Plus One

Chapter One

Sophie Kinsale was in her version of Hell—so close to Heaven, yet so far away.

As an artist, she was thrilled to be at the Eldermoore Gallery's opening. As one of the hired cater waiters, she was miserable. She went around the room filled with elegantly dressed patrons, a plastic smile plastered on her face as she offered artfully arranged spicy tuna rolls. There hadn't been time for her to look at the art before the event. Her only option was to cast stolen glances at the work as she weaved in and out of the fields of Armani tuxes and Chanel silk. From what she could see, the photography, paintings and sculptures that Sasha Eldermoore had procured were jaw-dropping, a mouth-watering eclectic mix of vibrantly modern work. Sophie had no doubt that the patrons in the room would be spending thousands tonight.

The Eldermoore was poised to become a big name in the Los Angeles contemporary art scene, garnering works by the most sought after artists in the world. Michele Collins's stark photography—Sophie's personal favorite, being a photographer herself—sat beside Opal Cohen paintings flooded with color and whimsy. Aaron Koenig's delicate nude sculptures, Jared Campbell's violent slashes of paint on canvas...It was a virtual treasure trove of modern art.

Sophie's fingers itched for her camera. She wanted to capture the feeling of the room—the wealthy patrons amidst the blood, sweat, and tears that had transformed into priceless works of art. She'd zoom in on the blond in the too-tight sequin dress who threw back her head every time she laughed. Or the older gentleman who stood quietly before a photograph of children in Cuba, absorbed. Her eyes cast about for one more imaginary photograph: ah, yes. A man who was more handsome than anyone had a right to be, surrounded by ogling females.

Sophie couldn't tear her eyes away from him. Thick dark hair with just the right amount of stubble on his face, strong features done in a quick sketch, everything perfectly aligned. He was tall and powerfully built—over six feet—and he wore his suit as though it were as comfortable as sweats. He had one hand in his pocket, the other holding a tumbler of whiskey. Sophie wanted to capture the way the track lighting hit him so that he was partially in shadow, the dark brows over his eyes giving him a dangerous edge. Her eyes were drawn to his lips, soft and supple. She caught herself wondering what it would be like to kiss him.

She was about to move when he turned. His eyes lighted on her, as though he'd sensed her watching him. Sophie blushed—she knew her face was bright red, she could never disguise a blush—but she raised her eyebrows at him, challenging. He grinned, a devil-may-care upturn of the mouth that left her dizzy.

Sophie quickly turned away, heading toward the doorway that led to the supply room where the food was being kept. There were ten people on the catering staff tonight, each of them in standard button-down white shirts and black pants. The storage room was filled with trays of canapés and champagne bottles, glasses and napkins. Sophie squeezed inside, maneuvering past the other waiters, her empty tray held above her head.

Heart beating too hard, she was grateful when she saw her best friend refilling a tray with bacon-wrapped dates. Troy Ellis was a tall blond Adonis with baby blue eyes and a quick smile. They'd been friends since grade school, bonding over their mutual and never-ending love of high fashion. Now they were roommates, trying to live the dream and not freak out that they were nearly thirty without a whole lot to show for it.

"Troy, there is a man out there," Sophie breathed. "I mean a man."

"Describe."

"He's tall, kind of big—like muscular—and he has stubble and this messy hair cut and—"

Troy grinned. "Ah, so you've been witness to the sexiness that is Ian Tate."

"That's his name?"