Shelter Me: A Shelter Novel (5 page)

* * *

I
n the middle
of the night, I woke in a daze, unsure of where I was…until Lucas's body rustled next to mine. He kissed his way up my bare back and he took me in the moonlight that draped across the sheets, dappling our bare bodies as we knelt, my back to his chest.

It was perfect. Too much so. Painfully so, because I knew perfect wasn't built to last. It would blow away like the puffs of cotton from the wishing flowers I'd pick from the meadows upstate.

T
he next morning
, I woke to find Lucas staring out the window, his bare back to me, jeans pulled on. When he turned, they weren't completely done up. His hair was tousled, the ink running over him, fascinating.

My heart beat uncomfortably fast. I wasn't done, could never be…but I
needed
to be. All the togetherness and warmth of last night was gone, replaced by the harsh light of reality. I was too close, too fast. There was danger all around, all around me and Lucas.

I was out of bed like a shot, gathering up my dress as I went.

"I've got some clothes for you in there," he called before I shut the door. And he'd in fact gotten me some brand-new fashion exercise-type clothes. And sneakers. All in the right sizes.

I yanked it all on, rather than do the walk of shame in my dress, then used his toothbrush. Hands through my hair for a quick, messy braid, a splash of water and soap to get rid of any traces of leftover makeup from last night and I was out of there.

When I headed directly toward Lucas's front door, he was standing near it, like he knew my plan…and he was holding my phone. "I programmed my number in your cell."

I grabbed it from him. "Presumptuous."

"Definitely. Use it."

I wouldn't. But I also didn't delete it. I told myself some bullshit about how it made me a stronger person by letting it sit there and tempt me…and I promised myself I'd erase it tomorrow. "Gotta go," I said in what I hoped was a breezy tone (although really, I was laughably far from the breezy type). "Thanks for the clothes."

His expression was of the
good luck to you
tongue-in-cheek variety, something I didn't relish at this moment. "Let me take you home. Or at least get you a cab. You're not prepared for what's out there."

Whatever it was had to be safer than him, so I didn't turn back, pushed past him. "I'm fine, really."

With my dress, bag and shoes all balled up, I went out and down the stairs…and found myself in the face of two cameras with flashbulbs that burst into a thousand shattered pieces in front of my eyes and made me blink furiously. They sounded more like muffled bullets murdering my fledgling career than cameras whirring at the speed of light to invade my life and get this story. Whether Meghan tipped them off or they followed us here somehow—and really, when had I gotten that important?—it didn't matter. The damage was done—I was "out there."

There's no putting Ryn back in the box now.

I put my head down and walked until I could hail a cab. The photographers followed me the whole way, even running after the cab for a few minutes.

The cab driver barely glanced back at me, like this was a constant occurrence for him. "Where to?"

I gave my building's address. It was time to go home and face the music.

* * *

A
s I walked
from the elevator to my door, I texted Brayden to let him know I was home safe—and that I was going to work. That wasn't all avoidance, because I was itching to draw and I barely got through the door and punched the alarm code before I was grabbing for my supplies. I curled up on the couch before anything else could distract me, knowing I had to let it all out.

My emotions were all still wrapped up in Lucas and would be until I could release them, purge them, and forget them.

As if
, a small, cynical part of me chided, which I ignored in favor of sweeping marks across the page with my eyes practically closed, remembering every inch of him. I let my confusion and leftover lust pour into the sketch, defining his biceps and lats and tattoos from memory, working feverishly, as though everything depended on it.

I sketched him in charcoal, his arms, his chest, bare back, what I could remember of the individual tattoos I tried to memorize while he slept. There were so many of them, intricately connected but obviously each a masterpiece unto itself. His biceps held more of the single pieces that were still connected by scrollwork, each tattoo a standout but yet managing to fade into a pattern.

I drew faster.

Skull.

Wings.

Dice.

Ace of spades.

I slowed when I got to his backpiece, an intricate work in grayscale, masculine yet delicately exquisite. It reminded me of something, but like my memories, the harder I tried to grab it the slipperier it got.

When I was done, I was exhausted but nowhere near satiated. Far from exorcizing my desire for Lucas, it had only served to make it worse. Annoyed, I left the sketchbook on the kitchen table, put on a pot of coffee and then headed for the shower, so I could stop pretending the smell of Lucas wasn't driving me crazy.

When I came out, I dressed quickly in a T-shirt and leggings, but a strange sense washed over me, as if the energy in the apartment had been disturbed. The alarm was still armed, and after a quick check to make sure I was most definitely alone, I focused on the flowers. I'd registered them briefly when I'd first come in, a variety of vases gathered in the living room along the windowsill, and I'd assumed they'd been delivered to the gallery for me and brought here by Brayden.

Upon closer inspection, I noticed, among the other, more arranged bouquets, a small vase of daffodils that looked as if they'd
come freshly picked, not from a flower shop. Even so, there was a small, white card with a typed message that simply read:
Great show.

Unlike the others, this card was plain white with no flower shop insignia. Maybe someone brought it to the gallery last night and Brayden dropped it by here. But could it be a coincidence that I'd found daffodils in here last night?

I jumped at the sudden, harsh sound of the buzzer, as someone pushed it intensely and several times in a row to get my attention. I quickly shoved the daffodils back so they were semi-buried behind the other flowers and went to the intercom.

Was it wrong that more than a small part of me was hoping it was Lucas? Ridiculous. I'd survived approximately twenty-four years
without relying on a relationship and now, in just over twenty-four hours after meeting Lucas, I was unable to shake him from my brain.

