"Come here often?"

Shari whirled toward the deep voice from behind and stared up into azure eyes so dark that even the night sky would be envious; so piercing that she imagined him commanding silence from a room full of people with a mere glance. She opened her mouth to speak, then clamped it shut as a tingling sensation raced through her. Desire, pure and simple.

A natural reaction, she told herself, especially since she and Hank hadn't made love for months. If that's pre-marital bliss, I don't need it.

Her forehead wrinkled in a frown. Why, in a museum of all places, would a man start a conversation? Of course, she rationalized, he was probably intent on seducing her and, for the first time in two years, she was sorely tempted. "I come when I can."

His gaze locked with hers and, for a moment, his sharp blue eyes held confusion before his mouth curved into an enchanting smile that could melt glaciers. "So do I."

Her cheeks warmed as she realized her answer could be taken the wrong way, as could his. She stared at his lips, the humor reflected in his eyes, and knew he had considered the same possibility. The thought sent a tingling thrill racing through her.

Dismayed by her reaction, Shari turned and walked away. The last thing she needed was another man in her life.

As she glanced at the passing paintings, her thoughts returned to the piles of Wall Street Journal newspapers and The New Yorker magazines Hank had littered across her living room coffee table, the dirty breakfast dishes he had left piled in the kitchen sink for her to wash.

They both worked full time jobs. So why couldn't Hank at least help keep the place clean?

Shari fumed as she headed for the Andrew W. Mellon Collection where the Dutch paintings were hung. She covered the short distance to the self-portrait Rembrandt had painted during his later years after fame and patrons deserted him.

She felt an affinity with the artist whom she had always admired. She wanted to be an artist, yet no one--save her teachers--gave her a chance to exploit her talent. And like Rembrandt, she felt deserted.

She needed to be alone to think, away from the continuous reminders of the tentative relationship she had with Hank, her fiancé. This was the first opportunity she had to breathe freely in weeks. Besides, the museum was her favorite haunt in Washington, DC, carried over from the days when she majored in Fine Art. She was home--in a sense that only another artist, or a lover of art, could understand.

The odd feeling of being observed made her turn. As she suspected, the man had followed her. Her brow knit in a frown of curiosity. He looked familiar. Her mind pondered the possibility of where she might have seen or met him as she headed for another painting, her stiff gait sending a signal that she didn't want to be disturbed.