Free Kit And Kisses by Karen Rose Smith Page A

Sorry if you got bumped around."
    That's why she hadn't learned her lesson. A few words of kindness, and hope sprung eternal. She considered herself an independent woman so why did she want to think Grey was beginning to care for her?
    Trying to think of today as more business than pleasure, stirring up her resistance against the sound of Grey's voice, the magnetic draw of her body toward his, she quipped, "I take bumps fairly well. I'm just thankful I wore sneakers instead of high heels."
    There was no definite path from the rutted lane to the cabin like structure nestled in the woods. She wondered if it had running water and electricity.
    Grey was beside her in a few moments, his hand cupping her elbow. "Does this guy live in this century?"
    "I don't know. I've only spoken with him twice on the phone. His voice is...refined."
    As they approached the house, Kit could see it wasn't as rustic as it looked. There was a precise quality about the porch and the rails surrounding it that piqued her curiosity. She wanted to see inside.
    Grey ran his hand over the balustrade. "Nice work."
    Not seeing a doorbell, Kit rapped on the solid wood door.
    The man who opened it was and wasn't what she expected. He wore a black tank top and worn jeans. His beard was long and bushy. His physique spoke of many hours doing manual labor. She'd guess his age to be around thirty, until she met his gaze and suspected he might be older. Brown almost black eyes bored into her, examining her closely.
    "Mr. Whittaker?" She extended her hand. "I'm Kit Saunders. And this is Grey Corey."
    There was no spark of anticipation in his eyes, nor much expression in his voice. "The name's Zac. Come on and I'll show you the trees." He stepped down onto the porch.
    "Wouldn't you like to discuss your fee? The hours you might be available?" she asked.
    "There's no fee," Miss Saunders. "I can work in a parking lot as easily as in my workshop." He started from the porch and glanced at her puzzled expression. "Coming?"
    She looked at Grey. "Uh, yes. Right behind you."
    Grey murmured in her ear. "Not real sociable, is he? Where did you hear about him?"
    "I didn't. I saw one of his sculptures at a backyard party a client gave."
    Zac Whittaker led Grey and Kit through a grove of trees to a clearing where the sun shone brightly onto a shed. Kit squinted against the light and then breathed, "Oh, my!"
    Grey rested his hand at the small of her back as they gazed from one piece to another. "Masterpieces, aren't they?"
    Zac said quietly, "You can look as long as you'd like. I can either start one from scratch on the day you have in mind, or I can bring one along that's almost finished. Each one takes about two weeks. It depends on how much time I give it a day."
    "And you do this with a chain saw?" Grey asked.
    "I start with a chain saw for the basic outline and work. I use other tools to finish. That's what takes the time."
    Grey moved toward a four foot replica of a brown bear standing upright. The fur looked real enough to be soft to the touch. But it was wood.
    Before Grey could ask any of the questions he had about the type of wood, if the artist had to import it from the northwest, Zac Whittaker left them with, "You don't have to let me know when you leave. Just give me a call and tell me where and when you want me."
    And he was gone, as quietly as a true woodsman.
    Kit shook her head. "What if he has another commitment the day I want him?"
    "Something tells me he doesn't socialize much."
    Kit crossed to a totem-like three foot sculpture with an eagle and symbols she didn't recognize carved at intervals. As she ran her fingers over the eagle's head, she said, "We want Mr. Whittaker, don't we?"
    Grey placed his hand over hers. "We sure do. He'll attract a crowd large enough to fill the parking lot. People might not always want to pay for fine workmanship, but they recognize talent when they see it and are fascinated by it."
    She was fascinated, not only by the sculpture, but