Whirlwind Romance: 10 Short Love Stories

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Whirlwind Romance: 10 Short Love Stories Page 10

by Alicia Hunter Pace


  She turned, a small smirk playing at the sides of her mouth. Damn, she’d caught him staring. “Have you been to the Enright before?”

  Mack paused, trying to shift his thoughts away from her legs by concentrating on not staring at her breasts. God, he was obvious.

  “Can’t say that I have.” Frankly, he hadn’t known the place existed. Not exactly his idea of a morning’s entertainment.

  She must have read his mind if the taunt in her eyes was anything to go by. “It exhibits fine art. I presume you know what fine art is?” She tilted her head toward the entrance. “Shall we?”

  Okay, the princess had regained her confidence far more than he would have liked. She’d obviously worked through her options, made a plan, and in that dress, he could make a fairly decent guess what it involved. Lots of eye candy to distract him, followed by lots of questions about whom he worked for and how much he knew about the fraud. True, he couldn’t ignore the fact that she was inconveniencing his libido, but he’d pretty much regained control since their last meeting, right? So her waggling her ass at him on the promise of more sack time wouldn’t change anything. This wouldn’t be so difficult.

  He followed her into the lobby past a security guard, whose jaw dropped a foot at the sight sweeping past him. “Morning, Dr. Gilmore. You’re paying us an early visit. We only opened two minutes ago.”

  “Hi, Bill,” she chirruped brightly, her skirt bouncing high when she turned and aimed a brilliant smile in his direction. The poor guy was practically drooling when he winked at Mack.

  “Right, Mr. Buchanan. Perhaps we should start with the seascapes. Something simple.”

  Time to get to the point. “Why are we here?”

  She ignored his question. “Which artists do you like?”

  He couldn’t think of a single artist’s name, let alone whether he liked them or not. But then she would’ve figured that. This was her turf, and her invitation to meet here was all about getting the upper hand by making him look ignorant. He got it. Not that he cared a rat’s behind that she thought him a dumbass. He could play along until he was ready for some answers.

  “What say you show me around?”

  She smirked, and he started thinking about how good it would be to kiss that smug look right off her face.

  “Right, Mr. Buchanan. Now if you actually recognize any artist’s name, let me know and I’ll explain their style.” Her eyes rounded innocently. “Can you manage that?”

  Ouch. “I’m all eyes and ears. After you.”

  She was still smirking as she led him through to the first exhibition room, her heels clicking briskly on the wood floor in time with her swinging skirt—all that leg, ass, and long, glossy ponytail right there in front of him. Sensational. Maybe this museum tour wouldn’t be such a hardship after all.

  She stopped, and he was so focused on her legs he almost fell over her. He could swear he heard her muffle a giggle. Yeah, she was having her fun.

  She pointed at a painting. “This is by Edward Singer. Do you like it?”

  Who? “It’s okay.”

  She pouted, making her mouth look even more kissable. “‘Okay’ is not a term we use to appraise fine art. What do you think of it? You know, the composition, the use of color. Perhaps I should explain it to you?”

  “I have a question.”

  Her head tilted in pretend interest. “Oh, really? What would you like to know?”

  “Tell me about Kyle Lawrence.”

  That earned him a glare that could peel the paint clear off every canvas in the room. “You had no right to go to his office. He’s got nothing to do with this.”

  She didn’t look smug now. Just really pissed.

  “I would’ve thought he had everything to do with this. He’s your ex-fiancé, isn’t he? You must have discussed it between ... screws.” He paused, watching her blue eyes widen in shock and disgust as the words sank home. “The poor guy must have been all cut up when you called it off. No more of that luscious body of yours. Or am I wrong? You still see him, if I’m not mistaken.”

  For a second, he thought she was going to make for the exit, but surprisingly, she stood her ground. “You’re unbelievably crude!”

  “Yeah, my mother was always washing my mouth out with soap. Who’s that by the way?” He walked over to study a bluish-colored painting of a couple standing on a beach, looking out to sea, except there was nothing to see but sea. What a waste of paint that was. “Boring if you ask me. Who did it?”

  She still sounded sore. “Jackson Bell, you ignoramus.”

  He grinned and turned to meet her glare head on. She was as red as a ripe cherry, and darn if it didn’t make her look all aroused and ready. Maybe they could fit in some sack time after all. He felt his cock thicken at the thought. Shit, an art tour with a hard-on. So much for getting a grip.

  He nodded toward her left. “That one with the old shipwreck isn’t bad. Who did that?”

  She sighed. “Elizabeth Mannington.”

  “And the one next to it. The lighthouse painting?”

  “Actually, that’s a Frank Bonvalet.”

  “Yeah? Is it a fake?”

  “Of course not, you—” She stopped, her professional pride getting the better of her prickles. Man, this was turning out to be the most fun he’d had in a long time. He’d never talked to a woman about art before. His dates usually involved dinner followed by a romp in the bedroom. Not that this counted as a date. But in some disconcerting way, he almost wished it was. He jettisoned the thought before it got traction. “It’s the real deal then?”

  She wrinkled her nose as if something unpleasant had settled under it. “Of course. I authenticated it.”

