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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.”
