Free Sinful Temptation by Ann Christopher

wheelchair-bound man emerge from the shadows inside the front door.
    A young guy, he had a short and dark buzz cut, a bulky chest, immense and tattooed arms, and legs that were missing below the knee.
    He was stifling a grin at her expense.
    There was nothing she could do except laugh at herself. “Yeah. My nickname is Grace.”
    The guy’s grin widened, and she decided that she liked him. “It’ll be our little secret, sweet cakes,” he assured her.
    “I appreciate that.” She extended her hand and it was immediately swallowed in his firm grip. “And I’m Talia Adams. Not sweet cakes.”
    “Oh, I know who you are, sweet cakes. Never you fear. I’m Michael Bianchi. Call me Mickey. I know everything around here. Just don’t tell the boss that.”
    She laughed again. “Well, since you know everything around here, you probably know that I’m here to repaint the mural.”
    “Are you any good?”
    “I’m the best,” she said, with a rare burst of bravado.
    “Modest, too. Hey, what’s with that hair? Am I gonna need my sunglasses with you or what?”
    She shrugged, smoothing the edges around her temple. “I like colors. I’m an artist. What’s with the tats?”
    Mickey, who was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, had so many tattoos of varying colors running up and down his heavy arms that they might have been inked by Jackson Pollock. He didn’t seem to mind the teasing. “Touché. I hope I’m not going to have any problems with you.”
    “I hope I don’t have to give you an attitude adjustment. By the way, where’s the accent from?”
    “Where do you think?”
    “I’m thinking somewhere in Jersey,” she told him. “Probably near the shore.”
    “Ten points for the artist. Let’s get you inside. Show you around a little bit.”
    With strong and efficient movements, he spun his chair around and led her through a foyer that was only slightly smaller than the lobby in Carnegie Hall. She saw a stately staircase, exquisite antiques and expensive rugs in every direction. It was, in short, one of those houses where an accidental twitch of the arm became thousands of dollars’ worth of damage.
    Given her occasional clumsiness, this was going to be quite the challenge.
    Mickey gestured down one half of the hallway. “The kitchen is through there. We’ve also got a study, a den—”
    “Hang on. What’s the difference between a study and a den?”
    “Lady, I’ve been trying to figure that out for years. The rich are different. Let’s just leave it at that. Out back is the pool and then beyond that is the beach—”
    All very lovely and interesting, but there was only one thing on her mind right now. “Where’s the mural?”
    “Upstairs. This way.”
    He led her to an alcove under the stairs, where a tiny elevator was hidden. A minute later, they were up on the second level, and the doors were sliding open to reveal the most beautiful mural she’d ever seen.
    She stepped out, gasping.
    The mural stretched along the hallway opposite several enormous windows that let in every possible beam of sunlight. The view included a stretch of lawn leading to the pool, which, in turn, led to a path through the dunes and to the beach on the other side. She could only imagine how powerful the storm’s fury must have been to break these windows (they’d since been replaced) and damage the wall with water.
    Even pockmarked and water stained, the mural was breathtaking, with vivid colors, meticulous strokes, and scenes that seemed to leap off the wall: Odysseus and the cyclops; Odysseus and the Sirens; Odysseus caught between Scylla and Charybdis.
    “Oh, my God,” she breathed.
    “You got your work cut out for you, don’t you?” Mickey asked cheerfully. “I hope you’re up for the job.”
    More bravado kicked in, which was good because she had the feeling Mickey would eat her alive if she showed any signs of weakness. “Of course I’m up for the job.”
    He raised one brow. “You sure about