  “How do you know it’s real?”

  “What?”

  “Tell me how you know it’s a real Bonvalet.” Not that he cared how she knew, but it would get them on track to discuss the forgery. Well, that was half-true. Mostly, he needed to get his mind off the tension in his jeans before it became obvious. “Come and explain it to me.” He pointed to a spot on the floor directly in front of the painting. “Here.”

  From the look on her face, he might as well have asked her to stand in stinging nettles. “It wouldn’t be possible to explain a masterpiece like that to you.”

  “Maybe I should come over there and get you. Interrogate you again.” He kept his tone light but made the message clear: Fun or not, this was an investigation, he had a job to do, and he would get it done—amusing art tour or not.

  She blinked at that, then with a shrug of resignation walked slowly over to him, but he could tell she wasn't about to concede.

  “Well, I look at a whole range of things,” she said, drawing the words out like she was explaining it to an imbecile. Leaning forward, she focused on a small section of the painting at the top-right corner, so he leaned in and focused as well, although all he could see were a lot of gray clouds and a few patches of reddish sky.

  “Well, I’m listening, Sexy Legs.”

  His face was close enough to hear her soft intake of breath. He looked out of the corner of his eye, taking in the full, parted lips and dipped lashes. Jesus, was this just wishful thinking on his part, or was the good doctor actually turned on? The crasser his words, the more she seemed to like it.

  Turned on or not, she recovered quickly. “Well, first, I look at the background of the work—where it came from, who owned it, the chain of sales. That’s the first step in establishing the provenance.” She paused, as if waiting for him to catch up. He should have felt insulted at that, but in truth, he was too busy eye-molesting every visible inch of her to do anything useful but nod.

  “Got it. Go on.”

  “Then I look at whether the composition and style are consistent with the artist. The color of the primer and which paints were used and whether they match the period. The aging is important, of course. Paintings fade, and sometimes the paint cracks, so forgers will put those in the work, even matching their position exactly to the
original if it hasn’t been restored. Then there’s the signature to authenticate. So you see, it covers all sorts of things.”

  “Oh yeah ... right.” Not the swiftest response he’d ever made. “Are you sure it’s not a fake? Looks pretty goddamn fake to me.” That was mean. Playing with her.

  Her spine shot straight. “God, you’re an idiot!”

  He grinned as she crossed her arms over her chest. It had the effect of plumping her breasts higher over the top of her sundress, distracting him all to hell again. But dammit if the princess didn’t have the most appetizing rack. Yeah, he was a brute.

  Her tone turned crisp. “Right, well, let’s move on.” She walked off, doing that thing with her hips again, turning her head to talk to him over her shoulder like he was some kid dragging his heels on a school trip. “Pick it up, Mr. Buchanan. There are lots of other works to see.”

  Mack stayed on the spot, rubbing the bridge of his nose and wondering how the hell he was going to play this. So far, all he’d managed to do was piss her off. She might look damned cute when she was mad, but it wasn’t getting him very far.

  She was already in the next room by the time he caught up. “So what would you like me to look at now?”

  “Maybe these are more to your ... ” She paused, sweeping a hand around the room, “taste. That is, if you’ve got any taste, which I doubt.”

  He glanced around and laughed. Hell, she might be looking down her nose at him, but at least this room didn’t have sea pictures. It was a room full of nude women.

  “Interesting.”

  “All by the same artist, Samuel Augustin. Do you like them?”

  He looked closer. There had to be twenty paintings, all showing much the same thing. Women laying on couches, on rugs, a few standing by windows.

  “The artist sure liked naked women.” He watched her eyes narrow, no doubt waiting for something crude to come out of his mouth. He obliged.

  “Did he fuck them all?”

  Her eyes turned upward, as if in silent prayer. “The artist painted over sixty nudes during the 1920s and was arrested multiple times for exhibiting obscene images. So, what do you think?” Her tone went mocking. “Even you must be able to come up with something intelligent to say about nudes.”

  Mack walked over to a painting, pretending to show interest. Actually, it wasn’t half-bad. A plump blonde lying on a red velvet couch, her long hair draped over a breast, one leg drawn up.

  “It’s passable, I guess.”

  She got that sneering tone again. “Is that all? Don’t you get the essence of what the artist is saying? He’s celebrating the beauty of the female form.”

  That sounded reasonable. He would happily celebrate the doctor’s female form right now.

  “Maybe we could explore the possibilities of you and me getting nude.” Mack slid a step toward her, watching her eyes turn wary. “You know ... continue where we left off.”

  Her mouth sure did look kissable when it was hanging open in astonishment. “God, you’re a philistine. I should have known better than to bring you here, you ignorant jerk.”

  He ignored her insult and carefully weighed his next steps. His strategy to tease her into opening up wasn’t working. If anything, she had the upper hand.

  He decided on a more direct approach.

  “How long have you worked at McCallister’s?”

  She blinked in surprise. “What? Oh, for around seven years. Not that it’s any of your business.” She looked down and flexed her feet in her shoes, and Mack knew what that meant. All of a sudden, the doctor was nervous.

  “And how many forgeries have you discovered?”

