Hot Legs Read online

  Shifting his frame in the first-class seat, Bobby tried to find a comfortable position for sleep, but no matter how he turned, something was in the way. The design matrix for commercial aircraft didn’t take into account his size, the width of his shoulders, or the length of his legs. After the fifth “Sorry” to the passengers in front of and beside him, he gave up any further thought of rest, flicked on his reading light, took out Arthur’s e-mail, and reexamined the three-page, single-spaced summary of the robbery. He’d talked to Arthur briefly before boarding, and after a more thorough reading of Arthur’s report, the heist was beginning to feel more like an inside job. Maybe. He was getting a gut feeling—not that his gut was always right, but it was often enough to put him on the scent. He began jotting notes in the margins—observations, questions, what-ifs, maybes.

  As a matter of routine, he’d already asked for a list of museum employees, complete down to the temps and docents. Once in Minneapolis, he’d take a look at the crime scene and then begin the tedious task of checking out each employee—including Arthur’s newest lady love.

  Even in the midst of his crisis call, Arthur had mentioned the new, fabulous Jessica. Some things never change, Bobby thought. Arthur could always be counted on for his predatory instincts and short attention span. Hopefully, this one would last longer than wives number one and two, who had barely redecorated the house before finding their husband in bed with their successor. What Bobby could never figure out was why Arthur married them. One marriage had been more than enough for his own misery threshold. Staying single was saving him a helluva lot on decorating costs and aggravation.

  FOUR

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER A BREAKFAST of wheat toast and milk austere enough for a Trappist monk, Cassie sat before a one-of-a-kind Boulle desk, waiting for Arthur to finish his phone call. She was seriously going to have to remember to go to the grocery store tonight, she decided, the taste of dry, unbuttered toast still a bad memory. If she hadn’t had to arrive at work so perversely early, she could have stopped at Wendy’s and ordered those little frosted rolls that were one of her favorite ways to greet the day on those mornings when she could ignore her nutritional conscience.

  But she’d had to be at the museum at what was, for her, the crack of dawn in hopes of speaking with Arthur alone.

  The museum director prided himself on being in before anyone else. Go figure what turned someone on. She glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty. Definitely a record for her, besting her previous record of eight-thirty the time she had to meet the president of Sweden when he was donating two paintings from the Thorvald Museum before flying out of town at ten.

  Trying to appear poised and professional despite the ungodly hour, she straightened her skirt over her knees and suddenly noticed a glaring stain. Damn, that’s what comes of dressing while I’m still asleep. Quickly covering the blotch with her hand, she leaned forward slightly in what she hoped was a casual pose.

  A poised woman would ignore such minor issues, she reminded herself. One’s inner spirit is more important than superficialities of dress.

  Unfortunately, Arthur was a neat freak, and she was still not as fully assured as she would have been had she read more than the first chapter of A Woman’s Journey to Her Soul (perhaps Sarah Bainbridge dealt with her current situation in later chapters). She adjusted the position of her hand to better conceal the sizeable spot. Arthur took pleasure in pointing out what he perceived as deficiencies in his staff’s appearance, the result, no doubt, of his obsession with custom suits, starched shirts, perfectly knotted ties, and spit-shined shoes.

  But despite Arthur’s unmanly focus on sartorial splendor, he was far from the museum director stereotype. Tall, lean, and muscled (compliments of a personal trainer), his attractiveness further enhanced by the cachet of a private fortune, he was the antithesis of the effete, vaguely androgynous, professorial style of man so often found at the helm of museums. It helped, of course, that his grandfather had endowed the museum with its original seed money and that the Northrup family continued its charitable largesse. Both had been instrumental in Arthur’s appointment as director at the almost unheard-of age of thirty. So when Arthur referred to the Minneapolis Museum of Art as his museum—a frequent, odious tendency—he actually meant it.

  God, he was annoying, as was his soi-disant field of expertise. Byzantine architectural decorative design—come on. How esoteric could one be? Or dull and derivative? Take your pick.

