Hot Legs Page 9

  Cassie dug her nails into her palms to keep from leaping up and punching him out, a reaction she couldn’t afford with the stack of bills on her card table waiting to be paid. Only when Arthur disappeared from sight did she allow her fingers to unflex.

  Prick.

  She hoped there really was justice in the world and then Arthur might someday, somewhere get what he so richly deserved. Unfortunately, his current princely life didn’t portend well for that vain hope.

  He was living large while the Mother Teresas of the planet prayed for better times.

  It made one seriously reconsider the concept of justice.

  THIRTEEN

  SHE SHUT AND LOCKED HER DOOR AFTER that, defense against any further surprises.

  If someone wanted to come in, they could knock.

  Then give the password.

  And if she was in a really good mood, she might let them it. Which was the real reason she’d selected this office at the very end of the corridor with the exit door twenty feet away.

  She wasn’t kidding last night; she really wasn’t the hostess type.

  Sliding down in her chair, she contemplated her embarrassment. How should she act when next she saw Bobby? Although he’d been way cool before Arthur, surely he must have been startled by such juvenile scribbling. In hindsight, she couldn’t imagine what had come over her. She hadn’t resorted to any of that hearts-and-flowers crap since the ninth grade when she was enamored of Nick Cicero, who was a year older and had a Harley.

  It was really humiliating.

  Should she apologize?

  Make some lame excuse?

  Tell him she had PMS?

  That excused everything, didn’t it? It was one of those across-the-board, I-momentarily-lost-my-mind excuses.

  Although she really wished she hadn’t written sexy and underlined it four times. She’d even give up chocolate for a week if she could take that one back.

  The phone rang.

  Willie’s name and number appeared on her caller ID.

  Leave a message, she thought. She wasn’t up to exposing her humiliation just yet, and if she picked up the phone, the next thing she knew she’d be spilling her guts.

  Three rings later, voicemail took over.

  There was no point in obsessing about something she couldn’t possibly change. Even praying—always her last, desperate measure in times of crisis—wouldn’t change a thing. She’d make the phone calls she was supposed to make, pretend this was a normal day, and try to forget her mortifying lapse in judgment.

  Picking up the sheet of paper Bobby had brought in, she began reading through the added names. The list was handwritten in a partially printed, small, loose script—a name, phone number, city, and code word. Miami, New York, Chicago, Miami, Tampa, and then she gasped. On the last line was written Cassie Hill. SEXY. C U @ 4. And the word SEXY was underlined four times!

  It almost felt like she was in the ninth grade again and Nick Cicero had asked her to take a ride on his Harley.

  Hell, no. It felt better. Because she would get more than a ride on a motorcycle tonight. She would get to ride something really spectacular.

  She had to tell someone. It wasn’t every day she was the recipient of a really sweet, romantic gesture. In fact, it had been so long she was partially absolved of her descent into teenage name-writing angst. Wasn’t she?

  And when she explained everything to Willie, Willie said, “Of course you are. Sex does that to you. Fabulous sex at least. It makes you giddy and lightheaded and incapable of clear thinking. Isn’t it great?”

  She understood. “Yeah,” Cassie said in a soft, dreamy sort of way. “Greater than great. Greater than the pyramids and Mt. Everest and chocolate cake.”

  “Greater than shoe shopping.”

  Cassie hesitated, and they both laughed.

  “Seriously,” she said a moment later, “for Bobby Serre, I’d give up shoe shopping for a week.”

  “Then I envy the hell out of you.”

  “For what it’s worth,” Cassie murmured. “I don’t have any illusions.”

  “Hey, carpe diem, sweetie. There are no guarantees in this world.”

  “I know. He’s unbelievable, that’s all. I’ll have to take notes so I don’t forget once he’s gone.”

  “That’s what memories are for. The warm fuzzies of the brain. So I probably won’t be seeing you before I leave if you’re busy in bed,” Willie cheerfully noted.

  “When do you go?”

  “Day after tomorrow. Keep me posted. My mom always has my number.”

