The Rebel Read online

  To say the least, she affected him.

  And she hadn’t even opened her mouth. Please don’t be an airhead.

  “David?”

  Yep. That was the voice from earlier. Soft and sweet and stirring up all kinds of images right along with Sunday mornings and coffee. With any luck, more than the coffee would be hot.

  Hokay. Mission Pam Hennings getting derailed by wicked thoughts. Time to get serious.

  “Hi. Amanda?”

  “Yes.” She held her hand out. “Amanda LeBlanc.”

  David grasped her hand and glanced down at her long, elegant fingers folding over his. Her silky skin absorbed his much larger hand, and he might like to stay this way awhile. Nice hands. Soft hands. He’d imagined a sculptor’s hands to be work-hardened and rough. Not that she swung an ax all day, but he’d expected...different.

  “Um.” She pointed at their still joined hands. “I kinda need that hand back.”

  Epic fail, Dave. He grinned and regrettably slid his hand away. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but where have you been all my life?”

  As recoveries went, it wouldn’t be listed among the top hundred in brilliance, but a man had to work with what he had. Still, her lips, those extraordinary, shapely lips, twisted until she finally gave up and awarded him with a smile.

  “Good one,” she said. “Come inside and we’ll talk about your project.”

  Right to business. Couldn’t blame her. She didn’t know him and he’d not only barged in on her day, but also hit on her. He stepped into the loft and let out a low whistle. A few walls had obviously been knocked out because her studio took up half of the entire floor. He scanned the room, his eyes darting over the open ceiling, the gleaming white walls, the easels and canvases in one corner. A large table covered with tools and brushes separated one area from a second space, where a bust was mounted on an adjustable stand.

  She closed the door behind him. “I’d ask you to excuse the mess, but since it always looks like this, I won’t bother.”

  “It’s a studio. I’m not sure it’s supposed to be neat.”

  “We can talk over here.” She motioned him to a round table for four by the windows.

  “This is a great space. Fantastic light. Do you know anything about the building?”

  Her eyebrows dipped. “As in who owns it?”

  “No. Sorry. I’m a history buff. Majored in it in college. The columns out front make me think early 1900s architecture.”

  “Ah. A man after my own heart. Believe it or not, I’m the only tenant right now. People just don’t see the beauty. According to city records, it was constructed in 1908. I’m not sure my landlord has a clue what a gem he has. When I toured the building he told me he wanted to paint the front of it.”

  David opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  “I know,” she said. “I had to give him the number of a company that specializes in stone cleaning and repair before he stripped the historical value out of the place.”

  “No kidding.”

  Amanda took the chair by the window, where a legal pad and pencil waited to be put to use. David slid his jacket off, set it on the chair next to his and sat across from her. Damn, the woman was gorgeous. All big brown eyes and soft cheeks to go with the healthy curves.

  “Is that jacket a Belstaff?” she asked.

  And, oh, oh, oh, she knew motorcycles. Or at least biker jackets. This expedition of his mother’s might make his day.

  “It is. You like motorcycles?”

  “My dad does. What do you ride?”

  “A Ducati. Diavel Carbon.” He smiled. “It’s a beast.”

  “It should be with a name like Diavel. You know what it means, right?”

  He sure did. “Diavolo. Italian for devil.”

  She grinned. “And are you? A devil?”

  “My mother would say I am. I think I’m a history nerd with a thing for motorcycles.”

  “Huh,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. You’re just not what I expected.”

  Now, this sounded good. Maybe. “You know I have to ask...”

  “I expected someone who looks like your mother. Tall, blond hair, Italian suit. Instead I got dark with an Italian motorcycle.”

  He bit his bottom lip, then ran his teeth over it. “If my brother had knocked on your door, you’d have nailed it.” He shrugged. “But hey, you got the tall part right.”

  “That’s something, I guess.”

  She picked up her pencil and tossed her hair over her shoulder and David’s pulse went berserk. Damn, this woman was beautiful. And not in the normal way. This was more corn-fed, casual beauty that she probably had no idea she possessed.

  She angled her notepad in front of her. “Anyway, tell me about this project. What kind of paintings are you looking for?”

  Nudes.

  Of her.

  His mother would castrate him. He cleared his throat and got that vision out of his head. The naked Amanda, not the castration. But the castration was no picnic, either.

