Kiss Me Crazy by Ednah Walters, E. B. Walters Read Free Book Online Page A

least expected it.
    Everyone, even Baron, understood there was no margin for error in her line of work. Precision, keen eyes, and steady hands, no original pigments removed or abraded, no excess solvent left to ruin or burn the painting. Sudden movements on her part could be catastrophic, the mistake irrevocable. New employees never needed to be told twice about not interrupting her when that sign hung outside her door.
    Kara placed the sign outside then shrugged off her jacket.
    Baron already stood by the easel, his gaze on her tools—a jeweler’s magnifying glass, a microscope, and ultra-violet light lamp for studying the painting as she worked; solvents, cotton bals, and swabs for identifying the pigments and cleaning the old varnish; a loaded stil camera to record every step of the restoration. His gaze shifted to her just as she started down the stairs.
    It wasn’t a cool regard or an assessing look a boss gave an employee. Something hot and lethal burned in the depth of his eyes
    —a deep-seated desire that echoed deep inside of her. His mouth moved, and she knew he was talking, but she didn’t hear a single word he said. She was busy listening to the thumpity-thump of her heart and the roar of blood in her ears. How come he never looked at her like that before?
    He pointed at the easel, and that was when she saw it, a painting so breathtaking, so awe-inspiring she gasped, threw her jacket on the coat rack, and rushed forward, everything else forgotten. She stopped in front of the piece, reached out to touch the glass covering it and laughed.
    “Wow. Is that what you wanted to show me? It looks like a Caravaggio.” She threw him a glance. “The same dramatic angled lighting, the deep shadowed background. It’s got to be, uh, Saint John…no, the hermit…Saint Jerome—he’s the one who translated the Bible into Latin.”
    “That’s right,” he said. Her briliance never failed to amaze him. “They said only three of Saint Jerome’s paintings survived.”
    “One is in Rome, the second in Boston, and the third by a Swizz colector, yet this…” She leaned closer for a better look, then continued talking about what she knew about the artist’s work.
    Baron stood back and simply enjoyed her response. She was breathtaking in her enthusiasm, the glances she kept throwing him over her shoulder giving him glimpses of her animated face.
    Usualy, she was so pale and delicate-looking, like she could break if he was too rough with her. Her skin was flushed, eyes sparkling, the V-shaped neckline giving him a clear view of her perfect breasts. Hers were just right for his large hands, not too big and not smal either. But as a self-proclaimed ass-man, he appreciated hers, loving the way her pants draped over it and her rounded hips. From the way she was leaning forward, her hands on her knees, he was getting a rare treat. Blood rushed to his groin.
    He needed to focus on something else, but nothing in the room captivated him long enough. His eyes swung back to Kara.
    He moved behind the painting so he had a better view of her face.
    Today she had more makeup than usual, but her glowing skin didn’t need it. It was soft, fine-grained, her lashes incredibly long and curling upwards. The glasses often added something to her appearance he found irresistible. The last few days, he’d imagined removing them before kissing her, a form of foreplay. Seeing her without them was screwing with his head.
    She looked up, her eyes gleaming with laughter. “It is a Caravaggio, isn’t it?”
    Her expressive hazel eyes were incredible, changing with her moods, the black pupils dilating and contracting delicately. They were darker now, sucking him into their mysterious depths. He shook his head to focus his thoughts on their conversation. When he saw her frown, he realized she’d assumed he was responding to her question.
    “Yes, it is,” he corrected.

    A puzzled expression settled on her face. “It doesn’t seem to need