The Collector (13 page)

“Because it's fun. There's so much drama during the teenage years. All the longing, the discovery, the terrible need to belong to something, the terrible fear of not being like everyone else. Add werewolves, and it's an allegory, and more fun.”

“Werewolves always bring the fun. My sister Rylee really liked your first book.”

“She did?”

“Kaylee rules and Aiden's hot, but she's especially fond of Mel.”

“Aw, that's nice. Mel's the best pal of the central character and a very awkward nerd.”

“Makes sense, as she's a nerd herself, and always roots for the underdog. I promised her I'd get the second book for her, have you sign it.”

Pleasure bloomed inside her. “I have some advance copies coming in about a month. I'll sign one for her, get it to you.”

“Great. I'll be her favorite brother.”

“I bet you are anyway. You listen, and even when things are bad, you give her something happy.”

“Twirl around.”

“What?”

He circled a finger in the air while he sketched. “No, no, twirl around.” This time he whipped his finger.

She felt silly, but did a quick spin.

“Again, arms up, have some fun with it.” Next time he'd put music on to distract her, keep her relaxed. “Better, hold it there, keep your arms up. Was your father stationed overseas?”

“A couple of times. Germany, but I was just a baby and don't remember. Italy, and that was nice.”

“Iraq?”

“Yeah, and that wasn't nice. He was deployed out of Fort Lee in Virginia, so we stayed there.”

“Tough.”

“The army life's not for weenies.”

“And now?”

“I try not to be a weenie. But you meant what's he doing now. He retired, and they moved to Alaska. They love it. They bought a little general store, and eat moose burgers.”

“Okay, relax. Toss your hair one more time. Do you get up there?”

“To Juneau? A couple of times. I wrangled a job in Vancouver, then
went to Juneau after, then got one in Missoula, did the same. Have you been there?”

“Yeah, it's staggering.”

“It is.” She brought it into her mind. “Like another world, literally. Like a new planet. Not the ice planet Hoth, but close.”

“The what?”

“Hoth, the ice planet. Star Wars—
The Empire Strikes Back
.”

“Okay. Right.”

Obviously a casual Star Wars fan at best, Lila decided, so shifted the topic back. “What did you paint in Alaska?”

“Some landscapes because you'd be crazy not to. One of an Inuit woman as an ice queen—probably ruling the ice planet Hoth,” he added, and had her grin flashing.

“Why women, especially? You paint other things, but it's mostly women, and fanciful, whether benign like the violin-playing witch in the moonlit meadow, or the man-eating mermaid.”

His eyes changed—from intense, looking straight into her, to calmer, more curious. “Why do you assume the woman in the meadow is a witch?”

“Because power, and her pleasure in it as much as the music, is right there. Or it's just how I saw it—and why, I guess, I wanted it.”

“You're right. She's caught in a moment of embrace—her music, her magic. If I still had it, I'd make you a deal because you understood that. But then, where would you put it?”

“There is that little hitch,” she agreed. “But again, why women most often?”

“Because they're powerful. Life comes from them, and that's its own magic. That's good for now.” As his gaze hung on her, he tossed his pencil aside. “I need to find the right dress, something with movement.”

Because she wasn't sure he'd say yes, she didn't ask if she could see what he'd done, but just walked over and looked.

So many angles, she thought, of her face, and of her body now.

“Problem?” he asked.

“It's like the triple mirrors in dressing rooms.” She wiggled her shoulders. “You see too much.”

He'd see more when he talked her into a nude, but one step at a time.

“So.” He picked up the coffee again. “Errands.”

“You don't have to help me run errands. I got a new dress.”

“I have to get my mail anyway.” He glanced around the studio. “And I need to get out of here. You probably need your shoes.”

“Yes, I do. Give me a minute.”

Alone, he pulled out his phone, turned it back on. Seeing over a dozen v-mails, e-mails and texts gave him an instant headache.

Yeah, he needed to get out.

