She's Got It Bad. Sarah Mayberry

know much about art, you certainly have strong opinions.”

      “I want to see some craftsmanship, that’s all. Any of the fabricators at my workshop could make this before lunch,” he said.

      “Lovely. Maybe we should ask them to whip up a few for us, then,” Jacinta said dryly.

      He shrugged, unapologetic. She narrowed her eyes in thought for a moment then nodded decisively.

      “Follow me. We’ve got a smaller collection in one of the side spaces. I have a feeling Paulo Gregorio’s work might be more up your alley,” she said.

      Liam followed her across the polished concrete floor, admiring the sway of her hips. He wondered if she was wearing garters and stockings like she had been the last time she stayed the night. He loved a woman in red lace—it was one weakness he was more than happy to admit to.

      “Okay, this artist is definitely more traditional. I think you’ll find all the craftsmanship you could possibly want in his work,” Jacinta said as they stepped into a smaller room.

      Eight large canvases hung on the four walls. They were all portraits, all women in various stages of undress. Jacinta pointed to the first painting, a six-foot-by-six-foot canvas of a woman lying on a chaise lounge, a filmy negligee falling off her shoulders and tangling in her legs.

      “Lots of color. Strong technique. And a subject that I know is very close to your heart,” Jacinta said.

      He smiled at her dry humor as he studied the painting, noting the warm look in the woman’s eyes, the delicate way the artist had captured the texture of her clothing and the blush on her skin.

      “Nice work,” he said.

      “Nice work? It’s not one of your motorbikes, Liam.”

      He checked the price list in her hand.

      “You’re right. A custom Masters Mechanics bike is worth three times as much.”

      She rolled her eyes. “What about this next one? I was thinking it would look great in your bathroom, above that huge Roman tub.”

      Liam dutifully shifted his attention from the lounging woman to the next painting. This canvas was bigger, eight-by-ten, he estimated, and the subject was completely naked, lying sprawled on her back on a forest-green quilt. Her arms were spread wide and one knee was bent, the leg dropping out to the side. He followed the line of her calves to her thighs and the mysterious shadows between them. The artist had only hinted at what a man would be able to see in real life, but it was enough. More than enough.

      If he had this painting in his bathroom, he’d be taking a cold shower every freaking day.

      “I don’t suppose the artist hands out phone numbers with each painting?” he asked, only half joking.

      Jacinta made an impatient noise. “Does that mean you like it?”

      He dragged his gaze from the plump tips of the woman’s breasts and shifted his attention to her face.

      Then he forgot to breathe.

      Took a step backward.

      Made a noise in the back of his throat that may or may not have been a four-letter word.

      Green eyes. A dimpled chin. Long dark hair.

      A face he remembered in his dreams. The most bittersweet memory of his life.

      Zoe.

      “Damn.”

      Jacinta touched his arm. “Liam. What’s wrong?”

      His gaze swept the painting again, looking for proof that he was wrong. Again he saw those open thighs, her hips, her breasts. And Zoe’s face. Indisputably Zoe’s face.

      He stepped forward.

      Why would she do this? Put herself on display like this? Little Zoe, spread across the wall for any man to stare at.

      “Liam! What are you doing?” Jacinta demanded as he gripped the sides of the painting.

      “Who else has seen this? How long has it been on dis play?” he asked.

      “Liam, put that back. My God, what is wrong with you?”

      He lifted the painting off its hook and turned it around. Only when it was leaning against the wall, face in, did he relax.

      “Wrap it up. I don’t want anyone else looking at it.”

      Jacinta planted both hands on her hips and glared at him.

      “Would you mind putting the painting back, please?”

      He pulled his checkbook out. “How much is it? I’m taking it with me.”

      Jacinta stared at him for a long moment.

      “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

      He waited for her to name the price.

      “It’s fifteen thousand,” she finally said.

      He wrote the check and tore it off. “I want to speak to this Paulo guy. Tonight.”

      “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but—”

      “I know her,” he said bluntly. “Or at least I used to know her. I don’t know what this guy offered her to sit for this painting, but she doesn’t belong up here.”

      “For God’s sake, Liam, you sound like an outraged parent. This is art, not pornography.”

      “Can you get me this guy’s number or not?”

      Jacinta studied him, frowning.

      “I don’t want you calling one of my artists and harassing him. What do you want to know? Her contact details, I suppose?”

      “For starters.”

      “Give me five minutes.”

      Jacinta disappeared toward the rear of the gallery where he knew she had her office. Once he was alone he ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes. He felt sick. Like someone had punched him in the guts.

      This Paulo shithead must have offered her big money to pose for him. She must have been so desperate it seemed like a good deal. Damn, what the hell was Tom doing, letting his little sister get into this kind of trouble?

      The tap of heels heralded Jacinta’s return. She handed over a scrap of paper.

      “No home number, just her workplace. She’s very private, according to Paulo.”

      He studied the address and phone number. The Blue Rose, on the western side of the city in Footscray. Not exactly the most up-and-coming area. He wondered what kind of business it was.

      “Can you get someone to wrap the painting?” he asked.

      “I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking if you would mind leaving it until the show is finished so I don’t have a dirty great gap in my display?” Jacinta countered.

      “No.”

      She sighed. “I didn’t think so.”

      She headed off again, but stopped in the doorway.

      “By the way, I asked what he paid her to sit for him.”

      “And?”

      “It was a freebie. No fee.”

      He shook his head. He refused to believe it.

      “No way.”

      Jacinta simply raised her eyebrows before swiveling on her heel and continuing out the door.

      Forty minutes later he pulled up in front of the address he’d been given. He leaned forward over the steering wheel to check the number above the shop door was correct.

      The Blue Rose was a tattoo parlor.

      It was the last