  “I’ll give you a call when he’s gone, and you can console me on losing world-class sex.”

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ll line you up with some on the circuit.”

  “If I ever switch into a party-girl mode, I’ll take you up on that.”

  “In the meantime, enjoy yourself.”

  “I intend to.”

  “So have you thought about Jay lately?”

  “Jay who?”

  Willie chuckled. “Way to go, babe. Call me.”

  Liv was in a meeting when Cassie tried calling her. Good news was meant to be shared. But she didn’t leave a message; she would have sounded too over the top.

  Energized or perhaps punch drunk with elation, Cassie set to work, starting at the top of the folder list, eventually moving to the added names, surprised at how easy it was after the second or third call. The contacts were generally art dealers, gallery owners, occasionally someone with accents less cultured who probably operated on the fringes of the law. Not that dealers and gallery owners were necessarily law-abiding. A lot of them weren’t. With almost every country refusing to allow the export of national treasures, the line between legitimate and illegal imports was often no more than the stamp affixed to a crate by a bribed customs official. The courts were clogged with cases that dragged on for years between countries attempting to regain art works stolen from archaeological sites and tombs. Greece had been trying to recover the Elgin marbles taken from the Acropolis for nearly a century.

  The small Rubens nude, in contrast, would be almost too easy to transport out of the country. It was small, not well known, originally in the artist’s private collection, then lost for two centuries, as was so often the case with the rare erotica of major artists—that subgenre falling under the censure of various moral factions. Her greatest fear was that someone might destroy it. Over the centuries, that fate had befallen many paintings considered too salacious.

  The Rubens, in fact, was a portrait of the artist’s first wife, whom he loved deeply, the depiction of her young, nubile body portrayed with exquisite tenderness. Rubens and Isabella had been young when they married, and that utter devotion of youth not yet tainted by worldly cynicism was poignantly revealed in the painting. When Isabella died, Rubens was never the same. He became a businessman painter, a sophisticate, an occasional diplomat for the reigning monarchs of his time. He even married again, but not for love.

  She always teared up looking at that painting.

  She punched in another telephone number, glad to be doing her part in the search for the painting.

  Only two more left on the list.

  FOURTEEN

  SHE WAS JUST PUTTING AWAY THE FOLDER, mission accomplished, when the phone rang and someone knocked on her door—simultaneously.

  She glanced at the caller ID. Liv.

  “Who’s there?” she called out.

  “Your driver.”

  Her body came alive, her senses started dancing the tango, the phone kept ringing, and the door swung open without her moving from her desk.

  “Are you some Houdini–Doug Henning clone?”

  Bobby held up a small pick, a professional-looking instrument that further widened her eyes, tamed down the tango dances, and reminded her how little she knew him.

  He nodded in the direction of her phone. “Answer it. I’ll wait.”

  Shutting the door behind him, he relocked it and, because she hadn’
t moved, made a gesture with his hand to his ear.

  Suppressing all the curious speculation rattling around in her brain, she picked up the phone.

  “It’s about time. I was about to leave a message.”

  “Can I call you back?”

  “Is someone there?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Is it Meg?” Bobby asked, sitting down in her single chair, sliding down into a comfortable sprawl.

  Cassie shook her head.

  “Who’s that?”

  “No one.”

  Bobby grinned.

  “You’re holding out on me.”

  “I’ll call you later.”

  “Is he good-looking? Are you having sex with him? Do I know him?”

  “Jeez, Liv. I’m at work.”

  “So?”

  “So I’ll call you back.”

  “You could have talked to her,” Bobby said as she hung up. “Do you want me to leave and come back in ten minutes so you can divulge all your secrets?”

  “I have no secrets. My life is an open book.”

  “Liar.”

  “Half-open, then.”

  “Shut to Arthur.”

  “Okay, I have secrets. I’ll talk to Liv later, though, because I’d rather talk to you.”

  “That works out. Let’s go.”

  She glanced at the clock. “You’re early. It’s not four yet.”

  “I couldn’t wait.”

