Her nipples hardened at the thought, tingling as they’d done after she’d gotten out of the pool. The memory of his arm wrapped around her waist eased into her mind, like an old friend or the buzz from a perfect glass of wine.
Her breath hitched as her feet stopped just short of where he stood. Her clothes were extremely constricting. Zane stood before her, the flecks in his multicolored eyes glowing with the same awareness she was trying to deny.
Her tongue licked across her lips. She hadn’t meant to do it, but they were suddenly so dry. His gaze snared on the motion. He didn’t reach for her. He didn’t have to. His tempting stare beckoned her to come just a little closer.
And she did, closing the space between them.
Their bodies didn’t touch, and yet she could feel the heat of him. A shiver snaked down her spine, his warmth reminding her yet again that she was wet.
Her fingers suddenly itched to hold a charcoal pencil between them, to capture the expression of lust and awareness and male power that stretched his skin across the bones of his face. He was so beautiful in an unconventional way. And she had no doubt he’d protest at that word being used to describe him. He’d prefer rugged, hard, masculine, determined. And he really was all of those things. He held power, and the straight line of his shoulders said he knew it, and relished it. But the combination of sharp lines and arching curves, the perfect proportions pulled those rough edges together and softened them somehow into something very appealing.
And she noticed these things strictly from an artistic point of view of course.
Her eyes toured the length of his body. In for a penny, in for a pound. She appreciated that the strength of him carried all the way down. He was lean and powerful in a way that made her insides turn to mush. Normally, she would have said he wasn’t her type. She tended toward guys with wiry frames and an artistic bent. It made things so much easier if she was with a man who understood her disposition. She’d learned over the years that it saved her heartache and headaches.
Zane reminded her of her father and brothers more than she wanted to admit. They were the same body type. The same personality. The kind of guy she steered clear of because she’d lived with him all her life and it hadn’t gone well for anyone involved.
And yet, her blood chugged faster beneath her skin, picking up speed and heat and carrying oxygen laden with the smell of him to every cell in her body. Every inch of her would remember this moment long after it ended.
Her body moved of its own volition, yearning closer, wanting more of him. But she didn’t close the gap.
Her lips parted. His warm breath brushed across her cheek, fluttering the tendrils of hair at her temple. They tickled her skin, but she wasn’t laughing. His eyes held her in place, and she was unable to slip away or move closer.
They darkened with an awareness that echoed through her entire body. Her breath came increasingly faster, as if her lungs couldn’t expand far enough to give her what she wanted.
And what she wanted was for him to kiss her. As much as she shouldn’t. As much as that would complicate things beyond belief. Elle wasn’t thinking about those things now.
A growl sounded low in his throat and a twist of desire arrowed to the center of her sex. She could feel the increasing ache, the wet slick that just anticipating his touch could produce.
But instead of finishing it, instead of grabbing her body and claiming her lips, Zane spun away and walked straight out her door without a backward glance.
She should be grateful that he’d had the brainpower to realize giving in to the passion pulsing between them would be a stupid idea.
Instead, she was disappointed. And aroused. And pissed.
She wasn’t used to men walking away. And she realized she didn’t like it one little bit.
4
ELLE PUSHED HER TOES FARTHER into the cool sand. The beach was deserted. Most of the people on the island had no good reason to be up before sunrise. They’d come to relax and indulge, not rise with the chickens. She…she couldn’t relax.
Erotic dreams, followed by tossing and turning and the lack of a solution for how she was going to find the painting had prevented her from getting more than a couple hours of sleep. She had no doubt there were bags under her eyes.
Not that there was anyone to notice.
If she had to be awake, though, she was going to take advantage of the moment. The quiet silence surrounded her. It was so different from home, where even in the early-morning hours there was activity on the street. Cars whizzing by, late-night revelers.
Atlanta might not be New York, but it was still a big city with constant motion. Normally, she liked that. She lived for it. For the excitement and the options and the possibilities. At home, she rarely sat still. There was just too much to do.
Which was why she was surprised to find herself enjoying simply resting on the sand. She pulled the sweater she’d thrown on over her shorts and tank top tighter around her body to ward off the early-morning chill. Closing her eyes, she tipped her face up as the first rays of sun touched her skin. A shiver ran through her, the sudden warmth startling.
The jungle that occupied the uninhabited side of the island started stirring with life. Behind her, birds began to sing. Insects buzzed. The island woke up. She’d come to this secluded stretch of the beach, as far away from the resort as she could get, on purpose.
Elle reached for the sketch pad and pieces of charcoal she’d placed beside her in the sand. She’d left home in such a hurry that she hadn’t thought to bring her painting supplies. She’d been more concerned with recovering Nana’s portrait than creating new ones.
She wondered languidly if the famed Marcy could get her some paint and brushes. The dawn light was perfect, but somehow sketching the wild surroundings just didn’t do them justice. She needed a full palette to capture the richness of the colors around her.
She’d never be able to recreate them at home from her faulty memory.
When she’d come, she hadn’t exactly expected to make this a working vacation. She’d hoped for a quick in and out.
