Immovable Objects

He thought of the impression she’d made when she’d first walked into the gallery. Every man in the vicinity had stopped and looked. Every move she made whispered the promise of sex and sensuality. That was a long way from purity.

“Humor me,” he urged quietly.

Right now, she would have been willing to do a great deal more than that. Very subtly, she let go of the breath she was holding. “My name is Elizabeth.”

They were too close. For his good, not hers. Straightening, Cole placed a little distance between them. “Elizabeth what?”

She paused for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to tell him, then finally said, “Caldwell.”

Was she lying? He couldn’t tell. She didn’t flinch under scrutiny. Something else to admire about her, he thought.

Elizabeth Caldwell. He didn’t know if it fit her or not. “Is that the name Lorenzo will tell me if I ask?”

Her look was complacent, confident. “If you ask, Lorenzo won’t tell you anything.”

“Why?” Intrigued far more than he was comfortable about, Cole pressed her for an answer. “Because there’s honor among thieves and they stick together?”

She thought of the artist, his browned fingers nimbly creating, his thick gray hair, worn long and caught back against his neck. He looked like a hidalgo of old and had the honor to match. But it wasn’t honor she was referring to at the moment.

“Lorenzo isn’t a thief and neither am I. He won’t tell you anything because he doesn’t know my last name. He didn’t want to know it.” The less information a confidant possessed, the less risk he ran of getting into trouble for someone else’s sins. “He calls me Gypsy.”