Still he took the time to answer a few, in order of priority, stopped, stuck the phone away again when she came back out, wearing the cropped pants and top she'd worn in. “I just folded the dress up in my bag, in case you decided I couldn't keep it after all.”

“It's not my dress.”

“It's definitely too short for you, but— Oh.” Instant distress. “It belongs to someone. Let me put it back.”

“No, I said keep it. Chloe left it here—or maybe it was Cara—months ago. She, whichever one it was, knows the rules.”

“There are rules?”

“Leave stuff here,” he began as he herded Lila to the elevator, “for more than two months, it goes into wardrobe or the trash. Otherwise, I'd have their stuff scattered everywhere.”

“Strict but fair. Cara. Sister? Model? Girlfriend?”

“Half sister, father's side.” And since one of the messages had been from Cara, his thoughts circled back to Oliver yet again.

“They're releasing the body tomorrow.”

She touched his hand as he pulled the grate open on the main level. “That's a good thing. It means you can have the memorial soon, say goodbye.”

“It means an emotional circus, but you can't get out the push brooms until the elephants dance.”

“I think I understand that,” she said after a moment, “and it wasn't flattering to your family.”

“I'm a little tired of my family right now.” He grabbed keys, sunglasses, a small cloth bag. “Put this in your purse, will you? For the mail.”

She couldn't imagine needing a bag for mail, but obliged.

He stuck the keys in his pocket, shoved the sunglasses on.

“It's a tiring time,” she commented.

“You have no idea.” He led her outside. “You should. You should come to the funeral.”

“Oh, I don't think—”

“Definitely. You'll be a distraction, plus you keep your head in a crisis. There'll be several crises. I'll send a driver for you. Ten o'clock should work.”

“I didn't know him.”

“You're connected, and you know me. Luke will ride up with you. Sunday. Is Sunday a problem?”

Lie, she ordered herself, but knew she wouldn't. “Actually it's my interim day—between the Kilderbrands and the Lowensteins, but—”

“Then it works.” He took her arm, steered her east instead of south.

“I was going down a block.”

“One stop first. There.” He gestured to a funky women's boutique.

Waiting for the walk signal, the rumbling mass of a huge delivery truck, the gaggle of what she knew to be tourists given the tone of their chatter, gave her a minute to catch her breath.

“Ashton, won't your family consider the nosy temporary neighbor an intrusion at your brother's funeral?”

“Lila, I have twelve siblings, many of whom have spouses, and ex-spouses, kids, stepchildren. I have assorted aunts, uncles and grandparents. Nothing's an intrusion.”

He towed her across the street, around a woman with a wailing infant in a stroller, and into the shop, one with color and style. And, she imagined, really big price tags.

“Jess.”

“Ash.” The willowy blonde in a black-and-white mini and towering red sandals scooted around a counter to offer her cheek to Ash. “It's good to see you.”

“I've got a few stops to make, thought I'd check to see if you found anything.”

“I went to work as soon as you called. I've got a couple things that might work. Is this your model? I'm Jess.”

“Lila.”

“You're right about the red,” she said to Ash. “And I think I know which is going to work. Come on back.”

She led the way into a breathlessly cramped storeroom, then took two full-skirted red dresses off a wheeled rack.

“Not that. That.”

“Exactly.”

Before Lila had a chance to really see both, Jess stuffed one back on the rack, held out the other.

Ash spread the flounced skirt out wide, nodded. “It should work, but I need the color under it.”

“Got that covered. I came across this at a consignment shop weeks ago and picked it up thinking you might find it useful at some point. It's perfect for this, I think. Rather than the bulk of several slips or underskirts, this has the multicolor flounces on the bottom. And if it's not right, you could get a seamstress to make one.”

“Yeah, let's see.” He took both, pushed them at Lila. “Try them on.”

“I'm the one with errands,” she reminded him.

“We'll get to them.”

“Let me show you a dressing room. Would you like something?” Jess said smoothly, as she nudged Lila out of the storeroom, around and into a dressing room with the damn triple mirror. “Some sparkling water?”

“Why not? Thanks.”

