HALFBLOOD DANCER

7. UNPREDICTABLE

I turn around to find Sandro Bianchi standing about five feet away from me, my eyes dancing involuntarily all over him, scanning him from head to toe. I struggle to swallow, my jaw feeling stiff and achy, as if it had dropped to the floor and bounced right back up with painful speed.

The man truly is stunning.

His tailored suit is all black and silky like his hair, even the shirt under it. Everything is black. The only color he wears surfaces brightly from his royal-blue tie, enhancing his intense blue eyes in the most arresting way possible.

When my eyes finally rest on his, I find him gauging me. With burning cheeks, I quickly turn around and fix my gaze on the pale marble figure in front of me, trying to ignore the live and much more eye-catching work of art behind me.

"Yes," I manage to breathe out after a moment. "It's my favorite one from this gallery."

I hear his steps as he moves closer, his unforgiving energy assaulting me, tensing every muscle I own. His suit brushes my arm as he stands next to me, sending a surge of electricity through my entire body.

I find myself, yet again, with the inexplicable need to run away from him.

"Good evening, Mr. Bianchi." I adjust the tote on my arm in a desperate attempt to assemble my balance. "I was just leaving..."

He nods. "You're running again," he says, his tone suggesting a hint of reproach.

"Not running," I retort. "Just leaving." That is if I could walk, of course. My legs are weakening by the second, and I'm feeling a bit dizzy.

"Oh, I see...and here I thought you were running away from me," he says, and I wonder if he's making fun of me.

"Well, I'm not, Mr. Bianchi." Oh, believe me...I wish I could. "Don't worry. There will be no running or punching today," I tell him, afraid that if I move I may fall and ridicule myself even more.

"Good." He seems amused. "Please, call me Sandro." Although the word please forms part of his sentence, it's clearly a command.

"I'm afraid that's not going to happen, Mr. Bianchi," I reply, my tone wiping the smile off his face. Ha...who's laughing now?

"I insist, Luna."

"I really shouldn't, Mr. Bianchi."

"Tell me why," he says, and I stare at him confused. He holds my gaze for a moment before he turns his head back to the statue. "Why is this one your favorite?"

"Oh." I hesitate for a second, my eyes moving back to the art in front of us. "Well, apart from the obvious talent of the artist and the way in which he was able to capture not only every single detail of the physical aspects of his muse but his emotions as well, it is the expression on the model's face that fascinates me the most."

"And what is it you see on his face?"

"The melancholy in his eyes," I reply. "The absence of his gaze. His heavy eyelids. The angling of his head. The slight frown and creases on his forehead. I think this man was not only heartbroken, but deeply disillusioned, as well. Look at the way he was laying down in a relaxing pose, yet his whole body appears to be acutely uncomfortable. Such a strong and handsome man, and still, he looks so insecure." I trace my fingers over the cold marble neckline, a shiver running through me. "These prominent veins in his neck...I think they're a clear indication that he was nervous and embarrassed. He looks mortified. And it makes me wonder if they had been lovers, the artist and his muse."

"What makes you say that?"

"It just looks too personal for him. He wasn't even completely exposed, so that wouldn't be a reason to be ashamed or self-conscious. Besides, this is clearly from an era when posing in nudity was the norm. My theory is that they had been lovers, and it was over before the project was completed." I gesture at the statue. "You know, the beautiful muse once mesmerized by the gifted and charming sculptor, but now feeling used and rejected by this carefree artist who gets bored easily, always seeking for new beauty to explore and impress, to love. Or maybe it never happened." I shrug. "Maybe the muse was simply yearning for that which he knew he could never have with the artist," I add, suddenly aware of a pair of eyes fixed on me.