  The way he said it got the tango dancers back on the floor. Until she remembered Arthur and frowned. “Arthur said I had to observe office hours.”

  “I’ll take care of that. Do you want to leave first or should I? And where do you want to meet?”

  She just loved that “I’ll take care of that” certainty—like he could smooth out all the bumps in her road of life. And after having gone through so many months of crap with Jay, she was in the mood for someone else to take care of everything. Call her a throwback to the past, call her schizoid, too, with her lust for female power a new and vigorous license to enjoy. What the hell—call her romantic . . . which thought prompted her to consider some explanation for her hearts and flowers doodles. Men didn’t view romance with the same benign regard as women. “Just for the record, I’m really sorry about scribbling your name and stuff. I’m blaming PMS.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I was thinking about tattooing your name on my ass.”

  Cassie shut her eyes and held up her hand. “Don’t let me lose that sweet, tender image.”

  “I’m just saying it was weird for me, too. So we’re even. Now, let’s get the hell out of here. Joe’s parked out back. Tell me where to pick you up.”

  “Maybe I should say I have other plans.” She lifted one brow. “The Rules book doesn’t allow for such last-minute invitations.”

  “Did I say it was an invitation? You’re working for me, babe,” he said with a wink. “Arthur’s paying you the big bucks to make my life a little easier.”

  “And as an added job benefit, my life is—how should I put it—fuller?”

  His grin matched hers. “Now I really don’t want to wait. Where do I pick you up?”

  “How about on the corner behind the parking ramp?”

  “Five to ten minutes?”

  The phone rang, she glanced at her caller ID—Jorge’s Gallery—and motioned it was for him before picking up. “Cassandra Hill, here,” she said. “Would you like to speak to Mr. Serre?”

  Leaning over, she handed the receiver to Bobby, then rose to get her purse and Marilyn Monroe tote bag from the hook on the wall. As Bobby discussed not only the Rubens but another painting that sounded like a Titian that had been missing, she returned with her purse and bag, set them on her desk, and leaned against it, listening. If the Isabella d’Este in Red had really surfaced, that was huge news. Painted by Titian from life, it had been sold by her heirs to Charles I of England. A few months after the king’s execution in 1649, an act of parliament ordered the sale of the former royal family’s possessions. In the ensuing Commonwealth Sale, the portrait of Isabella d’Este passed to Charles I’s silk draper in lieu of money owed him. After that, it had disappeared.

  Smiling, Bobby reached out and ran his palm up her leg, pushing her purple silk tweed skirt upward.

  She brushed his hand aside and rearranged her skirt.

  Rising, he leaned over the desk, jabbed the speaker button, set the receiver back in the cradle, sat down again, and pulled Cassie onto his lap without missing a word of conversation. “Miss Hill is listening, too, Jorge, so watch your language. Go on. I can’t believe the portrait’s real.” He eased her skirt up, forced her thighs open against her silent protest, one hand holding her firmly in place and only smiled when she mouthed an emphatic no. “The last authenticated owner of that Titian was Geeres in London in, what—1650? And now it’s in Romania?”

  “Was in Romania. The state security chief was gunned down in a restaurant six months ago, his collection looted, and the Isabella d’Este in Red is now reportedly in Bulgaria.”

  “And no one knows how the security honcho came by it?” Bobby slipped his finger inside her panties, traced her wet cleft with a light stroke, then slid his finger upward, burying it in her cunt palm deep, muffling her gasp with his mouth.

  “Not at the moment.” Jorge spoke with a faint accent—Cuban, upper class. “I was approached by some Turkish contacts in Munich. They’re the ones looking for a buyer.”

  “Do your Turks know it’s been missing for centuries?” Bobby was gently stroking her clit, up and down, around and around.

  “I don’t think so, but they know it’s a Titian and valuable. I don’t suppose you have time to come and look at it with me?”

  “I’m a little busy right now,” Bobby said, sliding in a second finger, forcing her pulsing tissue wider, inciting a little suffocated gasp. “If it can wait until I find this Rubens, I’ll come.”

