her finger along the line where the ocean met the simmering rays of the mounting sun. “Because it awakens the senses. It pulls you in from the moment you look at it. Whether you think of the coolness of the water against your skin or the scent of the tropical air blowing in the distance, you instantly become a part of the painting.”
His fingers moved from the intense orange-and-crimson tone of the sun to stop just beside hers. Where she traced the water line, he did the same, until the tips of their fingers touched.
Karena felt a jolt to her system. A quick piercing sensation started at the exact point where he’d touched her and moved quickly throughout her body. Frowning, she moved her hand and picked up another sheet of paper.
“Two weeks ago I went to Brazil to meet an artist,” she said, then recounted a brief history of Leandro. “He does oil paintings and has been on the scene for about two years now. His work is in high demand but extremely hard to come by. He doesn’t do shows, no appearances, no interviews. All pieces are purchased directly from his agent and he usually remains anonymous.”
“But you met him?” Sam inquired.
“He called me,” she said, looking up at him.
He lifted a brow in question. “The reclusive artist called you? Why?”
A woman would kill for thick, even eyebrows such as his. His complexion was the color of honey fresh out of the jar. Eyes that were dark, yet warm, held her gaze steadily. He wore brown slacks and a lighter-shade short-sleeved shirt that fit his muscled chest precisely. It was still reasonably warm outside so a jacket wasn’t really necessary. This fact afforded her the opportunity to see even more of his toned arms, ribboned with veins that showed his sheer strength.
Was her mouth watering?
Now it was her turn to clear her throat. “I…I don’t know, really. And to tell the truth I was too excited to ask. It was the day we flew back from Maryland. He called before I left the airport. I booked another flight out the next evening and met with him on a Wednesday morning.”
“He picked you up at the airport?”
He was staring at her intently, as though he could see into her mind and therefore really didn’t need to ask her questions. Her pulse quickened and she flattened her palms on the table.
“No. I took a cab to the address he’d given me.”
“To his house?”
“Yes.” She blinked then attempted to focus more on her trip to Brazil than on the man sitting—now that she thought about it—too damned close to her. “No. Well, I guess it was his house. I didn’t really ask.”
“Did you stay with him? In this house, I mean. Did you stay there during your trip?”
Karena was sure these questions had something to do with the stolen pictures, but her mind kept wrapping around the slight edge in his voice, the intensity of his gaze as he waited for her answers.
“I stayed, yes. There was a cottage on the property and he said I could stay there.”
Sam sat back in the chair, his tall, built form moving so that it swiveled to the side. Her view of him increased, as now she could see muscled thighs even through the loose-fitting pants he wore. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, then lifted one hand to rub his fingers along his chin. Except for a thin mustache his face was clean-shaven, giving him a neat, quiet allure.
“The house was big. Did it look like he had money or did he truly give the impression of a starving artist?”
What she saw looked too good. Sam was too attractive. Had he looked like this when she’d met him in Maryland? Or had the weeks since she’d seen him simply added to the days of her self-imposed celibacy, coloring her present perception of him?
“It was like a mansion or something. There was a lot of property.”
“And just the one cottage where you stayed?”
“No, there were several cottages.” Then shaking her head, she held up a hand and said, “Wait a minute. You’re asking me about where I slept and how I got to his house. But none of this has anything to do with the fact that the appraiser’s report says the painting was stolen. My question is how does an artist steal his own painting?”
He wanted to know where she’d slept. Had she been in this artist’s—this man’s—house, in a bedroom next to his or, heaven forbid, in his bed. It was insane, Sam knew without having to mentally kick himself with the thought. Karena wasn’t his, and thinking of her with another man should not have his fists itching to punch someone. Looking at her should not be tugging on something primal, hungry, inside of him.
And yet…
“I’m trying to paint my own picture of sorts,” he said, giving her the best part of a smile he had to force. “This is a recluse, an up-until-now private person, who calls you out of the blue. He wants to what, sell you a portrait? Or does he want to meet you personally? Were you targeted for some reason?”
She was shaking her head, the diamond-stud earrings sparkling in her ears. Her short, sophisticated hairdo was neat and precise and sexy as hell. Sam usually enjoyed women with hair that he could run his fingers through, but on her that look would be too much, overwhelming the delicate beauty of her small facial features.
“This isn’t about me. It’s about the fact that I purchased a portrait that was obviously stolen.”
“Nothing is obvious, Karena,” he said honestly.
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that you have a history of this guy. He doesn’t talk to anyone, doesn’t do showings, doesn’t seem to want anyone to know who he is or where he is. His work is good and is in high demand. So why all the secrecy? Then he calls you. Of all the art galleries in all the world he picks you and the Lakefield Galleries. Why?”
“Because we’re good,” she said, apparently ruffled by his words.
He nodded. “I’m not disputing that fact. I’m just pointing out a few things. How did he know you’d come if he called? Had you been trying to find him?”
“No. Actually, I hadn’t. I knew his history. Once, earlier last year I contacted his agent about a showing, but I assured her that he wasn’t required to show up.”
“Didn’t his phone call strike you as weird?”
“Yes.” Now that she thought about it, it had.
“He called your cell phone. How many people have that number? Do you have a separate cell phone for business and personal use?”
“No. I have one phone, but I have two numbers. Kind of
like an extension within the phone.”
“So he called which extension? Business or personal?” She thought for a minute, remembered the distinctive ringtones she’d programmed to tell her which type of call was incoming. And she sighed. “He called the personal number.”
“You think this man targeted my company for some reason?” Paul Lakefield asked Sam fifteen
