The Collector (24 page)

She wished she had more than lip gloss and blotting papers in her purse—and the jewelry he'd envisioned.

She whirled around when the door opened.

“Here's your wine.”

“You should knock.”

“Why? The dress is right,” he continued over her puff of breath. “Just right. I need more on your eyes—smoky, sultry—and darker lips.”

“I don't have makeup with me.”

“There's plenty over there.” He gestured to a cabinet with a dozen drawers. “Didn't you look?”

“I don't open drawers that don't belong to me.”

“You're probably one of five people in the world who can say that and mean it. Look now, use whatever you need.”

She opened the first drawer, and her eyes popped. Eye shadows, eye pencils, liners—liquid, powder, cream, mascaras—with disposable wands for same. Everything arranged according to type, color palettes.

She opened the next—foundations, blushers, bronzers, brushes and more brushes.

“My God, Julie would weep with joy and rapture.”

She opened more. Lipsticks, lip gloss, lip liners, lip dyes.

“I've had various sisters fill it out for me.”

“You could open your own boutique.”

She found jewelry in other drawers, earrings, pendants, chains, bracelets. “Shiny.”

He moved beside her, pawed through. “Try this, and these, and, yeah—try that.”

Like playing dress-up, she decided, and got into the swing.

Hell, maybe she could pull it off.

She selected bronzer, blush, considered her eye palette, then frowned at him. “Are you just going to stand there and watch?”

“For now.”

With a shrug, she turned to the mirror, began to play.

“Should I apologize for my father?”

Her eyes met his in the glass. “No. He'll have to do that for himself. I won't hold my breath.”

“I won't offer excuses for him either. He can be a hard man under the best of circumstances. These are far from the best. But he had no right, none, to treat you the way he did. You should've come out to find me.”

“And what, tell you, boo-hoo, your daddy hurt my feelings? His house, and clearly he didn't want me there. What man would want a woman he sees as a scheming, gold-digging, opportunistic piranha around his son?”

“No excuses,” Ash said again. “He was wrong in every possible way.”

She blended shadows, studied the effect. “You fought with him.”

“I wouldn't say we ‘fought.' We laid out our opposing viewpoints, very clearly.”

“I don't want to be a wedge between you and your father. Now especially, all of you need family.”

“If you're a wedge, he put you there. He'll have to deal with that. You should've come and told me.”

She swept color over her cheeks. “I fight my own battles.”

“It wasn't just yours. Come out when you're done. I'm going to set up.”

She stopped long enough to pick up the wine, take a sip because now she was just pissed off again, feeling what she'd felt when she walked out of that big, beautiful house in Connecticut.

Still, she could consider the whole matter tabled now. He knew, she knew, they knew, and that was that.

There were much more important things, much more immediate problems to deal with than the fact that his father held her in utter contempt.

“You're not going to sleep with his father,” she muttered while she fussed with eyeliner. “You're not helping his father figure out what to do about a Fabergé egg and murder.”

What happened was between her and Ashton—period.

She finished the makeup, decided she'd done a very decent job.

And for her own pleasure, did a spin.

The reflection made her laugh, so she picked up her wine, carried it out. When Ash turned from his easel, she lifted her skirts, gave them a flirty shake.

“Well?”

He stared, those eyes looking over, and in and through. “Almost perfect.”

“Almost?”

“The necklace is wrong.”

She pouted as she lifted the pendant. “I kind of like it.”

“It's wrong, but it doesn't matter at this point. Over by the windows again. The light's gone, but I can make do for this.”

He'd taken off his jacket, his tie, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

“You're not going to paint in that, are you? Shouldn't you have a smock or something?”

“Smocks are for little girls in meadows. I'm not painting today. Tonight,” he corrected. “Finish the wine or put it down.”

“You're very bossy in artist mode.” But she set down the glass.

“Twirl. Arms up, eyes on me.”

She obeyed. Actually, it was fun. The dress, the flounces, made her feel sexy, and powerful with it. She held, twirled again when he told her, and tried to imagine herself under a full white moon in front of the gold flames of a campfire.

“Again, keep your chin up. The men watch you, want you. Let them want. Make them want. On me. Eyes on me.”

She spun until the room spun with her, held her arms up until they began to ache—and still his pencil worked, worked, worked.

“I've got maybe one more twirl in me before I fall on my face.”

“It's all right. Take a break.”

“Yay.” She went straight to the wine, took a long sip this time. “And another yay.”

She took it with her as she crossed to him. And all she managed was, “Oh.”

She looked fresh and fiery and feminine all at once. He'd drawn her with her hair flying, the skirts swirling, her body turned at the hips, one leg flashing out of frothing flounces.

Her eyes looked straight out of the canvas, confident, amused and sultry.

“It's amazing,” she murmured.

“Needs work.” He tossed his pencil down. “But it's a good start.” He looked at her again, that same intensity she felt straight through to her spine. “I'm starving. We'll order in.”

“I could eat.”

“You change, I'll order. What do you want?”

“Anything not involving mushrooms, anchovies or cucumbers. Otherwise, I'm not fussy.”

“Okay. I'll be downstairs.”

She went back, took off the dress—more reluctantly than she'd imagined. After hanging it up again, she brought the makeup down to almost normal, tied her hair back in a tail.

And in the mirror looked like Lila again.

“And that concludes our performance for the night.”

She went down, found him in the living room, on the phone.

“I'll let you know when I find out. Whatever you can do. Yeah, me too. Talk later.” He set the phone down. “My sister.”

“Which one?”

“Giselle. She says hi.”

“Oh, well, hi back. What are we eating?”

“I went Italian. My go-to place does a hell of a chicken parm. No mushrooms.”

“Sounds just right.”