A frown creased her forehead. Zane had pretty much made that impossible.
These moments right now were probably the only ones she’d get all day without his ever-watchful eyes on her.
Elle shook her head and concentrated on the sketch coming to life on the pad in front of her. The shading of the lush trees and sand in the rising sun. She smudged the line she’d drawn with the side of her hand, smearing the pencil to get the effect that she wanted. A trick she’d learned during her days at Savannah College of Art and Design. Her hand raced, quick and sure across the woven surface of the paper.
A bird, big with plumes of red and blue and green landed on a branch in the tree she’d been drawing. She quickly added it to the scene. Capturing the way it tilted its head, as if studying the creature invading its space.
As always, the entire world faded as Elle worked. She was absorbed in the moment and the race to capture the scene perfectly before the light changed.
The first clue that she wasn’t alone was the rhythmic squelching of sand beneath pounding feet. She barely had time to jerk her head up before the spray of sand shot across the surface of her paper. Her eyes narrowed at the disturbance, she brushed the particles from her sketch and looked up at her intruder.
The sun was at his back, casting him in shadow and ringing him in a light that blinded her for a moment. But she didn’t need to see his features to know who had disturbed her peace.
“Good morning, Officer Zane. You’re out early.”
“Special agent.”
Elle frowned, not following him. “Huh?”
“I was a special agent, not an officer.”
“What difference does it make?”
He chuckled. “A lot.” When he dropped into a crouch beside her, Elle realized for the first time that he was almost naked, except for the navy blue nylon shorts and the expensive runners on his feet.
Despite
the early-morning chill that still clung to the air, his chest was wet with the evidence of his exertion. He was tanned and broad, the heavy muscles of his legs flexed against the strain of keeping himself balanced in a crouch. Although, that was the only evidence of any discomfort—the rest of him looked perfectly relaxed. Heaven only knew how long he’d been running on the sand to work up enough sweat to cover his body.
Probably a while.
A thrill raced down her spine and heat pooled in the center of her body. She could imagine working up a sweat with this man in another, better way. She wrinkled her nose at the inopportune thought.
“What have you got?” He reached for her sketch pad. With a squeal of protest, Elle scrambled to pull it out of his reach, but his reflexes were too fast. He had it in his lap, studying the picture—the unfinished picture—before she could stop him.
“This is really good.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” she grumbled. After a childhood of hearing that her art was just a hobby, useless and unproductive, she’d become overly protective of her work. She had a hard-and-fast rule that no one—not even Nana, when she was alive—saw her work in progress. It was private until she knew it was perfect and could share it with the world.
“You know, that was really rude. Most artists don’t like to share their work until it’s finished.”
She watched, an unwanted knot lodged halfway between her stomach and her throat, as Zane cocked his head and studied her work in silence.
Finally, he looked up, a semismile curling the edges of his lips as he asked, “This isn’t finished? It looks perfect to me. Amazing. How long did it take you to do this?”
A sort of euphoria bubbled up inside her. She tried hard not to smile back at him, to reward his rude behavior and “I own the world” attitude. But she couldn’t help it.
“Um, about thirty minutes, I guess. I don’t know. I left my watch back at the room.”
“My God, that’s amazing.”
She shrugged, feeling her skin heat under the force of a blush. She never blushed.
Damn, this man was bad for her. He made her feel awkward and powerful and childish and hot all over. It had been a very long time since anything had made her feel awkward. She didn’t like it. She’d learned early in life to fight for herself, against two older and stronger brothers, against a father who didn’t understand her, against a world that thought becoming an artist wasn’t a very smart choice.
She’d developed a thick skin. She’d had to in order to succeed and prove everyone wrong.
But apparently Officer Zane knew exactly how to get under that skin.
Handing the book back to her, he rose, his flexing thigh muscles impossible to ignore. She told herself she wouldn’t have noticed if they hadn’t been practically in her face.
“See you later.”
The rising sun at his back blocked out the expression on his face, but she had no doubt that if she’d been able to see it she wouldn’t have appreciated it. His tone of voice was rather smug.
“I’m sure you will.”
He turned quickly, spraying sand in his wake. At least he waited until he was farther down the beach before he picked up the rhythm of his run.
Elle watched the wide V of his shoulders as they tapered down into the curve of his waist, the tight line of his butt and the give and take of his leg muscles as he headed back toward the resort.
And in that moment, the vision of that half smile curving his lips flashed across her mind. Without thought, she flipped to a clean page in her book and began drawing. She rarely sketched from memory, preferring to capture moments as they happened so she wouldn’t forget anything.
The way he’d looked as he’d crouched beside her, the warmth that had suffused her body, that was something she wasn’t likely to ever forget.
ZANE SHOOK THE WATER FROM his hair, swiping a towel over his damp body as he walked through his small bungalow. It wasn’t much, a large open space that contained a bed, a couch and a TV. A stove he hardly ever used had been installed in the far corner, along with a few feet of cabinet space. There was no fresh market on the island, but there was a five-star restaurant right down the path, so cooking rarely seemed the best choice.
