She mentally shook her head. No one—not Jonathan, Barbara, or anyone else—would see what was behind that curtain, not if she could help it.
“This was great as always, Dad,” Sabrina said as she opened the front door. “Thanks.”
“Of course, sweetheart.” He placed a kiss on her forehead. “If you need anything—”
“I know, Dad.” She brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “I love you.”
“Love you too.” With a final wave goodbye, her father stepped into the elevator, and she shut the door, locking in the deadbolt and chain for good measure.
Dinners with her father were one of the few things she looked forward to, and while she knew he couldn’t come every night, Jonathan did his best and came over at least thrice a week. It was their time to catch up, and for a few moments, Sabrina forgot that she lived the life of a shut-in.
With a deep sigh, she picked up the half-empty boxes of food and stuck them into the fridge, then put the plates and glasses in the dishwasher. She was about to head into the bedroom when she stopped, turned, and headed to her studio.
Maybe I should just start over again. Those paintings were missing something. Why did she feel the need to make them anyway? It was like a chronological depiction of how pathetic her life had become—while she used to enjoy things like going out to Central Park or Wicked Brew, now she was stuck here, in a prison that she seemingly made herself.
An odd chill crawled up her arm. It was like she wasn’t alone. Rubbing her hands on her arms, she turned and walked out of the studio. Another chill blasted through her.
“W-who’s there?” she said, then cursed silently. That was stupid of her, because if someone was out there, now they knew she knew they were there.
A shuffling sound made her start, and her heart went wild. Someone was in here! Without a second thought, she dashed to the bathroom and locked the door. “Oh God, oh God!” Frantically, she glanced around, wondering if there was anything she could use for a weapon. If only she’d thought to grab a knife in the kitchen or something. Flattening herself against the sink, she stared at the door, watching the light from under the small gap between the floor and the door.
Shadows crept in, blocking the light. She released the breath she was holding. “Whoever you are, you better leave! I’ve just called the police.” Crap, she should have gotten her phone. Hopefully the intruder hadn’t seen it on the kitchen counter.
The door jiggled.
“L-l-leave me alone!” she cried. “I have jewelry and cash in the drawer next to the bed. Y-y-you can have it all.” Slowly, she slid to the floor and hugged her arms around her knees. “Please.” A squeak escaped her mouth, and her eyes shut tight when she heard a loud crash.
“Sabrina.”
That voice.
She was sure she’d never heard that voice before, so why did her heart skip a beat? Why did a strange, warm sensation pool in her stomach? Slowly, she lifted her head.
Oh.
Eyes the color of the sea stared down at her. There was something about them … it was more than that they looked familiar. No, it was like she knew those eyes. And that nose, those cheekbones, and that mouth. That face! This was …
It couldn’t be!
A lightheaded feeling came over her. No, no, no. But how could it be? How could he be standing here, in the flesh?
“Sabrina. You need to come with me.”
She bolted up to her feet, ignoring the sudden rush of blood to her brain. “E-e-excuse me?”
“I don’t have any time to explain.” He ran his hand through his golden hair—he’d shaved the sides, though. “You’re in danger, and I can’t let you fall into their hands.”
“Danger?” she echoed. “From whom?” His mere presence overwhelmed her in this tiny space, and she tried to move aside, but he caught her hand. Electricity shot up through her arm, like a really strong shock of static. There was a flicker of acknowledgement in his blue-green eyes. “You felt that too?”
“Sabrina—”
She yanked her hand away. “And how do you … how did you … how could you …”
He frowned. “How could I what? Know your name?”
This was a stranger who had somehow broken into her home, but she didn’t feel scared or threatened. No, instead there was a hum of excitement in the air, tinged with longing.
“Please, Sabrina.” The low timbre of his voice was like a caress. “Come with me.”
A sudden surge of boldness sent her heart beating like mad. “No, I won’t come with you! Not until you tell me w-w-why …”
“Why what?”
She dashed around him, running through the doorway and out to the living area. He called her name, but she didn’t stop as she ran all the way to her studio. Was she doing the right thing? Well, she was going to find out.
Just as she expected, he followed her, his footsteps coming closer. She halted by the curtained partition and spun around. “Tell me why!”
“Why what?”
Grasping the curtain, she flung it aside. It was obvious from the way his eyes grew wide and his mouth hung open that he was shocked. She couldn’t move, not even to look behind her. Not that she needed to. “Why … why do I keep painting you?”
“Sabrina …” His voice came out in a whispered choke.
“That’s you, right?” She gestured wildly to the dozen or so paintings behind her. “That’s you!” A portrait of him in Central Park, sitting on a bench. “And that one too.” Standing on Fifth Avenue, hailing a cab. “And that one.” It was a half-formed bust in clay, not very good because sculpting hadn’t been her best subject in art
