Chapter 1

Art is what captures the heart.

I eyed the slogan on the banner hanging over Casey's art gallery. The message was simple, yet powerful, and with it, the long sandy brick building with its neat black lettering and tasteful glass front would all too soon become the home of some spectacular art. I could still hardly believe whose work Casey would be displaying in only a few more weeks: French painter Emmanuelle Renaud.

Art may capture the heart, but that woman is a thought-bombing combination of charm and good looks.

I chuckled to myself and got out of the car, ignoring the twinge travelling in my lower back. Just this morning I'd been neck-deep in planting rhododendrons, and having to swing by the gallery to drop off old ornamental frames wasn't the best timing. Casey had wanted them for the exhibit when I found them in the office storage last week, overjoyed at such nice merchandise. I'd agreed to bring them over today, but I was very much looking forward to getting home and off my feet soon.

The glass front mirrored the day I'd had. The sight wasn't horrible—yet—but would probably make any self-respecting makeup artist jump out of their shop window, leaving behind one of those cartoony silhouette cut-outs. The bun of light brown hair at the back of my head currently only held an honorary title. There was a smudge of dirt on my left cheek that I managed to wipe away, but my jeans were a lost cause. Grass stains on the front and a tear over one knee. Even the fresh button-down I'd dug out of the back of my jeep was more than a little wrinkled.

I look like someone who's been chased through the woods.

Resigned, I walked to the back of my car. The sharp cry of a seagull sounded out, and a glance upwards revealed a purple sky dotted with a few white clouds. The winds were always stronger on the coast, and we were so close to Providence's harbour here that even a light breeze could make you shiver. The smell of saltwater that hung in the air was a continuing comfort, though.

I opened the boot of the jeep. Boxes full of ornamental frames were stacked neatly up to the roof. Many, many boxes. My grandfather Frank had helped me load them all up earlier, favouring one side to ease the burden on his aching hip. Stubborn old man. He said he wasn't ready for retirement yet, but that didn't mean he shouldn't delegate more.

I folded up the sleeves of my shirt, then glanced over to the gallery. The inside was dark. Where was she? Had Casey forgotten I was coming by after expending so much charm to get me to help out? That wasn't like her.

As if on cue, my phone started vibrating in the pocket of my jeans.

"I'm so sorry, Sam!" Casey's voice blurted into my ear as soon as I accepted the call. "I got held up, and now I'm stuck behind a sheep truck." An angry horn bleated in the background, then a cacophony of animals. "Goddammit!"

I leaned against the side of the car with my hip, feeling a glimmer of amusement at the sound of her swearing. "Just how far away are you?"

"Well … the spare keys are under the flowerpot?"

I weakly chuckled. "And here I thought you only wanted me for my brawn."

"I know," she groaned. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to let you do it all on your own. All these preparations are driving me nuts. I'm only running so late because I went out to shop for groceries and ended up getting a haircut instead."

Faintly, I could hear horns blaring in the background again, and I exhaled a breath. "I shall see this as my good deed for the week then. You owe me, though."

I could almost feel her grin through the phone. "You're the best! Be there soon!"

And she hung up. Typical Casey. The woman was a whirlwind on a normal day, but in recent weeks she was only building up speed. When I thought back to how the short, blonde girl had befriended me in high school, I couldn't help but grin. Way back then, her outgoing nature and direct manner often overwhelmed me. But when Abigail McIntosh drowned my sketchbook in the school pond, and Casey decided to accidentally dump a milkshake down her shirt, the rest, as they said, was history. A lot was riding on this for her. Emmanuelle Renaud wasn't your run-of-the-mill newcomer trying to garner recognition. She came from a very renowned artist family, and the exhibit was the last step to cement her imprint on contemporary art. This was Casey's big break. If she pulled this off, artists all over the state would ask her to display for them.

Time to suck it up, Hale.

I got the spare keys from the flowerpot and unlocked the gallery door. Typical Casey move, hiding them there. A big shot gallery owner, but no idea about security. At least the arrival of Ms Renaud's paintings would force her to be a bit more careful in the future. The thought that I'd be able to see them from up close in only a few more weeks made me giddy. I really admired the artist. I just had to make certain not to be my usual awkward self around her once the exhibit came around. It was better to stay anonymous in the bubbling crowd, just like always.

I grabbed the first of the cardboard boxes from the boot. The frames were heavier than Casey when I had to lug her up the stairs after she'd had too much wine. My best friend might be small, but she was always the star of the party.

When I finally got to the last box and backed onto the sidewalk, someone collided with me. The impact sent the frame in the box rocking forward, and one of its edges nicked my chin.

The shocked stranger squealed while stumbling back and dropping her paper coffee cup. A second later, milky brown liquid gushed over the pavement, its darkly dusted, creamy top drizzling down the gutter.

"Shoot," I said, swaying slightly under the weight of the box. "I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

The woman lifted her head. A tingle went from my fingertips all the way down to my toes as my jaw threatened to loosen and drop to the floor. I froze, too shocked to move.

