She leaned against the doorjamb. “Detective Hunter Morgan. Oh, the neighborhood loves to gossip over its heroic detective.” She swiveled and headed back up the stairs. “If you’re coming in, close the door.” She disappeared.
Hunt yanked his gaze off her shapely legs and scowled. He closed the door. The place had the same layout as his. The lower floor had a small entry, and the garage off to one side, and a bedroom and bath on the other. Being a detective, he snooped.
The garage was empty, with just a few boxes stacked against the wall. That jived since he hadn’t found a car registered in her name. The bedroom was being used for storage. He frowned. It was filled with rolls of what looked like canvas leaning against the wall and lots of boxes.
What the hell?
He stomped up the stairs and the music got louder. The scent of paint hit him. Was she decorating?
He reached the living area and froze.
Savannah stood at a large easel that held a huge canvas. It was partly filled with paint, and she was busy stroking a brush over it. For some reason, the way she held the brush made him think of a female warrior with a sword in hand, about to head into battle.
“Come here,” she said, not even looking at him.
Music throbbed from a small speaker. Joan Jett’s gritty voice was front and center.
Savannah snatched up a piece of netting off a side table that was covered with an array of unusual items. She pressed it to the canvas.
“Hold that.” She grabbed his hand and pressed it to the netting.
Then she started splattering paint again… All over his hand.
Scowling, Hunt watched her face. She was completely absorbed by her work. Then she stepped back, nodded, and smiled.
Hunt’s gut knotted. That smile lit up her entire face.
She lifted her gaze and saw him watching her. Her smile vanished. She had a long, narrow face, and high cheekbones.
She set the brush down, grabbed a rag, and wiped her hands. “You did well, Detective.” She handed a rag to him, as well.
The music was still thumping, echoing in his ears. He wiped his hands and turned the speaker off. “We haven’t been officially introduced.”
Her lips quirked. “No, we haven’t. But we both know that you already know my name.”
“Savannah Cole.”
“And now we’ve met.” She headed to her kitchen. It was neat as a pin, and made him think that she didn’t cook. She filled a glass with water. As she drank it, he watched the slim line of her throat.
“You’re an artist.”
Smiling, she set the glass down. “With those keen powers of observation, you must be a very good detective.”
Ms. Cole clearly had no problem with sarcasm.
“You sell these?” He glanced around, there were several other finished paintings leaning against the walls. Then he looked back at her. He caught a quick look of grief before she hid it. Hmm. His instincts flared to life.
“This is a hobby,” she said. “Graphic design is my bread-and-butter.”
He studied the wild, passionate painting she was working on. It was of the Bay, the waters looking moody. Or at least, he thought it was. There was a surreal quality to it, like he was looking at it in a dream.
This definitely looked like more than a hobby to him, but what did he know about art?
“You play your music so loud that my walls shake,” he said.
She ran her tongue over her teeth. “Sorry. I lose myself when I’m working.”
“There are kids in the neighboring homes—”
“I’ll keep it down.” A strand of hair had escaped the bun, caressing her neck. It looked like spun gold, and he had the oddest urge to touch it.
He eyed her. His gut said that what he saw here was only the tip of the iceberg. He wanted to know more.
“So, where you from?” he asked.
She moved to the sink to wash up the glass, not looking at him. “All around. My family moved around a lot.”
That was a well-practiced non-answer. “Where were you born?”
Her head flicked up. “Interrogating me, Detective Morgan?”
Prickly thing. “No. Just being neighborly.”
“Right.” She moved to the stairs. “I’ll see you out.”
Ah, he’d been given his marching orders. He followed her down.
“I will try to keep the music down.” She opened her front door. “I don’t want to get arrested for disturbing the peace.” Her voice was dry.
But as Hunt watched, she scanned the quiet street outside. Her face was alert, watchful.
He straightened. What had Savannah Cole looking so carefully over her shoulder?
Every instinct he had stood up and shouted at him.
“Savannah—”
“It was nice to meet you.” She practically shoved him out the door. “Good night, Detective.”
She slammed the door shut between them.
Hunt crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the wood. Something was definitely off about his new neighbor.
He was a cop. It was his duty to find out exactly what it was.
And it had nothing to do with the long, appealing length of her bare legs.
Savannah Cole sagged against the door, closed her eyes, and blew out a breath.
Her new neighbor was hot with a very large H.
As an artist, she appreciated men of all shapes and sizes. She saw the beauty in slim, androgynous, pretty faces, as well as big, fit, streamlined athletes.
But apparently her body had decided tough, slightly scowly, with a rock-solid, muscular body was exactly what lit her fire.
Shaking her head, she started up the stairs. Detective Hunter Morgan was not for her.
She could practically see that steel-trap mind of his working overtime. He was a man who’d demand answers, who’d work to uncover every secret.
And Savannah had a truckload of secrets, and no answers to give.
Back in her living room, she stared at the painting she was working on. She was mixing in textures. It was mostly blues, inspired by the shifting waters of the Bay. Sadness cut through her like a blade.
And no one would ever see it.
She had to keep her passion hidden, had to deny her attraction to men like Hunter Morgan.
She didn’t get to live a normal life. There was too much at stake.
Dragging in a breath, she waited for the pain to pass. She’d already stayed in San Francisco too long, but she loved the city.
She loved riding her bicycle through the shipyard area. Loved visiting galleries and museums. Loved the artsy vibe of the Mission District.
She’d been here six months. At first, she’d rented a small apartment in the Castro. Then the chance to house-sit this townhouse for a couple currently overseas had turned up. It had been perfect for her.
Savannah knew she should uproot and leave. She should dump the stuff she didn’t need, buy a shitty, second-hand car and go. Maybe she’d head south, to Arizona or New Mexico.
Looking at her canvas, her heart clenched. Once again, she’d have to get rid of all her paintings and sculptures. Once, her art had been celebrated, admired by hundreds.
Now, she had to hide it.
She liked graphic design and doing digital art, but it didn’t feed her soul like using a brush, palette knife, or clay did. But doing graphic design meant it was easy to keep her style generic, and she had several online accounts set up across the world. It made it easier to shuffle her money around and avoid detection.