“I mean it. End of discussion. Besides, we’ve spent so many weeks talking about this that I have no idea what you’re doing. We haven’t talked about you in forever.”
“I’m fine. Nothing unusual here—just working another big case.”
She felt herself tense involuntarily, even as she tried to keep her voice casual. “Oh yeah—what’s it about?”
Jack paused as if reluctant, but just as she was about to tell him that it was none of her business, he answered, “Champagne bottles.”
“Excuse me?” She couldn’t have heard him right.
“I know. Ridiculous, right? I have no idea how it got to trial, but here we are. A guy stole two bottles of champagne from his neighbor’s garage and then later bonked him on the head with one.”
She laughed before she could stop herself. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not really funny. I’m not—”
“Laughing at me, just with me.”
She stifled a snort. “Exactly.”
He sighed and she could almost see the smirk on his face. “It’s a long way from major felonies, but when Collins quit last month his cases got passed around. I drew champagne guy.”
“Well,” she cleared her throat to cover another giggle. “Keep me apprised on how the scales of justice fall on this one.”
“Oh, I will. Believe me. And you—good luck with Riley. From what I hear, you’ll need it.”
“He’s really not that bad. At least he’s resigned to the project.”
“Well, that’s half the battle then.”
“With Kevin, it’s two-thirds at least.”
“And call me when you get back to town.”
“You’ll be first on my list.”
Serena hung up with a grin, which quickly turned to a grimace. Maybe she should have told Jack about the phone calls. Not that there was a lot he could have done, but still … she could have gotten his take on the situation. She opened her phone, began to dial the number, then stopped. If the guy didn’t stop, if he took it to the next level—then she’d tell Jack. For now—She sighed. For now, she’d just wait and see.
She turned back to the sculpture and took a few more pictures, refusing to let her fear ruin another day. But when the camera clicked, signaling that she’d run out of film, she lowered it with a sigh of regret. She could stand here all day, taking pictures of this most personal piece of art. But while it might give her a better understanding of the man in her bed, it wouldn’t get the rest of her work done. Reloading her camera, she stepped silently into Kevin’s studio, hoping to get a few shots before he noticed her.
She needn’t have worried. He was in a frenzy, heating, bending, twisting metal, an almost crazed look on his face. Stunned, she watched him work with none of his ordinary stealth and precision. He flew through the studio, picking up one anvil, discarding another. Metal forceps, wrenches, and even his favorite blowtorch rotated through his hands so quickly Serena had trouble distinguishing one tool from another.
Raising her camera to her eye, she took shot after shot of this delicious, haunted Kevin. He wasn’t working from a sketch as he nearly always did. This vision burned inside of him, so desperate to get out that it had completely taken Kevin over. Obsession was upon him, the muse firmly on his shoulder and it was the most fascinating thing she had ever seen. Sweat poured down his sculpted chest. His muscles strained to bend the iron to his will. His glorious hair was swept into a short, haphazard ponytail at the base of his neck and his eyes glowed with a vision only he could see.
Her fingers flew over the camera, adding another roll of film, determined not to miss more than a second of the artistic frenzy that gripped him. He bent, his well-worn jeans cupping his ass as he strained to lift what she assumed was the base of the sculpture. A long, thick line, it was as fluid as waves rolling in off the ocean. She hadn’t realized it was possible to do that to metal—to make it as soft and flowing as water. Somehow she knew that a lesser sculptor could never have accomplished it.
Kevin lifted an arm, absently wiped sweat off his face as he studied his work. And caught sight of her silhouetted against the doorway, her camera a natural extension of her body.
He grinned, full of excitement and exuberance. Serena found herself smiling back even as she captured the look on film. His eyes widened as he heard the click of the camera, and he prowled toward her. A sleek jungle cat stalking his prey, he advanced slowly, deliberately. Her breath caught and alarm coursed through her. But she wanted these photos, needed these photos. The real Kevin Riley—genius, predator, madman.
Her heart beat wildly and her breathing grew ragged. She’d had him more times than she could count last night, but she wanted him again. Here, now. Her body craved him, craved what only he could give it. And he knew it. She could see his knowledge in the seductive curve of his mouth, in his sapphire eyes blazing nearly black with need.
His bare, wet chest reflected the sun, and its light surrounded him with fiery red tongues of flame. He was temptation personified—conquering general, obsessed artist, ardent lover—and Serena could feel him pulling her further and further into his dominion.
She clicked the last picture before lowering her camera. He came to a stop directly in front of her and his hand reached out to brush a stray lock of hair off her forehead. He was, once again, just a man and when he opened his arms, she sank into them, resting her head directly above his heart. She breathed in the dark, musky scent of him, listened as his heart beat harder and faster. And laughed at herself, at the flight of fancy that had, for a few brief moments, had him looking something more than a man. But as she let her eyes drift shut, savoring the closeness of him, that last frame stayed with her. Fear, contentment, and desire churned together inside of her, dampening her thighs and making her ni**les harden painfully.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked, pulling away to study her. His smile was warm, but his eyes were watchful as they skimmed over her face.
