Hot Legs

  And perhaps she had a better nose than most for those personal idiosyncracies, raised by a mother like hers who often categorized people by their teeth or hair. Her mother could also remember what someone wore twenty years ago and what she’d eaten at a dinner party in 1976 (and recite the recipe from memory). Her mother’s gift for conversational recall was equally amazing. She could tell you what someone said to her in an airport in Cincinnati between flights when she was twelve.

  From such a mother, Cassie had acquired an eye and ear for detail—a quality further refined by her field of expertise. She could pick out a Hapsburg or Bourbon nose in a portrait from any century, distinguish between countries of origin in a painted face, date any costume within a year or two, and recognize the hand of a particular artist in a brush stroke.

  A shame she’d been blind to her husband’s sudden interest in boating on Lake Minnetonka and long weekends in Biwabik.

  For the remainder of the afternoon, Cassie concentrated on putting together her list of suspects, adding last those she knew outside the museum who were connected in some way to the institution. There were the occasional patrons who had become disenchanted with their treatment or offended when their tastes in art hadn’t been supported. Even a few of the trustees fell within her wide net, although certainly none of them needed money. But she preferred erring on the side of excess. It was easy enough to scratch a name later. A shame Jay hadn’t been interested in art. She would have loved to add him to the suspect list.

  Call her vengeful.

  She had reason.

  As if on cue, her phone rang. When she picked it up, the unwelcome voice of her husband barked, “My lawyer says your lawyer is telling me I can’t have that painting. What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

  “I paid for that painting on our honeymoon. You’re not getting it.” She’d bought the painting because she’d liked it. Jay didn’t spend money on art. It should have been a clue about their compatibility.

  “It’s in the divorce settlement.”

  “Why don’t we have the lawyers argue the point?”

  “If you think I’m letting you have my favorite painting, you’re crazy!”

  The only reason Jay wanted the painting was because he knew she liked it almost as much as Edna Mae’s ice cream. “My lawyer wanted me to take half your income for all the years of our marriage. Consider that before you complain about one damned painting.”

  “Over my dead body you would have gotten half my income!”

  “Had I known there was such incentive . . .” she murmured.

  “You always were a fucking bitch!”

  “You should have considered that before you asked me to marry you.” She set the receiver down very gently, inhaled deeply, counted to ten, counted to ten again, counted to ten a third time, then threw her paperweight across the room, where it bounced off the grass-cloth wall and landed with a thud on the sisal carpet.

  The malachite turtle, upside down and rocking, seemed particularly analogous to her own impotent rage, and she wondered how long it took before an ex-husband no longer incited such fury.

  Not much longer, she hoped, because she couldn’t afford a therapist.

  When the phone rang a minute later, she checked her caller ID in the event Jay was calling back. But her sister’s number appeared on the screen. She picked up.

  “Don’t forget dinner tonight.” Meg always sounded cheerful, a fact that on occasion made Cassie question her sister’s grasp of reality.

  “I thought it was on Wednesday.”

  “Today is Wednesday. And I invited Willie Peterson, too. I ran into her at Barnes and Noble. Her two-year-old and Luke were both at the children’s hour.”

  “She has a two-year-old? When did she get married?”

  “She didn’t, but it’s all for the best. She’ll tell you about it tonight.”

  “What happened to Todd?”

  “You’ll have to come to dinner to find out.”

  “You sound like Mother. I would have come anyway.”

  “Really—after you’ve canceled on me three times?”

  “I haven’t been hungry lately.”

  “Since Jay left you mean. Did I find a way to lure you out or what?”

  “I admit, I’m intrigued. I thought Todd was going to be the youngest vice president First National ever appointed and when they were married Willie was going to leave us all behind in her dust and send us postcards from exotic spas and golf courses around the world.”

  “She’s still golfing. She won third place in the Women’s U.S. Open. Dinner’s at six-thirty. The kids can’t wait. I’m making Mom’s chicken pot pie.”

  “Why didn’t you say so? I would have come without Willie.”

  “I just thought I’d make the evening irresistible.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re making homemade rolls.”

  “I suppose I might be.”

  Cassie laughed. “If you say you’ve made lemon sherbet and sugar cookies, too, I’ll bring you a present.”

  “Something from Godiva would be nice.”

  “I’ll be there early.” Her grandmother’s lemon sherbet recipe dated from the days when refrigerators had first entered the kitchens of America and was still made in little ice cube trays. It had the rich, sumptuous, lemony flavor of nostalgia and childhood well-being. “Dessert before dinner?”

  “Of course. It’s a family tradition.”

  * * *

  WHEN HER PHONE rang a third time shortly after, Cassie glanced at the screen. Unknown caller. At least it wasn’t Jay. His ego required his company name—Sibley Clubs—be prominently displayed. He wasn’t shy.

  “Do you have time for dinner?”

  The voice was vaguely familiar.

  “My brain’s in overdrive sorting through names and—”

  Bingo.

  “If you could bring the list of temps to dinner, we could work for a few hours tonight.”

  “Sorry. I have plans.”