An image flashed of him pinning me against the wall, followed quickly by one of me entangled in his sheets. Heat coursed through my body. I shook it off and pressed the intercom button.

"Ryn Taylor? This is Private Detective Dan Turner. I'm an investigator with the insurance company Brayden Hamilton hired to protect your art in his gallery."

I vaguely recalled Brayden mentioning Turner, back when my painting had first been stolen, but that was years ago. Why was he here now? And why for me? "Is there a problem?"

"It's an ongoing investigation, but I need to speak with you directly."

I hesitated but then buzzed him in. He wasn't technically law enforcement, but he also wasn't paparazzi and still I was a little—okay,
a lot
—unsettled about something I couldn't explain beyond a sudden random, bizarre fear of daffodils.

I waited for the knock on the door, more nervously than I would've liked to be. I tried to wipe that all away and wasn't sure I'd succeeded by the time I met Dan Turner, who in turn gave me the once-over before an almost sheepish smile emerged and he disarmed me with an apology.

"Sorry—your pictures don't do you justice."

"Neither do the articles," I informed him with a smile of my own.

Turner laughed appreciatively. I poured a cup of coffee and held it out to him. "That's great—thanks."

He didn't look anything like a man I'd associate with insurance agenting. He was tall and bulky, but not enough to look beefy. He reminded me of a boxer. He was good-looking in a rough sort of way, his brown eyes bordering on hazel in the sunlight splashing across my kitchen table where I'd motioned for him to sit.

"I didn't realize my stolen painting was still such a big deal," I admitted. "Not enough that they'd send someone out personally."

He nodded, as if he'd heard that before and explained, "Art and antiquities is a big business. Insurance companies take a lot of precautions so they don't take huge losses from theft or fire and especially from fraud, which is what happens in the majority of cases."

He wasn't telling me anything I didn't know—people did pretend that their priceless paintings had been stolen in order to collect millions…or they tried to, anyway. But that wasn't the case with my painting, so this still didn't make a lot of sense to me. "Was there a problem with any of the other paintings? Because Brayden didn't indicate anything…"

"Not at all, Ryn. I'm just getting close to tracking down your stolen painting, and I wanted the opportunity to talk to you."

"It's just that Brayden didn't mention this—"

Turner interrupted, "I don't have to run everything by him. Not when I'm investigating a painting that no doubt quadrupled in price overnight."

That last part should've been amazing news, and it was, but it also left me with a sudden pit in my stomach. Nothing in his demeanor changed, but the energy in the room did and I was uneasy again. He'd seemed friendly enough, but my unease was enough to make my inherent suspicions rise up—not having a memory left me open to the possibility that Dan Turner could be an enemy from my past.
"I think maybe this meeting should happen with Brayden. I'm not sure I can be of any help to you at all."

He ignored that, pressed on with, "Do you have any theory about who stole your painting?"

"No."

"Brayden certainly knew what the value would become," he mused, almost as if he was only speaking to himself.

"I think it would be best if you spoke with Brayden. I wasn't in New York when the painting was stolen."

"To your knowledge, did it ever hang in the gallery or was it stolen in transit?"

"Not in transit," I replied. In truth, I knew exactly when and where but I didn't like fishing expeditions.

He stared at me, a frank assessment. "I heard there was quite a commotion at the show last night. And that Lucas Caine was in the middle of it all."

I simply shrugged. "It's a blur."

"I can imagine, what with it being your first real show." He paused. "Have you had any problems with stalkers?"

Images of the daffodils flashed before my eyes. "No."

"Are you sure? Maybe you haven't realized it yet, since you're more like, what did Meghan call you, 'feral Nell'? I guess she meant that you're not used to being out and about."

Megan's words burned through me the way they had last night. "I live in a doorman building. I'm with Brayden the majority of the time when I go out, so I think I'd notice."

Turner was looking at the open sketchbook that I'd left on the kitchen counter. He wouldn't know the sketch was Lucas unless he knew about the tattoos. But really, a lot of men had a lot of tattoos.

He removed all doubt with his next comments. "Nice work. Interesting company you're keeping."

"Why is that your business?"

"You made it everyone's business—it's in all the papers."

"Really?
All
of them?" I managed dryly. "I think you should definitely speak to Brayden about all of this and not me." I flipped the sketchbook closed and tucked the pad protectively under my arm. "I've got a lot to do."

"Have the police been by to speak with you?"

"Police?" I asked, confused.

"Rumor is that Meghan VanValen is pressing charges." He gave a small wince. "But I'm betting you don't deal in rumors."

There was no good way to answer that. "Why are you keeping track of my life?" I demanded. "I didn't steal my own painting."

"You have no idea how many times I've heard an artist or dealer lie to me about that," Turner said calmly. "I'll be back, Ryn. In the meantime, you might want to reconsider your current associations." He paused. "By the way, I couldn't find an address on you prior to the Catskills."

"What does that have to do with your investigation?"

"Maybe nothing. Maybe everything," he said, and I hated him.

"Please leave. Now."

He took his time, finished the coffee I'd poured. I resisted the urge to snatch the mug from him and throw it—either at him or against the wall—but since rumor had it I might be getting a police visit, I figured I needed to keep the assault and battery to a minimum. Finally, he went to the door and let himself out, but not before he called over his shoulder, "Watch out for Lucas Caine. Trust me on that—he's not the type of man you want in your life."

I didn't want to tell him that maybe Lucas Caine should be the one watching out for me.