“I slept wonderfully,” she purred. “You tired me out.”
“I tried hard enough.” His hands slid up and down her back and she felt his arousal press against her stomach. “Are you still tired?”
Her eyes gleamed wickedly. “Not too tired, if that’s what you’re asking.”
His grin was wolfish. “That’s exactly what I’m asking.”
She pulled away from him, walked toward his work. “What are you working on? It’s new, right?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged, followed her. “I woke up at about three with this idea burning in my head. I had to see if I could capture it.”
“Did you?”
“I don’t know.” His eyes were shadowed as he studied what he’d done. “I don’t know if I’m good enough to capture what I’m seeing in my head.”She gasped, whirled to face him. “Don’t say that. I’ve never seen anything like this.” She gestured to the piece in front of her. “I didn’t even know it was possible.”
“I’m not sure it is. But I have to try.”
“What’s it going to be?” she asked. “It’s hard to tell at this stage.”
Kevin studied her for a moment, eyes grim, before his mouth curved enigmatically. “You’ll see.”
She raised her eyebrows, answered drily, “Or I won’t.”
“Exactly.” He shrugged again.
Serena wandered through his work area, taking a few pictures as she went. He watched her work, silently, for several minutes before asking, “How do you know what picture you want to take? Why this workbench and not that one over there?”
“How do you know which way to bend a piece of metal?” she answered.
“It tells me. I feel it in my gut.”
She nodded. “Exactly.”
He brushed a kiss along her brow. “Are you ready for the trip to San Diego?” he asked.
“Sure.” She shrugged. “It’s not like I have much more to do than what I’m doing here. You’re the one with all the responsibility.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“No big deal?” she asked incredulously. “The opening of an exhibit of your work at the San Diego Museum of Art? The unveiling of a sculpture in the new Matthias Building? Your first showing at the Price Gallery? It doesn’t get much huger than that. Aren’t you excited?”
It was his turn to shrug. “Yeah, I guess. I love seeing my work where it’s meant to be—the Matthias sculpture took such a long time and is designed so precisely for its environment. I really like that part.”
“But not the rest?” she asked. “A museum full of people admiring your work one night, a gallery of people buying it the next?”
“I don’t like the show, all the airs people put on at those things.” His eyes darkened. “I can’t stand the fake crap.”
“Why are you so sure it’s fake?” she asked.
“How can it not be, cher? A bunch of people standing around in designer wear talking about what they see in my art, how it makes them feel!” He snorted. “Spare me the wannabes and their need to discuss the ‘esoteric’ details of my work with me. Particularly when ninety-five percent of them don’t have a clue what they’re talking about.”
She leaned back and studied him for a minute. His eyes were contemptuous, his mouth twisted in disgust. “I never would have guessed it,” she commented. “You’re a snob.”
“Excuse me?” His voice fairly crackled with indignation and his eyes turned glacier blue. “They’re the snobs, with their hundred-dollar caviar and their thousand-dollar dresses. I don’t care about any of that shit.”
“And you think anyone who does is weak and stupid.”
“A lot of them are weak and stupid.” He raised an eyebrow, daring her to disagree.
“And you think because you wear faded jeans and live like a hippie in the middle of nowhere that you’re better than they are? You’re just as narrow-minded in your own way.”
“Wait a minute! I never said I was better than them. I said I couldn’t stand them. There’s a difference.” His eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Oh really? What’s the difference?” She smirked, challenging him.
He stared at her, nonplussed, trying to find an argument that would help him win their debate. When he could think of nothing, he simply shrugged and said, “I don’t know. But there is one.”
She laughed, wrapped an arm around his waist and snuggled into the curve of his arm. “Great answer.”
“Why are you defending them? Someone just like that killed your sister and bought his way free.”
Serena stiffened against him and he cursed himself, wanting to take the words back as soon as they had left his mouth.
“You think I don’t know that?” She pulled away to glare at him. “You think I don’t live with that every day of my life? But you can’t condemn everyone because of what a few people do.”
He watched the light go out of her eyes and cursed himself again. “I’m sorry. That was totally uncalled for.”
She shrugged, the ice maiden back in place. “Don’t apologize. It’s true.”
“True or not, you don’t need me to throw it in your face.” He put a finger under her chin, tilted her face up so that she couldn’t avoid his eyes. “It was a crappy thing to say and I’m sorry for it.”
She studied him with expressionless eyes for a minute, then two. Just as he began to fear that he had really blown it, she shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. Truth is truth, whether it hurts or not.”
His fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck. “Oh, bebe, I never meant to hurt you.”