Chapter Four

Holy Mother of Pearls.

Caleb's pants tightened a notch at the sight of his childhood neighbor- her ass wiggling as she modeled past him.

How the hell did all of that happen?

When he had caught a falling Ava Castellaño, all dangly arms and breathy, he'd been a bit irritated by the female's clumsiness. That was until he'd seen her.

And holy shriveled balls, puberty had treated her very well.

Deep, brown eyes accentuated by long feathery lashes had scrutinized him- clear as crystal and erratic.

He recognized her gaze well enough, but age had changed the color to a swirling pool of caramel.

It subtly contrasted against the inky black of her hair- now cropped and tumbling over her shoulders in waves.

It suited her heart-shaped face.

Her labored breathings could've been heard across the distance they stood: and his eyes immediately flickered to her plump, slightly-parted, cerise lips.

Oh damn. Hot, male fantasies were built around lips like those.

He groaned inwardly as his mind conjured up a naughty image of them stroking his...

Ah, hell.

He reigned himself in and continued his inspection.

She looked good. Really, really good. A tiny waist, contradicted by the curves of her hips and- he glanced at her chest. Christ, where had those lush babies come from?

He remembered when he would always tease her about her chicken chest. Now, the joke was on him.

The mechanical rising of the swells of her breasts could be seen under the thin fabric of her white top- and man were they alluring.

This package of female temptation was wrapped in hip-hugging gray dress pants, a designer jacket and low heels. Scarlet red nails peeked through her white shoes, and it startled him that he was so turned on.

Yet something about her presence bothered him the same way it had years ago. Her sharp, clear eyes seemed to lure him in- trying to crack him open. Leave him vulnerable.

There was also an untameable aura around her, and he didn't like that. He was playing with fire, and he couldn't decide if he wanted to be burnt or not.

He frowned.

Years of therapy and experience had taught him to conceal and control his emotions well, and he kept his feelings in check by pretending as if he didn't know who she was.

"Have we met?"

He'd expected a flicker of some emotion on her face. Instead, she'd simply straightened up and introduced herself.

She was more detached than he'd imagined, and it had bothered him more than it should.

Did she really not remember him? Or was she playing the same game that he was?

Well, he thought, may the best player win.

He followed behind the female who'd bribed him into a late interview (even though he'd canceled his meetings this morning).

He had truly been upset that she'd been late. Tardiness abhorred him, but her tenacity had dissipated that initial anger- and he allowed her to win that small battle.

"Mr.Wyatt," Karen, the desk clerk greeted when they entered the restaurant, "You're back."

He nodded. "I need another table for two."

Karen glanced back and forth between both of them. Caleb could clearly sense her speculations, and almost rolled his eyes.

"Of course," she finally said, "Table six. Lissa will be with you in a moment."

He thanked Karen and weaved his way towards the selected table without giving Ava a second glance.

Let her figure out if he was still angry or not.

"Fourteen minutes," he warned as she sat across from him. She slightly rolled her eyes. It amused him, but kept his features nonchalant.

He watched fervently as she retrieved her notepad, a pencil and a tablet from her workbag.

"When did you start painting?"

This girl didn't waste any time. Plus she knew all of this.

He guessed the game was still being played.

Fine.

Caleb's answer was immediate and robotic. "When I was four. I was taught by my mother."

"Was it something you would've chosen as a solid career or was it just customary to follow in your father's footsteps?"

He frowned, offended and a bit thrown off by the question.

"My father is a very successful and respectable man, I must admit. However, I supercede no one's footsteps. I've always had a keen interest in architecture, and I always knew that it was what I wanted to do. In all probity, if my parents have had their ways, I would've become a medical surgeon."

She nodded and wrote it down. A few rebel tendrils escaped from the dark bundle, and his fingers itched to put them in place.

Breathe, he coaxed himself.

"Mr. Wyatt," Lissa, a waitress, approached the table, "Welcome back. Is there anything I can get you and your guest?

"Oh yes Lissa. Water, please."

"The same," Ava assured the waitress then turned to face Caleb again when she'd left.

He took the moment to study her again. What was she thinking at that very moment? Was she trying to find ways to tell him who she was? Or didn't she care any at all?

Her deep eyes gave nothing away, and he finally realized that this female was as guarded as he was. He would need to be careful.

"Why do you paint?"

The question startled him out of his reverie.

Why did he paint?

"Painting allows me to depict what my mind cannot fathom into words."

She smiled, and the gesture warmed him. Then puzzled him. Had his response been corny?

"Why do they call you the ying yang artist?"

She'd possibly seen the title on the internet. It surprised him that she was so ill-prepared for the interview. Obviously Ava hadn't seen any of his works.

"You haven't seen any of my works?" He raised an eyebrow.

She shook her head.

"Excuse me Lissa," he spoke to the waitress as she placed the glasses of water before them. "Could you please retrieve the painting I'd asked you to hold onto until further noticed?"

"This is further noticed sir?"

"Yes."

"Very well, Mr. Wyatt."

He hesitated. What if she didn't like it? She'd liked his pieces back then.

Wait, why'd he care again?

"I acquired that name because my paintings are mostly black and white."

"You like black and white?"

He almost hissed at her. She knew this.

"Intrigued by the balance is more suitable."

"Oh." Was all she said and took note of that. She seemed to want to say or ask something more.

A long silence preceded before she did.

"What intrigues you about balance?"

He straightened the napkin her glass of water was on and frowned.

He didn't have a choice where balance was concerned. He suffered from a phobia - a phobia he'd grown out of 85%.

This she was supposed to know as well.

Any how, he gave her the political answer, and one not far from the truth.

"Without balance there's chaos and imperfection. Those aren't things I admire. I like order. Even numbers. Subtlety. Tidiness. Timeliness."

He casted her a suggestive glance.

Her face remained stony.

Jesus, what'd he have to do to get a reaction out of her?

"Okay." Was her simple response as she turned her attention back to her notepad.

This was harder than he'd imagine it to be.

Lissa, the waitress came back with a canvas covered by a thin white sheet.

He thanked her and placed it beside him.

"Ready to see?"

She nodded slowly, seemingly indifferent. He frowned, then gingerly removed the thin sheet.

He watched as her eyes widened when she saw the art piece. He'd been working on it for two weeks, and was pleased with the results. It was a painting of a white rose sinking beneath dark waters. The use of white and black were his favourite features- from the subtle dark tips of the rose petals to the pale and almost inconspicuous dust particles in the water.

He was good at what he did.

"It's my most recent work." He piped up when he noticed that she was still staring at the art work.

"This is amazing," she complimented, her eyes frozen on the art piece.

He fought a smile.

"Can I take a picture for the article?"

"Sure," he agreed and held the canvas as she took a couple pictures.

"It really is awesome," she said in awe.

Finally, a reaction.

Now, to continue the game.

"I'm glad you think so Miss.... Castellaño, was it?"

She stared up at him for a long while, and he saw her eyes burn with annoyance.

"Cut the crap Caleb. And stop staring at my boobs. I know you remember who I am."

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