I need to speak to you privately.” The low murmur lifted the hair on Tilda’s nape and sent a delicate shudder down her spine. She trusted that between the crowd around Sheba and her position in the dim light between spotlights in the Bleecker Street Gallery, no one noticed. “Hello, Daniel,” she said. He stepped closer, wrapping his arm around her waist before he kissed her cheek. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I got caught up at work.” “No worries,” she replied. “Did you get a glass of wine? Some hors d’oeuvres?” “In a minute,” he said. “I haven’t seen much of you this week. When do you think this will let up?” In the last month she’d been to Tokyo again, and on several conference calls at odd hours, adjusting for locations around the globe. As worn as the phrase was, she barely knew if she was coming or going. “I don’t know,”
