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on?”
    “ The ninth.”
    Megan started in surprise. She recalled from the sales information from the purchase of her own unit that the top floor residence of their loft building consisted of an exclusive penthouse with no neighbors and a private elevator entrance. “And you live in that big place alone? Don’t you?”
    She blushed when she saw his eyes gleam with amusement.
    “ All alone, Megan.”
    “ What do you do?”
    Christian paused in his chewing. “Do? As in, butcher, baker, candlestick maker type of do?”
    “ Yes. Is it that hard of a question?” she teased.
    “ Course not,” Christian muttered as he tore off a piece of scone, scowled at it, and tossed it back on the china plate.
    “ I’m a writer.”
    “ A writer?” Megan sat up straighter in her chair. Her eyes lit up with interest. “What kind of a writer?”
    His gaze shifted to the window. “You know…stuff.”
    She laughed. “ Stuff ? What sort of stuff?”
    Surely Christian, who had epitomized the definition of confidence since she’d first met him couldn’t be shifting around self-consciously in his chair.
    “ Up until now, a lot of crap, no doubt,” he finally muttered under his breath quietly enough so that Emily didn’t hear as she fed her doll.
    She reached out and touched him. The sudden lost expression on his face had made it an imperative.
    “ It’s not. Whatever you’ve written, it’s good. I know it.”
    “ How would you know? I’m no Walt Whitman, I can tell you that,” he said bitterly.
    Megan’s eyes widened. She’d been right. Christian didn’t miss much. The tone of his voice had been cutting and sarcastic. She pulled her fingers away from where they had been touching the back of his hand.
    “ How did you know?” she asked after a moment, referring to the fact that he knew something as personal as the identity of her favorite poet.
    “ It doesn’t take a genius, Megan. You have two copies of Leaves of Grass alone, the one opened on your coffee table had a broken spine from being read so much,” Christian stated in an emotionless voice, but his hand flicked irritably at the lacy flounce on the tablecloth.
    Megan didn’t know how to respond to his acute observation and changeable mood, so she didn’t say anything at all. They’d both focused on Emily until it was time to leave, speaking politely but irrelevantly to each other.
    Megan was an artist herself, and had spent enough time around other artists to know that they could be some of the most sulky, temperamental individuals in existence. She wouldn’t have guessed that Christian would fall into that category, but what did she really know about him, after all?
     
    * * * * *
     
    Later that afternoon after she’d put Emily down for her nap, Megan entered her living room to find Christian sitting on her couch with her well-read copy of Leaves of Grass resting in his lap. His long legs were bent at the knee, thighs casually spread.
    He’d removed his jacket and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his white shirt. Megan could see some springy, dark brown hairs on his chest at the lowest portion of the opening. A short gold chain was also in evidence, but Megan couldn’t make out the amulet. His unruly, burnished hair had heedlessly fallen across his forehead while he read with complete concentration.
    For a minute Megan stood and watched him silently. Despite his size and solidity, his presence in her home seemed a little unreal to her. Surely he was temporary, ephemeral…like glimpsing a shooting star or having an especially good dream from which you were destined to awaken.
    Megan’s life felt too small to contain Christian Lasher for long.
    “ Are you doing a study of me for a sculpture or are you waiting for me to apologize for being such a jerk earlier?”
    She blinked in surprise at his muttered words.
    He turned toward her. His hair fell back from his brow. The book dropped to the sofa cushion. His voice had sounded, gruff, slightly