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“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.”
