The Rebel. Adrienne Giordano
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“I am.”
“Knew it. You have that lawyer tenacity.”
He grinned. “I’m civil law. Everyone else is on the criminal side. But since I have that lawyer tenacity, I’d like to make you a deal.”
“No.”
Time to try a different approach because he wanted a dinner date with this woman and he liked sparring with her. Even if she didn’t know either of those things.
Yet.
He sat forward, angled his head toward the sculpture across the room and pointed. “Looking at that, I’d say you’re a talented woman.”
“Thank you. And nice try.”
She folded her arms, visually ripping holes into his body, and the twisted side of him, the strategizer, loved it. “You’re welcome. What we have here is a detective trying to identify a body. A body deserving of a proper burial. Someone whose family is probably wondering what happened to their loved one.”
“David—”
“Even if you don’t think you have the experience, what would it hurt to try? I mean, this is fairly specialized work. I can’t imagine there are a ton of forensic sculptors in this city.”
“It would be a waste of everyone’s time.”
“I’ll pay you.”
Her head dipped. “You’ll pay me to attempt a sculpture that may or may not serve a purpose?”
Apparently so. And that was news to him, too, but he’d gotten on a roll, so why not? Cost of doing business when it came to keeping his mother off his back. “Yes. The worst-case scenario is that no one will identify the person. Best case is your sculpture helps the police figure out what happened, brings someone home and puts their family out of misery. And you’ll get paid. I don’t see the downside.”
* * *
IF HE WANTED a downside, she could give him one. One so huge that if this project failed, and it could fail in any number of ways, she might find herself emotionally debilitated for years. Having an acute sense of her own emotional awareness, Amanda chose to avoid situations involving someone else’s future. She’d learned that lesson from her now-deceased mother.
She drew in a breath and thought about the bright spring morning ten years ago when her mother had swallowed a bottle of pills. Amanda reminded herself—as if it ever went away—what it had felt like to touch Mom’s lifeless body. Before that day, she’d never known just how cold a body could get.
Right now that memory kept her focused on convincing the extremely handsome and determined man across from her just how stubborn she could be. From the moment she’d opened the studio door, David Hennings had surprised her. Not only did he not look a thing like his mother, but he also didn’t dress like any blue blood she’d ever met. If the chiseled face, sexy dark beard and enormous shoulders weren’t enough, the man rode a big, bad motorcycle known to be one of the fastest production bikes out there. That beauty did zero to sixty in less than three seconds, and something told her David Hennings loved to make it scream.
Mentally, she fanned herself. Cooled her own firing engines because...well...wow. Stay strong, girlfriend. She’d always had a thing for a man on a motorcycle. She sat back, casually crossed her legs and wished she weren’t wearing ratty jeans. “David, trust me—there’s a downside to this kind of work. People are sent to prison based on an artist’s sketch. I don’t want that responsibility.” She waved her hand around the studio. “I want to paint and sculpt for my clients’ enjoyment.”
He nodded, but he obviously wasn’t done yet. She saw it in the way he stared at her, his dark blue eyes so serious but somehow playful, as well. Whatever this was, he was enjoying it.
And between his height and his shoulders, he filled her sight line. Amazing that a man this imposing could come from a woman as petite as Mrs. Hennings. Then again, he’d clearly inherited his media-darling father’s big-chested build. A few wisps of his collar-length hair, such a deep brown it bordered on black, fell across his forehead and he pushed them back, resting his long fingers against his head for a second, almost demanding those hairs stay put. Amanda’s girlie parts didn’t just tingle, they damn near sizzled.
Whew.
The object of her indecent thoughts gestured to the piece she’d worked on that morning. “May I?”
“Of course.”
He took his time getting to the sculpture, his gaze on it as he moved, and Amanda’s skin caught fire. Prowling, sexual energy streamed from him as he contemplated her work, head cocked one way and then the other, that strong jaw so perfect she’d love to sculpt it.
And her without a fan.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I think your work is exceptional. And I’m not saying that because I want something from you.” He smiled. “Certain lines I won’t cross, and doling out high praise when it’s not warranted is one of them.”
“Thank you. I take it you like art?”
He shrugged. “I like to study things. To research them. Like this building. I saw it and had to know its history.”
“All right, what do you see in that sculpture?”
“The mouth.” He went back to the photo on the stand. “It’s not quite there yet.”
Amazing. “I worked on the lips all morning. Something isn’t right.”
Now he looked back at her, a full-on smile exploding across his face, and Amanda’s lungs froze. Just stopped working. To heck with Michelangelo, Amanda LeBlanc now had a David of her very own.
“I have another deal for you.”
Her lungs released and she eased out a breath. “You’re full of deals today.”
“I’m a lawyer. It’s what I do.”
“Fine. What’s your deal?”
“I’ll tell you what the problem is with your sculpture if you go with me to see this detective.”
Moving closer, she kept her gaze on him and the not-too-smug curve of his mouth. “You know what’s wrong with the lips?”
“I believe I do.”
As a trained artist, one with a master’s in fine arts, she’d spent hours trying to figure it out, and now the history major thought he knew. Oh, this was so tempting. She’d love to prove him wrong and knock some of that arrogance right out of him. But, darn. The way he carried that confidence, that supreme knowing made her stomach pinch.
“What’s wrong, Amanda? Cat got your tongue?”
And ohmygod, he was such a weasel. A playful weasel, but still. She snorted. “Please. The cat having my tongue has never been an issue. Perhaps I’m merely stunned by your gigantic ego.”
“Oh, harsh.” He splayed his hand and his beautifully long fingers over his chest, but his face gave him away, all those sharp angles softly curving when he smiled. “You wound me.”
Such a weasel. From her worktable, she grabbed her flat wooden tool. “Okay, hotshot. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“If I tell you and it works, you go with me to see that detective. That’s the deal.”
“Yes. If it works, I’ll go with you.”
Silly, silly girl. All this to prove him wrong. Something told her, if he nailed this, she might never hear the end of it.
He smiled at her, spun to the sculpture and, without touching it, pointed to the right corner of the mouth. “It’s not the lips so much but the small depression that should be right there.”