Page 8

Our fingers touched as I accepted it.

“Goodnight, Samantha.”

He slipped back into the crowd.

Leanne showed up moments later, spotting the card right away and yanking it from my hand. “Kincaid? Hello, old LA money. You’re calling him, Sam.”

“No way.”

“Yes way. You’ve brushed off enough of those fake, flashy guys who never got it. This one actually talked to you about art like he understands it, like he understands you. That doesn’t happen every night. Don’t let this one turn into another solo weekend with your easel and a bottle of wine.”

I slipped the card into my purse, the thick paper still warm from his hand.

I stepped closer to the canvas, still searching its surface for whatever hidden meaning kept pulling me back.

The piece had drawn me in no matter how many other paintings I’d looked at, and now it seemed Richard Kincaid had the same quiet grip on me.

Chapter 2

Richard

Iwoke up at 6:30 a.m. as always.

At twenty-five, I had already learned that discipline was the one real edge most men lacked. It was the quiet advantage that separated those who commanded the world from those who fell victim to it.

My bedroom was still dark when I opened my eyes and the pale morning light pressed weakly against the heavy curtains. The air carried the familiar scents of clean sheets, cedar from the closet and the last traces of the cologne I had worn the night before. There was no blood this time, no lingering perfume and certainly no inconveniences.

I lay perfectly still for a few seconds, giving my mind time to wake up and communicate with the rest of my body. I sat up, swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, the cold hardwood floor shocking my bare feet into motion as I moved through my habitual morning routine. I folded the top sheet, pulled the comforter tight and even and adjusted the pillows until the entire room looked untouched and immaculate exactly as it should.

I moved into the bathroom, observing myself in the mirror. I admired my chiseled features, gray eyes, strong jaw and dark hair. The same charming face that had always served me so well. It was the kind of face that made women look twice and made other men pretend not to notice. I had inherited my mother’s refined bone structure and my father’s natural ability to make people uneasy. I found my appearance endlessly useful in these circles.

I turned on the shower and waited for the steam to build up against the glass before stepping inside, letting the hot water strike my shoulders. I stood motionless for a long moment, feeling it ease the faint tension in my neck. It was not guilt or nerves that lingered there, only irritation.

Jessica had been far too easy. She mistook calculated attention for genuine intimacy and basic manners for good intentions. She had stepped into my car already halfway convinced she had been specially chosen and honestly that was hardly my fault.

After the shower, I wiped the mirror clear and shaved slowly, taking care not to leave so much as a nick beneath my jaw or a missed patch near my throat. I disliked stubble because it suggested laziness or carelessness or worse, some desperate attempt to look edgy.

By 7:10, I stood in my closet where the suits hung in perfect order by color, fabric and occasion. I selected the charcoal one for the day and paired it with a crisp white shirt, silver cufflinks and my new Rolex watch.

Downstairs the house remained pristine as always. I prepared my coffee black, toasted a single slice of sourdough and ate it standing at the counter while scanning the morning paper. There was still no front page story about the last girl which came as no surprise since she had not been missing nearly long enough.

A small mention did appear in the local section however, the Preston University Benefit that had raised funds for upcoming artists. The accompanying photograph showed donors and students gathered beneath the gallery lights. And there stood Samantha Whitmore near the far wall, her attention fixed on one of the paintings rather than the camera. Her dark brown hair fell in loose waves and soft bangs framed her face.

I liked how she sounded so knowledgeable about art. The way she smiled slipped under my skin, the corners of her light brown eyes crinkling just so. I was impressed, though I tried not to seem too eager about it.

I hated how she lingered in my mind, and not merely because she was beautiful. Beauty was common enough among the right circles in this city. What stayed with me was how she had stood before After the Fire and spoken about the piece with an unexpected depth that caught me off guard.

By 8:15, I instructed my driver James to have the Lincoln ready. I told him we were heading to the office as he held the door open. He spoke only when spoken to, which was precisely why I kept him on my payroll. The drive into the city was slow and entirely predictable, filled with ordinary people doing ordinary things.

At the office, the usual routines unfolded exactly as expected. Rebecca stood promptly when I approached. She was an efficient secretary. A brunette who was smart enough not to flirt during working hours. “Your nine o’clock has confirmed, Henderson moved his call to noon, and your father’s office has called twice.”

I closed the door to my office and reviewed the reports she had prepared though my mind kept wandering back to Samantha.

A call arrived before noon. Rebecca appeared in the doorway with a nervous expression she tried to conceal. “There is a call for you... It’s the police chief.”

I allowed the silence to stretch for a moment and sighed. “Put him through.”

The chief’s low voice came through the receiver without preamble. “Kincaid, we need you to come in.”