When Morning Comes by Francis Ray Page B

lit.”
    Stepping around her, he placed his hand on the ladder. “Are you coming?”
    She unwrapped her hands around her waist, then stepped forward. Her hand clamped around the ladder. “If you like the pictures, then what?”
    â€œI have a connection with an interior designer who is always looking for one-of-a-kind pictures to place in upscale homes. The ultra rich don’t want to walk into a home and see the same paintings. Even if they have a Picasso or a Monet, it’s different of course.”
    â€œThe price you offered, was that just to get my attention?”
    Fair question and he could see in her eyes how much the answer meant even if her hands hadn’t been clenched on the ladder. “No. You might be surprised at the obscene amount of money some people pay for what passes as art. If it doesn’t touch me, it doesn’t go into my home, and I don’t talk about it in my articles.”
    â€œFor Luxury magazine.”
    His eyebrow lifted. “How did you know I wrote for Luxury ?”
    She blushed, briefly lowered her gaze. “My friend and I Googled you after I, er, lost your card.”
    He smiled. She’d probably tossed it. “I’m glad you went to the effort. I’m anxious to see your other work.”
    Nodding, she began climbing up the stairs. “I finished a landscape a little over a month ago. At last count, there were thirty-three paintings.”
    Tristan tried to focus on the conversation instead of the enticing butt in front of him. “That should give me a good—”
    â€œNo! It can’t be,” she said as her head peered over the edge of the opening, then she was scrambling up the ladder.
    His heart slammed in his chest. He almost reached for her leg before he thought, “Wait for me!” He quickly joined her. Animals and snakes often got into attics. Standing beside her, he searched for the danger in the clutter and found none.
    â€œThey’re gone,” she whispered, walking past a stack of plastic totes, cardboard boxes, dining-room chairs, floor lamps. “They’re all gone.”
    Immediately he understood. The paintings.

 
    Six
    Tristan heard the heartbreak, the disbelief in Kara’s unsteady voice and bit back a curse. Gently, he touched her arm. She turned to him. Tears glistened in her eyes. His gut clenched at the sight.
    â€œWhy would she do that?”
    He didn’t know who she was talking about, but at the moment it didn’t matter. “Could they be someplace else?”
    â€œNo. They’re gone.”
    Misery stared back at him. He’d never felt so helpless. “Let’s go back down.” For a moment she just stood there. “Kara.”
    Brushing the heels of her hands over her eyes, she went to the ladder and climbed back down. He didn’t breathe easy until she was safely standing in the hall. “Why don’t we go to the kitchen and get you a glass of water.” She didn’t resist his urging her down the hall and into the kitchen or setting her in a chair.
    After getting her a glass of water, he pressed it to her lips. “Drink.” She did, all the while her eyes tightly shut.
    â€œKara.”
    Her lashes fluttered, then she opened her eyes. “I’m sorry you made the trip for nothing.”
    â€œIf you painted one picture, you can paint another one,” he told her.
    â€œYou don’t understand,” she murmured.
    â€œThen help me.” He placed the glass on the table and took her cold hands in his. “You said you paint large canvases. Is it that you don’t paint wet on wet and it takes longer to finish a piece since you work?”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter anymore.”
    He didn’t know who “she” was, but he didn’t like her if she was the cause of Kara’s distress. “Are you working on anything now that I could see?”
    â€œIt isn’t finished.”
    â€œIt