Postcards From…Verses Brides Babies And Billionaires. Rebecca Winters

should check in and ask about Ainslie. You know, because of the assignment.

      His brain had conveniently pushed aside the fact that Quinn would have already asked those questions. But right now he was clutching at straws for an excuse to see Wren that didn’t have anything to do with the fact that she’d left in the middle of the night.

      He raised his hand to the door and knocked twice. When she opened it, Rhys wondered if he’d accidentally found a secret gate to heaven. The scent of chocolate wafted out and Wren stood there looking like a vision. She had on a white tank top, her long legs exposed by a pair of tiny denim shorts. Her hair was held back with a red head scarf.

      A dark streak marred her cheekbone. “Uh, hi,” she said, a flush immediately creeping across her skin.

      “You have a little something…” He reached out and swiped at the mark. “Chocolate or paint?”

      “Chocolate. I’m baking brownies.” Her eyes glimmered. “Would you like to come in?”

      “Sure. I had a few questions for you about the gallery, if that’s okay?”

      “Of course.” Was it his imagination or did her eyes dim at the mention of her work? “That shouldn’t stop me from serving up some dessert, should it?”

      “Hell, no.”

      She held the door open for him and he stepped inside. The kitchen was a disaster zone; there were mixing bowls and wooden spoons piled up in the sink. A bag of sugar had tipped over and spilled fine crystals onto the countertop. Packets of ingredients littered the bench. As Rhys followed her to the source of the glorious scent, something crunched beneath his shoe.

      A walnut.

      “Sorry for the state of the kitchen,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I’m a messy cook. But I promise the taste will be worth it.”

      He toyed with the idea of sharing his process for “cleaning as you go” that kept his kitchen near spotless while he cooked. But the words halted in his mouth as Wren bent over to open the oven. His mouth watered, and it wasn’t from the intensified scent of chocolate brownies.

      The sight of her shapely ass being thrust high in the air as she tipped forward, red oven mitts on her hands, damn near fried his brain cells.

      “It’s fine,” he managed to get out as she straightened up and placed the baked goods onto a wooden cutting block. “I would say ‘me, too’ but you’d see right through that.”

      “You’re right.” She laughed. “I wouldn’t believe it for a second. I bet your kitchen is cleaner after you’ve finished cooking than mine is before I’ve started.”

      “I’m going to plead the Fifth on that one,” he said.

      “You know, getting messy isn’t always a bad thing,” she said as she dipped the knife into the center.

      Gooey melted chocolate clung to the blade. She swiped her fingertip along it, gathering up the excess batter before popping it into her mouth. Watching her lips wrap around her finger sent a bolt of lust through him.

      Damn, she could make even the simplest things look tempting as sin.

      “You had some questions for me?” she asked, her lip twitching with a cheeky smile.

      “I do. Did you end up meeting with Quinn or anyone else from Cobalt & Dane in the last few days?”

      She shook her head as she sliced up the brownies. “No, I believe they came in on Tuesday but I only worked half a day. I think Aimee and Lola spoke with them. And then I was supposed to be painting this afternoon but I couldn’t seem to focus, so I brought the canvas home with me. You know, change of scenery and all that.”

      “So you started baking?”

      “It’s my favorite method of procrastination.” Her delicate hands moved deftly and a few seconds later she pushed a plate toward him.

      “Are you still working on my portrait?” He forked a generous piece of the dessert into his mouth and moaned at the perfectly rich, sweet taste.

      It had been a hell of a long time since he’d eaten anything this decadent—his diet was designed for optimum nutrition, and that didn’t allow for a lot of sweet treats other than the occasional glass of wine.

      But Wren’s baking was as tempting as she was.

      “I am. But I’m feeling a little stuck with it,” she admitted. “Sean said if I don’t get him a complete painting soon he’s going to boot me out of the program.”

      “That’s harsh.”

      “I understand his point—there are plenty of people who would love to have my spot. But sometimes the creativity just won’t come.” She sighed. “Anyway, you didn’t come here to listen to my woes.”

      “I could sit for you,” he said. “So you can paint me.”

      “You want to be my model?”

      “If it would help. I mean, I can sit and ask the questions I need to ask and you can paint.” He cleared his throat. “You know, two birds, one stone and all that. It’ll be more efficient that way.”

      God, he sounded like an idiot. What was it about Wren that got him all tangled up? As if she wouldn’t see “more efficient” as a thinly veiled ploy for him to hang around longer.

      “That might just be what I need.” She abandoned her half-eaten brownie. “What’s your modeling experience?”

      “Zip.”

      She grabbed a chair and positioned it in front of her canvas. “Really? I’m surprised.”

      “Why?”

      “You’d make a good model, I think. My life-drawing class would have loved you.”

      “You’ve done life drawing?” He settled into the chair and tried to get comfortable.

      “Yeah. I had to drive to one of the bigger cities near my hometown to take the classes in secret.” The click-clack sound of her setting up her brushes filled the pause in their conversation. “That kind of thing is frowned upon where I come from, given the naked body is so sinful.” She rolled her eyes.

      “Personally, I’m a fan of the naked body.”

      Memories of their night together flickered in his mind, but he tamped them down. He was here to find out what was going on at the gallery and to make sure that Sean Ainslie was keeping his hands to himself.

       Yeah, right, keep telling yourself that.

      “So, about the gallery,” he started.

      “Hmm?” Her eyes looked past the canvas, darting over him as if she were analyzing him down to his bones. Breaking his face up into components and committing them to memory.

      “Has Sean Ainslie ever hit on you?”

      That question seemed to throw her off-kilter. “No, why?”

      “Quinn had a hunch that perhaps he was getting involved with his interns.”

      “Is that such a bad thing?” She frowned as she turned back to the canvas.

      “Not necessarily. But we think he may have assaulted one of his interns previously. Some information points to them being an item.”

      She stilled on the other side of the canvas. Part of her was hidden, but he could see her hand hovering in front of her. Motionless. “Which intern?”

      “A woman named Marguerite. Do you know her?”

      “No.” She adjusted her bandanna. “But he is seeing one of the current interns.”

      Hmm, so Quinn might have been on the money, after all. “Who?”

      “Aimee.” Her eyes remained