Finally, he spoke. His voice was rough, stripped of its corporate polish.

  "I've been having dreams," he said. "For years. Mountains. Snow. A woman with dark hair standing at the edge of a cliff, calling a name I can never remember when I wake." He swallowed hard. "And then I saw you, and the dreams changed. Now I see you in the coffee shop. In the park. In the corner of my eye."

  My heart stopped.

  "What do you see?" I whispered.

  He took a step toward me. Then another. We were close enough now that I could see the pulse beating in his throat, the tiny flecks of silver in his dark eyes.

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  "I see you," he said. "On a mountain. In a ballroom. In a smoky room that smells of paint and death. I see you reaching for me, and I can never quite reach back." His voice cracked. "Who are you, Giana? What are you doing in my head?"

  I reached up—slowly, giving him time to pull away—and touched his face. His skin was warm. Real. After all these centuries, he was warm and real and looking at me like I was the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life.

  "I'm the woman who's been looking for you," I said. "For a very long time."

  He didn't pull away. He closed his eyes and leaned into my touch, just for a moment. Just long enough for me to feel the tears I was holding back threaten to spill.

  Then his eyes opened, and the shutters were back. He stepped away. Put distance between us.