Page 1 of Disarming Caine

Chapter 1

Samantha

Agustoffrigidair bit at my cheeks and ears, sending me deeper into my thick jacket. The Midwest was damn cold in December. That or six winters in Texas and southern California had made me soft.

Probably both.

I heaved open the heavy glass door of Mason’s Gallery and hauled it shut behind me, grateful to be out of the wind.

The door chime sounded my arrival, and a sharp female voice responded from the back room, “Is that you, Samantha?”

“It is.”

The floors and walls were all painted white, providing a perfect canvas for the vibrant paintings and the sculptures on their simple stands. The artwork in the front room differed from the last time I’d visited. Still all abstract pieces with vivid colors and whimsical imagery, but only one I recognized.

Number Vee—a color field work of three stripes, light, medium, and dark blue—stood out from all the others, but more for the memories it evoked than its artistry. It had been my first art claim since contracting as a claims adjuster with Foster Mutual Insurance, I’d gone on the worst date of my life with its clueless artist, Cam-ron Parker, and it was the first repair Dr. Antonio Ferraro worked on for me.

The heels of my tall boots clicked as I strode across the gallery’s main room, gravitating towardNumber Vee. In the intense sunlight streaming through the floor to ceiling windows, I inspected the painting from the front and either side. Antonio’s repair was as invisible under this light as it had been at the Ferraro’s studio four months ago.

My boyfriend was so talented. So brilliant. So stunningly handsome.

And so, so far away.

“I’m in the office,” came the voice. “Were you planning on joining me or were you just going to stare at paintings all day?”

I bit back a chuckle and cast a glance at the security camera embedded in the ceiling Rhonda was likely watching me from. Rhonda Wells, the gallery’s owner, was a no-nonsense middle-aged woman who had a past beyond the borders of small-town Brenton, Michigan. I didn’t know what it was, but there was a story there.

All she’d say when she called was that she had somethingup my alley.Her tone had me rushing over with a couple of hours to spare before my first Saturday site visit.

I’d met her in August when I was investigating an insurance claim for a burned painting which was purportedly by Marc Chagall. In the end, I—with both some help and hindrance from Antonio—determined it was a fake and that the fire was an arson covering up a murder. We’d also visited her to discuss a stolen painting he and I discovered at a charity gala that month.

Hopefully, that was the alley she was talking about.

“Be right there.” I gave one last glance atNumber Vee, searching for a sign of where Antonio had patched up the tear. Even knowing where it was, I couldn’t see it.

As if on cue, my phone buzzed in the distinctive notification pattern I set for his texts. I slipped it out of my pocket to see what he had to say.

Are you free?

Warmth pooled in my belly from the near-contact with him. He’d been in Naples for the last three months, leading a small conservation team on a project at the Pompeii Archaeological Park.

Not breaking my stride, I texted,Sorry, working.

Before the phone was back in my pocket, it buzzed again.I need to talk to you.

I’m working. I’ll call when I’m done.So my words didn’t seem too harsh, I sent a kissing face emoji, which was greeted by the same. I stuffed the phone into my pocket. We’d spent an hour on a video chat first thing that morning. What was so urgent?

Rounding a corner into the second room of the small local art gallery, I trailed my eyes over the realist paintings. These were more my style, even the one I also knew was Cam-ron’s.

Rhonda’s office door at the back was painted white to match the walls. When it was closed, patrons would barely notice, but it was wide open and tugging at my curiosity.

She sat in front of a computer at a small desk in the cramped space. A slight woman who spiked her short white hair and always dressed in head-to-toe black, the only color I ever saw on her was the pop of red from her glasses. She gestured to the coatrack by the door, then the chair across from her. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Your call certainly piqued my interest.” I hung up my things and we shook hands before I sat. “What can I do for you?”

Her gaze returned to her computer monitor. “My daughter’s in the market for a new house.”

Not the start I was expecting. Maybe she was looking for my opinion as an insurance adjuster?

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