  “A date?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course. If you’re going on a date—”

  “I’m going on a date.” Bobby Serre’s voice had been much too assured, as though women never said no to him.

  “Meet me later then. Anytime. I’d like to go over the new names.”

  “Can’t it wait until morning?”

  “This project is eating into my vacation. All I need is an hour or so for you to give me some quick profiles. Maybe you could spare some time now.”

  She sighed, understanding instant gratification. It was right there at the top of her “Need to Improve to Reach Maturity” list. “I suppose I could give you a few minutes now.”

  “I’ll be there in five.”

  “Where are you—outside?”

  “Sort of. I’m on the loading dock.”

  * * *

  WHILE CASSIE WAITED for Bobby to arrive, she quickly called her sister to explain that she’d be a half-hour late—giving her a swift rundown of her new lucrative liaison position. Before she could finish, Meg interrupted.

  “Bring him along. I’ve never known a man who wasn’t charmed by a home-cooked meal.”

  “I’m not interested in charming him.”

  “If you have to work with the guy, and if you’re relying on his good graces to continue this lucrative employment, you might consider the usefulness of charm.”

  “You don’t understand. Bobby Serre is the last person in the world who’s susceptible to charm. He dates international models and jets around the world. And believe me, he doesn’t eat chicken pot pie. I’ll come to dinner alone.”

  “I happen to love chicken pot pie.”

  The deep voice came from the direction of her doorway, and when Cassie swivelled around, Bobby was leaning against the doorjamb, grinning.

  “I’m not talking about you.”

  He gave her a like-hell-you’re-not look that triggered a tremulous flutter where she didn’t want to feel a flutter, where she hadn??
?t felt a flutter for a very long time.

  “Whatever—but I do love chicken pot pie,” he said, smiling. “My grandmother made it.”

  “I heard that,” her sister gleefully murmured in Cassie’s ear. “Tell him he’s welcome!”

  “No!” A rush of color pinked Cassie’s cheeks.

  “What’s for dessert?” Bobby nodded toward the phone.

  “See. He’s more sensible than you. It’s only a family dinner, for God’s sake,” Meg hissed. “Tell him it’s lemon sherbet.” Her sister had been trying to fix her up almost before Jay left, apparently having been more enlightened about her philandering husband’s extracurricular activities than she.

  “Maybe you’d like to tell him yourself,” Cassie muttered.

  In two long strides, Bobby was beside her, the phone was slipped from her grasp, and Bobby was introducing himself to Meg.

  Cassie glared at him as he hung up the phone after a much-too-lengthy conversation that had unaccountably turned to Willie and her ex-fiancé. “What happened to ‘let’s keep this impersonal’?”

  “I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in ages. Be nice to me, and I’ll see that Arthur gives you a raise.”

  “As if you could.”

  “You doubt me, ye of little faith?” he teased.

  “I don’t like the sound of this be-nice-to-me shit. You sound like Arthur at his most provoking. Haven’t you guys heard of the Civil Rights Act?”

  “Don’t get technical. You help me, and I’ll help you—that’s all.”

  “Does this mutual aid society have to include dinner at my sister’s house?”

  “She invited me.”

  “She’s too damned friendly.”

  “Apparently you’ve been staying home too much.”

  “She said that to you?”

  “She’s worried.”

  “Jeez.” Cassie blew out a breath of disgust. “Look. I’m perfectly fine.”

  “You don’t sound perfectly fine. You sound frustrated.”

  Her green eyes flashed. “If you dare imply like some patronizing male throwback to another century that—”

  He put up both hands to stop her. “I really do like chicken pot pie and lemon sherbet. I’d also like to run through that list of temps with you. I’m not implying anything. But when I’m on the scent, like now, I don’t sleep much until I’ve put together a notion of who and/or why a piece of art has been stolen. If all goes well, maybe we can finish this up in a few days.”

  The sound of the word we cooled her temper as though he was asking instead of telling. Her pulse rate began to subside. She could also hear the echo of Meg’s words of warning. And he had said he could get her a raise. “Okay, okay.”

  “Great.” Ignoring her sulky tone, he gestured toward the door. “My driver’s downstairs.”

  He waited for her to grab her purse and stepped aside so she could come from behind her desk and walk by him.

  “Pull the door shut, will you?” Cassie said as she walked out into the hall. “Is he waiting in the front or back?”

  “Back. I came in through the loading dock.”

  She walked ahead of him to the stairway, which was all right with him because the view from behind was first rate—those long legs, great ass, and sway of her hips kept him focused. Not that he should be fixating. But it didn’t hurt to look.

  Cassie led the way because she was more comfortable when Bobby Serre wasn’t too close. Maybe it was his cologne. Or his immense size. Maybe she’d been without a man too long. Whatever it was, it was impossible to ignore his damnable gorgeous presence, and she felt better with some distance between her and temptation.

  She descended the steps quickly, Bobby a few paces behind, but as they neared the door to the loading dock, he moved forward. “I’ll give you a hand down the stairs,” he said.

  “I’m fine.” She’d prefer not touching him for reasons that didn’t bear contemplation.

