Google Images had some pictures of him, mostly of his big win at poker. I would have to ask my dad if he’d ever heard of Ethan. He loved poker tournaments and still played sometimes.

I kept scrolling through pages of images and stopped whenever I found one of him. There was a picture of him with the Prime Minister and the Queen. Jesus… The Italian PM and the President of France? I felt tingles roll up my back. Was Ethan like a James Bond or something? What the hell kind of security did he do? If these were people he protected then he had a very high profile clientele. I was stunned. I made a note to ask Gabrielle’s dad if he’d heard of Ethan the next time I saw him. He was London police and if anybody was in the know, it was Rob Hargreave.

I’d also not seen a single personal photo of Ethan in a social situation with a woman. And I wondered if he held the power to squelch stuff like that. There was no way he lived a celibate lifestyle, not how he oozed sex. And if he was telling the truth about not bringing them to his home, then where did he take them for sex? Ugh, I didn’t want to ponder the idea.

Shutting down my computer, I turned out the light and crawled into bed. I pulled his purple tie out from under my pillow and held it to my nose. The comforting scent of him came to me instantly. I felt even smaller in the scheme of things now. And was left wondering why a man like him had noticed me in the first place. From just my portrait at a gallery show? The idea hardly seemed believable.

I tried to conquer my fears and think about what he’d offered to me tonight. And I remembered how good it felt to be with him and how he made my body burn during sex. I didn’t have to worry about anything scary or underhanded with Ethan. He was, if nothing, brutally honest. He was dominating, sure. But I liked that. It took the pressure off of me in a sector of my life where I held little confidence. I wanted him, I just didn’t know if he would want me once he knew my whole story.

9

Waterloo Bridge grounded me the next morning. I came home to the heavenly smell of coffee started by my roommate. I passed Gaby a half-hour later on my way out the door to class.

“You going to the Mallerton exhibition on the tenth?” she asked.

“I want to. I’m conserving one of his right now, Lady Percival. I was hoping to find out a little more about the provenance on her. She’s had some heat damage and it’s melted the lacquer over the title of the book she’s holding. I really want to know what that book is. Like a secret I need to discover.”

“Yay!” She clapped and did a little bounce. “It’s his birthday exhibit.”

I pretended to count on my fingers. “Let’s see, Sir Tristan would be two hundred twenty-eight?”

“Two hundred twenty-seven to be exact.” Gabrielle was deep into her dissertation on Romanticist painter Tristan Mallerton, so when there was anything doing with him she was first in line with tickets.

“Okay, off by one year. That’s not too bad.”

She smiled wide revealing perfect white teeth and full lips that made me wonder why she wasn’t the model. The reddish glints in her dark hair combined with her barely olive complexion made her look exotic. Men were always tripping over my roommate, but she wanted nothing to do with them. A lot like me, I thought. Until Ethan came along and upset my cozy existence.

“Let’s plan to go together—make a night of it. I want a new dress though. You wanna set up a shopping expedition too?” Gaby looked and sounded too damn excited for me to say no.

“Sounds excellent, Gab. I need some distractions from my suddenly more complicated life.” I tilted my head and mouthed the word, ‘Ethan.’

Gaby gave me the once-over and crossed her arms. “What happened with you two?”

“He wants a relationship. Like a real one where we sleep over and cook dinner and watch TV.”

“And lots and lots of hot orgasmic sex,” Gaby added and then held out her arms to me. “Come here. You look like you need a hug.”

I went into her embrace and held on tightly to my friend. “I’m scared, Gab,” I whispered at her ear.

“I know, sweetie. But I’ve seen you with him. I’ve seen how he looks at you. Maybe this is the big one. You won’t know unless you try.” She touched my face. “I’m happy for you, and I think you’ve got to go with a little leap of faith here. So far Mr. Blackstone is on my good list. If that should change or if he hurts one smooth hair on your innocent head, then his pretty-boy balls are gonna be transformed into a set of Klik-Klaks. And please tell him I said that.”

“God, I love you, woman!” I laughed and headed off to class, thinking about how I would break the news to Ethan.

Three hours later he sent a text.

Ethan Blackstone: <---misses Brynne. When will I see u?

<end text message>

I smiled as I read the words. He missed me and he wasn’t afraid to say it. Ethan’s direct approach did wonders toward calming my nerves and fears about a relationship together, I must admit. I gathered my resolve and replied.

Brynne Bennett: <---is :) Very soon if ur not 2 busy. Can I come 2 ur office?

<end text message>

My phone lit up almost immediately with an emphatic YES along with instructions of where to go, elevator to take, plans to feed me lunch—typical modus operandi for my Ethan. That made me smile too. Did I just say my Ethan? I so did—I realized as I ducked into the Underground station and began descending stairs.

I wanted to stop at a pharmacy to get my new prescription filled along the way, so I hopped off the Tube two stations later. Heading back up to the street, I entered a Boots and dropped off the script. I grabbed a shopping basket and browsed while I waited for the pharmacist to fill it. An idea formed in my mind and I went with it, plucking items from the shelves and dropping them into my basket.

In the checkout line to pay, I noticed a big guy behind me waiting with his lone bottle of water. Well, I really noticed his tattoo. He had a beauty on the inside of his forearm—a perfect rendition of Jimi Hendrix’s signature, the big swirl of the J as clear as if Jimi had scrawled it himself. “Nice tat,” I said to him, noticing how really huge he was. At least six five, solid muscle, with spiked white-blonde hair and a face that exuded confidence—this was a guy you did not mess with.

“Thank you.” His nearly black eyes softened just a bit and he asked, “Are you a fan?”

His British accent soothed me for some reason, again totally at odds with his physical appearance. “Massive fan,” I answered with a smile before heading out to get back on the Tube.