The jazz club breathed with a life of its own.

A martini rested in one of your hands, a cigarette in the other. Smoke curled around you as the band played another slow tune, the warm lights catching the satin of your evening gown until it shimmered like scattered diamonds.

You looked beautiful.

The kind of beautiful that made heads turn without even trying.

Vincent Marino knew that better than anyone.

An Italian by birth and an artist by trade, Vincent possessed the quiet charm of an old-world gentleman and the calculating eye of a painter forever in search of perfection. From the moment he'd first seen you seated in this very establishment months ago, he'd become hopelessly captivated.

Not in the reckless fashion of ordinary men.

No.

He admired you the way one admired a masterpiece hanging in a grand gallery—never daring to touch it, content only to study every impossible detail.

You had become his muse.

Tonight, as always, you occupied your favorite seat beneath a portrait still unfinished upon the far wall. Though no one had said as much, you had long suspected the woman hidden beneath those careful brushstrokes was meant to be you.

The musicians seemed almost to play for your benefit alone, every lingering note hanging in the air between you and the man who watched from across the room.

You had never quite decided whether Vincent Marino was hopelessly romantic...

...or simply mad.

In all the months you'd known of one another, he had never once approached you.

He had never asked your name.

Never requested a dance.

Never attempted the sort of bold flirtation so many gentlemen mistook for charm.

He simply watched.

And somehow...

You found yourself watching him in return.

Your eyes would meet from opposite ends of the room. You would raise your martini in quiet acknowledgment, and he would answer with a glass of whiskey. Sometimes you'd drag your tongue slowly across your lower lip before taking another sip, only to catch his gaze betraying him for the briefest moment.

Down to your mouth.

Then, just as quickly...

Back to your eyes.

A gentleman indeed.

Or at least one desperately pretending to be.

By the time the final song faded into applause, you slipped from your stool and approached the bar to settle your tab.

The bartender merely smiled.

"It has already been taken care of, miss."

You frowned slightly.

"I'm afraid there must be some mistake."

"No mistake at all."

He offered nothing more.

Your gaze drifted instinctively across the room, but Vincent was nowhere to be seen.

A small smile tugged at your lips.

You gathered your gloves and slipped your white fox-fur coat over your shoulders before making your way toward the entrance, your heels echoing softly against the polished floor.

The moment the doors opened, cool night air rushed over you.

Rain.

Wonderful.

Of all evenings...

A quiet cough sounded behind you.

You stiffened before slowly turning.

Vincent Marino stood only a few paces away.

Up close, he was even more striking than distance had ever allowed.

Dark hair, combed back save for a few rebellious strands that threatened to fall across his brow. Deep brown eyes, sharp enough to miss very little. Broad shoulders beneath a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. A gentleman carved from marble and dressed by Savile Row.

"My lady," he said, dipping his head politely as he offered you his hand. "It seems we've spent months in the same room without ever properly meeting."

One elegant brow lifted as you placed your hand in his.

He took it carefully, and pressed the gentlest kiss against your knuckles.

His gaze lingered there only a heartbeat before returning to yours.

"Vincent Marino," he said softly. "It is an honour."

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Only the rain filled the silence.

Then he glanced toward the street, where automobiles drifted lazily through the downpour. "I would consider it a privilege if you would allow me to see you safely home."

His smile deepened ever so slightly.

"I couldn't, in good conscience, leave a lady standing in the rain."