Intimate Portraits (25 page)

“Of course. They showed a teaser
just now, and he was so cute. I knew you’d want to see it. And Rennie, too. The
report’s coming up on the news at eleven.”

Autumn yawned as she powered off
and transmitted Laney’s instructions to Rennie. “I guess we’d better go watch.”

His grin, slow as molasses and
twice as sweet, spread. His hand touched her stomach and started a new
tingling. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to. Francisco won’t know.”

Tempting. So very tempting. “Of
course he’ll know. He’ll grill us unmercifully as to how his tux looked, how he
sounded, whether every hair was in place, if they showed the right profile. Then
when he finds we didn’t think enough of him to turn on the TV, he’ll be crushed.”

“Not for long. His ego’s too big.”
Rennie spoke without the least hint of malice. There was no smugness behind his
words because he was in bed with a woman Fran wanted.

Was there?

No. Rennie hadn’t made love to
her because he thought she was involved with Fran and wanted to pay off old
scores.

He hadn’t. She was sure of it.

Rennie would never do anything
like that. Not to her and not to Fran.

He wasn’t like Fran.

Well-being suffused her, warming
her, making her feel as if her very toes were happy. Why hadn’t she ditched her
stupid pride and gone after Rennie years ago, before he’d ever met Jane? She
could have followed him to California, and they could have been together all
this time.

Except he’d have sent her back
home.

No matter. The present more than
made up for the past.

In the middle of his stroking
her, when the gentle warmth inside her was on the verge of becoming full-blown
heat, she wavered over going downstairs. “I could run down and set up to
record. Then we wouldn’t have to interrupt this for Fran’s big interview.”

“I’d forgotten about Fran.” He
lay back and groaned. “We’d still have to set it up and watch it later. So let’s
get it over with. He’ll make us replay it in front of him if we miss the real
thing. But look on the bright side. It won’t take long and we can come back to
bed.”

“All right. But only because you
say so.”

He ran a finger down between her
breasts and around her navel. “You know I’m right. Little brother’ll give us a
pop quiz tomorrow. We’ll have to know the answers or we’ll never hear the end
of it.”

“Uh huh.” She wriggled as he
tweaked a nipple. "But it might be worth it."

He abruptly rolled over and sat
up on the side of the bed. “No, it wouldn’t. He can get ugly. Remember that
time Norma stole his mirror and he lectured her for an hour on dishonesty,
immorality, and the dire consequences of making wrong decisions? And she had to
listen because he threatened to tell Mom if she didn’t. Do you need a robe? We’d
better go now before it’s too late. Anticipation will make it better, I
promise.”

Downstairs, TV turned to the
right channel, they shooed Squeaky out and curled up in her easy chair. Not
until toward the end of the newscast did the report on the High Museum came on.

By that time she had unzipped Rennie’s
jeans and they were engaged in another activity, one in which her bare fanny
sat on his lap while she lay back against his chest and gently rocked back and
forth.

They had to take time off in the
middle of their exercise to watch the interview.

“We should have waited for the
tape,” Rennie muttered as she made him stop his lascivious exploration of her
bottom.

“Shush.” As his hands reached
around her waist to part her thighs, she took hold of them and held them still.
“Anticipation makes it better. Remember?”

First the camera swept through
some of the exhibits. “At the High Museum tonight,” the pretty reporter began,
leading into her shtick about the Louvre’s unprecedented decision to loan its
renowned
Ornaments for the Human Body
exhibition for a three months’
display in Atlanta.

Precious jewels and metals dotted
the collection, the earnest young woman explained. “Take, for instance, this
set of Byzantine earrings and necklace. They’re made of gold, emerald crystals,
sapphires, and pearls. But some of the truly invaluable pieces are made of less
costly materials, such as this pair of 16th century armlets from southern
Nigeria, carved of ivory and inlaid with copper. Or this eleventh Dynasty
Egyptian wesekh-collar of composition beads—”

That collar. Those brilliant
colors.

Autumn sat bolt upright.

“Ouch. Careful how you bend.” Rennie
tightened his hold on her hips and immobilized them as she settled back. “What’s
wrong?”

“I don’t know.” But she did. Or
thought she did. “Except… Rennie, that necklace, the one with the beads.”

“What about it?”

“Sarita wore it in our photo
shoots.”

With her back against him, she couldn’t
see his face but she could feel him switching from pleasure to business.

“I doubt it,” he said after a
moment. “At least not that one. It would stay under lock and key. Sarita might
have a necklace that looks like it. Maybe.”

She wriggled, trying to twist so
she could see him. Carefully so that she didn’t injure anything. “Why would
she? Nobody wears things like that today. I thought at the time it was an
unusual choice because Egyptian jewelry isn’t that fashionable.” She saw his
skepticism. “I think she wore that same necklace. And some of that other stuff
looks awfully familiar, too. That ivory bracelet, for one.”

He didn’t scoff. Instead, as if
her squirming on his lap had reminded him of other things, he turned her back
around toward the TV, bringing his hands under her arms and catching her
breasts and pulling her to his chest. Holding her tight against him, he somehow
managed to roll her hips across him and back, provoking lovely extended billows
of pleasure.

Still… “Rennie, it
is
the
same necklace.”

“Okay. And how, beautiful lady,
would Sarita have got that particular necklace out of the museum’s custody and
back?” His breath warmed her ear.

“Um, I don’t know, would you do
that again, please, that thing with—Oh, there’s Fran.” She caught his thighs,
stopped him, momentarily sidetracked from the agreeable tension he’d elicited.

