St Kilda Consulting 02 - Innocent as Sin

stick.
    “Thanks so much for your indulgence, Mrs. Bertone,” Rand said. “I’ll try to do your beauty justice, but oils are a poor substitute for skin that glows like yours.”
    Elena’s laugh was soft and sexy. “You’re a brash rascal, aren’t you?”
    “You have no idea,” Rand said, flashing his teeth. “How else would an artist get away with asking thousands of dollars for thirty dollars’ worth of paint and canvas?”
    Before he looked toward Kayla—and Bertone—Rand lowered the camera, capped the visible lens, and pointed it at the ground like it was the muzzle of a pistol. He sensed Bertone watching every motion until the camera vanished inside the backpack once more.
    Only then did Rand glance up to Kayla.
    Bertone was still staring at him.
    For an instant Rand was afraid that Bertone had finally recognized him. Then Bertone nodded, his head moving more than an inch but less than two. He went back to his conversation.
    Rand casually waved his thanks to Kayla and headed back to his easel. As he walked, he put one of the earbuds back in.
    “Got it. Twenty times.”
    “Sounds like you damn near got Elena in the sheets, you silver-tongued devil.”
    Rand scratched his shirt over the microphone head, making Faroe’s ears ring.

21
    Castillo del Cielo
Saturday
6:45 P.M. MST
    R eluctantly Kayla approached the broad flagstone terrace that stepped down to the gardens, forming a natural stage. Three canvases were set up along one side. Three artists waited to see who got the big check and who got a fiscal pat on the head.
    Deliberately Kayla didn’t look at Reed. The fact that his canvas was hands down the best of the lot just made her angrier.
    That doesn’t mean he’ll win. What do I know about art?
    The only good news was that Andre Bertone had vanished. The terrace was blazing with photographers’ lights. The awarding of the checks would be recorded for the pages of the local papers and the glossy lifestyle magazines that catered to Phoenix socialites.
    Kayla took her place a few steps out of the spotlight. With every breath of wind, the ridiculously large presentation checks she clutched threatened to pull her off balance. At center stage Elena announced the Fast Draw winners.
    Rand McCree came in third.
    Arizona artists came in first and second.
    Elena wasn’t stupid. She understood her audience very well, and the need to flatter local pride.
    Kayla didn’t know which disgusted her more—Elena’s socially correct choices, Rand’s unblushing use of flattery to get ahead, or the recognition that Kayla herself did something similar every time she dealt with clients she didn’t particularly like.
    I’m not as bad as Rand or Elena.
    Not as successful, either.
    With a muttered word she shifted the awkward checks under one arm and grabbed champagne from a passing tray to toast the winners. If nothing else, maybe the alcohol would take the bitter taste out of her mouth. As she took several fast swallows, she was honest enough to admit that she was attracted to Rand and disgusted enough to wish she wasn’t. He was a charmer and a user.
    She was glad he came in third.
    Yeah. Like I’m little Ms. Perfection. I’d love to have him looking at me the way he does Elena.
    But it would take more than a makeover at the local Nordstrom to have that happen.
    Be grateful. I’ve got enough trouble without tripping over that handsome artist’s big feet.
    She finished the champagne in time to set the glass and her purse on a table near the stage, straighten her jacket, and sort the checks she was going to give to Elena.
    With a professional smile rigidly in place, Kayla stepped into the lights. Elena handed out the third-and second-place checks quickly, then lingered to have her picture taken with the first-prize winner.
    “Looks like local interest trumps flattery,” Kayla said under her breath to Rand. “Welcome to political science as practiced on the ground.”
    Rand ignored the brittle edge in her voice and words. “Where do you want to go for dinner?”
    “I’ve lost my appetite.”
    As Kayla stepped back, her heel caught in one of the electrical cables that fed the photographers’ lights. With a catlike movement Rand caught and righted her.
    Holy hell, he’s fast, she thought, startled.
    And strong.
    “I haven’t,” he said.
    “What?”
    “Lost my appetite.”
    She looked into his gray-green eyes and forgot to breathe.
    He wanted her.
    “Dinner is optional,” he said softly,