Chapter 8

“It’s okay,” he said in a strangely gentle, but still commanding way. “You can look.”

I did look—at the large tattoo that covered his shoulder. Quite apart from the masculine roundness of his shoulder muscle, the tattoo itself was well worth looking at. It was a detail of a large wave, the blue of the water extending into curling fingers of white foam, various details outlined in black.

He flexed his arm, which made the wave tremble, and said, “It’s from a Japanese painting, The Great Waveor something. Supposed to be quite famous. You like?”

“It’s beautiful!” I murmured, my enthusiasm so marked that Shawn chuckled in a gratified way. The blue against the olive of his skin was, I thought, subtly perfect. But I recognized the image. I got up, went to one of my bookshelves, and took off a large volume.

Sitting down on the sofa I flipped through the pages.

“Here it is,” I said, showing it to him. “‘Under the Wave off Kanagawa’ by Hokusai, nineteenth century.”