Page 18 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

Focus, Clementine.

She stepped farther into the space and her attention snagged on an enlarged photograph, life-sized, spanning his living-room wall. Elvis with his arm around a man. “Who is that?”

“Elvis.”

She shot him a scowl, but his teasing smirk mollified her.

“It’s my granddad,” he said. “He was a roadie for the great man.”

Reverence touched his voice, for Elvis or his grandfather, she couldn’t be sure. “Is that how the festival started here?”

He nodded. “Twenty-four years ago.” Again, he didn’t elaborate, but he moved closer to her, stood at her side as they appreciated his family photograph.

Jack had his grandfather’s sharp cheekbones, proud chin and nose. Both men were elegant and handsome. “You look like him.”

“Not as much as others. But I—” An impatient sound arrested his words. “You mean my granddad.”

“Who did you mean?” She forced the question out. She was used to playing roles, pretending to be a wholesome teacher, a sales clerk, a waitress. Always virtuous. That was her gift, Lucien claimed. Her freckled nose and blondish-red hair, open smile, and soft voice painted her as innocent. A person marks would easily trust and wouldn’t suspect. With Jack, playing the role felt like she’d bathed with sandpaper.

“Elvis,” he said quietly. “I don’t look as much like him as…” He worked his jaw and rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes flicked to hers. “I’m part of the festival.”

“An impersonator?”

“No, no…” More neck rubbing.

“Then what?” God, he was hesitant. Worried what she’d think? Which made it even worse. She could put him at ease, admit she knew he performed for crowds and found it surprisingly appealing. She wanted to see him under those hot lights, lip curled, voice crooning, tight pants accentuating his thick thighs. She curled her toes instead.

“Impersonators,” he said, attention on the framed photo, “pretend to be a singer or celebrity. They want to embody that person. I’m a tribute artist. I celebrate Elvis and the life he injected into the world. I don’t pretend to be him.”

Right. She’d read about the difference. Jack’s vehemence drove the distinction home. “So you’ll perform on stage, at the festival?”

“Yes.” He didn’t look at her. Color rose to his cheeks.

“Do you love it?”

“Yes.”

“Does this mean you’ll pose for me?”

He faced her fully, one eyebrow cocked. Now she wished she were the shy one, her double entendre not far from the fantasies she’d conjured.

She cleared her throat. “I mean, for my father’s photo.”

He flicked open his dress shirt’s top button, cool and casual, like the move didn’t pebble her skin. “I will.” He strutted past her, less hesitant in his stride. “You can visit my reptile shelter. It’ll take me a bit to get changed.” He motioned down a narrow hall, where another glass wall loomed.

After pointing out the bathroom and telling Clementine to make herself at home, he disappeared to his bedroom, through a door off the long hallway. Since the Van Gogh was owned by his father, there wasn’t much sleuthing to do in his personal home. This not-a-date would help her gain his trust and earn an invite to his family’s estate. She should pour herself a glass of wine from the bottle on his counter, strike a sexy pose of her own before he reemerged, but she was drawn to his shelter.

She tiptoed toward the glass like she might disturb a slumbering giant. The closer she got, the faster her pulse raced. If Jack had spared no expense designing his home, he’d spent a king’s ransom building his reptile sanctuary. It was twice the size of her apartment, mist hovering mid-air, with rocks and logs filling the space, select trees spreading their limbs. A green button was printed with the word Open. She pressed it and held her breath.

Soft sounds shushed and whirred. Humidity reached for her, pulling her deeper inside. Although the room looked undivided from outside, glass separations were visible now, as was the precious cargo Jack housed. Iguanas. Savannah monitors. Chameleons. Small green anoles.

One bearded dragon named Ricky Ricardo.

The small hairs at her neck frizzed, and her lungs swelled with the briny, swampy smells. She crouched in front of each enclosure, marveled at how some reptiles had two living spaces, probably with different temperatures for them to thrive. She noticed other things as well: one chameleon was missing a foot, the monitor’s tail had been amputated.

Sanctuary, Jack had said. He didn’t breed reptiles or buy them for pets.

He saved them.