"Yes, I'm fine. But really, I completely overlooked you there as well." Her voice was a warm tenor and the expression in her eyes equal amounts consternated and apologetic.

When I was still staring at her a solid five seconds later,I gave myself a mental smack. You didn't just openly gawk at people like they were an apparition. Not even famous French painters who appeared out of thin air. Damn it.

I manipulated my lips into forming words. "I'll buy you another coffee if you give me a moment to put this box away."

Jesus, Sam. She'll think you're hitting on her!

Ms Renaud quirked one corner of her mouth upwards, doing funny things to both reason and anatomy. Dark brown hair fell in waves down her back, framing a face that critics had referred to as shockingly symmetrical before. Her green eyes were framed by long eyelashes, and while her nose was maybe a bit too straight, it only gave her features an arresting strength. She was tall, even if I probably had another inch on her, and she made the loose-fitting jeans and T-shirt look elegant instead of rugged. Half American, half French, and entirely devastating, she was one of those people who captivated a room at the beginning of the night and owned it throughout.

"I think that's one of the more interesting come-ons I've ever heard," she remarked, bemused.

The glint in her eyes made my ears tingle.

Just for the love of … Get it together.

The box in my arms was getting really heavy, but I somehow managed a nervous chuckle and a shrug, hoping to convey that I meant no offense. Ms Renaud, however, seemed perfectly collected, and under the scrutiny of her steady gaze, I could feel myself starting to sweat.

"Give me a minute," I requested sheepishly and shuffled towards the door.

Why on earth did I have to stumble into the woman now? I had no idea she was going to show up before opening night. Casey certainly hadn't said a thing. And Emmanuelle Renaud, much like her even more famous grandmother, wasn't someone you just met on the sidewalk. The woman's work was amazing. Groundbreaking. Okay, maybe I was a big, embarrassing fan.

So much for staying anonymous in a bubbling crowd.

I left the box in the storage room and almost ran into the woman again on the way out the entrance.

"Careful there," she cautioned. She reached for my shoulders to steady me, her sudden proximity producing a distinct and unwelcome tugging in my mid-section. The artist took a step back before looking at me with a touch of curiosity. "I don't think we've had the pleasure?"

"No," I managed after regaining my balance and internally berated myself. It was time to get a grip. "I'm one of Casey's … uh, Ms Morgan's friends. Samantha Hale. I was just dropping off some frames Ms Morgan might want to use for the exhibit."

I stretched my hand out a bit awkwardly, but she surprised me by stepping forward and faintly brushing her lips over both cheeks. I tentatively smiled at her, feeling very much off-centre but determined not to show it. She really did act like a true Frenchwoman.

"I'm Emmanuelle Renaud." She eyeballed me. "But you look like you already knew that."

I nodded before vaguely gesturing towards the gallery. "I, ah … take it you wanted to speak to Ms Morgan? I'm afraid she got held up."

By a bunch of sheep, though I'm sure she'll neglect to mention that.

A small frown marred her forehead but smoothed out almost immediately. She consulted the watch on her slender wrist. "That's unfortunate. I'll just have a look around then and come back later."

As she ran a hand through her hair, I made a conscious effort to keep my eyes on hers and not let them follow her body movements. She seemed nice enough and probably had to suffer people gawping at her all the time. For some reason, I really didn't want to be one of those people.

"I'm very sorry about your coffee," I said with a smile of contrition.

"That's okay, the barista messed up my order anyways. A perfect caramel crunch mocha … and then a ridiculous amount of cinnamon." She shivered exaggeratedly and even though I realised she was only being polite, I had to laugh. The act made my chin pinch, and her expression changed. "You hurt yourself."

I rubbed over my face to find the place that hurt. "Just a scratch."

But Ms Renaud frowned and stretched out a hand as if to touch me, only to stop midway, as if she had caught herself being too sympathetic. "You should put a Band-Aid on that."

I nodded, strangely grateful she hadn't touched me. I didn't want this tugging in my belly, and I feared it would only return if she got close again.

The woman's phone beeped with a message, and she politely excused herself to read it. I still felt rooted in place, but a melodious laugh made my head swivel. The artist's face had lit up with genuine joy, making me envy the person who'd managed to elicit that response and hitting me with its raw sensuality.

"Could you let Ms Morgan know I was here?" she asked after she'd hung up. Her expression was again aloof, but there was just the barest hint of a twinkle in her green eyes. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

"And mine," I said, then watched her depart with a friendly wave.

After a while, I shook myself out of my reverie and looked at my watch. It was getting late, and I still had a lecture to prepare for tomorrow. I was still finding my footing with my art students. Better not drop the ball there. Besides, staring into space wouldn't make meeting the artist any less of a strange, toe-curling experience. I typed a quick message to Casey and made sure I locked the door again on my way out.

The alluring French painter was nowhere in sight. I couldn't stop myself from keeping an eye out for her anyway, though. Every time I drove around one of the old-style red-brick buildings that populated the downtown area, I kept hoping to spy another glimpse of those beautiful dark curls.