He didn’t think his graffiti would last a day, and he felt a rush of satisfaction when it was still there three days later. When a college student at the guesthouse said he’d go back to New York City if he had the money for a return ticket, Roman offered to buy the guy’s motorcycle for the price of one seat in economy class. The two storage compartments on the bike were more than enough for what little he’d brought with him.
Roman drove north to Florence. He stayed a month, then moved on to Venice. The summer heat made the air taste like sludge, and crowds of tourists jammed the city. Roman headed for the Swiss Alps.
In every city where he spent more than a day, Roman left a statement behind, a piece of graffiti to speak to the masses. He’d been traveling around Europe for three months when an idea fixed itself in his head, a challenge that would land him in a French jail—or gain notoriety for the Bird. He headed for Paris.
He spent three full days at the Louvre, haunting the halls, feasting on the art. He watched the guards, checked out the placement of security cameras, timed distances, memorized corridors, floors, and hallways. He bought slacks, a white shirt, a trench coat, and a fedora, then went back to buy a large book on Renaissance art and a canvas bag with the museum logo.
When Roman had his plan and everything he needed to pull it off, he did his first oil painting on an eight-by-ten-inch canvas—an owl on a pine branch, one eye open, the other closed, its beak a smug smile. He signed BRD in small bubble letters in the bottom right corner. He bought a gilded frame and museum wax.
On his last day in Paris, Roman went back to the Louvre. He looked like any one of a hundred other well-dressed visitors perusing the masterpieces in the hallowed halls of the world-famous museum. He wore the fedora pulled forward and down to obscure his face from security cameras. He paused here and there, pretending interest in a painting or plaque, while savoring the adrenaline rush.
Roman knew exactly where he was going and had the timing down to the minute. It took less than that to take his painting from the museum shop bag and press it on the wall space next to an oil of two hunting dogs. Skin prickling, he felt a guard looking his way. Roman shifted the museum shop bag as though the book inside had become heavy. The guard lost interest. Roman stayed for another minute, smirking. He took his time leaving the hall. The guard walked right by his painting without noticing it. Chuckling, Roman left, wondering how long it would take for the staff to realize something didn’t belong.
GRACE BARELY SPOKE with Roman over the next few days. He worked as though chained to his drafting table. She’d never seen anyone so obsessed. Did he enjoy the work that much, or did he simply want to put the project behind him so he could move on to the paintings still on the easels, the ones Talia was eager to add to the others Roman had finished for the show she wanted to schedule?
She wondered if he’d eaten anything in the last few days, until she’d seen the frozen dinner boxes and tinfoil trays stuffed in the garbage can under the counter. Grace reminded herself Roman’s private life was none of her business, and felt her conscience nagging her. Shouldn’t a personal assistant be concerned about the health of her boss? Grace headed down the hall and went upstairs to the studio. She stood in the doorway, but Roman looked immersed in his work. He also looked like he had a blinding headache. “Can I get you anything?”
Frowning, he rubbed his forehead. “More coffee.”
“You probably have a headache because you haven’t eaten all day. You can’t live on caffeine, Roman. I can make you a sandwich.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Well, that was easy. “Do you want it delivered or at the counter?” The man didn’t have a dining table, unless he counted the one on the patio. It was too cold, and the wind was up, so that wouldn’t do.
Roman tossed his ink pen into a tray. “I need a break.” Standing, he stretched, the T-shirt pulling taut over his muscled chest. “I’m beginning to see zebra stripes everywhere.”
Grace entered the kitchen and checked inside his refrigerator. “What would you like?”
“Whatever you find. Might be some roast beef in there.” Roman walked to the windows.
Grace put bread and an unopened package of deli roast beef on the counter. “This is the first time I’ve seen you enjoy your view.” She looked for other things to add to the sandwich. “It would make a beautiful painting.”
Hooking his thumbs into his pockets, Roman glanced back at her. “Not my thing.”
“Too bad. What do you like on your sandwich? Mustard? Mayo? Nothing?”
“Anything and everything available.”
She found lettuce, cheese slices, a tomato, a red onion, and bread-and-butter pickles. “Hector called. His work is almost finished. He went to the zoo. He loved it.” She slathered mayonnaise on a slice of bread. “Talia won’t bother you, but she wants to set a date for the show. And you got a call from the mayor of Golden. He’s interested in commissioning you to paint a mural for the town.”
“Never heard of the place.”
“I googled it. It’s a new community born out of a ghost town that was once a boomtown during the Gold Rush.”
“You can’t believe everything you read on the Internet.”
“I know.” Grace cut the thick sandwich in half and put it on a plate. “Someone named Jasper Hawley left a message.” She slid the plate across the counter. “I hope he’s a friend because he said he wants a bed to sleep in and a home-cooked meal.”
Roman laughed. “Yeah, well, he was my teacher at Masterson Mountain Ranch. It’s a group home in the Gold Country, probably not far from the newly invented old town of Golden.”
Group home? A dozen questions popped into Grace’s head.
Roman sat at the counter. “Not even curious enough to ask?”
She knew she needed boundaries with this man. “Your checkered past is none of my business.”
Roman took a big bite out of the sandwich. Raising his brows, he made a sound of male pleasure that brought a tingle she hadn’t felt in a long time.
Grace couldn’t help but be curious about Roman Velasco, but his surroundings were enough to tell her he valued his privacy. She poured him a tall glass of orange juice.
He looked amused. “Trying to take care of me?”
“I know which side my bread is buttered on.” He’d already finished the first half of his sandwich. Was it that good, or did it mean he was starving? He was taller than Patrick, and her ex-husband could put away two sandwiches, an apple, and a bag of chips without effort. Of course, he’d spent most of his time working out. “Shall I make you another sandwich?” He nodded, and she laid out two more slices of bread. “Okay. I’ll ask. Why did you end up in a group home?”
“It was that or jail.” He picked up the glass of orange juice and washed down the last bite of sandwich.
Jail? “What did you do?”
“Got mad. Tagged a few buildings.”
Grace didn’t know what he was talking about, and he didn’t elaborate.
Roman watched her make the second sandwich. “Hawley still keeps tabs on me. Calls me one of his lost boys. He’s making sure I walk the straight and narrow, I guess.” He finished the orange juice. “End of story.”
She took that to mean the end of the subject, and didn’t press. “How long have you been up here?”
“Here? As in Topanga Canyon? Just over a year. I lived on a beach before this.”
With his looks, she could easily imagine him on a surfboard in Hawaii. The big kahuna with a bevy of beach bunnies trailing after him. “I can see you in a beach shack.”
“One beach is like any other. I got tired of all the people around. I wanted space and quiet.”
“Well, you certainly have that.” She put the second sandwich on his plate. “It’s quiet up here.” She closed the packages of roast beef and cheese, wrapped the lettuce, and put everything back in the refrigerator. Dampening a cloth, she cleaned the counter. “Are there any close neighbors?”
“Other than you? No.”
She hadn’t really thought about the remoteness or that he was the only human being close by.
“Don’t get nervous, Ms. Moore. I don’t have any ulterior motives for offering you the cottage. It just seemed the best solution for both of us.”