Elizabeth Lowell - Innocent as Sin

He heard her long breath of relief and almost smiled. He didn’t blame her for being nervous. Bertone might not be called the Siberian anymore, but beneath the designer suits, he was still a very nasty piece of work. Anyone gossiping about him would have a short future on his payroll.

And maybe a short future, period.

Under the pretext of viewing the canvas from another angle, Rand turned sideways, coming closer to her. Cinnamon and vanilla. Sunshine and just plain woman. Her dark brown hair was streaked by the sun or a very expensive colorist. Ice-blue eyes, minimum makeup, and that damned tempting rose tattoo.

I hope you’re as innocent as I believe you are, Rand thought grimly. But innocent or not, we’re stuck with each other.

Maybe we should just lie back and enjoy.

“Your hands look too big, too rough, for an artist,” Kayla said without thinking.

They fit real well around a man’s neck. And that was something Rand didn’t plan on telling her. “They come in…handy.”

She groaned at the pun.

He grinned.

Curious, she studied him rather than the canvas. He was dressed in black jeans with generous paint smears, a loose-fitting shirt the precise color of his eyes-except for the paint blobs-and soft black leather boots that bore random decorations in paint. Despite the evidence of the canvas and his paint-smeared clothing, he just didn’t seem to fit the artist mold. Or maybe it was just that some of the darkness he saw so clearly within light was also inside him.

“You aren’t from around here, are you?” she asked. Then said quickly, “Sorry, you have a bad effect on my tongue.”

He gave her a sideways glance that picked up her heartbeat. “Sounds promising.”

She hoped that the color climbing up her face would be written off as sun flush rather than foot-in-mouth blush.

“I spend most of my time in the Pacific Northwest,” he said, turning back to the canvas. “Have you lived here long?”

“Born and bred a Zonie,” she said.

“How’d you end up working for the Bertones?”

“I don’t. Not exactly. I’m their banker. I work for American Southwest Bank in Scottsdale. At least for now,” she added, then wished she hadn’t.

The earlier meeting with Bertone had rattled her more than she’d realized.

Or else R. McCree did. It wasn’t often she found a man with the body of a linebacker and the edgy soul of an artist.

“Sounds like you’re jonesing for another job,” Rand said.

“Everybody needs a new challenge from time to time,” she said. “I’m thinking about a career change.”

“You don’t like banking?”

For the first time Kayla realized that she didn’t. Not anymore. “It’s always about money, and money doesn’t always bring out the best in people.”

“Artists don’t know much about money,” he said.

“You know enough to paint yourself into a lather over a faux canvas that might be worth first, second, or third prize, when you ought to be somewhere else painting something worthwhile.” Then she blew out a breath. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”

Rand doubted that. But then, he felt the same way. “It’s called putting bread and beans on the table.”

“And it’s always just a question of what you’ll do to keep from starving to death, right?” she asked with false brightness.

“Pretty much. Speaking of starving, what are you doing afterward?” He glanced at her in time to catch her startled expression. “What’s the matter? Hasn’t a man ever asked you out for dinner?”

“Not five minutes after I first met him, and not ten minutes after somebody else asked me to meet him in a few hours.”

“I’m too late? Please tell me I’m not too late,” Rand said lightly.

It was easy to flirt with her, maybe too easy. Maybe she was playing him instead of vice versa.

Problem was, he didn’t feel like playing at all.

“I kind of have another commitment,” Kayla said.

The look on her face said she didn’t want it.

“Can you break it?”

“I’m thinking about doing just that.”

“So I’m not entirely out of the running,” Rand said.

“Why do I feel hunted?”

“My technique must need work.” Rand turned to smile over his shoulder at her.

And saw the one man in the world whose neck he wanted between his hands.

Castillo del Cielo

Saturday

5:51 P.M. MST

Who’s that?” Rand forced himself to ask.

Kayla looked over her shoulder, saw Bertone and another man striding toward her. The men were having an animated but not angry conversation.

“The tall, burly guy on the right is Andre Bertone,” she said quietly. “On the left is Don Cowley.”

