by Julie Leto
Tease.
“Your mother called.”
“You answered?” Her eyes widened to the size of quarters.
“Why not? Zane wouldn’t stand on ceremony.”
She nodded, apparently in agreement. “Did she want me to call her?”
“She didn’t say. She wanted to remind you about the reception at the Eastman Gallery tonight.”
Reina paused, her mind lost in thought, then disappeared into her workshop, returning with her purse. She pulled out her calendar and scanned the page designated for today.
She snapped the leather-bound book shut. “I could have sworn I told her I wasn’t going.”
The microwave dinged. He took out the bowls of gumbo and set them on the table. “Maybe she forgot.”
“My mother never forgets anything associated with her social life. It’s more likely she’s counting on me forgetting that I said no.”
He grabbed the rolls he’d tossed into the oven, still wrapped in the tin foil from last night, then poured iced tea into tall glasses. She eyed his kitchen acumen, obviously impressed. He went for broke and held out her chair.
She slid into the seat, finally laughing when he snapped a napkin across her lap. “Don’t tell me you used to be a waiter.”
Grey sat beside her. “I inherited the family business very young and never worked anywhere else, I’m afraid. However, the old saying goes that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but I have long suspected that the reverse is true. Women love a man who knows his way around a kitchen. Takes the pressure off.”
Reina picked up her spoon. “I think you’re probably right, but, for the record, I can cook.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Studied in France?”
“Of course,” she answered. “You don’t think my mother taught me, do you? She’ll hire a caterer to boil water for her tea. I like cooking, but I’m hardly ever home. I can’t remember the last time I whipped something up in this kitchen.”
Grey cleared his throat, biting back the naughty suggestion on the tip of his tongue. He’d long considered the kitchen one of the sexiest rooms in a house and he relished an opportunity to show Reina the proper way to prepare a feast for the senses.
“We can fix that, you know.”
She nodded, but he wasn’t sure if there was a twinkle in her eye because they were thinking along the same lines or because the reheated gumbo tasted even better today than it had last night.
“So, do you cook or do you just order in and wow a woman with your presentation and reheating skills?”
Grey’s mind flashed with an image of a cooking session from the recent past that he didn’t want to think about with Reina so near. He’d always considered it bad form to recall making love to another woman in the presence of a new lover, particularly one so much more genuine than the last.
Something must have showed on his face, because she put down her spoon and watched him with sad eyes.
“Thinking about Lane Morrow, aren’t you?”
He scooped a large spoonful of gumbo into his mouth, shaking his head.
“Yes, you are.” She sipped her tea, as if his denial meant nothing.
“I don’t want to talk about her. She’s ancient history.”
“Women like her are so pathetic,” Reina continued, ignoring him. “Shameful, really.”
He didn’t know why he had a sudden desire to defend Lane, particularly since he agreed with Reina’s cool assessment. But still, admitting Lane was a heartless, self-serving bitch more concerned with her own celebrity than whose trust she betrayed said as much about him—the man who fell for her—as it did about Lane.
He polished off a roll first. “She’s been an actress her entire life, with an insatiable need to be the center of attention at all times. I shouldn’t be surprised she used me to get herself booked on every talk show in the free world.”
“Maybe not surprised,” Reina said, tearing off a serving of bread, “but that doesn’t mean you don’t have the right to be angry.”
“Oh, I was angry, believe me.”
“Was?”
Grey had already lied to Reina once, when he’d pretended to be his brother. He certainly owed her the truth from this point forward, even if it did include information he’d rather not admit. “I can’t waste any more of my time on anger. That’s one of the reasons I switched places with Zane. I figured that if I spent a little time away from the media limelight, I’d have a chance to put the whole fiasco out of my mind.”
She sipped her iced tea. “All the more reason for you to get out of the house today. There’s a very hip, very CNBC concert at the park today. You should go.”
“CNBC? Like the news organization?”
She clucked her tongue. “CNBC as in see-and-be-seen. Better brush up on your lingo before you venture out as Zane again.”
He smirked, impressed by her determination. “All the more reason for me to stick around. I promise you won’t even know I’m here. Besides, if you want me to be Zane again, I could pretend to be him at that soiree at the Eastman tonight.”
“Zane wouldn’t be caught dead at a fund-raiser for an artists’ colony struggling to survive in the mountains of Spain,” she reported, her distaste for the event apparent.
“Then why are you going?”
“I’m not. Mother asked me to appear on her behalf and I told her weeks ago I wasn’t interested. Seems she once had an affair with the Impressionist who runs the place and she has no desire to see him. But, of course, she still supports his cause. She’s in the art scene herself now with the theater troupe. I don’t think she wants to offend anyone who might turn their wallets her way.”
“You’d better call her then. She seemed certain you’d be going.”
Reina shook her head and dipped some bread into the gumbo. “I am not up for that argument. She’ll know I didn’t go when my name doesn’t show up in the social column of your paper tomorrow.”
“Speaking of the paper,” he said, unable to squelch his curiosity about how today’s edition had turned out.
