Nikki stuttered, held in place by the intensity in Mark’s voice. She couldn’t look away from his eyes. Mark pushed off his desk and walked deliberately toward Nikki, stopping close enough that she could just feel the edges of the warmth of his body. This close she could smell him, too - he smelled like something that didn’t come out of a bottle. No cologne smelled like spice and rain. “I said, how do you know what painting is going to be stolen next?” Her gaze drifted down to his hands, but they were hanging by his sides, nowhere close to touching her. Nikki told herself that she wasn’t disappointed. “Oh. Well, it’s just a guess, but the thief stole a Monet and then a Renoir. That’s the beginning and the end of the Impressionist era in art. The first real master of Post-Impressionism is arguably Van Gogh. So I just thought, if there was going to be another one stolen, it would be one of his…” As she spoke, Mark’s eyes narrowed in focus and Nikki felt her breath catch in her throat.
