Summer Heat. A.C. Arthur
away it sounded distant, and the memory of the receptionist’s smile and friendly voice faded from his mind. The curiosity about the rest of the gallery also fell to the side as she stood from the high-backed leather chair she’d been sitting in and walked toward him.
This was the scene in movies where the music supervisors played an up-tempo track then let it pause. The camera captured his eyes then hers, panning out until her entire body was in view.
Petite didn’t accurately describe her, although she was no more than five feet two or three inches without heels. It was the curves that made that word an understatement where she was concerned. The dip of a slender waist spanned to perfectly rounded hips, taking his gaze on a slow, heated ride down to toned legs covered only midway to her thigh, where the dress she wore abruptly stopped.
Nylons covered her legs, he sensed, although the sheer, silky caramel color could have been her bare skin. Classy, expensive and sexy black leather pumps sported heels so high their purpose could only be to tempt a man to distraction.
The song “Fire and Desire” by Rick James and Teena Marie immediately played in his head. Although he hadn’t loved and left her, Karena Lakefield was definitely tempting him, positively heating a fire in him that he’d wondered if he’d ever experience again. Just as petite didn’t accurately describe her,
desire did not fully capture what he was feeling for her at this very moment.
“Hi, Sam. Thanks for coming so soon,” she said, extending her hand to him.
Swallowing the thick ball of lust that had lodged itself so comfortably in his throat, Sam took her hand and knew exactly what Rick James had been singing about.
Taking her hand in his, Karena Lakefield had effectively turned on a fire in Sam that would be hell trying to put out.
Chapter Three
Sam cleared his throat and shook his head as if trying to rid his mind of something.
His hand gripped hers tightly and Karena lifted her free hand to his elbow. “Are you okay?” she asked, full of concern.
“Fine,” he said, his voice breaking just slightly. “I’m fine. You said you were in trouble,” he finished and released his grip.
“Yes,” she said, still not sure if he was all right but resigned to getting down to the pressing matter at hand. “Something strange is going on and I wanted to see if you could help me.”
Moving back to her chair, she sat then motioned for Sam to sit in the chair beside hers. They were in the west conference room, the smaller one on this floor but still large enough to hold fifty people. This was where they held press conferences or hosted small receptions.
Reaching out, she spread the papers and photos from the file she’d been reviewing all morning. After Monica’s bombshell about the stolen painting, she’d wanted to read up on everything she had on the artist known as Leandro and compare it with the man she’d met in Brazil.
Sam sat, quickly looked down at the papers and touched a finger to one of the photos.
“It’s called ‘Awake,’” she informed him about the painting she thought she’d purchased from Leandro.
He nodded. “Because of the sun rising,” he stated blandly.
“No,” she touched the picture, tracing 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