Innocent as Sin sk-3

by Elizabeth Lowell

  A woman’s artfully modulated laughter rose above the sound of the fountain. Elena Bertone, responding to something a gorgeous young man had said to her.

  “My hostess,” Rand said. “See a lot of her in the society pages. Haven’t seen a picture of him, though.”

  “He’s a very private man. This is only the second event he’s attended. Elena is the public face of the Bertones.”

  “So this is a really special occasion.”

  “Yeah. I’m betting that Elena expects this shindig to cement her position on the board of directors of the Plein-Air Museum.”

  “That’s important to her?” Rand asked.

  “One way or another,” Kayla said absently, watching Rand work, “Elena has put out several million dollars in the name of Phoenix art, so yes, it must be important to her. Not to mention how she twisted arms and called in favors so that most of the important socialites and half the politicians in the West are here.”

  Then Kayla heard her words and cringed. Private bankers shouldn’t gossip about their clients. It was a fast way to get fired.

  “Forget I said that,” she said quickly. “I was paying attention to your art rather than my tongue.”

  “Forget you said what? I didn’t hear a thing,” he said.

  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.

  19

  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 p
rimary 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.

  “Irony,” he said quickly. “You look like you just stepped on a snake. If I heard what I think I heard, you can haul him up on sexual harassment charges.”

  She made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh and not quite a curse. “Waste of time. Thousands of women would line up to be harassed by him.”

  “You aren’t one of them.”

  “So does that make me picky or stupid?”

  “You’re a long way from stupid. May I call you Kayla?”

  “Anything but ma petite.”

  “Okay, beautiful.”

  She surprised both of them by laughing. “Thanks, handsome. I was feeling…smudged.”

  Rand reached out to touch her cheek, saw his paint-spattered fingers, and wiped them on his jeans. Kayla Shaw was a little too attractive and maybe a lot too vulnerable.

  But she was the tool he’d been given to use.

  20

  Castillo del Cielo

  Saturday

  6:10 P.M. MST

  From the corner of his eyes Rand saw that Bertone had finally stopped circulating. Now he was making nice with the people standing near his wife.

  “Okay,” Rand said, sticking a brush in a jar of turpentine. “Take me to my hostess.”

  “You’re done?” Kayla asked, startled.

  Close enough for this farce. But all he said aloud was, “It’s a field study. Any rough edges are looked at as virtues, not flaws.”

  “And if you schmooze the hostess enough-”

  “Yeah,” he interrupted. “She might forgive the flaws. So introduce me to her.”

  Kayla hesitated.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I’m trying to decide whether your honesty is appalling or appealing.”

  Rand gave her a smile that was all sharp edges. “Think about it while I talk to her.” He reached into his backpack and pulled out a camera.

  “What’s that for?” Kayla asked.

  “I’m hoping to do a portrait of Elena Bertone, Arizona art maven. Sort of a companion to the field study.”

  “You really are trying to flatter your way into winning, aren’t you?”

  Rand had a momentary flashback of Reed’s dying eyes. “Whatever works.”

  “Appalling.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve decided. Your honesty is appalling.”

  “So is starving. Unlike Renaissance Italy, America doesn’t have patrons to support the purity of an artist’s soul. Rat-infested garrets are overrated.”

  “Why don’t you try cutting off your ear?” Kayla asked coolly. “That seemed to put van Gogh on the fast track.”

  “Do you really think I’d look better that way? If so, I’d consider it.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “You’re maddening.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “You mean you’d cut off your ear if I told you to?”

  “No, I said I’d consider it. What do you think?”

  Not knowing whether to throw up her hands or laugh, Kayla looked first at Rand’s left ear and then at his right. “Leave them be. They’re a decent enough pair.”

  His glance dropped from her eyes to her lips and all the way to her toes. “You have a decent pair, too,” he said.

  “You’re outrageous.”

  “I compliment your eyes and you call me outrageous?”

  She opened her mouth.

  He looked hopeful.

  “Right,” she said. “I’m taking you to Elena.”

  Rand would rather have stayed with Kayla, but staying wouldn’t get the job done. Automatically he checked his camera again, making certain the memory stick was secure, the lens clean, and his fingers nowhere near the USB outlet.

  “Ready to go,” he said, taking Kayla’s arm.

  Kayla looked over to where Elena laughed and drank champagne with several politicians. Then she saw Bertone. “Don’t point that camera at your host.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. He’d break the lens.”

  “I mean it,” she said quickly. “He goes postal if someone tries to take his picture. He nearly ripped the face off a photographer at a Christmas fund-raiser. Then he exposed the film and gave the photographer a thousand for the insult.”

  Rand didn’t doubt it. “No problem. I’ll be very careful to keep this pointed away from him.”

  At exactly ninety degrees.

  Kayla led Rand through the packed crowds on the patio to a beautifully landscaped fountain area that was discreetly roped off as a VIP reception area. Rand looked around, sizing up the backdrop.

  The last rays of the sun sparkled on the three-tiered waterfall and on the trays of champagne glasses filled with golden wine. Elena Bertone, perfectly turned out and ravishing in a lime-green suit that fit her lush body like a silk stocking, was chatting and laughing with a circle of men and the few women brave enough to compete with an international beauty queen.

  Behind Elena
and to one side, Andre Bertone stood smoking a fat hand-rolled cigar. He was listening to a balding suit who might have been a lawyer or a political aide. Or both.

  Elena was an accomplished actress, which made her a fine hostess. She was animated, vibrant, gracious. She could carry on three conversations at once and still be fully aware of everything going on outside her inner circle. When she saw Kayla approaching, Elena smoothly left the group she was with and walked toward her banker.

  “What is it?” Elena asked.

  “Elena, this is Rand McCree, one of your artists. He’d like to do a quick portrait of you to go with his canvas of the beautiful home you designed. Rand, Mrs. Bertone.”

  “A pleasure,” Rand said.

  And wished it was.

  Elena inspected him from boots to hairline and liked what she saw in between. She flashed her perfect smile as she offered her hand.

  “I know how much in demand you are,” Rand said as he took her elegant hand and shook it once, formally. “If I could just snap a couple of pictures, profile and full face, I can download them to my computer and paint from them.”

  Elena glanced in the direction of her husband, who either hadn’t noticed the good-looking artist approach her or didn’t care.

  “I told Rand that Mr. Bertone dislikes being photographed,” Kayla said. “He’ll make certain that your husband’s privacy isn’t invaded.”

  Rand made it a point to turn his shoulder toward Bertone as he asked Elena, “Would you mind giving me a few moments?”

  Elena checked the nearby people. All of them were engaged, no one was looking lost, and the staff was circulating with an endless, expensive river of champagne and canapés.

  “Artists call this time of day sweet light,” Rand said. “It only lasts a few moments. It makes your skin glow like amber.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “The camera won’t lie, Mrs. Bertone. You glow.” It was the truth, but that didn’t make Rand like himself any better.

  Get over it. You’d do a lot worse than suck up to a murderer’s wife to get your hands on Reed’s killer.

  Kayla listened to the flattery and wanted to hurl, even though what Rand said was accurate-probably because of it. Elena did look like a goddess in the slanting light.