Hot Legs

by Susan Johnson

  How did he know she’d reconsider?

  No, don’t answer that. She didn’t want to know.

  But in short order, she was more than willing to follow him out on the porch and get a breath of fresh air, as he put it.

  She’d never fucked anyone in daylight on her back porch.

  Or any time of day, for that matter.

  She’d recommend it. Something about the impropriety and possible observation by the neighbors made her feel outrageously sexy.

  Or maybe it was the warm sun.

  Or maybe Bobby Serre was just that fantastic.

  And afterward, he did one of those shockingly sweet things that only happened in movies. He walked down her porch steps as if he weren’t nude, picked some lily of the valley, brought them back, and tucked them in her hair. “My own Primavera,” he whispered, kissing her on the cheek. “More beautiful than Botticelli’s by a country mile.”

  She was lying on the quilt he’d brought out, the sun warm on her skin, his smile more glorious than any sun in the sky, the heady fragrance of lily of the valley scenting the air. Life couldn’t have been more perfect.

  “Feel like some ice cream? I’m hungry,” he said.

  Life just zoomed into the more purified realms of perfection.

  And when he went inside and returned with two pints of Edna Mae’s—Rocky Road, her favorite, and Cherry Almond Swirl, his favorite—well, it really made her think.

  Their sex was greater than great.

  They both liked Romano instead of Picasso.

  He cooked when she didn’t—one of those yin-yang dovetail harmonies.

  And a man who liked ice cream as much as she did?

  Really. Some seriously astronomical odds were working here.

  “I was thinking,” he murmured, spooning Rocky Road into her mouth. “Maybe you’d like to come to Bulgaria with me after this. You could wait for me in Sofia while I give Jorge a quick assist with the Isabella d’Este. I could rent a villa for you.”

  Pinch me, I’m dreaming, she thought. “I’ve never been to Sofia,” she said, playing it cool, like men asked her to a villa in Europe every day.

  “You’ll like it. It’s off the beaten track. Some of the old churches date from the eighth century. We could explore afterward.”

  “If I can get away.”

  “I’ll talk to Arthur. Clear the way.”

  And then she couldn’t leave well enough alone. She had to say, “Why?”

  “So you don’t have to deal with Arthur.”

  “No, I mean, why do you want me to come along?”

  He put a spoon of Cherry Almond in his mouth and took his time letting it melt before replying. “I don’t know. I suppose I don’t want this to end once the Rubens is found.”

  “Oh,” she said, not daring to ask the next question: When will it end?

  “We could go to Budapest after if you like. Have you been there?”

  “Once, passing through to Constantinople. I saw the train station.”

  He smiled. “I’ll give you the grand tour.”

  He already had, she thought, the one with prizes at every turn. “Maybe I will,” she said.

  “No maybe. Come. You’ll love it. It shouldn’t take long in Bulgaria. The Turks Jorge does business with don’t screw around. If the painting’s authentic, they’ll name their price and they’ll get it. A couple days, tops. Say yes.”

  “Okay. Yes.”

  He kissed her then, leaning over and brushing her lips with his. “To seal the bargain,” he said.

  The sweet taste of cherries lingered on her lips, the sweeter joy of his wanting her warmed her heart, although she was quick to remind herself that Bobby Serre probably wasn’t in the market for hearts. But she didn’t care. He made her happy. And that was enough.

  Had she known Bobby had never invited a woman to his home in Budapest or to any of his homes, she might have fainted. Or thought about it. Even if women only fainted in Victorian novels.

  But he was careful not to mention it. Not that he wasn’t damned happy she’d said yes. More. He was relieved. He didn’t want to let her go.

  “Then, if you want to, we could go on to Avignon. Our vineyard is outside the city near a village almost untouched by time. Once the Rubens is found, we deserve a vacation,” he added with a smile.

  “I just want you to know, invitations like this could turn a woman’s head,” she murmured.

  “And I want you to know, legs like this—” he ran the knuckles of the hand holding the spoon down her thigh, his dark gaze holding hers “—could turn a man’s head.”

