Innocent as Sin by Elizabeth Lowell Page B

didn’t blame her for being nervous. Bertone might not be called the Siberian anymore, but beneath the designer suits, he was still a very nasty piece of work. Anyone gossiping about him would have a short future on his payroll.
    And maybe a short future, period.
    Under the pretext of viewing the canvas from another angle, Rand turned sideways, coming closer to her. Cinnamon and vanilla. Sunshine and just plain woman. Her dark brown hair was streaked by the sun or a very expensive colorist. Ice-blue eyes, minimum makeup, and that damned tempting rose tattoo.
    I hope you’re as innocent as I believe you are, Rand thought grimly. But innocent or not, we’re stuck with each other.
    Maybe we should just lie back and enjoy.
    “Your hands look too big, too rough, for an artist,” Kayla said without thinking.
    They fit real well around a man’s neck. And that was something Rand didn’t plan on telling her. “They come in…handy.”
    She groaned at the pun.
    He grinned.
    Curious, she studied him rather than the canvas. He was dressed in black jeans with generous paint smears, a loose-fitting shirt the precise color of his eyes—except for the paint blobs—and soft black leather boots that bore random decorations in paint. Despite the evidence of the canvas and his paint-smeared clothing, he just didn’t seem to fit the artist mold. Or maybe it was just that some of the darkness he saw so clearly within light was also inside him.
    “You aren’t from around here, are you?” she asked. Then said quickly, “Sorry, you have a bad effect on my tongue.”
    He gave her a sideways glance that picked up her heartbeat. “Sounds promising.”
    She hoped that the color climbing up her face would be written off as sun flush rather than foot-in-mouth blush.
    “I spend most of my time in the Pacific Northwest,” he said, turning back to the canvas. “Have you lived here long?”
    “Born and bred a Zonie,” she said.
    “How’d you end up working for the Bertones?”
    “I don’t. Not exactly. I’m their banker. I work for American Southwest Bank in Scottsdale. At least for now,” she added, then wished she hadn’t.
    The earlier meeting with Bertone had rattled her more than she’d realized.
    Or else R. McCree did. It wasn’t often she found a man with the body of a linebacker and the edgy soul of an artist.
    “Sounds like you’re jonesing for another job,” Rand said.
    “Everybody needs a new challenge from time to time,” she said. “I’m thinking about a career change.”
    “You don’t like banking?”
    For the first time Kayla realized that she didn’t. Not anymore. “It’s always about money, and money doesn’t always bring out the best in people.”
    “Artists don’t know much about money,” he said.
    “You know enough to paint yourself into a lather over a faux canvas that might be worth first, second, or third prize, when you ought to be somewhere else painting something worthwhile.” Then she blew out a breath. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”
    Rand doubted that. But then, he felt the same way. “It’s called putting bread and beans on the table.”
    “And it’s always just a question of what you’ll do to keep from starving to death, right?” she asked with false brightness.
    “Pretty much. Speaking of starving, what are you doing afterward?” He glanced at her in time to catch her startled expression. “What’s the matter? Hasn’t a man ever asked you out for dinner?”
    “Not five minutes after I first met him, and not ten minutes after somebody else asked me to meet him in a few hours.”
    “I’m too late? Please tell me I’m not too late,” Rand said lightly.
    It was easy to flirt with her, maybe too easy. Maybe she was playing him instead of vice versa.
    Problem was, he didn’t feel like playing at all.
    “I kind of have another commitment,” Kayla said.
    The look on her face said she didn’t want it.
    “Can you break it?”
    “I’m thinking