’t even turned my head yet, but I have no doubt. How could I, when my skin tingles from his mere proximity? When the fragrance of his cologne envelops me, spicy, musky, with that hint of smoke?

I close my eyes and perch on the edge of my chair because suddenly I’m not sure where I’m going or why.

“Stay.”

A single word, but it touches me. I take a breath, nod, and lean back again in the upholstered chair. When I turn to him, I find him looking at me. Shadows dance across his face, and I swear I could get lost in the deep blue of his eyes.

I’m about to speak, though I don’t know what I’ll say. At that moment, he leans toward me and places his hand on my leg, his palm on the thin fabric of my dress, his fingers brushing against my bare skin. All my nerve endings seem to crowd and sizzle in that part of my body.

I’m acutely aware of his hand on my leg, and I have to fight the urge to inhale sharply and stiffen as my pulse races and I feel a fire burning inside me. I don’t want to react to it; I don’t want my body to give me away. And there’s no way I can let this get out of hand.

But Marcus moves even closer, and I feel more pressure on my thigh as his lips almost brush my ear.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I think about playing it cool, but that won’t get me anywhere. Besides, I’m not sure he gets it now that he’s touching me and has unsettled me so much.

“I need to talk to you,” I simply say.

“Oh yeah?” His voice is as sweet and enticing as chocolate. “I don’t recall giving you an appointment.”

He runs a finger over my skin, slowly, up and down, with an absent-minded air that could be mistaken for unintentional. But I know that’s not the case. Marcus knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Do I need an appointment to chat with you at a party?”

“Is that what we’re doing?” he asks, still caressing me and teasing me with his finger.

My chest tightens, and I start to panic.

“Please, Marcus.”

“Please what?”

“Let’s go out. Can we go out to the lobby for a moment to talk?” I hope he doesn’t hear the tremor in my voice.

He prevents me from getting up by putting gentle but firm pressure on my leg. With this, he manages to raise my skirt, revealing a few more inches of skin. It makes me feel even more exposed and vulnerable.

I want to remember the touch of his hands when he touched me without anger or excuses.

I swallow hard as grief and nostalgia overwhelm me.

“Marcus…”

“If you’re so determined to talk, do it here,” he says.

His voice hasn’t lost its velvety tone, but now I hear hardness in it.

“We’ll upset people,” I whisper, determined to regain control.

He raises his eyebrows, and I can tell he finds the situation amusing because the corner of his mouth curls up.

“Oh yeah?” His hand reaches higher and lifts my skirt. “I didn’t think our conversation would be that loud.”

“Stop,” I say, closing my hand over his to prevent him from raising my skirt any further.

“Because?” he asks.

“Because I said so, damn it.”

“I meant, why do you need to talk to me,” he clarifies. But the question is also valid for that. His hand continues to move slowly, lifting my skirt inch by inch, painfully. “Explain to me why you say I should stop. Why don’t you want me to touch you? Why don’t you want me to keep raising my hand? Why don’t you want me to brush my fingers against your panties and find them wet and hot?”

My mouth is dry, and my body is burning. And damn it, he’s right. I am drenched, my thighs on fire, my sex throbbing.

“Or maybe it’s because you want me to continue?” he asks. “Why do you imagine… or remember the feeling of my fingers inside you, turning you on, caressing your clitoris? Are you wet, princess?” His voice is delicate now, like the fingertip that caresses my thigh.

“Are you horny and aroused, silently begging me to touch you, to run my finger over your slippery, dripping sex?” he continues. “Is that what you would like? Come on, honey, tell me. Don’t you want me to take you to the top? Higher and higher until I feel my hand spasm when you orgasm? Because I think you do. I think you want it so much it almost burns you.”

I close my eyes, determined not to let him see how right he is.

“Stop,” I repeat. “You can’t…”

The tender sensuality in his voice is gone, replaced by a harsh accusatory tone. “Do you think I haven’t watched you tonight? Do you think I haven’t seen how you looked at me? We both know that you still want me, and we both know that it pisses you off. So tell me, Gabriela. I want to hear it. Say it loud.”