  “Then we’re on the same page.” Her voice was breathy, his touch doing predictable things to her addicted-to-love psyche.

  “And I know a way to keep it that way,” he said, setting down the spoon. “Open up, Hot Legs, I’m comin’ in . . .”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  CLAIRE WAS WAITING IN ARTHUR’S OFFICE when he arrived Monday morning.

  “You’re an early riser,” Arthur said, his brows faintly raised, innuendo softly underlying his words. “I like your suit. Armani?”

  “Jil Sander, but close.” She looked him up and down. “You’re staying fit, Arthur. I imagine your new wife appreciates it. Lovely party yesterday. Flora is enchanting. You must be proud.”

  “I’m fortunate,” he said, moving behind his desk. “Are you enjoying your visit with Sarah?”

  “Of course. We go way back.” Claire watched him sit down in his leather chair and unbutton his suit coat. “She seems quite content,” she lied. “I give you credit for maintaining friendly relations.” Men like Arthur loved flattery.

  “We try, Claire,” he murmured, self-satisfaction in his gaze. “It seems more civilized to maintain a cordial relationship after a divorce—particularly where children are involved.” It was a platitude he used often, the well-oiled phrases rolling off his tongue effortlessly.

  “I’m glad you said that, Arthur, because I came to see you this morning for precisely that reason.”

  “Bobby,” he said with a wicked smile. She wouldn’t be here otherwise.

  “Yes.” She didn’t respond to his smile.

  “What can I do for you?” He preferred to cut to the chase.

  “So blunt, Arthur,” she blandly said.

  She wasn’t easily rattled, but then she’d never been, even as a young graduate student he’d met in Paris at a conference one summer. She’d tantalized him then as now. Was it her coolness? The fact that she looked as though she wouldn’t warm up in bed? Or perhaps it was the opposite—that he knew she had to warm up in bed or Bobby Serre wouldn’t have given her the time of day.

  “There’s no point in exchanging comments on the weather,” he said with a small smile. What did she want, and what would he get in return? That was the exchange of interest to him.

  “Very well.” She leaned back slightly in her chair, glanced down briefly at the large ruby ring on her ring finger and once again met his gaze with a blue-eyed innocence she found especially effective on older men. “I need a favor, Arthur.”

  “Anything within my power, of course.” He relaxed against the black leather, enjoying a piquant sense of anticipation.

  “I want that redhead sent out of town on some assignment.”

  She didn’t say would you or I would like—not Claire. But then that Maine lumber money—the old kind—gave one a certain peremptory authority. Damn, he wished he could help; he’d been counting on a friendly quid pro quo. “I’m afraid you’re way off base, Claire. Cassandra’s not Bobby’s type. I had to beg him to take her on because she needed the consultant fees. Bobby finally agreed—very reluctantly, I might add.”

  Claire smiled tightly. “No offense, Arthur, but you must be blind. Bobby could hardly keep his hands off her at your party.”

  Arthur looked perplexed for a moment and then he softly swore. “So that’s why Bobby asked if she could come along?”

  Duh, Claire thought. Arthur’s reputation for in
tellectual acuity was somewhere between Mickey Mouse and Britney Spears. Everyone knew he’d gotten through Princeton because his father had paid for a new library. “That would be my guess,” she said mildly. “So if you could spare her for a few days or, more pertinently, if Bobby could be persuaded that she was needed out of town on some sensitive assignment, I would be most appreciative.”

  While Arthur might not solve The New York Times crossword, he knew how to negotiate. And when personal gain was at stake, he was capable of out-bargaining a genius like Einstein. He smiled. “I would have to have something in return—naturally.”

  “Of course. What would you like?”

  You couldn’t fault her for directness, Arthur thought, running through various options he might suggest, discarding a three-way with Bobby as being a probable deal-breaker.

  Maybe she saw the look in his eyes. Maybe he was transparent as hell. Maybe she suddenly got cold feet when actually faced with Arthur in person. Although he was fit and trim thanks to his trainer, he was still fifty-five if he was a day and, honestly—compared to Bobby . . . “It would have to be something business related,” she added.

