“Clients pay me tens of thousands of dollars for my paintings,” she said when her laughter had faded enough to communicate.

It was Grady’s turn to blink. He glanced at the canvases. What the fuck? Sure, she could obviously paint, but that was preposterous. Although, to be fair, he hadn’t been able to see the artistic merit in the many pieces he’d seen hanging in famous galleries, either. “I’m assuming what you do for your clients is a little more…highbrow?”

Surely people only paid big bucks for capital-A art, and Grady seriously doubted there was a thriving rich people’s market for caricatures.

She cocked an eyebrow. “Well, at least I know where to come if I ever want a backhanded compliment.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” Grady shook his head, no idea why he was apologizing. “I’m not really the guy you come to for compliments of any kind.”

She snort-laughed this time. “Ya think?”

Grady felt the tug of a smile at the corners of his mouth but suppressed it. He was trying to negotiate a deal here, not get distracted. “Okay, so… How much do you want? For the paintings.”

And just how much was he prepared to pay?

“Remembering that I’m just a simple rancher with a long, hard winter ahead of me.” He injected some John Wayne into his voice. That’s how badly he wanted those paintings.

She ignored the eyelid batting. “You could offer me a million dollars for each of them and I still wouldn’t sell. These paintings are…priceless to me and not for sale.”

Priceless? Who in the hell did she think she was, and what size checks was her ego writing to make her think those five…caricatures more at home next to Garfield or in the pages of Mad Magazine were priceless?

Grady’s jaw muscle ticked as his patience wore thin. “I must insist.”

That mutinous look he was beginning to know so well hardened her gaze to chips of blue ice. “I’m sure women don’t tell you no very much, Joshua Grady, but read my lips. N. O.” She spelled it out for him just in case he was an idiot of the highest order. “No.”

Pain flared along his jaw, warning Grady he’d better ease up or he might shatter it completely. The problem was, they were at an impasse and, short of physically stealing them off her, there wasn’t a lot he could do if the deluded woman wasn’t smart enough to make a quick buck.

But that didn’t mean he’d give up. He’d just execute a strategic withdrawal—for now.

“You read my lips, Su-sahn Saan Meeshell. If I ever see one of these paintings”—he stabbed his finger at them again—“out on display somewhere, there will be hell to pay. By the time my lawyer is done with you, you won’t even be able to get a gig painting a cinder-block restroom facility in the Alaskan wilderness.”

Grady didn’t have a lawyer. His uncle had one in Denver, but his office was run out of a strip club, and Grady was pretty sure he spent more time getting lap dances than winning cases. But Suzanne didn’t have to know that.