  Cassie fidgeted as Arthur droned on. Had she not been reduced to a state of abject poverty, she’d not have waited like a lowly petitioner while he discussed the theft of the Rubens with one of his acquaintances, Chip by name. Nor would she have approached him at such an unfortuitous time.

  The robbery had been front-page news that morning, and for a brief moment, she wondered how much the Rubens would realize in the illicit art underworld. The brokering fee alone would pay off her house, not to mention allow her a life of luxurious comfort.

  “I can spare you five minutes, Cassandra,” Arthur briskly said, suddenly putting down the receiver, his voice breaking into her reverie centered around a sunny villa on the Mediterranean, a full staff of servants, and the scent of bougainvillea. “What do you want?”

  Your fortune instead of my bills. “I apologize for the timing.” Be courteous and polite, she reminded herself, returning his uncivil scowl with a smile. “You must be besieged, and if I didn’t need a raise in order to save my house, I wouldn’t bother you.”

  “Didn’t you get a settlement?” His voice was sharp with impatience.

  “I have the house.”

  “Why not sell it?”

  “I’m not looking for advice, Arthur.” She spoke with restraint, but her temper was rising. She knew the extent of his personal fortune as well as his venal self-interest and total lack of empathy for anyone he didn’t consider a potential donor—namely her. But she refused to wimp out. “I really need a raise,” she said, holding her temper in check.

  “This isn’t a good time, Cassandra. The museum’s just lost the Rubens. Couldn’t you wait until the dust settles?”

  “If I had your trust fund I could.” So much for politesse.

  “Perhaps a financial planner could help you.”

  His implied criticism overlooked the fact that one needed money with which to plan. “Thank you for the suggestion, but I’m in danger of losing my house, Arthur. I need money now, not in five years.”

  Arthur tapped his manicured fingers on his desktop, his irritation clear. “I can’t put through an increase now even if I wanted to with everything in turmoil.” He grimaced slightly so his perfect white teeth gleamed for a second before he exhaled in frustration. “If you don’t mind working with Bobby Serre while he’s here, I could siphon some consultant fees your way—I suppose,” he begrudgingly added.

  “Until I get my raise?”

  “Being pushy detracts from your femininity, Cassandra.”

  “You can be sued for comments like that, Arthur. I don’t have to look pretty to get a raise.”

  His sudden smile oozed charm. “You do look damned good even with that bad haircut.”

  “I’m recording this conversation for my lawyer, Arthur. Save your charm for what’s-her-name—Sarah’s successor.”

  “Jessica.”

  She repressed the impulse to say, How long will she last? considering it bad form after he’d promised her what were generally lucrative consultant fees. “When will Serre be here?” Stay focused. Think of the added money and not Arthur’s reptilian gaze.

  “Bobby likes redheads.”

  “What a coincidence. So do I.” She made a mental note to carry mace for Arthur’s hotshot bounty hunter. Everyone knew Bobby Serre, the art world’s most celebrated cowboy who always got his man. Renowned for his low-key approach, equally notorious for the beautiful women in his life, he’d been better known for his prowess on the football field before he wowed them at the University of Michigan with his eye for a
rt forgeries. The University Gallery had lost half their collection as a result of his expertise, while the Detroit Museum had had to downgrade a dozen of their masterpieces to “school of” status. Graduate school at Harvard had only added to the luster of his reputation, and once free of the ivy tower, he’d gone on to a globe-trotting life highly reminiscent of a James Bond movie.

  Arthur tipped his head and winked. “How fortunate. You have the same taste. Bobby should be here by evening. I’d suggest a haircut before tomorrow morning. Be in my office at eight.”

  Like hell she’d get a haircut. “I’ll be here,” she said. “And thank you,” she forced herself to add, although it took every ounce of courtesy she possessed after that remark about a haircut. She wasn’t auditioning for Bobby Serre’s bed, thank you very much. If rumor were true, he had all the women he could handle anyway.

