could think better of it.
Bertone surprised her by throwing back his head and laughing. “Yes, you do interest me. It has been a long time since anyone has. There is a little garden behind the garage. After you give the prize check to the most earnest dabbler, you will go to the garden. I will come and discuss with you gigolos and paramours.”
Said the spider to the fly.
But this time Kayla guarded her tongue. The last thing she wanted to do was “interest” Bertone any more.
18
Castillo del Cielo
Saturday
5:40 P.M. MST
Y ou see Bertone yet?” Faroe’s voice came from the earbuds Rand wore.
“Shut up,” he said beneath his breath. “Painting while holding my nose is hard work. Needs all my concentration.”
“Take a break. Look around.”
“In a minute.”
Rand squeezed a long bead of ocher onto his palette and mixed in a touch of black and a touch of crimson. To his eye, the color of the stone walls of the Bertone house was offensive.
“Brindleshit,” he muttered.
“Excuse me?” Faroe said.
“The color of the house.”
With that Rand shut out the world and concentrated on creating a color that was close to that of the house, yet more pleasing against the natural desert backdrop. It took time, but then he found the right color, the right balance of weight and light, and the painting began to condense in front of his eyes. This was his favorite part of his work, when he vanished and only the canvas lived.
When he finally stepped back to view his progress, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla curled above the pungency of his oils. The perfume alone told him that a woman was standing behind him. Close. If she hadn’t moved away quickly, he’d have bumped into her.
Without looking at her, he waited for her to speak.
She didn’t.
Curious, he glanced over his shoulder—and into Kayla Shaw’s ice-blue eyes. His first thought was that the surveillance photos hadn’t done her justice. There were shadows and light, haunting sadness and laughter, heat and cold, a whole universe of possibilities in her fiercely intelligent eyes.
He felt like he’d been sucker-punched.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I’m thinking where the hell is Bertone?” Faroe shot back.
Rand pulled out the earbuds and put them in his pocket with the butchered iPod.
Kayla looked from the painting to the man. Somehow she expected artists to be short or slight or old or shy or…unthreatening. This man wasn’t any of those things. Tall, long-limbed, wide-shouldered, powerful, with gray-green eyes that could etch steel.
“I think,” she said, “that it’s too bad the subject isn’t worthy of the artist.”
Rand almost smiled, almost swore. She’d seen right through him, knew he thought the Bertone estate was a screaming paean to bad taste.
“I’m not quite sure what that means,” he lied.
She smiled, softening the lines of tension around her mouth. “I think you do. But don’t worry. Elena will love your work. You make her look good.”
What’s a woman like Kayla doing in a place like this?
But instead of asking the age-old question, Rand used a paletteknife to blend some of the fresh oil paint, then applied a few dabs to the canvas. He squinted to measure the effect.
“It’s called artistic license,” Rand said without turning around. “If you don’t want the filter of the artist’s vision, use a camera.”
“Flattery is Elena’s meat and drink. You’ve read your hosts beautifully.”
He continued to work, still with his back to his critic, still with the scent of cinnamon in his lungs, in his blood. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“No. I’m just jealous. If I had that kind of instant insight into people…” Kayla shrugged. “It would be useful.” Understatement of the year. Maybe the decade. “At the very least, I’d be rich.”
Rand gave in to temptation and glanced briefly at Kayla. She was turned half away from him. If you didn’t look in her eyes, she
Bertone surprised her by throwing back his head and laughing. “Yes, you do interest me. It has been a long time since anyone has. There is a little garden behind the garage. After you give the prize check to the most earnest dabbler, you will go to the garden. I will come and discuss with you gigolos and paramours.”
Said the spider to the fly.
But this time Kayla guarded her tongue. The last thing she wanted to do was “interest” Bertone any more.
18
Castillo del Cielo
Saturday
5:40 P.M. MST
Y ou see Bertone yet?” Faroe’s voice came from the earbuds Rand wore.
“Shut up,” he said beneath his breath. “Painting while holding my nose is hard work. Needs all my concentration.”
“Take a break. Look around.”
“In a minute.”
Rand squeezed a long bead of ocher onto his palette and mixed in a touch of black and a touch of crimson. To his eye, the color of the stone walls of the Bertone house was offensive.
“Brindleshit,” he muttered.
“Excuse me?” Faroe said.
“The color of the house.”
With that Rand shut out the world and concentrated on creating a color that was close to that of the house, yet more pleasing against the natural desert backdrop. It took time, but then he found the right color, the right balance of weight and light, and the painting began to condense in front of his eyes. This was his favorite part of his work, when he vanished and only the canvas lived.
When he finally stepped back to view his progress, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla curled above the pungency of his oils. The perfume alone told him that a woman was standing behind him. Close. If she hadn’t moved away quickly, he’d have bumped into her.
Without looking at her, he waited for her to speak.
She didn’t.
Curious, he glanced over his shoulder—and into Kayla Shaw’s ice-blue eyes. His first thought was that the surveillance photos hadn’t done her justice. There were shadows and light, haunting sadness and laughter, heat and cold, a whole universe of possibilities in her fiercely intelligent eyes.
He felt like he’d been sucker-punched.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I’m thinking where the hell is Bertone?” Faroe shot back.
Rand pulled out the earbuds and put them in his pocket with the butchered iPod.
Kayla looked from the painting to the man. Somehow she expected artists to be short or slight or old or shy or…unthreatening. This man wasn’t any of those things. Tall, long-limbed, wide-shouldered, powerful, with gray-green eyes that could etch steel.
“I think,” she said, “that it’s too bad the subject isn’t worthy of the artist.”
Rand almost smiled, almost swore. She’d seen right through him, knew he thought the Bertone estate was a screaming paean to bad taste.
“I’m not quite sure what that means,” he lied.
She smiled, softening the lines of tension around her mouth. “I think you do. But don’t worry. Elena will love your work. You make her look good.”
What’s a woman like Kayla doing in a place like this?
But instead of asking the age-old question, Rand used a paletteknife to blend some of the fresh oil paint, then applied a few dabs to the canvas. He squinted to measure the effect.
“It’s called artistic license,” Rand said without turning around. “If you don’t want the filter of the artist’s vision, use a camera.”
“Flattery is Elena’s meat and drink. You’ve read your hosts beautifully.”
He continued to work, still with his back to his critic, still with the scent of cinnamon in his lungs, in his blood. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“No. I’m just jealous. If I had that kind of instant insight into people…” Kayla shrugged. “It would be useful.” Understatement of the year. Maybe the decade. “At the very least, I’d be rich.”
Rand gave in to temptation and glanced briefly at Kayla. She was turned half away from him. If you didn’t look in her eyes, she
Similar Books