In the opposite corner, two beige walls boxed off the bathroom. At least his predecessor had thought to request a large tiled shower, complete with a glass-fronted view into the wild jungle that skirted the property. Simon sure as hell hadn’t thought of that creature comfort on his own.
His place was set back from everything, giving him the illusion that he was on the island alone whenever he needed it. Simon lived in the middle of everything, not because he wanted to, but because he had to. Zane, on the other hand, preferred some space for when the memories and guilt got to be too much.
Today, the solitude might be what did him in. He’d caught himself staring out into the lush foliage…and remembering Elle sitting on the sand, her toes dug deep and her eyebrows beetled in concentration. He’d watched her for several minutes, unobserved, as she’d worked frantically to capture the unruly beauty of the jungle.
She’d done a damn good job of it, too.
It was unexpected. Not her drive…or her talent, if he’d thought about it. Elle struck him as the kind of person who would excel at whatever she put her mind to. She was feisty and determined. He’d seen enough to know she wouldn’t accept anything less than perfection from herself. As much as it meant she would be a bigger pain in his ass, he admired her for that.
He hadn’t figured her for the artistic type, though. A cat burglar? Sure. Not someone who captured the perfection of a moment the way she had this morning.
Now that he’d discovered that little tidbit of information, the question was, did it change anything? He didn’t think so.
Elle Monroe was up to something. And he had every intention of finding out what. Back home, he’d have tapped her phones, set up surveillance, run background checks, gathered every speck of data he could find. He would have found her weakness and ruthlessly exploited it until he’d gotten the information he wanted.
The problem was that, here, he had no access to classified databases, no backup, no electronics. He was basically blind. Although, what he did have were some friends in the States. Friends who owed him. Friends he hadn’t spoken to in eighteen months.
But he supposed they’d understand. They’d been there when Felicity died. Worked her crime scene. Told him she’d been pushed to her death by someone he knew…someone he’d tried to put away.
The guilt overwhelmed him. Eighteen months ago, that well of emotion would have had him reaching for a glass and a bottle. And slamming the phone back into the cradle because he couldn’t face the pity that would be in the voice on the other end.
Today, he dialed.
“Mick, it’s Zane.”
Pressing the cordless phone to his ear, Zane walked lazily across the small expanse of his bungalow. He and the agent on the other end exchanged pleasantries. Mick tap-danced around asking the real question everyone wanted to know—how was he, and was he ever coming back?
Zane found himself staring through the bathroom, out the window and into the dank tangle of jungle beyond.
“Look, I need a favor. I need you to run a background check on Giselle Monroe. She lives in Atlanta. I think her father and brothers are all on the force there.”
Zane listened for a moment, insulated from that jungle and the world in the silence he’d created.
He should have felt alone. He had every single day that he’d been here. Felicity gone, his life changed forever. No agents, no cases, no friends except for Simon. Nothing but the mundane ease of watching guests party and laugh and lie in the sun.
Today, he wasn’t alone.
Today, he had the puzzle of Giselle Monroe. And he had every intention of having her…solving her. That’s what he’d meant.
INSPIRATION HAD STRUCK AS Elle walked back through the hotel earlier that morning. She’d stopped in one of t
he small sitting areas off of the main salon. The clear light of an early-morning sun had been streaming in the windows that lined the space. The bright patches of yellow had illuminated several pieces of art lined up along the far wall.
They were brilliant pieces. None of them priceless masterpieces, but several by lesser-known painters from the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Technique was difficult to miss, especially when she’d had it pounded into her head by brilliant teachers whom she’d wanted to kill at the time but now appreciated.
It had gotten her thinking. Whoever had decorated the place definitely had an appreciation for art. They knew the hidden gems. The brilliant pieces that didn’t have a high level name and a higher-level price tag attached.
Surely this room couldn’t be the only one to house a few paintings. Well, she knew it wasn’t, because somewhere in the maze of rooms, buildings and bungalows another painting sat on another wall.
Could the solution to her problem be as simple as asking to see all of the art?
Once she figured out where the painting was, she could decide what to do next.
Stopping off at the front desk, Elle had asked to speak to Marcy. Considering it had barely been six-thirty, she’d expected to leave a message and receive a call from the woman later. To Elle’s surprise, Marcy had materialized from a doorway behind the desk.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Monroe?”
It took Elle a few moments to order the thoughts in her brain, to figure out the best way to ask her question without sounding too desperate, or tipping her hand.
“I was wondering if you could get something for me. From St. Lucia.”
“I can certainly try. They don’t have everything, but most things I can find. What do you need?”
“Painting supplies. A palette with pigments, a few brushes, an easel, a couple of canvases.”
Marcy’s eyebrows went up in surprise. Elle supposed her requests weren’t the norm. Maybe vibrators and personal lubricants were what the front desk usually received requests for. Although, she’d bet the ever-efficient Marcy had those boxed and stacked in perfect order, just waiting to be wanted.
Take It Down Page 5
