No Unturned Stone (The True Lies of Rembrandt Stone 2)

“Dead,” Danny says. He is pulling out his radio.

I’m trying to get a good look at the man’s face. He took a hard fall, and it’s deformed and bloody. “And who is this?”

Danny toggles his radio, then pauses and stops. Looks at me, his mouth pinched. “That is Faheem

Abdilhali. Hassan’s first lieutenant and youngest brother.”

Oh, man.

And as Danny walks away, I sink to the pavement and put my head in my hands.

14

The paint color was perfect. A creamy yellow-beige that lightened up the entire room, contrasted with the dark wood baseboards and the freshly sanded original flooring.

It was like Rembrandt Stone had crawled inside Eve’s head, taken a look around and knew her tastes exactly.

She puffed out a breath. No, not weird at all.

But it did make her feel like he knew her, understood her. That she wasn’t making a gigantic mistake inviting him into her life.

Oh, she hoped.

She dropped the roller into the tray and took a step back, the odor of paint slipping out into the dark, fragrant night as she reached for her sweaty beer bottle.

From the radio on the floor, Celine Dion crooned out her Titanic hit, My Heart Will Go On. Eve had changed into cutoff shorts and a sleeveless shirt, and pulled her hair back. Now she ran her arm across her forehead, the heat of the evening gathering on her skin. She was hungry again, pizza on her mind—

A knock at the door nearly made her drop the bottle. Who would be here now? She set the bottle on her dining room table and headed through the family room to the door.

Flicked on her porch light.

Really? Her stupid heart gave a rebellious little kick at the sight of Rembrandt standing on her porch, half turned away from the door, his hand cupped behind his neck, as if kneading a tight muscle.

She opened the door, and when he turned, she drew in a breath.

Blood stained his white shirt, open at the collar and he looked wrecked, a scrape on his forearm, one on his chin, and fatigue, or stress lines around his eyes.

“What happened!”

Rembrandt just sucked in a breath through his teeth.

“Are you okay?”

His jaw tightened, and he swallowed, then nodded.

Relief gusted out of her. Then, wait—“Is Burke okay?”

He nodded to that, too, frowning a little. “Yeah. He wasn’t...he wasn’t with me.”

She held the door open and he glanced inside, back to her, as if not sure. “Come in, Rembrandt. You can’t sit out here on the porch. The neighbors will start talking.”

He stepped inside. Glanced at the dining room.

“Painting.”

“Good color choice.”

“I knew you’d like it.”