St Kilda Consulting 02 - Innocent as Sin

his critic, still with the scent of cinnamon in his lungs, in his blood. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
    “No. I’m just jealous. If I had that kind of instant insight into people…” Kayla shrugged. “It would be useful.” Understatement of the year. Maybe the decade. “At the very least, I’d be rich.”
    Rand gave in to temptation and glanced briefly at Kayla. She was turned half away from him. If you didn’t look in her eyes, she seemed younger than he knew she was. Her body was athletic, fit, attractive, and so tightly strung she all but vibrated. Tan skin, black linen, and a scoop-neck silk blouse that just revealed a small rose tattoo on her collarbone.
    He wanted to lick it.
    This is one hell of a bad time to get a boner.
    But there it was. Her dossier had intrigued him, his dreams had been hot, and her reality was even hotter.
    Cursing silently, he focused on the canvas and said, “I thought everybody here was rich.”
    “Some of us are hired help. We get to drink the champagne, but first we have to dance attendance.” Kayla hoped the artist didn’t hear the bitterness in her voice.
    “Yeah, I bet the Bertones have cast-iron whims,” Rand said casually. “At least she does. I haven’t seen him. Is he here tonight?”
    “Yes.” She knew her voice was too curt, but she couldn’t doanything about it. Bertone flat-out scared her. “I’ve seen a painting before…”
    “Of course.”
    Her laugh was as tight as her body. “No, I mean a painting like this.”
    “Same subject?”
    “It has nothing to do with the subject.”
    There was silence, the soft sound of paint spreading on canvas, and then, “Meaning?”
    “I’m not saying this very well,” Kayla said. “There’s something…the way you see light. No, the way you paint it. Alive and powerful, defining the ridgeline and the fountain and even the wild rosebushes around the helipad beyond the pool. I’ve seen that kind of light before.” She laughed suddenly. “I bought one of your paintings at a garage sale. R. McCree, right?”
    R. McCree. The name rang in Rand’s mind. Does she have one of Reed’s paintings?
    “That’s right,” he said. “Rand McCree.” He certainly wasn’t going to raise the issue of his murdered twin with the killer’s banker.
    “I don’t remember you being on the program.”
    “I’m a late entry,” he said easily, but he was careful not to look at her. He’d seen more beautiful women, but none of them had the ability to blow his concentration to hell like she did.
    With a feeling close to awe, Kayla watched Rand bring the canvas to life. The result was beautiful but not at all mild. A very masculine kind of beauty. Intense. Edgy. Riveting.
    Like him.
    “Garage sale, huh?” Rand said. “Which painting?”
    “‘Maybe the Dawn’ is written across the back, along with a date.” Then she said quickly, “Garage sale sounds awful. It was really an estate sale.”
    “I feel a lot better,” he said dryly. “But I’m sorry to know that Mrs. Braceley is dead. She hoped she’d live to be one hundred if she got away from the Pacific Northwest’s cold rain.”
    A woman’s artfully modulated laughter rose above the sound of the fountain. Elena Bertone, responding to something a gorgeous young man had said to her.
    “My hostess,” Rand said. “See a lot of her in the society pages. Haven’t seen a picture of him, though.”
    “He’s a very private man. This is only the second event he’s attended. Elena is the public face of the Bertones.”
    “So this is a really special occasion.”
    “Yeah. I’m betting that Elena expects this shindig to cement her position on the board of directors of the Plein-Air Museum.”
    “That’s important to her?” Rand asked.
    “One way or another,” Kayla said absently, watching Rand work, “Elena has put out several million dollars in the name of Phoenix art, so yes, it must be important to her. Not to mention how she twisted arms and called in favors so that most of the important socialites and half the politicians in the West are here.”
    Then Kayla heard her words and cringed. Private bankers shouldn’t gossip about their clients. It was a fast way to get fired.
    “Forget I said that,” she said quickly. “I was paying attention to your art rather than my tongue.”
    “Forget you said what? I didn’t hear a thing,” he said.
    He heard her long breath of relief and almost smiled. He didn’t blame her for being nervous.