Elena's hand trembled as she stood before the glossy black door of James Harrison's mansion, her fingertips hovering over the doorbell. Six years of dreaming about this man, and now she would be living under his roof. The irony wasn't lost on her that her parents' solution to keep her safe while they worked abroad was to place her in the very situation that made her feel most dangerous to herself.

The door opened before she could ring, and there he stood – James Harrison in all his devastating glory. His charcoal suit jacket was missing, leaving him in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing strong forearms that had starred in more than one of her hidden sketches.

"Elena." Her name on his lips still had the same effect it did when she was sixteen, sending a shiver down her spine that she desperately hoped he didn't notice. "You're early."

"The movers were efficient." She tried for a casual smile, painfully aware of how her sundress clung to her curves in the humid Manhattan evening.

James's green eyes flickered over her for just a moment too long before he stepped back to let her in. "Your room is ready upstairs. I'll show you."

She followed him up the floating staircase, her artist's eye catching the way shadows played across his broad shoulders. The muscles in his back shifted beneath his shirt as he carried her heaviest suitcase with ease, making her fingers itch for her sketchbook.

"You've remodeled," she observed, trying to keep her voice steady as they reached the landing. The hallway seemed narrower than she remembered from childhood visits, forcing her to brush against him when they passed a stunning piece of modern art.

"I needed a change." His voice was controlled, professional, but she caught the slight tension in his jaw when her arm grazed his chest. "Your room is next to my study."

Of course it was. The universe had a cruel sense of humor.

The bedroom was beautiful, all clean lines and soft greys, with a wall of windows overlooking the Manhattan skyline. But it was the easel in the corner, already set up and waiting, that made her breath catch.

"I remembered you prefer natural light for painting," James said from behind her, close enough that she could smell his cologne – sandalwood and something uniquely him that she'd tried and failed to capture in words a hundred times.

"Thank you," she managed, turning to face him. It was a mistake. In the golden evening light, his features were sharp enough to cut, those green eyes holding hers with an intensity that made her forget every carefully rehearsed pleasantry.

"Elena." His voice had dropped lower, a warning in it that sent heat coursing through her. "This arrangement... we need to establish some boundaries."

"Of course," she agreed, taking a deliberate step closer. "I wouldn't want to disturb your work. I know how focused you need to be in your study."

His eyes narrowed slightly at her emphasis on the word 'focused.' "I mean it. You're Ramon's daughter. My responsibility."

"I'm not a child anymore, James." She reached past him to grab her bag, letting her arm brush his chest again. This time, she felt his sharp intake of breath. "I know exactly what I am."

For a moment, something dark and hungry flashed across his face, making her heart race. Then he stepped back, his expression settling into careful neutrality. "Dinner's at seven. I'll let you get settled."

He turned to leave, his movements measured and controlled, but paused at the door. "And Elena? That dress... it's not appropriate for dinner."

The door clicked shut behind him before she could respond, leaving her both frustrated and triumphant. If he'd noticed the dress, he'd noticed her. It was a start.

Elena unpacked slowly, aware of the sound of movement from his study next door. Each time she heard his footsteps or the subtle creak of his desk chair, she imagined him just as aware of her presence. She changed into a simple black dress for dinner, more conservative but still elegant, and couldn't help smirking at the thought of James specifically thinking about what she should wear.

By the time she descended the stairs for dinner, the sun had set over Manhattan, leaving the house in intimate lighting that did nothing to ease the tension. She found him in the kitchen, sleeves still rolled up, now wearing a black apron as he stirred something that smelled divine.

"I didn't know you cooked," she said, leaning against the doorframe.

James looked up, and for a split second, his careful mask slipped as his eyes tracked down her body. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Elena."

She moved into the kitchen, ostensibly to help but really to test how close she could get before he stepped away. "I'd like to learn."

The wooden spoon stilled in his hand. "Elena..."

"Yes?" She reached past him for a wine glass, her body barely brushing his.

This time, he didn't step back. Instead, he turned to face her, trapping her between his body and the counter. "This isn't a game you want to play."

Elena tilted her head up to meet his gaze, her heart pounding. "What if it is?"

For one electric moment, she thought he might close the distance between them. His eyes dropped to her lips, his breathing uneven. Then the timer went off, shattering the tension, and he stepped away as if burned.

"Set the table," he ordered, his voice rough. "And Elena? Remember who I am."

