The Setup by Marie Ferrarella Page A

“Take those three paintings over there…” She pointed toward them.
    Having her pressed against him like this made it difficult for Jefferson to keep his mind on the conversation and not the soft curves that were making an impression on his body, in more ways than one. He did his best to focus. “Yes?”
    Sylvie looked at him for a reaction. She had deliberately hung a Jackson Pollock painting in between the two very subdued pastoral scenes she had contributed from the gallery. Since Jefferson appeared almost impassive, she prodded. “How do they make you feel?”
    He was by no means a critic. He knew what he liked and what he didn’t like, without being able to attach a name to the period, style or, except for the most famous, artist.
    “Feel?” he echoed.
    Sylvie was nothing if not patient. She felt a little like a shepherd, guiding a sheep to a field of clover. “Yes, seeing them grouped like that. How does that make you feel?”
    Jefferson was quite sure this was not what she was after, but he gave her the only answer that came to him. “As if there’s too much art in one small space.”
    Sylvie looked at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. He could only guess what was going through her mind. That she’d made a mistake agreeing to come with him and that she was going to bale at the first opportunity.
    And then, to his surprise, she laid her forehead against his shoulder and laughed.
    “Honest. Good.” When she raised her head again, she looked up at him. “But it doesn’t evoke anything else? In here.” Lightly, she tapped her fingers against his chest. “You don’t feel something?”
    Yes, he was feeling something, but it wasn’t because of the paintings. It was the effect of her close proximity. Because she was sharing the same air as he was, perhaps even the same breath. And because she was stunning, both to look at and to be with.
    “Yes,” he told her quietly, so quietly that she had to lean in even closer to hear him. He could smellher shampoo, something light and herbal. It didn’t surprise him. “I feel something.”
    Her eyes meeting his, Sylvie caught her breath. For a moment, just a single moment, time felt as if it were standing still. A very unusual occurrence for her. For most of her adult life, she’d been accustomed to feeling that time was zipping by on a motorized skateboard.
    Something was happening here. What, she wasn’t sure, but it was a nice something. That was good enough for her.
    Sylvie’s smile began in her luminous eyes, reaching her lips less than half a heartbeat later. Taking him prisoner without firing a shot, he thought.
    “Maybe I do, too,” she replied.
    The moment was gone when a man came up behind them, laced his arm around Sylvie’s waist and nuzzled her neck before declaring, “Knew I’d find you here, Sylvie. Can’t have an event like this without Sylvie Marchand.”
    Something oddly primitive raised its head within Jefferson’s chest. He felt strange and uncomfortable, both with himself and the situation. He disliked the man instantly, even though he was not given to snap judgments or hasty reactions. A desire arose—to place himself between Sylvie and this guy, whoever the hell he was.
    He felt, Jefferson realized with a start, territorial. He looked down to see if his arms had suddenly lengthened, causing his knuckles to scrape along the ground.
    The sound of Sylvie’s voice had him looking up again.
    “Bryce,” she was saying, “this is Jefferson Lambert. He’s a high-profile criminal lawyer back in Boston,” she announced cheerfully.
    Because he had a poker face, Jefferson managed to keep the fact that Sylvie’s introduction had completely floored him a secret. High-profile criminal lawyer? Where had she gotten that idea?
    He was just about to correct the description when he felt a hard poke in the ribs. Glancing to his left, he saw the look in Blake’s eyes. His friend had elbowed him with the clear intent of silencing