“They’re of me,” he reiterated.

She shook her head again. “That’s not the way copyright works, Grady. I painted them. They belong to me.”

Grady shoved his hands on his hips. “Hand them over.”

“You want them?” Her eyes narrowed as she squatted a little lower. “You’re going to have to take them from me.”

Grady blinked, taken aback by the challenge and the almost zeal-like quality in her gaze. She was dead serious. These…bizarre paintings obviously meant something to her. They meant something to him as well, but if she thought he was going to wrestle her for them, then she was mistaken. Grady had spent far too long in the military witnessing force to be a party to it in his civilian life.

Plus, Burl would probably kick his ass. When he put his mind to it, his uncle had a look that made Grady feel seventeen all over again.

“I think you’re being a little melodramatic now, don’t you?”

“Art is serious stuff.”

“You painted my head on a cherub,” he said incredulously.

“It’s a Botticelli,” she snapped.

“I don’t care if it was painted by a chorus of actual angels.”

She crouched a little lower. “I’m not handing over my paintings.”

Grady did laugh this time as Suzanne eyed him like she was going to spring into bloodcurdling action at any moment. “Relax, crouching tiger,” he said with a wave of his hand, his voice low and grim. “I’m not going to take them from you. I’ll buy them off you.”

The last thing Grady wanted was to fork out hard-earned cash for a bunch of paintings he was just going to torch. But if that was what it took…

Suzanne pulled abruptly out of her ninja stance, her arms dropping to her sides. “Wh-what?”

Oh yeah…that did it. She had no interest in giving them away, but with some cash in the offing, suddenly she was interested. “How much?” he demanded.

She was frowning, looking at him like he’d grown another head. “They’re not for sale.”

Grady cocked an eyebrow. “Honey…everything’s for sale.”

“These aren’t.” She folded her arms.

Hmm…okay. It was going to be like that, huh? Suzanne St. Michelle wasn’t going to be some pushover. He should have known that from day one when she’d yelled at him and called him on his bullshit.

“I’ll give you a hundred bucks.”

Her whole face contorted into an expression of surprise followed swiftly by a twist to her lips that reflected her degree of insult. Her face clearly said, You have got to be kidding me, and he hurried to clarify.

“Each.”

Six hundred bucks was a ridiculous amount of money for art that belonged on the sidewalks of Montmartre or in the local high school art competition. But he was good for it.

She blinked several times, her expression morphing quickly as she broke into laughter. Laughter. She was laughing at him. “A hundred bucks? Each?”

More laughter, her hand going to her stomach like it was actually hurting to laugh so goddamn hard. Despite his irritation, Grady had to admit, she had a great laugh—light and musical, a woman’s laugh. It’d been a long time since he’d made a woman laugh, even if it was sarcastically.