LITMIR.BIZ

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sigh slipped past her lips.

      The cab pulled to the curb in front of the gallery. Aubrey said a silent prayer of thanks and climbed out while Liam paid the fare.

      He joined her on the sidewalk. “You said you like this artist?”

      “Yes. Her paintings are very sensual.”

      “They’re flowers,” he said with a straight face.

      Aubrey studied the confused frown on Liam’s face. Did he not know anything about the artist? “Have you ever studied Georgia O’Keeffe?”

      He shook his head. “Only enough to know vaguely who she is. Art’s not my thing.”

      What were his interests outside of work? She’d never know that either. Disappointment weighed heavily on her shoulders.

      “Gilda Raines has been compared to a modern-day O’Keeffe although she’s more likely to paint the flowers and scenes from the Southeast rather than the Southwest. She’s originally from Charleston, South Carolina, and she took up painting after her husband, the love of her life, died. I’ve heard she’s quite an unusual personality.”

      She followed him inside a bright, open area. Oils of varying sizes graced the walls and a few pieces of sculpture stood on wide pedestals scattered throughout the space.

      A chic brunette approached. “Mr. Elliott?”

      “Yes.”

      “Trisha Evans.” In Aubrey’s estimation, the handshake lasted longer than it should have. “And you are?”

      “Aubrey Holt.”

      “Ms. Raines is waiting for you in the private viewing room. Follow me.” She turned and led the way. Aubrey wondered if the woman normally sashayed that way or if she’d widened the pendulum swing of her hips for Liam’s benefit. And then Aubrey rolled her eyes. What did it matter if the woman wanted to advertise her wares? Aubrey would probably be doing the same thing if Liam’s last name were anything but Elliott.

      A woman no more than five feet tall awaited them. Her face held remarkably few lines for someone in her late sixties. The morning glory painting on the easel beside her took Aubrey’s breath away. It wasn’t one she had seen before. This painting seemed to express everything she’d felt before she’d discovered Liam’s identity.

      “So you wanna buy my painting,” Gilda Raines said without preamble in a rich southern drawl, drawing Aubrey’s attention momentarily away from the mesmerizing artwork. The artist’s dark eyes assessed Liam.

      “Yes, ma’am.” He briefly glanced at the framed oil.

      Ms. Evans barely finished with the introductions before Ms. Gaines asked, “Why?”

      “I explained about my mother in my letter. About her illness.”

      Aubrey’s gaze jerked to Liam. He’d written to the artist?

      “I don’t get many letters begging me to sell—especially a painting someone has never seen. Anything, you said. ‘I’ll buy anything.’ I don’t part with my babies often, Mr. Elliott, and when I do it’s for a good reason. I don’t know that I should give up one now. Why should I?”

      “Because my mother admires your work and having one of your paintings will make her happy.”

      Thin arms crossed over a loose-fitting paisley print shirt. Gilda remained mute, but her expression said, “Not good enough.”

      Even though it wasn’t any of her business, Aubrey butted in. “Because after a double mastectomy his mother needs to be reminded she’s a woman.”

      All three heads swiveled toward Aubrey. “Your morning glory embodies womanhood, femininity and sexuality. I’m guessing Karen Elliott feels she’s lacking all of those qualities at the moment.”

      Gaines’s eyes narrowed and she cocked her head. “How would you know?”

      Memories encroached, robbing a little of the brightness from Aubrey’s afternoon. “I lost a friend to breast cancer last year. I spent time with her during her treatment. Quite a few of your paintings hang in the Women’s Health Center. The Daylily is my favorite, but Jane liked The Gardenia best.”

      Jane, her father’s personal assistant for as far back as Aubrey could remember, had lost her life to the disease after a long, valiant struggle. The heartbreaking shame of it was that if Jane had gone for the mammograms her doctor had been recommending for the past two decades they might have caught the cancer in time to save her life, but Jane had been afraid the procedure would be uncomfortable and embarrassing so she’d put it off only to learn too late that the hell of chemotherapy was much worse than the slight discomfort of a mammogram.

      Grief reopened in Aubrey’s chest. She pressed a hand over her aching heart and turned back to the artwork to blink away her tears. For as far back as she could remember she’d talked more to Jane than to her socialite mother or workaholic father, and Aubrey still missed Jane, her confidante and hero.

      It had been Jane who’d realized something was wrong after Aubrey’s mother had remarried and Jane who’d pried the confession out of Aubrey about her stepfather’s inappropriate advances. And it had been Jane who’d gone to her boss and revealed the sordid truth. Aubrey had been swiftly removed from her mother’s home and she hadn’t been allowed to visit again. When her mother wanted to see her she’d had to come to the Holt apartment. She hadn’t come often.

      Gilda joined Aubrey beside the painting and tipped her head to indicate Liam. “Do you think he gets it?”

      Aubrey blinked away the past and looked over her shoulder at Liam. The careful neutrality of his face confirmed he didn’t understand the nuances behind the flower. And then she met Gilda’s skeptical gaze. “I can explain it to him.”

      Gilda cackled and nodded. “Yes, I’m sure you can. All right, then.”

      And just that quickly the deal was done. Minutes later the artwork had been packaged and placed in the trunk of a taxi and Aubrey and Liam were on the way to Liam’s apartment—a decision Aubrey considered both wise and foolhardy. Wise because she might be able to glean more information from Liam, but also foolhardy because she was only tormenting herself with what she couldn’t have.

      The cabbie drove as aggressively as the first even without the added incentive of a double fare. He swerved to avoid a bicycle messenger at the last possible second, pitching Aubrey practically into Liam’s lap. Liam’s strong hands steadied her.

      She lifted her gaze to his. “Excuse me.”

      The blue of his eyes darkened and his gaze dropped to her lips. “No problem.”

      Aubrey ordered her muscles to move her away from the warmth and strength of Liam’s grasp. They mutinied. Liam’s hand lifted from her upper arm to cup her jaw. He stroked her cheekbone with his thumb and then threaded his fingers through her hair. Aubrey shivered and inhaled a shaky breath.

       Why oh why did this man have to be the one to awaken every feminine instinct in her body?

      Before she could force herself to retreat, Liam’s head lowered. Instead of scooting back to her side of the slippery vinyl seat Aubrey lifted her chin and met him halfway.

      His lips brushed hers, softly at first and then more insistently. Her pulse raced. Her lungs seized. And then his slick tongue parted her lips and she tasted him. Delicious. Aubrey covered his hand on her face, determined to remove it, but somehow her fingers threaded through his and her other hand clenched the lapel of his jacket.

      The movement of the car rocked her breast against his bicep, stroking with each swerve and bump in the road and causing her nipples to tighten and warmth to puddle low in her belly. And then Liam’s arms banded around her and he lifted her across the seat and into his lap. She gasped at the suddenness of the action, at the heat of his thighs beneath hers and his groin against her hip.

      A second

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