“Oh, I forgot. It’s probably still out on the porch.”
Grey waved for her to stay seated, scooping out and swallowing the last of his cajun soup. “You eat. I want to go over the security system and those robberies so I can finish setting up your secret workshop and you can start on the collection.”
She rewarded his enthusiasm with a suspicious smile and a facetious tone. “I didn’t know you cared about my ambitions so deeply.”
He stole a chunk of bread off the roll in her hand. “I don’t. But I’ve already seen how the jewelry turns you on and, frankly, I’m all set to help you relieve a little more sexual tension.”
“Bastard,” she said, her accusation softened by the electric glint in her eyes, visible only for a moment before she turned her nose to the air and proceeded to ignore him.
“You have no idea,” Grey answered.
He found the paper rolled up in plastic on the front porch, but he shut the door and hesitated before taking the newsprint out of the wrapper. Here it was. The first full edition his brother had put to bed without any input from him. How bad could it be? Zane did have a way with words, and, despite his devil-may-care personality, he possessed a true respect and love for the family legacy.
Grey took the paper out, scanning the front page as he strolled back into the kitchen. From the corner of his eye, he saw Reina rise from the table to bring her bowl to the sink. The headlines were all in order, no misspellings or naughty double entendres. The articles all contained the requisite facts in the first two paragraphs of text.
All except one, that is.
One new column in a special, shaded box highlighted by his picture and byline.
Grey skimmed the content, sat down and allowed the laughter bubbling inside him to burst to the surface.
“What?”
In the midst of his mirth, he noticed Reina didn’t even attempt her usual aloofness.
�
��Read my special report.” He tapped the gray box. “Looks like I’m having a really hot affair with a sexy, mysterious woman. And everyone in New Orleans now knows all the sordid details.”
9
REINA SNATCHED A DISH TOWEL and wiped her hands, more fascinated by the sound of Grey’s unfettered laughter than by whatever Zane had apparently written in the paper. But was it about her? She found that highly unlikely. Zane wouldn’t betray her privacy, not even to help his brother. And if he did, he had to know she’d have him drawn and quartered.
Apparently surmising that Reina’s breeding wouldn’t allow her to race across the kitchen to snatch up the paper and react like some crazed, paranoid maniac, Grey slid the paper across the table. She picked up the newsprint, relieved to read that Grey—or rather Zane—had written a front-page editorial about his affair with a sexy boutique owner, identified only as T.M.
“T.M. Could that be Toni Maxwell? Your stalker?” Reina asked.
Grey wiped a tear from his eye. “Yes, ma’am. I’d joked with Zane about him seducing her to find out what she was up to. I should have known he couldn’t resist such an opportunity.”
Reina blinked several times, reading the article from start to finish and hearing the natural inflection of Zane’s voice as she scanned the words. According to the article, “Grey” had met Toni Maxwell at the grand reopening of Club Carnal, then again at a political dinner at Muriel’s. The attraction had been instantaneous, powerful. The two planned to spend significant time together over the next few days and “Grey” intended to chronicle his affair for his readers, down to the sordid details.
Sales at the Louisiana Daily Herald were undoubtedly about to go through the roof.
“Sounds like Zane’s having more fun as Grey than you are as Zane,” she concluded, tossing the paper back onto the table, feeling sorry for this Toni Maxwell woman, even if she did bring the notoriety onto herself by chasing after the real Grey.
Grey snatched her hand before she could retreat. His fingers wrapped around hers roughly and, when she glanced into his eyes to see what had prompted his possession, she gasped at the intensity there. The flash of fire lighting his blue irises quickly cooled to a steady burn, enhancing the heat when he lifted her knuckles to his lips and brushed soft kisses over her skin.
Stares locked, he reeled her closer, bending her wrist so he could swirl his tongue in her palm. The act, so simple, stirred her insides as if he’d taken an intimate taste of her. Her nipples tightened against her satin bra. Her pulse pounded. When he drew a wet path along the lifeline on her palm to her wrist, the muscles in her legs quivered.
She had no idea how he did it—how this unpretentious, intelligent, but emotionally wounded man so easily slipped past her defenses. Hadn’t her mother taught her anything? Hadn’t her own experiences prepared her to battle the effects of such overwhelming male confidence?
When he nibbled on the sensitive inner skin of her wrist, she knew the answer was no. When he spoke again, his voice a raspy timbre of desire, she added an exclamation point to his answer.
“Not possible,” he claimed. “If he’s enjoying himself more than I am, right at this very moment, it’s only because he’s dead and somehow charmed his way into heaven.”
Reina dislodged the thickness in her throat with a quick swallow. “You don’t mind Zane leading the entire city to believe that you’re having some torrid affair? And providing details?”
“It’s brilliant,” he claimed, placing a trio of upward moving kisses along her arm. “The tabloids have had a field day exploiting that I haven’t dated since Lane, solidifying her claims that she broke my heart. If Zane plays his dalliance with Miss Maxwell right, my reputation can only improve.”
“What about your privacy?”
