Adrienne Giordano - The Rebel

Right now that memory kept her focused on convincing the extremely handsome and determined man across from her just how stubborn she could be. From the moment she’d opened the studio door, David Hennings had surprised her. Not only did he not look a thing like his mother, but he also didn’t dress like any blue blood she’d ever met. If the chiseled face, sexy dark beard and enormous shoulders weren’t enough, the man rode a big, bad motorcycle known to be one of the fastest production bikes out there. That beauty did zero to sixty in less than three seconds, and something told her David Hennings loved to make it scream.

Mentally, she fanned herself. Cooled her own firing engines because...well... wow . Stay strong, girlfriend. She’d always had a thing for a man on a motorcycle. She sat back, casually crossed her legs and wished she weren’t wearing ratty jeans. “David, trust me—there’s a downside to this kind of work. People are sent to prison based on an artist’s sketch. I don’t want that responsibility.” She waved her hand around the studio. “I want to paint and sculpt for my clients’ enjoyment.”

He nodded, but he obviously wasn’t done yet. She saw it in the way he stared at her, his dark blue eyes so serious but somehow playful, as well. Whatever this was, he was enjoying it.

And between his height and his shoulders, he filled her sight line. Amazing that a man this imposing could come from a woman as petite as Mrs. Hennings. Then again, he’d clearly inherited his media-darling father’s big-chested build. A few wisps of his collar-length hair, such a deep brown it bordered on black, fell across his forehead and he pushed them back, resting his long fingers against his head for a second, almost demanding those hairs stay put. Amanda’s girlie parts didn’t just tingle, they damn near sizzled.

Whew.

The object of her indecent thoughts gestured to the piece she’d worked on that morning. “May I?”

“Of course.”

He took his time getting to the sculpture, his gaze on it as he moved, and Amanda’s skin caught fire. Prowling, sexual energy streamed from him as he contemplated her work, head cocked one way and then the other, that strong jaw so perfect she’d love to sculpt it.

And her without a fan.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I think your work is exceptional. And I’m not saying that because I want something from you.” He smiled. “Certain lines I won’t cross, and doling out high praise when it’s not warranted is one of them.”

“Thank you. I take it you like art?”

He shrugged. “I like to study things. To research them. Like this building. I saw it and had to know its history.”

“All right, what do you see in that sculpture?”

“The mouth.” He went back to the photo on the stand. “It’s not quite there yet.”

Amazing. “I worked on the lips all morning. Something isn’t right.”

Now he looked back at her, a full-on smile exploding across his face, and Amanda’s lungs froze. Just stopped working. To heck with Michelangelo, Amanda LeBlanc now had a David of her very own.

“I have another deal for you.”

Her lungs released and she eased out a breath. “You’re full of deals today.”

“I’m a lawyer. It’s what I do.”

“Fine. What’s your deal?”

“I’ll tell you what the problem is with your sculpture if you go with me to see this detective.”

Moving closer, she kept her gaze on him and the not-too-smug curve of his mouth. “You know what’s wrong with the lips?”

“I believe I do.”

As a trained artist, one with a master’s in fine arts, she’d spent hours trying to figure it out, and now the history major thought he knew. Oh, this was so tempting. She’d love to prove him wrong and knock some of that arrogance right out of him. But, darn. The way he carried that confidence, that supreme knowing made her stomach pinch.

“What’s wrong, Amanda? Cat got your tongue?”

And ohmygod , he was such a weasel. A playful weasel, but still. She snorted. “Please. The cat having my tongue has never been an issue. Perhaps I’m merely stunned by your gigantic ego.”

“Oh, harsh.” He splayed his hand and his beautifully long fingers over his chest, but his face gave him away, all those sharp angles softly curving when he smiled. “You wound me.”

Such a weasel. From her worktable, she grabbed her flat wooden tool. “Okay, hotshot. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“If I tell you and it works, you go with me to see that detective. That’s the deal.”

“Yes. If it works, I’ll go with you.”

Silly, silly girl. All this to prove him wrong. Something told her, if he nailed this, she might never hear the end of it.

He smiled at her, spun to the sculpture and, without touching it, pointed to the right corner of the mouth. “It’s not the lips so much but the small depression that should be right there.”

What now? Lunging for the photo, she analyzed the corner of the CEO’s mouth. Dammit. Right there. Well, not right there. The dimple was so slight it couldn’t even be called a dimple. Her issue hadn’t been the lips at all, but the mouth in general. And, oh, she could rail about how David had tricked her, about how she specifically meant the lips and the deal would be negated.

But she should have caught that. Even the tiniest of details, as they’d both just learned, could ruin a project.

“David Hennings, I don’t know whether to kill you or kiss you.”

His hand shot up. “Can I vote?”

She cracked up. “No. But darn it, I can’t believe I didn’t catch that.”

“You were looking too hard. Happens to me sometimes when I’m working cases. I’ll be searching for precedents and—bam—someone else reads my notes and in five minutes knows exactly what I need. It’s irritating as hell.”

“It sure is.”

“That being said...”

He strode back to where they’d been sitting, his smile growing wider by the second. So smug.

And she’d just handed him that victory.

He slid his phone from the side pocket of his jacket and held it up for her to see. “What time shall I tell the detective we’ll be there?”

* * *

DETECTIVE LARRY MCCALL ushered Amanda and David into a small conference room at Area North headquarters. The old building didn’t have the charm her building had, but with a few fixes and a splash of fresh paint the dreary and dull white walls wouldn’t feel so confining. Then again, Amanda supposed a police station wasn’t meant to be paradise.

Inside the room, a veneer table large enough for six had been jammed into the corner. Probably the only way it would fit. Five chairs—what happened to the sixth?—were haphazardly pushed in, a couple almost sideways. Maybe the last meeting had ended in a rush.

Amanda took the chair Detective McCall held for her while David remained standing, casually leaning against the wall directly across from her. “Thank you,” she said.

“No,” the detective said. “Thank you for coming in.”

“Detective, please, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. As I said—”

McCall waved her off. “Yeah, I know. You’re not a forensic artist and you’re only having a look. I get it. Still, I appreciate whatever you can do.”

He slapped a file onto the table, the fwap reverberating in her head, making her ears ring. What am I doing? She shouldn’t be here. She’d spent years running from the lure of this kind of work. Years. And for good reason. As talented as her mother had been, her work with law enforcement had been the end of the fairy tale. For Amanda. For her father. And most of all, for her mother.