She gathered plates and silverware, fighting a smile. "Oh, I never forget that, James. Not for a moment."

The real question was, how long could he keep forgetting who she'd become?

Dinner was an exquisite torture. James had made pasta alla vodka, the scent of garlic and cream filling the kitchen as they sat at the island rather than the formal dining room. Elena watched the way his throat moved when he sipped his wine, how his fingers curled around the stem of the glass – details she'd have to commit to canvas later, in secret.

"How's the gallery preparation coming along?" he asked, clearly aiming for safe conversation.

"Sofia's handling most of it. The space needs renovation before we can open." Elena twirled pasta around her fork, aware of his eyes on her hands. "Actually, I was hoping to get your professional opinion on the layout."

"You want me to consult on your gallery?" There was that tension in his jaw again.

"Unless you're afraid to work with me?" She met his gaze over the rim of her wine glass.

"I'm not afraid of anything, Elena." The way he said her name made it sound like a sin and a prayer at once.

"Then what are you?"

"Careful." He set his glass down with deliberate precision. "Which is what you should be."

Elena leaned forward slightly, letting her hair fall over one shoulder. "You always taught me to take risks in art. Isn't that what you said? 'Safe art is dead art'?"

"We're not talking about art."

"Aren't we?" She stood, gathering their empty plates. "Everything is art, James. The way light falls across a face, the tension in a held breath, the space between two people when they're trying not to touch..." She moved past him to the sink, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body.

James stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "I have work to finish."

"At eight PM?"

"Some of us actually sleep at night instead of painting until dawn."

Elena turned, finding him closer than she'd expected. "How do you know when I paint?"

A muscle ticked in his cheek. "I notice things. Like the light under your door at your parents' house when you visit. The paint stains on your hands at breakfast."

"What else do you notice?"

His eyes darkened. "Everything. That's the problem."

Before she could process that admission, he was gone, leaving her alone in the kitchen with nothing but the hum of the dishwasher and her racing heart for company.

Elena took her time cleaning up, every domestic action charged with the knowledge that this was now her home. Her space. Their space. The thought sent a shiver down her spine as she wiped down the counters, imagining countless more evenings like this, each one a delicate dance of attraction and restraint.

Upstairs, she could hear him moving in his study – the occasional creak of his chair, the soft thud of books being reshelved. She wondered if he was actually working or just avoiding her. Either way, the awareness of his presence was maddening.

In her room, Elena changed into her painting clothes – loose linen pants and a thin tank top splattered with old paint stains. She set up her easel by the windows, where the city lights created a perfect ambiance. Her hands moved automatically, squeezing oils onto her palette in familiar patterns.

The first strokes were always the most honest. Tonight, they were all heat and shadow, deep greens bleeding into blacks and golds. She lost herself in the rhythm of creation, barely noticing the hours slipping by until a knock at her door startled her back to reality.

"Elena?" James's voice was rough with fatigue. "It's past midnight."

She looked down at her paint-stained hands, at the canvas that was definitely not suitable for his eyes. "Just finishing up!"

"You need sleep. The paint will still be there tomorrow."

The concern in his voice made her stomach flip. "Yes, Dad," she called back sarcastically, needing to break the intimate tension.

There was a long pause. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, dangerous. "I told you before. I'm not your father."

The heat in his tone made her shiver. "No," she said softly, knowing he could hear her through the door. "You're definitely not."

His footsteps retreated down the hall, but the electricity in the air remained. Elena turned back to her canvas, studying the way she'd unconsciously captured the exact shade of his eyes in the darkness, the suggestion of strong hands emerging from shadow.

She'd have to hide this one with the others. Her collection of forbidden paintings, each one a confession she couldn't speak aloud. At least, not yet.

The clock struck one as she finally cleaned her brushes, the simple task made difficult by her shaking hands. Through the wall, she could still hear him moving in his study. Neither of them sleeping, both pretending the other wasn't the reason why.

As she finally slipped into bed, Elena smiled into the darkness. Day one down. Seven hundred and twenty-nine to go. Each one a chance to make him see her as the woman she'd become, to crack that perfect control he wore like armor.

Her last thought before sleep claimed her was of the way he'd looked at her in the kitchen, that moment when his mask had slipped. In two years, she could crack a lot of masks.

The game was just beginning, and Elena Martinez played to win.