Page 5 of Burning Caine

Janelle was talking to the officers set up under the tent, still holding the painting. Fortunately, none of them were him, so I could avoid her. I yanked the coverings off my boots and started down the curved driveway, reviewing the plan in my head.

A good art restorer might be able to clean away enough of the debris to run some tests. Less than a quarter of the canvas remained, but the signature and a section through the middle flowers survived. The frame was intact and a chemical analysis could be done on the paints underneath the rabbet, if nothing else.

Oak Street gradually came into view through the mature trees and thick bushes of the Scotts’ yard. Firefighters packed up their truck, a K-9 and handler headed to a vehicle, and a medical examiner’s van was pulling out.

A line of police tape stretched across the bottom of the driveway. Jimmy stood on the other side, speaking with a man in a short-sleeved shirt whose back was to me. As I approached, Jimmy pointed toward the house and the other man turned to follow his finger.

I scuffed my boot on the pavement, almost tripping over nothing. He was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. Heat flushed through my cheeks, inspiring an overwhelming desire to pull my goggles and respirator back into place to hide the blush I knew was there.

Tall and broad, deep olive complexion, and thick dark brown-almost black hair with a slight wave and obvious widow’s peak. Just long enough on top to run your fingers through. His eyes drifted down from the house and met with mine, a tight smile creasing his face.

He looked expensive. From the polish of his cognac leather shoes to the perfectly tailored gray slacks, all the way to his navy polo which moved like it was made of silk. Lawyer, maybe? Already looking for a payout? Good. Give me handsome at work any day of the week—a gallery executive who thought insurance wasn’t important, a contractor trying to pull a fast one, a slippery lawyer—and I could control the situation.

Just don’t give me handsome anywhere else. I ran a hand over my cheek to calm the blush, but it scratched. Right. My filthy gloves were still on. Now my face was fully streaked with soot. Great first impression.

Jimmy let out a laugh, interrupting his conversation with the man. “You’re gonna need a bath after that!”

“Yeah, no kidding.” I blew out sharply and addressed the stranger as I paused next to them. “Sorry, I’ll just be a sec.”

He nodded, smiling politely.

The trees above us swayed in a slight breeze, the sun breaking through the leaves enough to glint over his chiseled face, flecks of gold sparkling in his brown eyes.

Good heavens. Quick check—no ring.

Stop it, Sam.

I folded my arms. “Janelle told me to check in with you before I left. She took my stuff into custody, so I’ll drop by the station when she’s done.”

“You’re in luck!” Jimmy flicked his cap an inch higher and rocked back on his heels. “I’m in charge of the investigation, so I’ll make sure they put a rush on it for you.”

“Thanks.” I smiled at both of them.

“Sì, I should be going, as well.” The stranger’s voice was deep, reverberating inside my chest. But it was the thick Italian accent which sent shivers up my spine, memories washing over me. Cafés for breakfast, winding cobblestone streets, day trips to Rome and Florence. The view from the duomo.

“Roman?” The word was out of my mouth before I thought enough to stop myself.

A smirk tugged at his perfectly bowed lips. “American, but raised in Roma. You have a very good ear, officer.”

“I’m not—”

“Slater!” We all turned to see Janelle stalking in our direction. She hooked a thumb over her shoulder to where a uniformed man stood. “Fire marshal wants to talk to you.”

Things hadn’t gone well between her and me. Time to skulk off and lick my wounds. I nodded to the men and slipped between them, toward my truck down the road.

The smell of smoke and burned electrical was still heavy in the air, but I caught a hint of something underneath it. Vanilla and amber, coming off the stranger. I held my breath, savoring the lingering scent.

Once that breath was done, the smoke from my suit and face overwhelmed me again. The clomp of my thick-soled work boots on the pavement. The indistinct chatter of a dozen voices working the scene.

But over it all, I heard the stranger’s final words to Jimmy. “Grazie mille, Officer Slater.”

A jumble of energy formed in my stomach, and I fought the urge to turn around. Maybe I should have introduced myself. With that silly idea, came more flashes of memory. Scooters and summer dresses and ancient frescoes. Italian pastries and big meals with lots of laughs. Throwing coins into the Trevi Fountain.

And a man who professed his eternal love, then stopped calling. Who swore he’d move to the States to be with me.

Heartache.

Yeah.

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