Page 67 of Eternal Obsession

My bespoke, perfectly tailored suit—complete with an elaborate waistcoat—might have been a bit much for a quiet evening at one of my favorite haunts, but dressing this way was how I held onto my humanity, in the finest that Savile Row had to offer.

Unable to stay away from Raphael’s portrait for long, I returned to the National Gallery in need of my St. Catherine of Alexandria fix.

I kept the same time and place, a small ritual for my Catherine, always hoping she might eventually meet me here.

I was so completely engrossed with the painting that my trancelike demeanor must have appeared eerie to the other guests who admired the artwork. It certainly drew the unwanted attention of one woman who neared me and studied my expression.

She was fascinated that my focus never strayed.

I assumed she would eventually move on but for the moment, she—like me—was predictably mesmerized by Raphael’s portrait. Turning toward the pretty petite female, aged twenty-five or so, I stared directly at her, hoping it would make her uncomfortable and force her away.

She had a fragile beauty. She held my gaze.

I snapped my head back at the painting, unnerved.

She took a few steps back to survey the portrait more fully.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” She drew closer.

She had a striking presence, deep brown eyes, high cheekbones, and long, dark hair that framed her face with effortless elegance. Her sun-kissed complexion and poised demeanor gave her a quiet confidence. A seeming calm self-assurance.

My supernatural gift promised even more was waiting to unfold if I let myself soften to this spontaneous meeting with a beautiful stranger.

Still, this was a bad idea.

Silence. I would try that.

“She’s hypnotic,” she said.

I shoved my hands in my pockets.

“You don’t say much, do you?” The pretty girl smiled at me.

“Raphael does capture her essence beautifully,” I said.

“Raphael. What an amazing painter.”

Polite reply, politically correct social behavior. Now go away.

“This must be the best gallery in town,” she said.

“You mean other than the Tate?” I asked. I had made her uncomfortable and felt overly rude. “Do you know her story? The story of St. Catherine?” I asked her.

“Yes. I’m Catholic, so I was breastfed on saints.”

I stared at her, amused that she blushed. Actually, the stranger was gorgeous.

“So was I, raised to adore saints, that is,” I said to ease her discomfort.

“Perhaps that’s why we are drawn to them now.”

“Perhaps.”

“Is this your first time to the gallery?” she asked.

“No, so many other paintings to see.” I checked my watch. “The gallery closes in an hour so you’d better hurry if you want to see everything.”

She furrowed her brow.