“Ah, Mr. Bertone, the mysterious host,” Rand said, hoping his voice didn’t reflect the adrenaline hammering through his body, bringing him to fight-or-flight alert. “Should I know the dude with him?”

“He’s a political consultant for statewide and national congressional candidates.”

“Big man, huh?”

“Very big.” What she didn’t say was that Cowley was an American Southwest private banking client whose political business had made him very wealthy. Anyone who wanted to go anywhere in state politics had to get his blessing first. “A real mover and shaker.”

Bertone and Cowley stopped long enough to shake hands. Cowley said something that made Bertone laugh. The deep, rich sound punched through the background noise of the party.

As soon as Cowley turned away, Bertone’s expression changed. He frowned like a man making a decision he wasn’t entirely happy about. Then, sensing he was being watched, he looked toward Kayla. Immediately he started striding up the flagstone steps to where she stood.

Rand turned around and started painting again. It was all he trusted himself to do. The microphone taped to his chest still itched, but he didn’t care. Undoubtedly Faroe had heard that Bertone was present. Rand didn’t need a bud in his ear to know that Faroe was holding his breath for a photo op.

The special camera seemed to be burning a hole in Rand’s backpack. Quickly he sorted through reasons he could use to take out the camera and aim it away from Bertone.

None of the excuses flew.

Give it time. The night is young.

And Reed will never get any older.

Ignoring the artist, Bertone said to Kayla, “Do you know the man I was just talking to?”

“I’ve seen Mr. Cowley at the bank.”

“I just agreed to help several of his candidates in the primary election. I want you to process the checks I write to him. I want to be certain the accounting is…appropriate.”

Kayla’s mouth thinned. “I always account for funds that pass through the bank, Mr. Bertone. If you require something extra, you’ll have to be more specific in your requests.”

Silently Rand whistled. The lady is pissed. Foolish, too. I wouldn’t take on that Siberian tiger with only a rose tattoo to protect me.

Bertone stared at her a long moment.

She forced herself to meet his eyes.

He glanced past her to the man working at the easel. “We’ll discuss this-and other things-later tonight.”

“I’m not feeling well,” she said. “Some other time would be better for me.”

“Not for me, Kayla. Mr. Foley assured me you were willing to discuss banking business at my convenience.”

“Business, yes.”

Bertone looked almost amused. “Then it will be strictly business, if that’s what you wish.”

“It is.”

“Elena will serve us coffee in the garden at seven tonight.”

“Elena?” Kayla smiled with relief at not having to meet Bertone alone. “That’s fine. Seven.”

Bertone smiled slightly. As he turned away, he glanced at the painting on the easel. He walked toward it, looking with real interest. He examined the unfinished canvas before he stared directly at the artist.

Despite the adrenaline spiking through Rand’s blood, he met Bertone’s eyes calmly. Rand had wondered for five years how good a look the Siberian had gotten through his sniper’s scope, if he’d seen the face of the man he’d murdered-the face of the man’s identical twin.

It was why Rand had refused to shave or cut his hair short. Five years ago both he and his twin had been bare-cheeked and military-clipped.

Bertone stared for several seconds, pale eyes narrowed. Then he looked back at the painting. “Very nice. Quite good, actually. But you should get back to work if you want to win my wife’s little contest. Time is running out.”

Rand forced himself to smile. Obviously the sniper’s scope hadn’t been as clear as the camera lens. Or the cheek fur was a good enough disguise.

Or Bertone had killed so many men he didn’t remember all the faces.

“Glad you like the painting,” Rand said easily, “because I’m just plain staggered by the subject.”

Kayla suspected he was telling only the polite half of the truth. It was a social skill she was still working hard to acquire.

“Is my employee distracting you?” Bertone asked, glancing at Kayla. “I can have her removed.”

“Not on my account,” Rand said. “She’s a savage critic and I’m a closet masochist. Perfect match.”

“Then I will leave you to your pain and pleasure,” Bertone said. He looked at Kayla. “Until after the contest, ma petite.”

Rand watched his brother’s murderer walk away. When he glanced at Kayla, her face was pale.

“That was a pleasant little chat,” he said.

She looked at him in disbelief.