Kristin Gabriel - Picture Of Perfection

“I’ll take it with me,” Carter replied. “Can you wrap it up?”

“Certainly. What about the saddlebag?”

Carter thought about it for a moment. “I’d like you to mail that to Jenna Preston at Quest Stables in Woodford County, Kentucky.”

“Very good,” she said, then leaned toward him and lowered her voice. “I’m so sorry about all the trouble you folks are having. I hope everything works out for the best.”

“I appreciate it,” Carter said, then broached the subject that really interested him. “I also won the opportunity to meet the artist, right? I’d like to set that up as soon as possible.”

Shirley chuckled at his enthusiasm. “Of course. I’ll just need your contact information.”

Carter took out one of his business cards, then jotted down the name of his hotel and his room number. “My cell phone number is on here, as well, so you can reach me anytime.”

“I’ll get in touch with the artist and let you know what time works best for her,” she replied, taking the card from him.

“The sooner, the better,” he said, hoping she’d be free tomorrow. He’d only be in San Diego a couple of weeks and wanted to make every minute count. He loved this area of the country and looked forward to spending a little time outside of the Del Mar racetrack.

As Carter left the ballroom, he wondered if the artist had been at the charity benefit tonight. She might have been able to tell him something about the horse and its lineage.

Then again, she might only want to talk about her art. He admired people with that kind of talent, but had almost nothing in common with them. He was a man of science and the art world was completely foreign to him.

Thanks to Gillian Cameron, he owned a painting of Picture of Perfection. Now all he wanted was the horse’s DNA and he’d be happy.

With any luck, she just might be able to help him get it.

When Gillian Cameron opened the door to the main house on Robards Farm, Carter forgot everything he was going to say.

The woman in the doorway was not what he expected. Her mane of chestnut hair reached almost to her waist and her eyes were the deep, rich green of Kentucky bluegrass. Her face captivated him, as well, open and expressive. Her creamy skin seemed to glow from within and looked so soft that he had to stifle the urge to reach out and stroke her cheek. It was a ridiculous reaction and one that he’d never experienced before.

Carter blamed it on fatigue. He’d been unable to sleep last night, too keyed up by this new lead into finding Leopold’s Legacy’s true sire. He’d spent hours in front of his laptop, studying the DNA test results of Leopold’s Legacy and Apollo’s Ice. He’d even looked up Picture of Perfection’s lineage online and confirmed that he was also reportedly sired by Apollo’s Ice.

Now all he needed was to convince the owner of the horse to let him take a blood sample so he could compare the DNA of all the horses involved. He was fairly certain Picture of Perfection didn’t come from Robards Farm. The only horses he’d seen grazing in a nearby pasture were an eclectic assortment of quarter horses, draft horses and even a few miniature horses.

His meeting with the artist was simply meant to be a starting point in his search for the truth, but now that he’d seen Gillian he found himself faltering at the gate and forgetting the real reason he’d come here.

A smile lifted the corners of her generous pink mouth. “You must be Dr. Phillips.”

He gave a stiff nod, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. He’d pictured her as some middle-aged hippie woman with immense talent and an eccentric sense of style.

Gillian looked more like a sexy model for the designer jeans she wore. The low-slung blue denim molded the delicious curve of her hips and hugged a pair of long luscious legs that seemed to go on forever. The tail ends of her white cotton blouse were tied just below her perfect breasts and revealed a golden tan on the generous expanse of bare skin that made it all too east to picture her naked.

“Dr. Phillips?” she said, her brow furrowed.

He met her gaze, suddenly aware of the heat of the California sun on the back of his neck. “Please call me Carter.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Carter.” She reached out to shake his hand.

“So you’re the artist,” he said, stating the obvious. He noticed a smudge of yellow paint on her hand as she joined him on the front porch.

“That’s right.” Gillian hitched her thumbs in the front pockets of her jeans, the movement revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her cleavage. “Are you ready?”

“Ready?” he echoed, sounding like an idiot. It might help if he could string more than one or two words together at a time. “Ready for what?”

Amusement danced in her green eyes. “Ready to see Picture of Perfection. That’s why you came here today, isn’t it?”

“The horse is here?” he asked in surprise, looking around the place. He was no snob, having grown up in a working-class neighborhood in Chicago, but horse racing was an expensive business. Robards Farm looked too run-down to support such an endeavor. There was paint peeling off the house and outbuildings, as well as several pieces of farm machinery that looked as if they were in disrepair.

There were homey touches, as well, like the old tire swing hanging from the oak tree in the center of the yard and the gingham curtains in the window.

“Where else would he be? Gillian asked. “He’s in the south pasture.”

Carter nodded, aware that he was still adjusting to his surprise that the artist was a beautiful young woman instead of an eccentric. He needed to refocus and concentrate on his purpose for coming here.

“I can’t wait to see how close your portrait of Picture of Perfection comes to the real thing,” Carter told her.

“Then let’s go,” Gillian said, stepping off the porch to lead the way.

Carter enjoyed the sexy view from behind for a moment before lengthening his stride to catch up with her. Gillian moved briskly, the sun shining on her hair and turning some of the stray curls bouncing over her shoulders to a deep, burnished copper.

She glanced over at him and smiled, the gleam in her beautiful green eyes giving him the same sensation he used to feel when doing belly flops into the beach on Lake Michigan as a kid.

Femme fatale.

Those were the perfect words to describe Gillian Cameron. Carter had never really known a woman who fit that description the way she did. He hesitated to use the phrase now, although the effect she was having on him left no doubt that he found her desirable.

“We’re almost there,” Gillian promised.

She stopped to unlatch a white gate that hung crookedly on its hinges. Then she lifted the gate up on one end so it swung open wide enough for them both to pass through it.

Carter waited while she closed the gate and latched it again. He wanted to ask her why Mr. Robards hadn’t used some of his prize money from the races Picture of Perfection had won to do some upkeep on the farm. As a veterinarian, he knew faulty gates and fences could lead to animals escaping and getting hit by a car or falling prey to a predator.

“Looks like you could use a handyman to fix that gate,” he said.

She sighed. “I’ll get to it one of these days. It just seems like there’s never enough time to get everything done around here.”

An artist and a farmhand. He wondered what other talents she possessed.

They climbed a small knoll, the meadow grass reaching almost to his knees. Then he saw a white gazebo in the distance.

“That’s my refuge,” Gillian announced.

He followed her there, impressed at the way she’d transformed it into a makeshift artist’s studio. There was an easel with a partially completed painting on it, as well as a small table full of bristle brushes and paint.