  “There’s no railing.”

  She shot him a look as she walked across the dock. “I’m fine, really.”

  Those spiky heels—he wasn’t so sure. As she reached the top of the narrow cement stairway, he jumped from the dock to the ground and waited for her at the bottom of the stairs.

  “That’s unnecessary,” she said with a small frown, taking the first step. “I’ve probably gone down these stairs a hundred times.”

  “Just in case,” he said with a smile. Arthur was right. She was prickly.

  She was just about to give him an I-told-you-so smile as she reached the ground when her right heel sank into the soft asphalt, she lurched, he caught her, and her I-told-you-so smile ended up on his throat.

  She felt just like he thought she’d feel, soft where she should be and toned where she should be and sumptuous as hell. He shouldn’t be thinking this when he had a job to do.

  My God, he was all steel hard muscle like some Mr. Universe who worked out ten hours a day—which only added to his very long list of admirable attributes, none of which was available to her because he wasn’t interested.

  He’d only offered his hand to be polite.

  She should have taken his hand like a mature adult and saved herself this horrendous embarrassment.

  Blushing and stammering and making no sense at all, she tried to extricate herself from his arms.

  She finally managed to put together words in a coherent sentence as he set her back on her feet. “I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  “Nothing’s hurt. Are you okay?”

  “Except for being mortified, I’m fine.”

  “Good. How about taking my arm on this soft asphalt.” He nodded to the car several yards away.

  She had no choice short of looking like an idiot.

  He put out his arm.

  She placed her hand on his strong, tanned forearm covered with a light dusting of black hair.

  He placed his hand over hers, because she might be more mortified if she fell again.

  Just to be sure, she took care not to let her heels sink into the asphalt.

  It was a long walk to the car.

  Or it was a short walk to the car.

  Depending on whether you were focused on embarrassment or pleasure.

  It was just about impossible to embarrass Bobby—her scent, the occasional brush of her hip against his, the close proximity to her really lush boobs. Hell, he could have walked for another ten miles.

  As was often the case with Cassie, she was ambiguous, her embarrassment still hovering on the fringes of her brain. But she wasn’t averse to the titillation of feeling the scrumptious, hunky Bobby Serre under her hand and over her hand and against her hip. Like that.

  As they approached the car, the driver jumped out, came around, and opened the back door.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  Effectively breaking the spell.

  Meg is waiting, Cassie thought. Life is waiting.

  Dinner at some stranger’s house, Bobby thought, reminding himself why he was here.

  And it wasn’t for a piece of ass.

  “I don’t know the address,” Bobby said, taking a step back so her hand fell away from his arm.

  Cassie gave the driver the address, her voice as cool and collected as Bobby Serre’s.

  When she sat down in the backseat, she placed her purse on the seat between them.

  He noticed.

  But that was fine with him.

  Everything was under control again.

  NINE

  THE DRIVER WAS EITHER AN OLD FRIEND OR Bobby Serre made friends easily, because Joe from Eden Prairie talked about hunting and fishing in Montana practically the entire way to Meg’s house.

  Bobby carried on a conversation with the driver deliberately, preferring to keep what was under control just that—under control. But he politely apologized as they moved up the front walk to Cassie’s sister’s faux farmhouse in a new sub-development of faux farmhouses with front porches, peaked roofs, and potential rose gardens and trees. ?
??I’m from Montana, as you probably figured out, and Joe and I’ve been swapping stories. He likes to talk. Sorry.”

  “Not a problem.” In fact she’d been relieved, not having to decide what to say and how to say it. His Montana background explained his hair and eyes, she reminded herself, suddenly recognizing the Native American heritage in his looks. As if his movie-star appeal needed any further romanticizing—a vision of dashing warriors in full battle regalia astride magnificent horses galloped into her consciousness. And the warrior leading the troop, of course, was—

  “Are you okay?”

  Jarred back to reality, she tried to sift through the tumble of excuses fighting for supremacy in her mind.

  “She daydreams a lot.”

  Meg stood at the open door, smiling.

  “I do not.”

  “I’m trying to be polite. He thought you’d dozed off.” Stepping forward, she held out her hand. “I’m Meg. You must be Bobby. Thanks for helping Cassie earn some extra money. Jay really left her in this mess, not that it’s any of your concern, but—anyway . . . thanks.”

  “What—am I invisible?” Cassie protested, preferring her personal life not be discussed with strangers.

  Meg grinned. “I’m an older sister. I can be protective.”

  “Is that what you call embarrassing the hell out of me?”

  “Divorce is unpleasant.” Bobby shrugged. “Don’t be embarrassed.”

  “See.” Meg shot Cassie a grin. “Now come on in, you two,” she said, as if they were actually a couple when they were so not a couple. Cassie flushed pink just thinking about the ridiculous presumption, that misconception apparently going unnoticed by her sister, who added, “I made a pitcher of lemon drops to take the edge off your busy day. You look tired, Cassie. She hasn’t been sleeping well.” Meg gave Bobby a smile. “But with you here, maybe things will be looking up.”