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old ones.” She gave me a slightly crooked smile and her eyes were inquisitive, as though she was feeling out how interested I really was in her career and what compelled her.
    “Like this one, I guess.” I hoped my expression showed my genuine enthusiasm for learning from her.
    “Exactly. Winter fascinates me actually.”
    “Does it really?”
    “Yes. It’s more like someone’s personal project than a large scale prestige property. Someone designed it exactly as they wanted to, with very little concern for architectural fashion.” The timbre of her voice grew warmer and deeper as her passion for her subject increased.
    “Like you and your suit,” I said, then flushed. “Not that it’s not fashionable—”
    “I hope it’s not actually.” She smirked slightly as though she rather enjoyed an element of the awkwardness between us. “Style and fashion are rather different things, don’t you think?”
    “Absolutely.” I saw her brief examination of my own outfit and wondered what conclusions she drew. “Is it the same with this house?”
    “Yes. As I mentioned before, the façade is pure Palladian, but the clock tower is baroque.”
    “I think I know what baroque is, but you’ll have to enlighten me what you mean by Palladian,” I admitted. “But have a seat first.” Anna glanced at the small folding stool and the camping bed and elected to perch on the bed. I felt an odd twinge as she did so, the action feeling like an invasion of my personal space but not a wholly unwelcome one. The way she held my gaze as she lowered herself gave me the unsettling feeling she knew exactly what effect she was creating. I tried not to think about it, looking away as I settled myself onto the stool. But I felt strangely compelled to learn more of what was behind her rigid façade, so I forced myself to continue the conversation, looking back into those intense eyes. “I am interested to learn a bit more about architecture. I really know very little.”
     I was glad of my ignorance in the next moment because Anna’s entire expression lit up with enthusiasm at the chance to explain the architectural concepts she’d mentioned. With that fire in her eyes and a smile she barely seemed conscious of on her pink lips, she was transformed from striking to beautiful. I felt a dangerous heat creep through my body and willed myself to concentrate on her words.
    “Baroque bent all the rules. It was curvy and feminine.” Her eyes flicked to mine as if she was watching for a reaction. I wondered what she expected, and felt warm. Her smile curled wider before she went on. “Even the word itself is rather beautiful. It’s from the Portuguese meaning misshapen pearl . You had twisted columns, oval rooms, sculptural designs. Though it followed patterns, it didn’t seem precise. It was artistic and dreamy.” Her voice, infused with zeal for her subject, deepened further, while remaining within its clearly defined range of expression. I found my gaze drawn from our intermittent eye contact to those pink lips that curved and shaped with such appeal when she spoke. I made myself look back to her blue eyes, the ice entirely melted now.
    She hesitated and raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure you’re interested?” I wondered if I’d missed something, a question I was supposed to answer, while I was busy contemplating the change that had occurred in her eyes.
    “Very much so,” I said, leaning forward on my stool.
    “In the architecture?” she enquired, in what sounded suspiciously like a teasing tone. I frowned and flushed. Had I heard her correctly? Or was my imagination adding implications that weren’t intended?
    “I’m very interested in the architecture.” I tried to keep any trace of either embarrassment or indignation out of my tone. It was possible I’d misheard her. Again her eyes lingered on mine for a moment longer than was necessary, and I thought I saw amusement there. Her measured expressions were infuriating