Blush by Cherry Adair Read Free Book Online Page B

I’ll give you his number.” Which would be answered by voice mail.
    “What kind of work did you do for him?”
    “Remodeled his kitchen: custom cabinets, cement countertops, the whole nine yards. Converted a downstairs bedroom into an English-style pub, painted the whole place inside and out—” Cruz had recently done the remodel in his own French country farmhouse. He looked at the stack of wallpaper boxes piled in the corner. “I can handle anything you throw at me. What needs wallpapering?”
    “Hallway, downstairs bath, and dining room. Do you have any experience installing—”
    Keeping her under his watchful eye, having access to the house and any personal papers or shit he could find on her computer, might make this odd hesitancy he felt go away. He’d do the job he’d accepted a down payment on, then head off to Brazil, where he had a small house right on the beach. “Take me a week or so—”
    An incredibly loud clap of thunder cut him off, causing Mia to flinch, and sent the dog skittering from beneath the table. In a blur of golden fur, Oso shot out of the kitchen and tore up the uncarpeted stairs. Frantically clicking nails indicated his terrified trajectory overhead.
    “Stay put,” Cruz ordered. “I’ll get him.” And take a quick tour of the upstairs. And when she opened her mouth—he presumed to tell him it was her house—Cruz finished: “He won’t go to a stranger.” And jogged upstairs, leaving her in the kitchen.
    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’sstudio, 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