“Good.” He dropped his arm. “Let me go see if Cat wants to take a break.” He shook his head. “She has the classic artistic temperament. I never know when she’s going to go off on me, so don’t be surprised if you hear a lot of screaming.”

He sounded more excited than upset by the prospect.

“Cat?” she asked, remembering the female welder.

But Tucker was already gone, walking quickly into the building.

Nevada walked to the door and watched as he gracefully climbed the scaffolding. When he reached the welder, he touched her on the shoulder. The sparks stopped and the woman removed her protective gear.

Even from all the way across the building, Nevada could tell she was beautiful. Long, dark hair tumbled halfway down her back in cascading waves. A classically beautiful face — wide eyes, high cheekbones and a full mouth. The woman stepped out of a jumpsuit, revealing a cropped T-shirt and shorts, long, perfect legs and a waist small enough to belong on a model.

She and Tucker descended the scaffolding together.

Once again Nevada was unable to move, but it wasn’t Tucker who held her in place — it was her own sense of insignificance. The woman was older than Nevada, and probably a couple of years older than Tucker. Even casually dressed, she had an air of sophistication. Men wrote songs for women like that, went to war for them, loved them.

As the couple approached, Nevada wanted to run. She forced herself to stand there, knowing she would probably trip over her own feet if she tried to get away.

“So, you’re Tucker’s friend,” the woman said, her voice low and sultry, with a slight accent. “I’m delighted to finally meet you. I’m Caterina Stoicasescu.” She held out her long, slender hand.

“Nevada Hendrix.”

Nevada shook the strong, scarred hand, doing her best to keep her mouth from hanging open. Her gaze went from the woman to the sculpture and back.