  And after Jay’s recent betrayal, the male gender as a whole was on her shit list.

  FIVE

  AFTER THE THEFT HAD BEEN ANALYZED AT length, Arthur smiled at Bobby over drinks late that evening and lifted his glass in salute. “I’m supplying you with a hot little bedmate while you’re in town. One of my curators. Lush green eyes; great tits; a tall, pre-Raphaelite-style redhead with the best legs I’ve ever seen. A touch prickly at times, but they’re always more interesting in bed, aren’t they?”

  Bobby’s brows rose fractionally. “I don’t want a bedmate.”

  “Suit yourself. She’s your assistant then—to fetch and carry.”

  “I don’t need an assistant, either.”

  “Do me a favor.”

  “I am doing you a favor. I’m cutting my vacation short and finding your Rubens for you.”

  “Look, she needs the money. Her husband walked out on her, she’s left with a house she can’t afford, and I’m helping her out.”

  Bobby’s gaze narrowed. “Why?”

  Arthur shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s her big boobs and great legs. Maybe she pleaded her case well . . .”

  “Maybe you’re hoping to lay her yourself.”

  Another shrug. “Maybe I am. I’ll ask my therapist. In the meantime, at least be polite to her. I’ve promised her some consultant fees.”

  “Sorry. I don’t babysit.”

  “You must need someone to type your reports.”

  “What reports? When I find the Rubens, I’ll hand it over to you. You’ll give me the rest of my fee, and I’ll head back to Budapest, where I actually have a redhead waiting for me.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “It’s not relevant.”

  Arthur’s leer was unmistakable. “Is this one special?”

  “No.”

  “Are any of them?”

  “I’m not looking for trophies or wives like you—only sex. It’s pretty simple.”

  “Was it simple with Claire?” Innuendo melted through Arthur’s words.

  “Nothing was simple with Claire.” Bobby’s tone was cool. “You know that.”

  “By the way, I saw her last month at an opening in New York. She still turns heads.”

  “I haven’t seen her in five years. I think I’ll leave it that way.”

  “Unrequited love?” Arthur murmured.

  “Christ, cut the crap. There was nothing unrequited about our relationship. We just wanted different things. Like you and your various wives.”

  “Amen to that. I’m not sure men and women were meant to cohabit.”

  “On that profound truism, I’ll bid you good night. I want to be at the museum early.” Bobby drained his glass of cognac and set it down on a Chippendale table so fine he suspected it came from the museum storage rooms.

  Arthur rose with him and escorted him to the door of his Georgian mansion on Lake of the Isles. “You’re sure you don’t want to stay here?”

  Bobby shook his head. “A friend lent me his house. I’ll give you the phone numbers in the morning.”

  Bobby’s car and driver were waiting on the boulevard, and before the town car reached the freeway, Bobby was fast asleep.

  SIX

  EVEN WHILE CASSIE DESPISED HERSELF FOR her insecurities and vowed to do some further reading on self-confidence and emotional calm, her bedroom floor was awash with discarded clothing before she finally settled on an absinthe-colored suit with a not-too-short skirt, although it wasn’t too long, either. She had good legs—maybe even exceptional legs. That thought put her completely out of sorts. Dammit, she shouldn’t even be considering male/female dynamics when she was intent on personal independence and gender-free poise.

  She shouldn’t be thinking about legs in any form whatsoever. She didn’t have to dress up for Bobby Serre. So he was handsome and smart and intimate with the jet set and international beauties. She didn’t have to impress him. This was simply an assignment that would earn her additional money. An assignment. That’s all. Nothing personal. Absolutely nothing. And after what Jay had done to her, she was the last person in the world looking for something personal from a man. She’d actually sworn off men, at least until she could contemplate the blissful state of matrimony without rancor.

  Although that might require a decade or so. Perhaps she’d have to rethink the merits of a rancorless state. Ten years was a long time to go without sex.

