“I’ve cleared my scheduled, so I can help.”
“No need. I’ll be fine. Last night just caught me off guard.”
“Ryley, your father…”
“I know my father better than anyone. I know what he’s capable of. I also know my own limitations. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”
If Logan believed her, he didn’t say. He didn’t argue, either. His only request was to go to the art gallery with her. It might have had something to do with him and the Crews family being at odds, but whatever the reason, she needed the time to deal with the other things in her life.
Jane and Oscar needed her signature for transferring the stuff in the will. One she’d gladly give now that she’d been on the receiving end of Felix’s underhandedness. No way would she ever let him get control, regardless of what happened next.
Ryley and Logan bantered easily as they ate. He’d ask her questions, and she’d either avoid the question and ask her own, or just change the subject. He was clever and quick to understand what boundaries not to cross.
After a shower she dressed, and then drove Logan to his house to get ready for the day.
His home consisted of a studio apartment attached to the office space. It was just big enough for a guy like him who didn’t like complications. He’d claimed his ex-wife had taken the house when he’d been fired from his job as a cop. The set of his jaw, the muscle ticking there indicated the topic was a sore subject so she let it drop.
She waited on the couch in the reception area of the office. The door to the studio apartment was left open. She’d already flipped through the magazines lying around for his clients, finding nothing of interest. They were several months old. The covers barely looked touched. Either business was down, or his clients weren’t the type to peruse magazines while they waited.
“Did you decorate yourself?” she called into the apartment.
“No, it came furnished. I rented it from a private investigator that was ready to retire.” He answered from just inside the doorway.
“This place could use a female touch. It’s not very inviting.”
He was pulling a shirt down over his wet hair when he walked out into the receptionist area. “My clients aren’t piling up, and when they do come into the office, they don’t stay long. Hiring a PI is almost like a source of embarrassment for them.”
“Huh.” She dropped the magazine back onto the table. “I would have thought that knowledge is power.”
“Whatever their reason, it pays the bills. It’s in a person’s nature not to trust.”
“And you make your living off of people’s insecurities.
“On occasion,” he admitted, grabbing his keys and his gun from the table. “Sometimes, I get to meet beautiful women like you who don’t trust anyone at all.”
She raised her brow. “You obviously need a refresher course on reading your clients. I don’t have trust issues. I trust my brother. I stay alive that way.”
“You trusted me last night,” he claimed.
“I slept with a switchblade within reach.” She smiled at him and headed for the door.
He moved behind her and rested his hand on the door, blocking her from opening it. The hard muscle of his body was pressed against hers. His warm breath tickled her cheek, making her heart quicken. “What else do you keep in your nightstand?”
“A gun.” She answered and turned her head. His lips were only an inch away. “The only reason I let you upstairs was because I was out of bullets.”
He chuckled and pulled the door open. “We need to rectify that today.”
“I have every intention of getting another box of ammo, and one bullet engraved with my father’s name.”
Chapter 35
The art studio parking lot only had a handful of cars. The sleek lines of the concrete building made the exterior look elegant. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows covered one side of the two-story building, showing the paintings and other displays before patrons ever stepped foot in the door.
“I bet this building is state-of-the-art, including the security system. Those windows look thick and shatterproof.” Logan said craning his neck toward the exit.
“You sound like you’re casing the place,” Ryley said as she climbed out and locked her door.
“It’s my training. I always look for the fastest exit.”
“Yeah, I wish that was all I looked for,” Ryley said.
He glanced at her and raised his brow.
“Ghosts. I attract them like metal to a magnet. The second I acknowledge them trouble starts.”
“Maybe Kitty Lynch is lurking around to see if her paintings earn more money now that she’s dead. Isn’t that the case with most artists?”
“I wouldn’t know. The type of art I grew up around was the drawings my mother would put on the fridge,” Ryley said, pulling the door open and walking inside.
The cool air caressed her face as she stepped inside. The white tile and white walls made Ryley feel like her life wasn’t clean enough to afford anything in the place.
Rich textured frames filled with bright colored paintings were meticulously placed along the walls, a small placard beneath each masterpiece. To Ryley, it just looked like paint slapped on a canvas. She’d compare her knowledge of art to that of a beer drinker trying to tell which was the better wine at a tasting. She didn’t have those genes.
She moved closer to one painting. The crazy price tag had her slipping her hands into her pockets. You break it, you bought it ran through her mind. She’d have to sell her soul to buy one of these.
“The quality of work and price coincide. At least these do.” Logan said, coming to stand next to her. “This one is pretty.”
She nodded. The white and black lines crossed with shadows of grey. It was imperfect, like coloring outside the lines. It reminded her of herself. “It’s perfect.”
“You like art?” Logan asked.
She shook her head. “No, not art, but this…this is talking to me.”
“I see hope in it.”
“That’s one
