Jeremiah closed them in, stilling the wind that had been riffling through her hair. She took in her surroundings, appalled. “Your art!” Her fingers jutted toward a nearby painting. “It’s all byDartin. I should have known. You’re a Dartin collector,” she accused the same way she’d have accused him of being a redcoat spy.
“Who’s Dartin?”
“One of the painters I told you I loathed. This art is drivel, created by a sell-out.”
“Doesn’t all art have merit?” he challenged.
“Not this stuff.”
He went to the nearest painting and reached as if to lift it off the wall.
“Don’t!” she ordered.
He paused.
“Your ribs,” she explained. “Also, you shouldn’t be handling these pieces. While they are not a valuable contribution to the art world in my eyes, they are of sizeable monetary value.”
He stood nonchalantly next to his Dartin, looking every inch like American royalty.Thisis who he was. This is how he dressed. This is where he lived. Descendant of a storied family, son of an infamous father. Successful race car driver. He was a prominent man caught up in the pursuit of worldly success.
Seeing him here was like seeing a cougar in its natural habitat. You didn’t want tobethe cougar. But you didn’t exactly want to be the bunny, either.
She moved to slip out of her jacket and felt his hands behind her, helping her off with it. That perfectly polite, not-sexual courtesy sent a cascade of goosebumps down her neck and arms.
Remy! Stop this. She’d invested years in her hard-earned recovery and had no interest in jeopardizing that in any way. So how come her body’s ability to experience physical desire was coming back now with this most ill-advised man?
He hung up her jacket and purse.
“Your home office, I presume?” She moved toward the room separated from the living space by interior French doors.
“Yes.”
“You said you've already looked through your computer and desk for your research on Alexis's death?”
“Right.”
“I vote we start here. With these cabinets.” The wall opposite the window held built-in cabinetry below and shelving above. She sank to her knees next to the first cabinet. He began to kneel. “Don’t even think about it,” she told him before he’d lowered five inches. “You have fractured ribs, so sit on a chair, Duke.”
“As you command.” He sat and then rolled the desk chair toward her, executing a spin on the way.
The cabinet held a slide-out filing system. She handed him half the files and started making her way through the rest.
“Financial documents here,” she said.
“Employment documents here.”
She rapidly scanned each page. Then moved to the next file. “Contracts.”
“Property records,” he said. “It says here I bought this place three years ago.” He unfolded architectural blueprints. They were clearly new, no doubt commissioned when he’d bought this house. It showed room after room, three stories worth. Really, it was absurd that Jeremiah lived here. An insult to decency and frugality.
Once they’d gone through the files in the first cabinet, they tackled the second.
“Legal documents in this file,” she murmured. “Including a copy of your will.”
“That, I’d like to see.”
She set the papers on top of the counter above the cabinets. He slid his chair close.
“I’ll excuse myself so you can read your will in private,” she announced.