  Understanding she had more pressing issues at the moment than her marriage gone bad, she quickly checked the time. Damn. Only a miracle would get her to the museum by eight. She hoped like hell 394 wasn’t bogged down with traffic. Pulling on the skirt, she wiggled her hips, wondering if she’d put on weight or the skirt was really that short. Not that it mattered. There wasn’t time to change.

  Could she pretend it was going to rain and wear her trench coat?

  A possible solution had she not sent her coat to the cleaners, she recalled a moment later.

  Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, she silently coached herself, hopping on one foot, then the other while she slid on her really sweet purple heels with the open toes. Then, grabbing her car keys, she raced out of her bedroom, telling herself with what little calm she could muster that this wasn’t a goddamned audience with the Queen.

  394 was going to be without traffic.

  God would provide.

  And the nail she’d just broken wouldn’t show if she clenched her fist.

  * * *

  BOBBY WORE TAN canvas hiking shorts, worn tennis shoes, and a plain white T-shirt, which immediately jarred her already faltering self-confidence as she burst into Arthur’s office apologizing for being late. Quickly trying to recall the previous day’s conversation, she wondered if a picnic had been mentioned without her noticing.

  Arthur looked, as usual, as though he’d stepped from the cover of GQ. Reassuring in terms of picnics.

  Both men shot a look at the clock.

  That color suits her, Arthur thought.

  She’d either forgotten to button the top button on her suit jacket or she was deliberately exposing her cleavage, Bobby noted. Either way, the view was fine.

  Aware of his gaze, Cassie glanced down and, flushing an even deeper pink than that occasioned by her sprint from the car park, she quickly fastened the revealing neckline.

  Arthur cleared his throat and swallowed once before speaking, thinking he’d have to discuss this strange new interest with his therapist. “I was about to show Bobby from where the Rubens was stolen. Bobby, this is Cassandra Hill, Cassandra, Bobby Serre. I’m not sure he’s convinced he needs an assistant yet.”

  “Why don’t we see.” Bobby’s voice was neutral.

  “I’d appreciate the chance.” He was cool and detached, and if she didn’t need the money so badly, Cassie would have allowed him his indifference.

  “I usually work alone.”

  “No need to make a decision now,” Arthur quickly interposed, beginning to usher them out of his office. “Let’s see if any evidence is left after the police ransacked the east wing.”

  When they reached the cluttered workroo
m where the Rubens had been in the process of being cleaned, Bobby walked around the room in silence while Arthur and Cassie watched. He stopped a dozen times to look at something neither one of them could see. He examined the easel where the painting had rested, lightly brushing his fingertips over the worn wood, stooping to lift a minute fragment of thread from under the easel base.

  “How many people knew the Rubens was down for cleaning?”

  “Probably everyone at the museum. It’s one of our crown jewels.”

  “How many extras did you have in the building setting up the flower show?”

  “A couple hundred or so.”

  “Any thoughts of canceling?”

  “I’d like to, but the flowers are almost all in place, and rescheduling would entail some high replacement costs. Not to mention the spring show’s a tradition at the museum.”

  “I’ll need the names of everyone involved in the flower show—from the deliverymen to the arrangers.”

  “That’ll take some time. We have sixty displays, all from different contributors.” Arthur’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me, I’m expecting a call. I’ll just be a minute.” Turning, he walked from the room.

  “You get the names.” Bobby nodded at Cassie.

  “Now?”

  “Later. Come here. Look at this.” He stooped and pointed at the floor.

  As Cassie approached, she surveyed the area he’d indicated and saw absolutely nothing. A bare wooden floor. Paint spattered. But it wasn’t Ruben’s paint. “Yes?” she said, hoping bland evasion would serve as an answer.

  He looked up. “Tell me what you see.”

  Lord. It was a quiz. She frantically scanned the floor, thinking her consultant fees, her bills, and her future were at stake.

  Bobby tamped down his libido. From this angle all he saw was tits and legs. Arthur was right. She was a piece of work. But he was decades past adolescent distractions, and when he spoke, his voice was neutral. “It’s small and pink.”