“—all due to Danielle Huertole’s
hard work and personal contacts,” Fran was telling the interviewer as he gave
generous credit to his boss’s wife for bringing the exhibit to Atlanta. He
stood before the High Museum, his swarthy good looks spotlighted against its
stark white tiles. “She’s the type of person who, when she makes up her mind
something should be done, does it. Gus and I are glad she’s on his side in this
upcoming campaign.”

The pretty blonde beamed at Fran.
“So Gus Huertole is definitely going to run for governor next year then?”

“You heard what he said in his
speech tonight.” Fran looked striking in his tuxedo, credible with a frank gaze,
and perfectly at ease despite the microphones stuck in his face. “People want
Gus to run, and providing he has the resources, he intends to give them what
they want. From the way our phone’s been ringing off the hook the past few
days, we should have plenty of volunteers and contributions. See me later,” he
added with a twinkle to the reporter questioning him, “about that donation you
promised in return for me answering your questions. Fairly sizable, I believe
you said?”

Something unconnected popped into
Autumn’s mind. “I wonder if Sarita knows someone at the museum. Like maybe Danielle
Huertole.”

Rennie shifted beneath her.

He could have been restless to
finish what they’d begun.

Or had her oblique accusation of
Sarita purloining valuable jewelry upset him? He’d gone through high school
with Sarita and dated her long before she became famous. When he’d left for
California, still before Sarita’s early success, Kaneka had given him her
address so he could find her and make sure she was okay.

Had he? Reseda had never talked
about him hanging out with Sarita while he was out there, and she would have
boasted now that Sarita was so big.

Or would she? Reseda never had
approved of Sarita. Sarita had collected a lot of boyfriends and she loved to
play them against each other. Reseda had disliked Rennie dating her.

From behind her, Rennie sounded
remote. “In Sarita’s line of work, she’s acquainted with a lot of people. But
even if she knows someone at the museum, I’m pretty sure she’d never get hold
of that necklace. The Louvre takes pretty good care of security for their
things, I feel sure.”

She was mistaken. He’d shifted at
the mention of Sarita because he was uncomfortable with her sitting on him like
this.

And if he sounded cool, it was
because Sarita didn’t concern him any more. Any tenseness was the same
tenseness she felt having him inside her. It had to be. She moved on his hips,
tightening her thighs, manipulating him in a way that brought on his gratified,
“Oh, yes. Do that again.”

Leave it alone.

She couldn’t. “You don’t think
that since Dani Huertole was responsible for the exhibit, she might have loaned
the necklace to Sarita for the photo sessions?”

“We aren’t even sure they know
each other. I wouldn’t worry about Sarita or the necklace. What difference does
it make whether she’s wearing an antique or a copy? You’ve got your photos safe
in your van.” His hands that had been stroking her back, glided around toward
her breasts.

“I guess you’re right. And I’m
lucky the thumb drive’s still there. If I’d taken it to the studio…”

She shuddered. He buried his face
in her back. His tongue flicked at the bottom of her neck.

Sarita’s photos were safe. Though
everything else left from fifty-eight years of hard work had gone up in smoke. “I
dread starting over. The thought of pulling a studio together from scratch makes
me want to cry.”

“You can do it.” His hands went
round her waist, drawing her back hard against his chest. “Don’t think about it
now.” His hands crept lower. His voice thickened. “Think about this.”

She lay back against him, happiness
returning with his arms tight around her. “I hope you’re right, that I can
build the business back up.”

His caresses heightened her desire.

He couldn’t be holding anything back
from her. The Degardoveras never withheld, but gave freely to anyone they loved.
She was the one who kept herself under such tight control that she’d almost
watched Rennie walk out of her life rather than risk his rejection.

She couldn’t stifle a gasp as he
found a certain spot. But the necklace troubled her. “I wish you could see
Sarita’s proofs. Then you’d believe me about her having that necklace.”

“I do believe you. Maybe Sarita
saw it, liked it, and had a copy made.” His tone said he was tired of hearing
about the necklace while his hands said he wanted to discuss far more pressing
matters.

No sense in letting Sarita’s
jewelry spoil the moment.

Not with the wisps of excitement
collecting and thickening in her belly as he lifted her and thrust her down
hard against him, catching the sensitive place each time until her body
involuntarily began to match his strokes and their rhythm quickened and their
breathing quickened and his heat exploded within her and made her cry out in
the midst of paroxysms.

They went to bed later, but they
didn’t get much sleep that night.

****

Sam Bogatti didn’t get much sleep
that night either.

He’d driven straight through from
Helen to Illinois, arriving home late Sunday night to hear about the hockey
game—their team had won four to three and his kid had scored one goal and had
two assists—and to endure his wife’s censure for missing church.

“It’s my work, cupcake,” he
placated her. “What can I do?”

Later, after they climbed into
bed, he curled up against her and patted her butt, laid his head on the pillow
next to hers, and died.

When the phone rang, he was lost
in a dream involving a big Nordic blonde and summertime streams and white
fleecy clouds over alpine mountains.

His wife’s sleepy hello waked him
before she turned over and punched him. “Sam. It’s that guy, says he’s gotta
speak to you. Right now.”

The clock said three-twenty. Bernie
didn’t call him in the middle of the night for no reason. Not at home. Bernie
hardly ever called him at home.

Can’t be good
.

Wide awake, he took the receiver.
His wife got up, slipped on her house shoes, and went into the bathroom.

“Yeah.” His tongue felt thick and
furry. His brain was still fried from the trip.

“Call me on a cell.”

Nope. Not good
. Sam shut off the cordless.
Not
good at all
.

He got out a new throwaway cell
and crawled back into bed. “Can you give me a minute?” he called to his old
lady.