Better keep his asshole tendencies in check, then.

He pushed the door open and his body thanked him for the warm blast. The gratitude did not extend to his ears, however. Classical music assaulted them where something hard edged with a booming bass would have been more welcome. The feeling of having stepped into a strange new world washed over him.

“Be with you in a second,” a muffled voice came from the back.

Moving farther in, Beck scanned the surroundings, first looking for exits. Nothing marked, which was against code. He tripped his gaze over the walls. Every inch advertised the shop’s craft: cartoon figures, superheroes, skulls, half skulls/half devils, half skulls/half Marilyns, winged hearts, arrowed hearts, hearts inset with Mom. The whole gamut.

Another few steps brought a whole other level of artistry into view. A raven-haired woman bent over a client, a tattoo machine poised in her gloved hand. On her exposed shoulder blade, a flock of birds gathered low before taking flight at the base of her slender neck. Inked cuffs laced her toned biceps, a shocking contrast to her porcelain skin and the white tank top barely covering purple bra straps. One of them fell in dishevelment off her rounded shoulder, the kind of messiness that always stirred him up. Pretty damn sexy.

As was the rest of her. Slim, with full hips that flared and kept her short black skirt snugly in place. The ink picked up along her left thigh, a vine of blue roses that disappeared into her biker boot. Sexy and badass.

Beck felt a ping in his chest—perhaps more of the strange new world effect, but something was off. All firemen learned to recognize that whisper, that gut check, and shit if he wasn’t feeling it now. Seeking his bearings, he scoured the walls and let his eyes rest on signs that broke up the images:

“Love lasts forever but a tattoo lasts six months longer.”

“Tattoos hurt. No bitching, whining, or passing out.”

“A man without tattoos is invisible to the gods.”

Were the gods looking down on him now, laughing at his torment? Giving him a taste of Darcy and what might have been, only to snatch her away from him again? He’d spent his whole life defying those fuckers’ plans for him. The gods could go screw themselves.

Something glanced by his legs, and he dropped his gaze to an obese tabby cat that reminded him of another place and a time long gone. It rubbed against his jeans affectionately.

Then it hissed.

Beck’s eyes widened in recognition. That cat had always hated him.

No way. No. Fucking. Way.

“I’m looking for someone who lives around here,” he said, but he already knew he’d found her.

She straightened, every muscle in her curvaceous body locking up tight. Carefully, she raised the machine from her client’s arm and placed it down on a tray like it was loaded. As she turned, hints of color peeked out above the edge of her left bra cup.

The blinding realization that had crashed over him about ten seconds ago was just now catching up to make his skin buzz. Still, it was nowhere near enough time to adjust to this new information. He had known she loved to draw, but he never imagined this. Could never have connected the neurons to even dream it. Darcy Cochrane, tatted and dressed like she belonged here. Like this was her world.

The Earth had flipped on its axis, dragging his brain along for the crazy ride.

“How did you find me?” she asked, cool as the other side of the pillow.

“I have my ways, princesa.”

Long denim-clad legs swung off the chair behind her, and combat boots thumped the ground. A beast of a man towered over Darcy’s shoulder, boasting raw scar tissue on the right side of his face that gave the impression he’d road tripped to hell and made a few friends there. His protective stance sent a surge of fury through Beck.

Darcy and . . . nah-ah.

“It’s okay,” she said, looking up into her protector’s smoke-dark eyes. “Beck’s an old friend.”

Old friend? Hell yeah, he was.

With care and a slightly unsteady hand, she placed a wrap over her recent work, which looked like—was that a habanero pepper? Both of the guy’s arms were blanketed in ink, barely room to spare for a postage stamp.

“I’ll stay while you lock up,” the brute said, one eye on Darcy, the other on Beck.

“I’ve got this, Brady.”

Brady crossed his arms resolutely and planted his feet.

Seeming to arrive at a decision, Darcy pushed out a noisy breath. “Brady, Beck. Beck, Brady.”

This dude was clearly important to her, not in a romantic sense, because if he was her man there would be zero debate about leaving her solo with another guy. But he was important on some other level, a realization that did not put Beck at ease. Darcy seemed A-okay with the situation, though. Her worlds had collided and she was figuring it out—with a lot more mental agility than Beck.