  Arthur frowned. “I can’t imagine what you could offer that I need.”

  “Have you heard the Hermitage might be persuaded to send some of their Impressionist collection to us?” She adjusted her options—this proposition more expensive in terms of calling in markers, but infinitely more palatable.

  Us was the Met. Arthur began salivating. “How would that affect me?”

  “The talks are just beginning.” She smiled, cognizant of his avid interest despite his apparent nonchalance. “I’m involved, of course, because I did my internship with Serge Ravinsky.”

  Everyone, including Serge’s wife, knew she’d been fucking Ravinsky, but she was beautiful and young and his wife wasn’t. “I’m listening,” Arthur said, keeping the excitement from his voice with difficulty.

  “If you could accommodate me, I could see if Serge wouldn’t mind sending a portion of the collection to you. I couldn’t promise the entire show, of course. Your facilities aren’t large enough.”

  “I understand. How many could we have?”

  “What can you suitably hang? The Russians insist on superior conditions for their paintings—perfect humidity, lighting, surveillance . . . not to mention the necessary insurance.”

  “I could take thirty in our Ensted Gallery. It was completely renovated last year. Top-of-the-line everything, thanks to Ensted’s widow.”

  “Very well. I’ll speak to Serge.”

  His gaze narrowed. “I’ll need more than a promise.”

  “I can’t guarantee anything until I speak to Serge.”

  “Well, you let me know when you’ve talked to him,” Arthur silkily murmured.

  “I’m offering you a real plum, Arthur. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Of course. But if you want Bobby all to yourself while you’re in town—how hard is it to make a phone call?” His smile was oily. “I’m sure Serge will be understanding. You two are great friends, I understand.” She was the one here at seven in the morning. And if she wanted what she wanted, she had to pay the price. Furthermore, if he wasn’t going to join Serge in her bed, he was damned well going to get full payment some other way.

  Claire knew it wasn’t a question of Serge cooperating. He’d be more than willing, especially since his recent visit to New York. But Arthur was annoying—not taking her word on their bargain. As if she wasn’t to be trusted. As if she wasn’t handing him his biggest coup in a decade. If this wasn’t so important to her, she would have told him to go to hell and also told him he was too old to be wearing his hair that long. “Why don’t I get back to you?” she said cooly, preferring that he squirm for a time. Coming to her feet, she nodded a businesslike adieu.

  But Arthur already knew he had the deal. Or maybe he just knew Bobby’s effect on women. “I’ll wait to hear from you,” he said mildly, already planning the press release to the media as she walked from his office. It was going to be a spectacular occasion for the museum. Vodka would be appropriate at the reception—with caviar if he could find some member willing to allay the cost—and a string quartet playing evocative Russian music. He’d have to talk to some cultural activists in the Russian émigré community. Gypsy musicians would be superb.

  Now all he had to do was come up with some reasonable explanation for Cassandra. Or, more aptly, for Bobby. Her trip out of town had to look, feel, and smell authentic as North Shore blueberry pancakes and maple syrup.

  Which reminded him. Had Jessica made their reservations for the Madeline Island regatta?

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “YOU GOTTA BE KIDDING,” BOBBY SAID, scowling at Arthur.

  “Not at all. William Spencer called me this morning. He’s insisting Cassandra come down to Houston and authenticate his newest acquisitions. He bought Lord Boswick’s entire collection, and you know that’s Cassandra’s field of expertise.” As soon as Claire had called him with the expected approval from Serge, Arthur had called in a favor of his own. “She’ll only be gone four or five days—a week at the most. I could find you another assistant if you wish.”

  “I don’t wish.” Bobby’s voice was a low rumble. “She knows all the players now. Send someone else down to Spencer.”

  “Do I detect some personal attachment to Cassandra?” Arthur softly inquired, insinuation as high as Mount Everest.

  “No, Arthur. It’s nothing personal.” Bobby slid up from his sprawl, planted his hands on the chair arms, and gave Arthur a black look.