He scooted his chair away from the table and pulled her closer. “I have my privacy. Right here. With you.”
Before he could mesmerize her further with his bedroom voice and slick tongue, Reina grabbed the nearest chair and moved into it, pulling the stack of files he’d left on the table closer to them. With considerable effort, she shook off the anticipation of feeling his mouth on her belly, exposed by the midriff-baring blouse she’d chosen to wear after her shower. She’d dressed for comfort, she reminded herself. Because she had work to do and so did he. They would play later.
Oh, would they play.
“What are those questions you wanted to ask me about the robberies?”
After a quick look of disappointment, Grey pulled a legal pad from beneath the files, then winked at her. “Can’t stand the heat in the kitchen, huh?”
“I can stand your heat just fine,” she claimed, then leaned forward enticingly, aware that her T-shirt enhanced her already ample breasts, giving him a dose of his own sexy medicine. “But I don’t like to be rushed. If we work now, we’ll have something delicious to look forward to later. Don’t forget what the collection does to me.”
“Screw the collection. I want to be the reason you’re so hot and bothered.”
She leaned back into the chair, saying nothing. She certainly wasn’t about to admit that she hadn’t so much as glanced at il Gio’s designs or Viviana’s diary since waking up this morning, and yet her flesh simmered with sensual anticipation—for him and only him.
“You’ll get your chance, if you ask the right questions.”
GREY GLANCED DOWN at his notes, willing himself to concentrate. Reina’s scent lingered in the kitchen, milling with the warm spices from the gumbo and the sharp tang of chicory and coffee beans still simmering in the pot. He grabbed the legal pad and manila file folders and retreated to the solarium, now empty except for the wicker furniture set he remembered from his childhood. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly three o’clock.
After interviewing Reina and instructing her on the security system, he’d completed the reconstruction of her workshop upstairs and now had settled down with his notes, his cell phone and his laptop computer. Time to be Grey again. Time to break the story. Time to solve the mystery, even if solving the break-ins could prematurely end an affair Grey couldn’t believe had only started the day before.
He was falling, and falling fast. How could he not? Reina was practically the poster girl for his perfect woman. Sexy. Adventurous. Educated. Private. Too private, he realized. Cloaked in sexuality, Reina possessed barriers around her heart that rivaled the Great Wall of China in thickness, height and depth. She didn’t hide her attraction to him, but he had no clue what she wanted from life, from a man, or partner, beyond sex. The women he’d dated always seemed so anxious to bare their hearts to him. Even Lane had, though what she’d confessed during their pillow talk all ended up being big fat lies.
Funny how that didn’t sting so much anymore.
He knew if Reina ever opened up to him, she’d tell him nothing but the truth. The trick would be breaching that erotic defense system of hers, a powerful array built on the fact that she didn’t fear anything about sex. The possibilities of making love with her quickly torpedoed any wayward thoughts about using traditional means to get her to open up about her emotions, her desires. But Grey figured that with his equal sexual prowess, he’d develop a system to battle her resistance.
Because like any good newspaperman, he had to know the truth. And like any good Masterson man, he wasn’t about to retreat without a fight.
The thought led him back to the notes he’d scribbled during their interview. Just as the police had concluded, Grey felt certain that whoever had stolen the jewels from Reina’s safe must have either worked with her at the gallery or had an accomplice who did. According to their interview, none of the artists who had left the gallery over the past five years harbored any ill feelings. She hadn’t fired any employee, not even a deliveryman, since she opened. The ones who’d quit had done so to relocate to another city or for a better-paying job. She’d written all of them glowing recommendations.
During the first robbery, the thief had unlocked the safe, seemingly with th
e combination, and had left no fingerprints. At the time, several employees and artists had known the code. But after the break-in, Reina had replaced the safe with a newer model and kept the numerical sequence to herself.
She’d told no one, assured him that she hadn’t written it down. And still, the second robbery also resulted in no damage to the safe or the locking mechanisms. She claimed no one could have guessed the code, either. She’d chosen a combination of numbers personal to her, numbers she felt certain no one else could figure out, or unless they knew her incredibly well.
He’d left the question at that, figuring there wasn’t anyone in her employ who could have penetrated that intense privacy of hers. Probably no one in her entire life.
Except…
He dashed up the stairs, entering her bedroom through the open door. She’d closed the secret panel to the large interior room and had hung a few blouses in the smaller bypass to enhance the illusion that it was just a closet. He knocked lightly, in the succession of raps they’d agreed would mean he was the one asking for access.
“Come in,” she called.
He opened the panel but didn’t enter. She had the sheets of schematics spread across her worktable. A small blow-torch sizzled beside her and a collection of gold nuggets and chains were lined on a soft cloth. She’d tucked her safety glasses in the scooped neckline of her T-shirt. She looked busy and he didn’t want to interrupt for too long, not when he anticipated what they’d accomplish once she was done for the day.
“Just a quick question. That second combination, the one you said no one could possibly guess—what numbers did you choose?”
Reina hardly hesitated. “Twenty-five, sixteen, seven.”
