The bell over her shop gave a cheery ring as Piper slipped inside, and he entered right behind her, watching as Piper reset the alarm.

“I had already scheduled for the gallery to be closed today.” She put her keys on the counter. “I’d been out of town on a scouting trip before…” Her hand waved vaguely in the air.

“Before you came back and found your home trashed?”

A quick nod. “I’d intended to do some re-organizing in here next week. I gave my assistant last week off while I traveled. We were planning to start fresh Monday.” She let her hand fall. “Everything looks okay in here.”

Her gallery. For as long as he could remember, Piper had loved painting. When she’d been a kid, her shorts and t-shirts had always been covered with paint splotches. He’d thought it was funny, just kind of a Piper thing, until he’d actually seen her work.

Piper wasn’t just a good artist. She was phenomenal. Even at twelve, she’d painted things that—damn, he didn’t always have words for them. The woman had simply been born with a gift. She could make emotion explode off a canvas.

She’d just gotten better and better as she aged. And the gallery—hell, she didn’t need the place. But it had been her brainchild. Her work had been selling like crazy, and she’d started to get some national attention. She’d come up with the idea of opening a gallery to spotlight other artists, too. Emerging talent.

At least, that was what she’d told Ben. Because she hadn’t come to Eric with her plans.

Maybe one day, that would change.

She usually kept the gallery open three days a week. The other four days, she worked on her art. She held big shows two to three times a month at her gallery, and he knew that they were always hits. He’d come to a few. Drank the champagne she offered. Watched her charm and impress.

That was Piper.

Everyone always loves Piper. Yeah, they sure as hell did.

“I want to go and check upstairs. I’ve got some of my new work up there, and I want to make sure it’s all okay. Give me a minute, will you?”

Her studio was upstairs—so that she could look out on the street below. So she could see the sunrise and sunsets. He knew she could get lost in her work.

He could, too. He could stare at her work for hours because he felt Piper in those canvases. She put all of herself into the art.

She hurried up the small, spiral staircase. Her steps echoed when they thudded over the metal stairs. Faint light from the setting sun drifted through the upper windows. He kept his gaze on her as she neared the second floor—her loft area. Her work area, her—