  She snapped her head up at that, looking anxiously around the room as if the nudes could hear them. “I’m not discussing forgeries here. This is an art museum, after all.”

  He took two quick strides to stand directly in front of her. Her eyes shifted to the exit, probably estimating her chances of making an escape. He roughened his voice to take away that option. “You will talk to me about forgeries, Dr. Gilmore. Here or somewhere else, I don’t care.”

  Surprisingly, she didn’t quaver. She’d found a steeliness he hadn’t reckoned on.

  “You can’t threaten me.” She angled her head to look past him toward the door. “Besides, we have visitors, so I’m leaving.”

  Damn, she was right. An elderly couple was in the room, looking at the blonde on the couch. Mack put a hand under Gemma’s elbow before she could move. “This way.”

  His touch got a reaction, but not half as much as he expected. Just a small tug of her elbow, more a token show of resistance than anything else. Maybe she was turned on again. The thought flipped around in his brain, sending blood to parts where he didn’t need the extra help.

  He steered her through the next two exhibition rooms, cursing that every room was occupied by at least one visitor. Didn’t people have jobs to go to? There had to be somewhere they could talk. After walking her through another four exhibition areas, he finally found a small side room with no security camera.

  “Start talking.”

  “What?”

  “You know ... talk. That thing people do with their lips.” He looked hard at her mouth. “Among other things.”

  She said nothing, so he took a step closer, which had her nervously sliding a step back. Her head turned, looking for an escape. “Remember, you called me, princess. Said you were ready to talk. So, talk.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “I get to ask the questions. Tell me when the Bonvalet arrived at McCallister’s.”

  He thought she would try and push past him, but then she took a deep breath and answered, “Around seven weeks before the auction.”

  “And were you the first to see it?”

  She shook her head. “No. Every work is recorded in McCallister’s register first. The Bonvalet was unframed, so McCallister’s mounted it in a temporary frame. It’s a standard procedure. Can you at least tell me why you—”

  He barked another question to keep her unsettled. “Where did you authenticate the Bonvalet?”

  “In ... in my workroom at McCallister’s. I worked on it during the day with a security guard present, and then he would take it away late afternoon to lock it in the safe.”

  “Who has access to the safe?”

  “Maxim Stonebridge; John Allen, McCallister’s operations manager; and the head auctioneer, who checks the works the day of the auction.”

  “So how long to authenticate the painting?”

  “A few weeks, then it stayed in the safe until the day of the auction.”

  He already knew the answers to his questions. John had filled him in on every detail of the process. So far, she was telling the truth.

  “How do you explain it being a fake?”

  “I don’t believe it’s a fake. If I could have another look at it—”

  “That’s not going to happen.” He shifted toward her, making her back up against the wall. She tried to look past him toward the doorway, so he moved to block her view. “No more games, Dr. Gilmore. The forger’s name? Give me that, and I’ll leave you alone.” He made his tone brutal. Intimidating.

  Her voice went weak, her eyes sliding away to stare at the exit. “I don’t know any forger.”

  “Look at me. Now.”

  Her gaze didn’t shift from the exit, so he cupped her chin in his hand and tipped her head back to read her eyes. She was nervous all right, but it wasn’t his questions that frightened her. It puzzled him, until her gaze moved to his mouth and her lips parted a fraction—then he knew. She wanted him. Right here, right now.

  He’d been hanging on by a thread as it was, but that look sent his groin into overdrive within seconds. He closed his eyes, trying to quell the surging heat. It would be so easy to take her. Just lift her up, wrap her legs around his hips, slip her panties to one side ...

  Fuck it, Buchanan, don’t even think of it.

  He could barely focus as he moved to stand on
ly inches away, towering over her, hearing her breath hitch in response. Bracing one hand against the wall, he slipped the other around her small waist, pulling her flush to his hips, imprisoning her. Her small moan told him she could feel his erection against her belly, but as much as he liked the sound, there was something else he needed to do. He needed her to say the name. Bully it out of her, if that’s what it took.

  But he hadn’t reckoned on his primal, protective urge toward this woman being so fierce—so gut-wrenching.

  He dragged a breath and forced himself to say the words. “Stop fighting this, Gemma. It’s over—can’t you see that? I want you, and you want me. Just give me the name, and we can get past this damned charade.”

  Silence.

  Damn his desire. Do your fucking job, Buchanan. “For God’s sake, just give me the name!”

  No name. No words of any kind. Just their raw lust for each other hanging thick in the air between them, everything they wanted just inches apart.

  At that moment, he knew for certain she wouldn’t talk. He’d questioned dozens of suspects in his intelligence career, knew when to push hard, when to play it soft. He’d thought she was the kind that broke easily. But this seemingly defenseless woman made him look like an amateur. She might even be innocent of the fraud, but he was long past making that call. His judgment was shot.

  Mack made a decision. “Come with me.”

  Her eyes flashed confusion. “Where?”

  He grabbed her hand and started pulling her toward the exit. “You’ll see.”

  She hung back but didn’t struggle. “What are you going to do?”

  Mack didn’t stop or look around. “Make love to you until neither of us can fucking walk.”

  CHAPTER SIX

 

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