  But here was where this scenario got sticky because his sneaky mother, God bless her, had taken Amanda’s card under the guise of providing him with art for his condo. Well, he’d get the art anyway because he would not waste this woman’s time under false pretenses. “I’m not sure. I was thinking maybe we could work with Lexi on that. Something bold, deep colors. I don’t know. It’s not my thing. That’s why I have Lexi.”

  “She’s good at it, that’s for sure. I can call her. Then I’ll pull some paintings I think will work. If you don’t like them, maybe I can create something specific for you.”

  Which, lucky him, would give him another reason to show up and maybe convince the lovely Amanda LeBlanc to have dinner with him. “That’ll work. I have another project that my mother is interested in.”

  Amanda’s eyebrows hitched up. No surprise there. His mother was notorious for spending big bucks on decorating. And landing her as a client would open a lot of doors when it came to an artist’s career.

  “What does she have in mind?”

  “A sculpture.”

  “Oh, my specialty. Who will the sculpture be of?”

  Here we go. “We don’t know.”

  She laughed. “That’s a new one. All right. I’ll play. How do we find out who this sculpture will be of?”

  Okay. So apparently his mother hadn’t said anything—at all—to Amanda about her interest in the cold case discussed at the fund-raiser the night before. She’d totally set him up, and he’d give her an earful about that. When he showed up wearing jeans and facial hair at dinner. That’d teach her. “Did my mother say anything to you about my father’s law firm and their side work?”

  “No.”

  Thanks, Mom. This right here might be one of the reasons he’d moved to Boston four years ago. Keeping up with the Hennings family shenanigans and the constant arguing and petty competition with Penny made his brain hurt. So he’d taken off. Got himself breathing room halfway across the country. Welcome home, kid.

  “My dad is the founding partner of Hennings & Solomon.”

  “David, everyone in this city knows who your dad is.”

  True. “Right. Last fall my mom convinced him to have one of the firm’s investigators work on a pro bono case. A cold case.”

  Amanda sat forward and waved her pencil. “I read about that. It involved a US Marshal or something.”

  “That’s the one. His mother was murdered and the case, up to that point, was unsolved. The firm’s investigator looked into it, and between her and the victim’s son, they solved the case.”

  “Yes! I remember reading about it. Fascinating.”

  Glad you think so. That would only help when he ambushed her with doing t
his skull reconstruction his mother was so bent on. “Then my mother found another case she wanted to help solve.”

  “Your mother is a busy woman.”

  Honey, you have no idea. “She is. And her instincts are spot-on because the firm managed to help solve that one, too.”

  “How wonderful for her. And the firm’s investigator must be excellent at what she does.”

  “She is. But she’s had help. Cases like this take work and she comes from a family of detectives with major contacts.”

  Amanda sat up straighter, pencil still at the ready, but her body language—stiff shoulders, pressed lips—went from curious to defensive. The temperature in the room might have plummeted to negative numbers.

  This was it. Headfirst. Right here. “My mother overheard your conversation with the detective last night. The one with the unidentified skull.”

  She dropped her pencil and pushed the pad away. She held her hands up and sucked in her cheeks, the look hard and unyielding, transforming her from the lush sex kitten he wanted his hands on to a woman set for battle.

  Where the hell had she been all his life?

  “No,” she said.

  “I’m afraid my mother has you on her radar. And you’re locked on.”

  “She’ll have to unlock me, then. I explained to the detective last night that I couldn’t do the sculpture. I have limited, insanely limited, experience with forensic sculptures. I’ve taken a couple of workshops, but I’ve never attempted a forensic reconstruction. I’m simply not qualified.”

  “If you’ve never tried, how do you know you can’t do it?”

  She set her palms flat on the table, the tips of her fingers burrowing into the wood and turning pink. “David, I’m sorry. Tell your mother I appreciate her following up on this, but my answer is no. It would be a waste of everyone’s time. The painting for your new home, I’d be happy to do.”

  “Great. But indulge me on the reconstruction for a second.”

  Amanda huffed out a breath, half laughing but not really. In a way, he felt bad for her. He knew exactly how pushy the Hennings bunch could be. “Trust me,” he said. “I feel your pain.”

  “Are you a lawyer like the rest of your family?”

  “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.”

  What now? Lunging for the photo, she analyzed the corner of the CEO’s mouth. Dammit. Right there. Well, not right there. The dimple was so slight it couldn’t even be called a dimple. Her issue hadn’t been the lips at all, but the mouth in general. And, oh, she could rail about how David had tricked her, about how she specifically meant the lips and the deal would be negated.

  But she should have caught that. Even the tiniest of details, as they’d both just learned, could ruin a project.