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lack of hesitation, her eagerness for more, almost frightened her.
    Whatever magic he held over her, it was more powerful than her own will. And now he was putting that connection into words, more masterfully than she could ever have done. Chelsea understood art: the paint on a canvas, the curve of a bronze or marble statue, these communicated emotion to her better than any other medium. Through her father’s work, she was certain she understood a man who had died when she was only a child.
    But Ricardo, despite working—or at least claiming to work—in the art world, had the gift of language. The ability to ignite her passion with a word, to bring her over the edge with a phrase.
    He sat down on the couch next to the love seat, his knees not quite touching hers. He picked up his wine and sipped again. Chelsea put a self-conscious hand to her face, tracing the path of his hand.
    â€œI’m sure you know that sometimes sex means almost nothing,” Ricardo continued, gazing intently into her eyes. “A man and woman fuck—they join their bodies in heat and desire. When they are done, they are satisfied. The act is like the scratching of an itch, the slaking of a thirst. Would you agree?”
    â€œI…yes…Sir,” Chelsea whispered.
    â€œYou have had many lovers,” Ricardo said, even though she had never told him so. Somehow he just knew. “As have I. But often, even when your body has had its pleasure, your mind, it is still restless. Your heart is full of longing. Maybe you feel a little sadness, a little anger, and you don’t know why.”
    That was it, exactly. After a night with Caleb or Benedict—or the men who had come before, enough of them that their memories were hazy, the details of their encounters blurred—Chelsea felt nothing so much as the urge to flee.
    â€œSome people aren’t meant to feel more,” she said, surprising herself with the note of bitterness in her voice. “Some people are…broken.”
    â€œYou think you are broken?” At least she’d provoked a reaction from Ricardo. He leaned forward, his black eyebrows lowered. “You think God has turned away from you? That the sadness in your life has robbed you of your vitality?”
    â€œI just…it’s just that I have been on my own for a very long time. I didn’t—I didn’t have a childhood, really.” Chelsea bit her lip, wondering if she’d already said too much.
    The night that Ricardo had taken her to a party high above the glittering city, she’d been caught by paparazzi as they left; the flash of the bulbs had taken her straight back to the horrors of her stepfather’s abuse. Ray Huber had photographed her in sexually explicit poses from the age of seven until she finally ran away at fourteen, and while he had never touched her, the abuse had left its indelible mark on her psyche.
    She had fought her way to a life, aided by the kindness of her fairy godfathers, educated by the streets and, later, the libraries and galleries of the city. She supported herself, she had dreams and plans for her gallery. But she had accepted that she would never have marriage, a family, the kind of everyday love that others took for granted.
    She had contented herself with the bitter, broken shards for years. Until Ricardo had taken her past everything she thought she knew, turning her experiences and expectations upside down.
    â€œAh, I see. But Chelsea, when we are together, you feel alive, no?”
    â€œI do.” She forced herself to hold his gaze though every fiber of her being wanted to look away, to hide. Fear made her want to retreat; hope—and the pure strength of Ricardo’s convictions—made her push herself harder. Further.
    â€œI never doubted what is between us. I left you because I want to protect you. I would do anything to keep you safe, Chelsea. Do you believe me?”
    â€œI…think