The Rebel. Adrienne Giordano
corner. A large table covered with tools and brushes separated one area from a second space, where a bust was mounted on an adjustable stand.
She closed the door behind him. “I’d ask you to excuse the mess, but since it always looks like this, I won’t bother.”
“It’s a studio. I’m not sure it’s supposed to be neat.”
“We can talk over here.” She motioned him to a round table for four by the windows.
“This is a great space. Fantastic light. Do you know anything about the building?”
Her eyebrows dipped. “As in who owns it?”
“No. Sorry. I’m a history buff. Majored in it in college. The columns out front make me think early 1900s architecture.”
“Ah. A man after my own heart. Believe it or not, I’m the only tenant right now. People just don’t see the beauty. According to city records, it was constructed in 1908. I’m not sure my landlord has a clue what a gem he has. When I toured the building he told me he wanted to paint the front of it.”
David opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“I know,” she said. “I had to give him the number of a company that specializes in stone cleaning and repair before he stripped the historical value out of the place.”
“No kidding.”
Amanda took the chair by the window, where a legal pad and pencil waited to be put to use. David slid his jacket off, set it on the chair next to his and sat across from her. Damn, the woman was gorgeous. All big brown eyes and soft cheeks to go with the healthy curves.
“Is that jacket a Belstaff?” she asked.
And, oh, oh, oh, she knew motorcycles. Or at least biker jackets. This expedition of his mother’s might make his day.
“It is. You like motorcycles?”
“My dad does. What do you ride?”
“A Ducati. Diavel Carbon.” He smiled. “It’s a beast.”
“It should be with a name like Diavel. You know what it means, right?”
He sure did. “Diavolo. Italian for devil.”
She grinned. “And are you? A devil?”
“My mother would say I am. I think I’m a history nerd with a thing for motorcycles.”
“Huh,” she said.
“What?”
“Nothing. You’re just not what I expected.”
Now, this sounded good. Maybe. “You know I have to ask...”
“I expected someone who looks like your mother. Tall, blond hair, Italian suit. Instead I got dark with an Italian motorcycle.”
He bit his bottom lip, then ran his teeth over it. “If my brother had knocked on your door, you’d have nailed it.” He shrugged. “But hey, you got the tall part right.”
“That’s something, I guess.”
She picked up her pencil and tossed her hair over her shoulder and David’s pulse went berserk. Damn, this woman was beautiful. And not in the normal way. This was more corn-fed, casual beauty that she probably had no idea she possessed.
She angled her notepad in front of her. “Anyway, tell me about this project. What kind of paintings are you looking for?”
Nudes.
Of her.
His mother would castrate him. He cleared his throat and got that vision out of his head. The naked Amanda, not the castration. But the castration was no picnic, either.
But here was where this scenario got sticky because his sneaky mother, God bless her, had taken Amanda’s card under the guise of providing him with art for his condo. Well, he’d get the art anyway because he would not waste this woman’s time under false pretenses. “I’m not sure. I was thinking maybe we could work with Lexi on that. Something bold, deep colors. I don’t know. It’s not my thing. That’s why I have Lexi.”
“She’s good at it, that’s for sure. I can call her. Then I’ll pull some paintings I think will work. If you don’t like them, maybe I can create something specific for you.”
Which, lucky him, would give him another reason to show up and maybe convince the lovely Amanda LeBlanc to have dinner with him. “That’ll work. I have another project that my mother is interested in.”
Amanda’s eyebrows hitched up. No surprise there. His mother was notorious for spending big bucks on decorating. And landing her as a client would open a lot of doors when it came to an artist’s career.
“What does she have in mind?”
“A sculpture.”
“Oh, my specialty. Who will the sculpture be of?”
Here we go. “We don’t know.”
She laughed. “That’s a new one. All right. I’ll play. How do we find out who this sculpture will be of?”
Okay. So apparently his mother hadn’t said anything—at all—to Amanda about her interest in the cold case discussed at the fund-raiser the night before. She’d totally set him up, and he’d give her an earful about that. When he showed up wearing jeans and facial hair at dinner. That’d teach her. “Did my mother say anything to you about my father’s law firm and their side work?”
“No.”
Thanks, Mom. This right here might be one of the reasons he’d moved to Boston four years ago. Keeping up with the Hennings family shenanigans and the constant arguing and petty competition with Penny made his brain hurt. So he’d taken off. Got himself breathing room halfway across the country. Welcome home, kid.
“My dad is the founding partner of Hennings & Solomon.”
“David, everyone in this city knows who your dad is.”
True. “Right. Last fall my mom convinced him to have one of the firm’s investigators work on a pro bono case. A cold case.”
Amanda sat forward and waved her pencil. “I read about that. It involved a US Marshal or something.”
“That’s the one. His mother was murdered and the case, up to that point, was unsolved. The firm’s investigator looked into it, and between her and the victim’s son, they solved the case.”
“Yes! I remember reading about it. Fascinating.”
Glad you think so. That would only help when he ambushed her with doing this skull reconstruction his mother was so bent on. “Then my mother found another case she wanted to help solve.”
“Your mother is a busy woman.”
Honey, you have no idea. “She is. And her instincts are spot-on because the firm managed to help solve that one, too.”
“How wonderful for her. And the firm’s investigator must be excellent at what she does.”
“She is. But she’s had help. Cases like this take work and she comes from a family of detectives with major contacts.”
Amanda sat up straighter, pencil still at the ready, but her body language—stiff shoulders, pressed lips—went from curious to defensive. The temperature in the room might have plummeted to negative numbers.
This was it. Headfirst. Right here. “My mother overheard your conversation with the detective last night. The one with the unidentified skull.”
She dropped her pencil and pushed the pad away. She held her hands up and sucked in her cheeks, the look hard and unyielding, transforming her from the lush sex kitten he wanted his hands on to a woman set for battle.
Where