Treasured. Sherryl Woods

talk to her about giving away my security secrets.”

      “Either that or go out and buy a rottweiler,” Kathleen suggested, taking the fact that he hadn’t actually sent her packing as an invitation to follow him into the studio, which had been converted from a barn.

      The exterior of the old barn wasn’t much, just faded red paint on weathered boards, but inside was an artist’s paradise of natural light and space. The smell of oil paint and turpentine was faint, thanks to windows that had been left cracked open overnight. Ben moved methodically around the room to close them, then switched on a thermostat. Soon warm air was taking away the chill.

      Kathleen had to stop herself from dumping everything in her hands and racing straight to the built-in racks that held literally hundreds of canvases. Instead, she bit back her impatience and set the bag of scones on the counter directly in front of Ben.

      “All yours,” she told him.

      Apparently he was the kind of man who believed in savoring pleasure. He opened the bag slowly, sniffed deeply, then sighed. “You actually baked these?”

      “With my own two hands,” she confirmed.

      “Is this something you do every Sunday, get a sudden urge to bake?”

      “Actually this urge hit last night,” she told him.

      “Let’s see if you’re any good at it,” he said as he retrieved one of the scones and broke off a bite. He put it in his mouth, then closed his eyes.

      “Not bad,” he said eventually, then gave her a sly look. “This will get you five minutes to look around. Promise to leave the bagful and you can stay for ten.”

      “There are a half-dozen scones in that bag. That ought to buy me a half hour at least,” she bargained.

      Ben regarded her suspiciously. “Are you here just to satisfy your curiosity?”

      Kathleen hesitated on her way to the first stack of paintings that had caught her eye. She had a feeling if she told him the truth, he’d hustle her out the door before she got her first glimpse of those tantalizingly close canvases. If she lied, though, it would destroy whatever fragile trust she was going to need to get him to agree to do a show.

      “Nope,” she said at last. “Though what art dealer wouldn’t be curious about a treasure trove of paintings?”

      “Then you still have some crazy idea about getting me to do a showing at your gallery?”

      Kathleen shrugged. “Perhaps, if your work is actually any good.”

      He frowned. “I don’t care if you think I’m better than Monet, I’m not doing a show. And your ten minutes is ticking by while we argue.”

      She smiled at his fierce expression. “We’ll see.”

      “It’s not going to happen,” he repeated. “So if that’s your only interest, you’re wasting your time.”

      “Discovering an incredible talent is never a waste of my time.”

      “In this case it is, at least if you expect to make money by showing or selling my paintings.”

      She walked back to the counter where he sat, now crumbling one of those scones into crumbs. “Why are you so vehemently opposed to letting others see your work, Ben?”

      “Because I paint for the joy it brings me, period.”

      She gave him a penetrating look. “In other words, it’s too personal, too revealing.”

      Though he quickly turned away, Kathleen saw the startled look in his eyes and knew she’d hit on the truth. Ben put too much of himself into his paintings, he exposed raw emotions he didn’t want anyone else to guess at.

      “Bottom line, it’s not for sale,” he said gruffly. “And your time has just run out. I can live without the scones. Take the rest and go.”