  Cassie was panting, her hips moving faintly, her own style of coming approaching lift-off with Bobby’s deft fingers massaging her liquid cunt in slow, gentle strokes, his delicate pressure on precisely the right spots—like that . . . and ohmygod—that, and she wasn’t going to be able to wait even with Jorge in hearing range.

  “It’s all right,” Bobby whispered, his mouth pressed against her ear, as if he knew, as if he could tell, as if he understood this would be the opportune time to cover her mouth with his . . . right, right now. She came in a convulsive rush, her scream vibrating down his throat.

  “Am I interrupting something?” Jorge inquired, his voice polite as though he might have arrived early at a party.

  “No,” Bobby said, lightly kissing Cassie. “We’re about done here. I am surprised though,” he went on as though he were capable of multi-tasking with the best of the multi-tasking record holders, “that nothing’s come up on the radar on the Rubens. It’s the kind of painting some billionaire would like in his girlfriend’s bedroom. Resale is normally fast.”

  “It is strange. But there’s not a whisper on the East Coast. I checked with everyone I know. My man at Butterfield’s in LA says he has a blank screen out there, too.”

  “Ditto where I am.” Bobby’s brows flickered in transient query as Cassie slid off his lap and kneeled between his legs.

  “Any usual suspects there?”

  “I interviewed the guards today and most of the staff.” Bobby smiled as she unzipped his shorts. “This museum’s not what you’d call high security, but none of the guards appear to be involved.” He shifted slightly in the chair as she drew out his erection. “Just a gut feeling.” As her mouth closed over his engorged crest, he went still.

  “You’re usually right. At least you have been in the past. I’ll keep you posted on this end. And you let me know when you can travel to Bulgaria, Sofia probably. I doubt the Titian is out in the country. You still there?”

  “I’ll call you,” Bobby said, on a soft exhalation, sliding his fingers through Cassie’s hair. “Hang up for me will you?�
��

  Jorge chuckled. “Got your hands full?”

  And then the phone line went dead, the steady buzzing on the speaker disregarded by the two occupants of the office.

  For Bobby, sensation definitely overrode auditory receptors as Cassie ran her tongue up the length of his erection, then down again in a slow descent, then up again, as she cupped his balls with one hand and held him firmly at the base of his penis with the other. All his nerve endings were on full alert, waiting for her to wrap her lips around his cock again, waiting for her to take him in.

  She looked up, her lips a hair’s-breadth from touching the swollen head. “Ready?” she whispered.

  His grip tightened, forcing her head downward, and no one had to be a mind reader to get the idea.

  She drew him in by slow degrees, sucking, licking, resisting the pressure of his hands with surprising strength, setting the pace . . . slowing him down, making him wait for that moment when his cock came to rest against the back of her throat.

  Sudden pleasure flooded his body, melted his bones, the phrase prisoner of love lit up in neon in his brain.

  That neon pulsed in a highly charged straight-line path to the throbbing core of Cassie’s avaricious body as well.

  And suddenly who exactly was captive or captor was up for debate.

  Bobby’s eyes were shut, his head thrown back, his grip no longer harsh.

  He was holding the fount of pleasure in his hands.

  Liquid desire oozed down Cassie’s thighs, as though touching him, tasting him, measuring the length of him with her tongue triggered an insatiable need. He was a fever in her brain, an irrepressibly carnal urge.

  She was starved for him.

  Or maybe just for sex.

  But that brief moment of denial was quickly beaten down by the no-nonsense voice inside her head—as in no contest. It was him.

  The exquisite measured cadence of her rhythm, the sensual flux and flow, the choice image of his cock sliding in and out of her mouth, his neanderthal impulse at the sight of her submissive kneeling pose giving him head torched his already flame-hot senses. He groaned deep in his throat as her mouth moved up and down, as his cock slid in and out, his fingers flexing at the very depth of each down stroke, and he offered up thanks to whatever charitable gods were in the vicinity that Cassie’s husband had had the bad taste to find himself a girlfriend. He would have been pissed had he come here and found Cassie Hill married and faithful. He would have thought his luck had run out.