Blush(16)
The dog, of course, would go to anyone. He’d chosen him without much thought from a pound an hour away. He’d just said “That one” to the first dog who’d come up to the fence looking friendly early that morning.
“Yo, Oso. Come on, boy.” Slapping his jeaned thigh, Cruz whistled as he opened a closed door. Not looking for the dog, just . . . looking. Empty bedroom sporting peeling pink and gold wallpaper and a large, almost full blue plastic bucket off to one side to catch the drips from the water-marked ceiling. Pushed the next door farther open to see a mint-green and black bathroom, clearly not in use.
Another empty bedroom. And a third, set up as an artist’s studio, with gessoed stretched canvases stacked neatly against the wall. Cruz stepped inside, only imagining the smell of oil paint on the dusty air. An easel held a blank canvas, and beside it a tall table covered with a dish towel and a pretty blue glass vase held an assortment of high-pigment Lukas paint tubes and dozens of Kolinsky sable brushes in various sizes. None of them used. All of them, as he well knew, top-of-the-line. Interesting.
In the corner stood a pottery wheel, with an optimistically large pile of plastic-wrapped clay bricks. If she planned on throwing all that clay, she intended to be here for a while.
A clap of thunder apparently ensured that the dog would remain hidden until the weather cooperated. Cruz walked into the last room, pleased with himself. He’d picked the perfect prop in the nervous pound dog. Oso had chosen the master bedroom, the only upstairs room furnished. Cruz was instantly assailed with the opulent, creamy, carnal fragrance of tuberose.
Her bed wasn’t anything like the feminine notes of her perfume. It was stark, almost masculine, with a sleek, modern black wrought-iron headboard, and was neatly made with crisp white sheets and a comforter. Cruz instantly saw himself fucking her on that pristine comforter, his dark skin against her fairness, her silky hair whipping his chest as her head thrashed.
How much time was he willing to indulge himself here to satisfy the odd sense that something wasn’t right? How long to confirm what his research had already told him, which was why he’d accepted the job in the first place? She fit his benchmark for hits—only the worst of the worst. He had a team of researchers all over the world who verified the crimes. There was no mistake about Amelia Wellington-Wentworth, aka Mia Hayward. None. And yet . . .
Twenty-four hours should do it, he decided in that moment. In the meantime he’d satiate himself with her delectable body and see what it was like to have a pet. He’d fix some shit around here, because he enjoyed working with his hands.
“Oso, here, boy.”
A black nose emerged from beneath the bed as the dog crawled out on his belly, black eyes watching Cruz’s face. He recognized that look. Dropping to his haunches, Cruz slowly held out his hand for the dog to sniff. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you, buddy. Not even that fierce thunder. Come downstairs, let’s see if the pretty lady will offer us breakfast.”
Oso’s tail wagged slowly, his eyes never leaving Cruz’s face.
Cruz stood. “Wanna eat?”
The tail picked up speed, and Oso got to his feet, then leaned his entire body against Cruz’s legs. “Shit.” Cruz reached down to fondle the dog’s soft, floppy ear. “I’m the last guy you want to get attached to,” he told the mutt as they went back into the hallway. “Fair warning: I walk away before anyone gets attached.”
• • •
“What’s that you’re burning?”
“Yeah,” she admitted, not looking up. “It is burned, isn’t it?” With a shake of her head, she shot him a quick smile. It was sweet, open. Fucking stupid of her to be so goddamned friendly. Strange man in her house, in her. She should be barricade in a safe room, not attempting to fix him the most important meal of the day, dressed, with deceptive innocence.
“It was supposed to be breakfast.” She eyed the pan, then looked back at him, blue eyes sparkling with humor. “But it’s a steep learning curve. I like to eat, so I hope I master the first meal of the day soon. I see you found your friend.”
The dog darted under the table as Cruz crossed the kitchen, checking out his hostess’s prime ass, cupped by the blue shorts, and her long pale legs as he went to open a window a crack to let out the smell. The rain was coming down in sheets and turning the backyard to mud.
“Take it off the burner,” he advised when the pan started to smoke. He breathed deep of the heavy wet air fluttering the fruit-patterned curtains before turning back to watch her.
She grimaced as she removed the pan from the stove top and carried it, arms extended, over to the sink. “I should get a smoke alarm; at least that way I’ll be warned before I burn down the house.”