Once again, she changed. The slip bagged at the waist so she dug a paper clip out of her purse to tighten it.

And the dress fit like a dream.

Not her style, of course. Too red, too in-your-face with the low scoop of bodice. But the dropped waist made her look taller, and she wouldn't argue with that.

“Are you in that thing?”

“Yes. I just . . . Well, come right in,” she said when Ash did just that.

“Yeah, that's it.” He circled his finger again. She rolled her eyes, but did the twirl. “Close. We'll need to . . .” He reached down, hiked a section of the skirt up.

“Hey.”

“Relax. Ride this up here, show more leg, more color.”

“The slip's too big in the waist. I clipped it.”

“Jess.”

“No problem, and she's going to want a better bra. Ummm, 32-A?”

Mortifyingly accurate, Lila thought. “Yes.”

“Hold on.” She scooted out.

Struggling to find her balance again, Lila sipped sparkling water while Ash studied her.

“Go away.”

“In a minute. Gold hoop earrings, a lot of—” He ran his fingers up and down her wrist.

“Bangles?”

“Yeah.”

“Excuse us a minute.” Jess came back in with a flame-red bra, nudging Ash out. “He'd stay right there otherwise,” she said with a smile. “If you'd try this on, I can measure the slip.”

With a sigh, Lila set down the water and tried not to think she was stripping to the waist in front of a stranger.

Fifteen minutes later, they walked out with the dress, the bra—and the matching panties she'd agreed to in a moment of weakness.

“How did this happen? All I did was look out the window.”

“Physics?” he suggested.

“Action and reaction?” She blew out a breath. “I guess I can blame it on science, then.”

“What are the errands?”

“I'm not sure I remember.”

“Think about it. We'll hit the post office while you do.”

“Post office.” She shook her head. “You bought me underwear.”

“It's wardrobe.”

“It's underwear. It's red underwear. I didn't even know you, what, just over a week ago, and now you've bought me red underwear. Did you even
look
at the price tags?”

“You said you weren't marrying me for my money.”

That made her laugh, and she remembered. “A cat toy. I want a toy for Thomas.”

“I thought he had toys.”

A man in an ankle-length trench coat stomped by, muttering obscenities. He left an amazing stream of body odor in his wake.

“I love New York,” she said, watching pedestrians dodge and evade his angry path. “I really do.”

“He lives around here somewhere,” Ash told her. “I see him—or at least smell him—a couple times a week. He never takes off that coat.”

“Hence the smell. It's forecast to hit ninety-three today, and I'd say
we're already there. And yes, Thomas has toys, but this is a present for when I leave. And I need to pick up a bottle of wine for the Kilderbrands. I'll get flowers on Saturday.”

“You're leaving them a bottle of wine and flowers?”

“Yes, it's polite. One of your many mothers should have taught you that.” She breathed in the scent of sidewalk cart hot dogs—much more pleasant than Trench Coat Man. “Why am I going to the post office with you?”

“Because it's right here.” Taking her hand, he drew her inside, then over to the wall of boxes. He dug out his key, opened one, said, “Shit.”

“It's pretty full,” she observed.

“It's been a few days. Maybe a week. Mostly junk. Why do people kill trees for junk mail?”

“At last, a point of absolute agreement.”

He riffled through, tossed a couple of things in the cloth bag Lila handed him, dug out a padded envelope.

And stopped everything.

“What is it?”

“It's from Oliver.”

“Oh.” She stared at it, at the big looping scrawl, as Ash did. “It's postmarked . . .”

“The day he was murdered.” Ash dumped the contents of the box in the mail bag, then ripped open the envelope.

He drew out a key and a handwritten note on a monogrammed card.

Hey, Ash.

I'll be in touch in a day or two to pick this up. Just sending it to you for safekeeping while I put the rest of a deal together. The client's a little touchy, so if I have to leave town for a couple days, I'll let you know. You could pick up the merchandise, bring it to me at the compound. I went with the Wells Fargo near my place.
And since I forged your signature on the card—just like the old days!—you won't have a problem getting into the box. Appreciate it, bro.