Beck stepped forward and held out his hand, half amused because the situation had the ring of a hostage handoff in Berlin circa 1985. She’s safe with me, new scary friend. Brady acknowledged Beck’s outstretched hand with a look but refused to take it. Alrighty, then.

Without further pleasantries, not even a “later” for Darcy, Brady headed out into the Chiberian night in short sleeves, ink as armor. Watch out, darkness.

Beck turned back to Darcy, his surprise momentarily giving way to blatant curiosity. “Where’d you find him?”

“Paris. Don’t take the handshake thing personally. He doesn’t like to be touched.” She clicked off the music with a remote control, and then with nimble fingers unhooked the needles from the tattoo machine and placed the apparatus in a box like a cube-shaped microwave. Entranced, he watched her, waiting for the wavy lines in front of his eyes to clear. On the off chance he was stuck in a crazy fever dream, he shut his lids, counted to three, and opened them again.

Nope, still there.

Darcy Cochrane, heiress, charity doyenne, and one of Chicago’s elite, had turned into a tattooed biker chick. So, no motorcycle as far as he knew, but she had the boots and the ’tude and the fucking ink. This was a million times removed from old Darcy with her pink, fuzzy sweater that used to have him in fits. And not even on the same planet as Darcy 2.0 from last night with the designer clothes and the pearls.

“Think I’m gonna need the non-Twitter version, Darcy.”

“Oh, but we never needed words, querido.”

Throwing his own smooth line back in his face? Nicely done, princesa.

He leaned on the counter, making it abundantly clear he was settling in for the long haul. In the bruising silence, he raked his gaze over her from head to toe, trying to craft his own story of what her body art meant. Last night she hinted at bad blood between her and Daddy, but hell if this wasn’t one head-kicking case of rebellion. Those images were etched into her skin for a reason.

“So paint me a picture.”

* * *

Oh, he looked good. Grumpy and annoyed that he didn’t have all the information, sure, but surly had always looked like sex on him. All that heart-wrenching intensity, and when it had been focused on her as he moved inside her, it was so easy to believe they were the last two people on Earth.

Mr. Miggins, her crusty old kitty, snaked a figure eight through Darcy’s legs and scratched out a plaintive mewl. Evidently, already feeling the tension.

May as well start with the easy stuff. “I’m filling in for the owner who heads to Florida this time every year. Snowbird. I do this during the downtime when Grams can’t bear the sight of me fussing around her. I’m staying in the apartment upstairs.”

“That covers the last three months.”

Needing to do something, anything, to escape his visual dissection, she turned the knob to the high setting on the autoclave so the tattoo iron would be sterilized in fifteen minutes, then set about tidying up her work area. Always be moving.

“I’ve been in Paris for the last couple of years, working with François Bernet. He’s a well-known tattoo artist and he’s taught me a lot.” Both in and out of the sack, when he wasn’t being a controlling French jerk, but Beck didn’t need to hear that.

Too late. The crimp creasing his forehead said he’d read between the lines and come away with “Darcy did Paris” in more ways than one.

After some first-rate glowering, he found his voice again. “I knew you loved art, but . . .”

“You had no idea how much?”

“I’m pretty sure Skin Ink 101 is not an elective at Harvard.”

She sighed. “I dropped out my sophomore year. The expectations . . . well, they got to be too much.”

“Was your engagement part of those expectations?”

She had wanted to study art, but there was no room in her father’s plans for a foolish girl’s dreams. A Chicago media and real estate tycoon, Sam Cochrane had a rather feudal attitude when it came to the family’s fortunes. For years he had treated his children as cogs in a plan to consolidate power without dirtying his hands with outright politicking. The front lines were of no interest to him, not when playing puppet master suited him better. The Collinses were a wealthy Connecticut family where everyone over the age of thirty was a U.S. congressman and had numbers after their names. Preston was the dynasty’s most eligible bachelor.

“I met Preston at a political fund-raiser my father encouraged me to attend. We dated for a few months and he asked me to marry him. I was only nineteen. I thought it was what I wanted, but every day closer to the wedding I became more panicked. I bailed two weeks before the big day.”