Page 93 of Burning Caine

Unphased, he laughed and withdrew two travel mugs from his backpack, deposited them in the cup holders, and threw the surprisingly full pack into the rear seat next to mine. He opened the box and showed me two cornetti.

“E un cappuccino!” He tapped the travel mug on my side.

“You’re too good to me.” I pulled the truck out onto the road. “This feels kind of weird.”

“Being here with me?”

Yeah. “No, it’s my sister’s chemo day. I normally spend the morning with her.”

He placed a gentle hand on my arm. “We can reschedule.”

“As long as I’m there during the infusion, she’s okay.” She’d been upset, but I told her I had mandatory work training. I was such a bad sister.

“I usually start work at ten, so this will push me back a few hours. Since we are spending time together this morning, I can’t complain I have to work through prime dating hours in the evening.”

The weird feeling subsided, replaced by a flutter in my stomach. Change the subject. “How’s my Chagall coming?”

He took a sip of his coffee. “Quite well. It will be out of the frame this afternoon and I’ll try the infrared photo tomorrow. There’s likely too much organic content still present, but we have the equipment, so I may as well try. If that doesn’t work, my next test will be the x-ray. It could be ready as early as Monday or Tuesday, if I work through the weekend.”

“Do you think you’ll have time?”

“I was hoping to be busy.” He nudged my arm.

This was happening so fast. The kiss had been magnificent, but where did it lead? I was still leaving in the spring. Wasn’t I? Could I be chained to one town? To Brenton? Again? I was getting ahead of myself. Although I did shove condoms into the bottom of my backpack. Why did I do that? It had just been one kiss.

“I had some interviews yesterday for the Chagall claim. I think I told you?”

“Sì, you mentioned. Anything interesting?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“I’m very good at that.”

“Turns out Olivia Scott—the woman who owned the painting—is a bitch.”

He laughed and pulled his cornetto out of the box, a light dusting of powdered sugar falling on his shirt as he took a bite.

“That looks delicious.”

“The food or me?”

My body reacted before my brain did, pulling in air and tightening between my thighs. I didn’t look at him to see his smirk. Didn’t have to. “You’re ridiculous.” But so right. “Anyway, there were painters setting up in the house the morning of the fire. They were taking everything off the walls, and when he took the Chagall down, she went ballistic. Told him it was worth more than his life.”

“Quite rude.”

“So now I’m confused. If she knew it was a fake, why would she freak out about its value?”

He took another sip of his coffee, then spoke slowly. “Perhaps her husband was the one who sold it and had the forgery done without telling her?”

“I’ve been discounting Bobby Scott as a guilty party, since he died in the fire.” And who he’d been to me. “But you aren’t the first person to remind me I need to stop doing that.”

“You never did say how you knew him?”

I hit the phone link on my steering wheel. “Call Lucy Chap—”

He reached over and ended the call request.

“What are you doing? I want Lucy to dig in to this theory.”