Treasures

The woman in the portrait had a face created to steal a man's breath and haunt his dreams. It was, perhaps, as close to perfection as nature would allow. Eyes of laser blue whispered of sex and smiled knowingly from beneath thick black lashes. The brows were perfectly arched, with a flirty little mole dotting the downward point of the left one. The skin was porcelain-pure, with a hint of warm rose beneath; just warm enough that a man could fantasize that heat was kindling only for him. The nose was straight and finely sculpted.The mouth - and, oh, the mouth was hard to ignore; was curved invitingly, appeared pillow-soft, yet strong in shape. A bold red temptation that beckoned as clearly as a siren's call. Framing that staggering face was a rich, wild tumble of ebony hair that streamed over creamy bare shoulders. Glossy, gorgeous, generous. The kind of hair even a strong man would lose himself in, fisting his hands in all that black silk, while his mouth sank deep, and deeper, into those soft, smiling lips. Grace Fontaine, Seth thought, a study in the perfection of feminine beauty. It was too damn bad she was dead. He turned away from the portrait, annoyed that his gaze and his mind kept drifting back to it. He'd wanted some time alone at the crime scene, after the forensic team finished, after the M.E. took possession of the body. The outline remained, an ugly human-shaped silhouette marring the glossy chestnut floor. It was simple enough to determine how she'd died. A nasty tumble from the floor above, right through the circling railing, now splintered and sharp-edged, and down, beautiful face first, into the lake-size glass table. She'd lost her beauty in death, he thought, and that was a damn shame, too. It was also simple to determine that she'd been given some help with that last dive. It was, he mused, looking around, a terrific house. The high ceilings offered space and half a dozen generous skylights gave light, rosy, hopeful beams from the dying sun. Everything curved; the stairs, the doorways, the windows. Female again, he supposed. The wood was glossy, the glass sparkling, the furniture all obviously carefully selected antiques. Someone was going to have a tough time getting the bloodstains out of the dove-gray upholstery of the sofa. He tried to imagine how it had all looked before whoever helped Grace Fontaine off the balcony stormed through the rooms. There wouldn't have been broken statuary or ripped cushions. Flowers would have been meticulously arranged in vases, rather than crushed into the intricate pattern of the Oriental rugs. There certainly wouldn't have been blood, broken glass, or layers of fingerprint dust. She'd lived well, he thought. But then, she had been able to afford to live well. She'd become an heiress when she turned twenty-one, the privileged, pampered orphan and the wild child of the Fontaine empire. An excellent education, a country-club darling, and the headache, he imagined, of the conservative and staunch Fontaines, of Fontaine Department Stores fame. Rarely had a week gone by that Grace Fontaine didn't warrant a mention in the society pages of the Washington Post, or a paparazzi shot in one of the glossies. And it usually hadn't been due to a good deed. The press would be screaming with this latest, and last, adventure in the life and times of Grace Fontaine, Seth knew, the moment the news leaked. And they would be certain to mention all of her escapades. Posing nude at nineteen for a centerfold spread, the steamy and very public affair with a very married English lord, the dalliance with a hot heartthrob from Hollywood. There'd been other notches in her designer belt, Seth remembered. A United States senator, a bestselling author, the artist who had painted her portrait, the rock star who, rumor had it, had attempted to take his own life when she dumped him. She'd packed a lot of men into a short life.GRoberts, Nora is the author of 'Treasures', published 2008 under ISBN 9780373285655 and ISBN 0373285655.