  “Then I don’t see any problem,” Arthur blandly remarked. “If you need help, I’ll find you someone else. If you don’t, that’s your call. And I apologize if Bill’s request is inopportune, but that Boswick collection is first rate. I think Cassandra will be thrilled to go. Now, tell me, how’s the search going?”

  “Nothing so far, Arthur,” Bobby brusquely said. And at the moment, he was so pissed he felt like throwing in the towel. Screw everything. Screw the Rubens, and for sure screw Arthur. And double-screw Lord fucking Boswick for assembling his collection. Damn. Sex yesterday had been so fantastic his nerves were still on edge. He was going into withdrawal just thinking of it. Fucking Spencer. Wasn’t there someone else in the country who knew English narrative painting, for Christ’s sake?

  “As long as you’re making progress,” Arthur said, smiling, knowing he’d just brought Bobby’s progress in the bedroom to an abrupt halt. “What more can I ask?”

  “When does she leave?” Curt words, a matching scowl.

  “This afternoon. Emma has her flight booked.”

  Bobby grimaced, came to his feet, and, with a nod of his head, turned and left a smiling Arthur lounging in his chair, visualizing thirty rarely seen Impressionist paintings under the soft lighting in the Ensted Gallery. That string quartet in the background was going to be perfect . . . maybe he should personally vet the musicians. Some young pretty faces would set an appropriate mood . . .

  * * *

  “HE TALKED TO you already?” Bobby stood just inside Cassie’s office.

  Cassie nodded. “Shut the door.”

  He did, but he didn’t move from the door, feeling too much like hitting something to get too close. She’d be pissed if he busted up her furniture. “What did Arthur say?”

  “Just that William Spencer needs me in Houston.”

  “And apparently he can’t wait.”

  “I didn’t dare ask.”

  “I did. Four or five days he said, maybe a week. I’m not real happy.”

  “I would have preferred going at some later date as well.” She was still drifting on pink clouds after last night, but she wasn’t stupid enough to make this personal. But she was glad he was unhappy, even if it was temporary and selfishly motivated.

  “I don’t suppose I could go with you?”

  “It might raise a few eyebrows. Wasn’t Le Corbusier your dissertation subject?”


  “Jesus, it’s annoying,” he grumbled.

  “I agree.”

  He gave her a look from under his lashes. “But you still want to see the collection, don’t you?”

  “It’s a one of a kind, Bobby. I can’t honestly say I don’t want to see it. But would I rather go afterward? Yes, of course.”

  “What do you mean, afterward?” He was surprised he asked, but not enough not to want to hear her answer.

  “I mean after you find the painting. After Bulgaria, say, and Budapest. After you’re gone.” She placed her palms on her desktop and examined her nails for a moment before looking up and meeting his gaze. “You’re going to leave eventually. We both know it.”

  There was no polite response.

  “I’m not asking for anything,” she softly said. “When you go, you go.”

  “I just hate to see you go now,” he murmured.

  “Maybe I won’t be in Houston long. The Boswick collection has been in one family for generations. There won’t be many authentication issues.” She smiled. “For sex like last night, I might be willing to work day and night and catch the red-eye home. I could be back in three days.”

  He grinned. “You pretty much say what you feel, don’t you?”

  “Pretty much.” Except for the fantasy wedding stuff that would freak him out.

  He blew out a breath, pushed away from the door, and, moving closer, sat down on her Mies chair. “Okay. Tell me again that you’ll be back in three days.”

  “Three days tops. What do you know about English narrative painting? I might call you to expedite things.”

  “By all means call.” Leaning toward her desk, he wrote two numbers on her note pad, ripped off the sheet, and handed it to her. “My cell and the houseboat. Call me anytime. And if you need help to speed things along, I’ll get in touch with Ned Ashborough at the Tate. He owes me.”

  “Thanks, although maybe a break will do us good,” she said. “Like—”

  “Bull.”

  She half smiled. “I was trying to be polite.”

  “As if that helps,” he groused. “What time do you have to leave?”