“It’ll probably be after dark when I get back,” she said. “I’ve got one piece that’s not finished and another that I need to stretch and hang. If I don’t get them done, I’ll have two gigantic empty spaces on the wall when the show opens tomorrow night.”
“Sit down here,” he murmured sleepily, pushing himself up against the headboard and reaching for her hand.
“Jack, I don’t have time,” she said with a smile.
“Were you able to finish the cat?”
“The cat?” Her eyes widened. She hadn’t told him about the mixed-media wall hanging because it wasn’t finished yet. “How do you know about the cat?”
“I saw your sketch in the office. I like it a lot.”
“Really? You do?” Cara Lynn wasn’t sure why she’d started that piece. Most of her fiber-art pieces were more abstract. But she’d sketched out the long, sleek body of the cat in her mind one night after she and Jack had made love. To her, the cat was a representation of Jack. The beauty of his body, his careless, unconscious grace and, most of all, the regal, arrogant tilt to his head.
“Sure. There’s something about it. I like the strong lines.”
Just as he finished speaking, his cell phone rang. She glanced toward where it lay on the bedside table, but he grabbed it and looked at the display kind of furtively, she thought. But once he saw who it was, he relaxed and answered it. “Sure, Ryker. We can do that.”
Her cousin Ryker was a detective for the St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office, which served Chef Voleur. If he was calling Jack, maybe that meant they’d found the thief.
“What about the journal, and—I see. Sure. Hang on.” He looked up. “We need to go by the sheriff’s office. They want us to sign our statements and take a look at some mug shots to see if we can identify the thief. When can you go?”
“Now,” she said. “Before I go to the studio.”
Jack told Ryker that and said that he’d be there a little later, then hung up.
“Did they find the journal?” she asked eagerly.
“He didn’t say anything about having recovered the journal, but he did say they’re following up on a lead on a suspect. They apparently got fingerprints off the tiara.”
“That’s good. I hope they have the journal. I can’t wait to see it.” She looked at her watch and blew out a frustrated breath. “I’ve got to hurry, though, because once I finish with the pieces, I should take them on down to the gallery.”
He patted the bed beside him. “Sit down here for a minute. I want to look at your head.”
She sat and leaned forward until her forehead was less than an inch from his eye. “See?”
He chuckled. “I see what looks like a strip bandage, but it’s too blurry to tell for sure.” He pushed up to a seated position in the bed. “Now.”
She sat beside him and he quickly peeled the bandage off and checked the cut on her forehead.
“It looks good. How does your shoulder feel?”
She flexed it and winced. “It’s fine.”
“Take something,” he admonished her. “Some ibuprofen or something. Don’t just suffer.”
She kissed him quickly, managing to land the kiss before he could move to get up and avoid it. One of these days she was going to have to ask him why he didn’t want to kiss her. Because she was sure it wasn’t just missed timing. She’d seen him recoil the night before. And even if she weren’t sure about the other times—which she was—she was definitely sure of that one. He’d deliberately dodged her.
Jack slipped out of bed and headed to the bathroom.
She watched him, thinking how much she loved looking at his perfect body and how much she loved being held and kissed and loved by him.
No. Maybe she shouldn’t ask him why he didn’t want to kiss her. She might be crushed by his answer.
Jack stepped into the bathroom, which was still steamy and fragrant from Cara Lynn’s shower. As he opened the shower door and turned on the hot water, she came up behind him
“Sit down here,” he murmured sleepily, pushing himself up against the headboard and reaching for her hand.
“Jack, I don’t have time,” she said with a smile.
“Were you able to finish the cat?”
“The cat?” Her eyes widened. She hadn’t told him about the mixed-media wall hanging because it wasn’t finished yet. “How do you know about the cat?”
“I saw your sketch in the office. I like it a lot.”
“Really? You do?” Cara Lynn wasn’t sure why she’d started that piece. Most of her fiber-art pieces were more abstract. But she’d sketched out the long, sleek body of the cat in her mind one night after she and Jack had made love. To her, the cat was a representation of Jack. The beauty of his body, his careless, unconscious grace and, most of all, the regal, arrogant tilt to his head.
“Sure. There’s something about it. I like the strong lines.”
Just as he finished speaking, his cell phone rang. She glanced toward where it lay on the bedside table, but he grabbed it and looked at the display kind of furtively, she thought. But once he saw who it was, he relaxed and answered it. “Sure, Ryker. We can do that.”
Her cousin Ryker was a detective for the St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office, which served Chef Voleur. If he was calling Jack, maybe that meant they’d found the thief.
“What about the journal, and—I see. Sure. Hang on.” He looked up. “We need to go by the sheriff’s office. They want us to sign our statements and take a look at some mug shots to see if we can identify the thief. When can you go?”
“Now,” she said. “Before I go to the studio.”
Jack told Ryker that and said that he’d be there a little later, then hung up.
“Did they find the journal?” she asked eagerly.
“He didn’t say anything about having recovered the journal, but he did say they’re following up on a lead on a suspect. They apparently got fingerprints off the tiara.”
“That’s good. I hope they have the journal. I can’t wait to see it.” She looked at her watch and blew out a frustrated breath. “I’ve got to hurry, though, because once I finish with the pieces, I should take them on down to the gallery.”
He patted the bed beside him. “Sit down here for a minute. I want to look at your head.”
She sat and leaned forward until her forehead was less than an inch from his eye. “See?”
He chuckled. “I see what looks like a strip bandage, but it’s too blurry to tell for sure.” He pushed up to a seated position in the bed. “Now.”
She sat beside him and he quickly peeled the bandage off and checked the cut on her forehead.
“It looks good. How does your shoulder feel?”
She flexed it and winced. “It’s fine.”
“Take something,” he admonished her. “Some ibuprofen or something. Don’t just suffer.”
She kissed him quickly, managing to land the kiss before he could move to get up and avoid it. One of these days she was going to have to ask him why he didn’t want to kiss her. Because she was sure it wasn’t just missed timing. She’d seen him recoil the night before. And even if she weren’t sure about the other times—which she was—she was definitely sure of that one. He’d deliberately dodged her.
Jack slipped out of bed and headed to the bathroom.
She watched him, thinking how much she loved looking at his perfect body and how much she loved being held and kissed and loved by him.
No. Maybe she shouldn’t ask him why he didn’t want to kiss her. She might be crushed by his answer.
Jack stepped into the bathroom, which was still steamy and fragrant from Cara Lynn’s shower. As he opened the shower door and turned on the hot water, she came up behind him
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