Page 39 of Burning Caine
How could I lie to her? I would not. I didn’t know what the truth was, however. Was this painting a fake? Was my parents’ painting a fake? If I signed the paperwork taking possession of it, knowing it was not the trueLes amoureux, would that be a crime?
“Yeah, Saturday, eight o’clock, Train Station, got it. See you then.”
I stopped behind her as she hung up. “Everything alright?”
She spun around, a brilliant smile lighting up her face. “All good. And my painting?”
Hands on my hips, I braced myself. “I’m sorry, but Sofia was right. We reviewed my schedule for the next month. Given the amount of work required, combined with my father’s absence, we truly can’t take your painting.” A lump formed in my throat, preventing me from saying more.
All the joy faded from her eyes. My fault. “You said you could make it work. Foster has a commitment from your company. Thirty days on any project.”
I stared at the painting. Was itLes amoureuxor not? “Thirty days, pending approval from my father or from me.”
She elbowed her way past me, next to the desk. “You said you’d make it work.” She tried to shove the painting back into the plastic bag, but the bag didn’t cooperate. “Said you were the best.”
“You can still take it to the company Sofia arranged.” I held the bag open for her while she indelicately wrapped it and tossed it into its case, slamming it shut. I placed a hand on it to stop her from leaving. “Samantha, this is professional, not personal.”
“Everything’s personal with you, isn’t it?” She heaved on the case, but I held fast. She looked up at me, the blush covering her cheeks, the clenched jaw, the fierce determination in her eyes. “If I’d said yes to dinner, you would have taken it, wouldn’t you?”
She thought I was toying with her.
“Alright, stop. Let me see what I can do this weekend.” I placed my other hand on top of hers, and she did exactly as I expected. She let go of the case, pulling her hand away from mine.
I shoved my hands into my pockets to stop reaching for her and stared at her, while she stared at the case.
“I’m being thoroughly unprofessional.” She took the case from the desk, calming. “Do you expect you’ll be able to arrange something?”
“Samantha, I’ll do my best. I’ll call you on Monday to let you know.” If I couldn’t figure something out, she would be gone from my life as soon as Alice finished with the gallery painting. I couldn’t let that happen.
We walked to the door, and I held it open for her.
She paused before leaving, serious again. “Thank you, Dr. Ferraro. I hope you have good news for me on Monday.”
“I’ll be in touch.” As she passed me, she smiled again. My hand took on a life of its own and touched the small of her back. She tensed but didn’t look back.
My shoulders slumped as she walked away, all the same grace and power she exhibited every time she left me. It was hard to reconcile the shy girl with this image of her. Russo’s-Samantha compared to Work-Samantha. Samantha. I loved her name, how it rolled off my tongue, how I could taste the syllables as they flowed.
Her caramel-colored hair. How would it move as she walked, glimmering from the sun’s kiss, if it hadn’t been confined by the bun at her neck? Someday, I would run my mouth along that elegant neck, to her full lips with that brilliant smile. Today, she would have tasted of chocolate and hazelnuts and cappuccino.
Sofia slid an arm around my waist, and I draped mine around her shoulders.
“Pretty, isn’t she?”
I kept my eyes down the road. “Stunning.”
“You don’t usually pick good ones for yourself.”
“Fate picked her for me.” I stepped closer to the front window as she got further away. “Do you remember, after Faith and I broke up, I told you about a girl from college?”
“I do. You were about ready to track her down. This one reminds you of her?”
I paused and squeezed her, warmth pooling in my chest.
She smacked my arm with her free hand. “Liar!”
“No,” I sighed. “All these years later, she’s come back into my life.”
“Did she remember you?”