“I'll get you another glass of wine.”

“Ice water first. Twirling's thirsty work.”

She walked over to the front window, watched the people stroll, strut and scramble. The streetlights laid pools, splashes of white, for them to slide into, slide out of.

Later than she realized, she thought. What a strange day—a long, strange, complicated day.

“You have a real show here,” she said when she heard him come back. “No binoculars needed. So many people with so much to do. Thanks.” She took the water he offered. “I love watching New York, more than any other city I've been in. There's always something to see, someone with somewhere to go. And a surprise around every corner.”

She eased a hip down on the wide windowsill. “I didn't realize it was so late. I'm going to have to eat and run.”

“You're staying.”

She turned her face from the window to him. “Am I?”

“It's safe here—I beefed up the security. Luke's going to stay at Julie's—just a precaution.”

“Is that what they call it in polite circles?”

“He did.” Ash smiled a little. “He said he was taking your usual room.”

“Which leaves me without a bed—or here with a bed, but not my luggage.”

“I sent for it.”

“You . . . sent for it.”

“It doesn't have far to come. The delivery guy should have it here in a few minutes now.”

“There you go, lining it all up again.”

She pushed off the sill, started across the room.

“Where are you going?”

She waved a hand in the air, kept walking. “Wine. I'll get my own.”

“Well, get me one while you're at it.”

He smiled to himself. She just fascinated him, he had to admit. So
much compassion, such an open mind, a keenly observant eye. And a spine that could stiffen like an iron rod.

He imagined that's how she'd walked away from his father. With fire in her eyes and steel in her back.

When she came back with two glasses, the fire had died to a smolder. “I think we need to get a few things—”

“That'll be either food or luggage,” he said when his buzzer went off. “Hold that thought.”

It turned out to be her luggage, wheeled right in. And the deliveryman strolled out again pocketing whatever denomination of bill Ash had handed him.

“I pay my own way, too.”

“When you make the arrangements, you can pay. No problem.”

He didn't mind the fire, or the smolder, but he was a little weary of confrontations, so tried a different method.

“It's been a hell of a day, Lila. I'll get through the rest of it better knowing you're here, you're safe. You could've opted for the hotel. You didn't.”

“No, I didn't. But—”

“You came straight to me, because you wanted to help. Let me help now. You stay here tonight, and I'll take you to your new job in the morning. Or afternoon. Whenever you go there.”

He'd said goodbye to his brother, she thought—complete with white butterflies. He'd lost an uncle in a horrible way. And, with her shoved in the middle, argued with his father.

Add it all up, it equaled being cut a break.

“I appreciate the help. It's better to ask first.”

“I heard that somewhere, once.”

“It's generally true. I'm going to change out of this dress before the food gets here. I feel like I've worn it for a week.”

“We'll get these upstairs, then.” He wheeled the suitcases to the
elevator. “You can have any room you want. Sleeping with me isn't a requirement.”

“That's good. I wouldn't like the requirement.” She waited for him to open the grate. “But if it was an option, that would be just fine.”

He turned to her. “It's definitely an option.” And pulled her against him.

She was caught in the kiss—a little fierce, a lot possessive this time—and halfway into the elevator with him when her ears began to buzz.

“Goddamn it. Chicken parm,” he murmured against her mouth. “Fast delivery.”

“Oh. I guess we need to get that.”

“Give me a minute.”

He went to the door, checked, then opened it to a short guy in a ball cap.

“Yo, Mr. Archer. How ya doing?”

“Good enough, Tony.”

“Got yer two chicken parms, yer two side salads, yer specialty breadsticks. On yer tab, like you asked.”

“Appreciate it.”

Ash exchanged another bill for the large takeout bag.

“Thanks. You have a good one, Mr. Archer.”

“I will.” Ash closed the door, locked it with his eyes on Lila. “I definitely will.”

Lila smiled. “I bet that parm will warm up just fine in the microwave. Later.”

“We're going to find out.” He set the bag down on a table and followed her crooked finger and smile into the elevator.

H
e yanked the grate closed, slapped a hand on the button to take them up. And as the elevator ground its way to the third floor, he pressed her back against the side wall. His hands swept up, from her hips, her waist, her ribs, the sides of her breasts, sparking quick little fires on the way until he caught her face between them.

Took her mouth with his.

He'd wanted her, maybe from the first, when he'd sat across from her in the little coffee shop. When he'd been so swamped with shock and grief, and she'd reached out to him.

He'd wanted her when she'd made him smile even through the morass of grief, and all the impossible questions. When she'd stood in his studio, in the light, posing for him, self-conscious and flustered.

She'd offered him comfort, given him answers and lit something in him along the way that helped burn away the raw edges of that grief.

But now, as the floor rose slowly beneath them, he realized he hadn't understood the depth of the want.

It spread through him, a living thing, tightening his loins, his belly, his throat as she rose on her toes, wrapped around him, fisted her hand in his hair.

So he didn't think; he acted.

His hands dropped from her face to her shoulders, gripped the straps of her dress to yank them down her arms. The move trapped her arms for just a beat, just long enough for him to close his hands over her breasts. Smooth skin, a frill of lace and the quick, quick pump of her heartbeat.

Then she wiggled, fast and agile, tugged the dress down over her hips. Rather than step out of it, she boosted up, rose up to hook bare legs around his waist, strong arms around his neck.

The elevator thudded to a stop.

“Hold on,” he told her, letting go of her hips to drag the gate open.

“Don't worry about me.” And with that little purr in her throat, scraped her teeth down the side of his neck. “Just don't trip.”

He kept his feet, pulled the band out of her hair. He wanted it free. Winding it around his hand, he dragged her head back and found her mouth with his again.

In the dark, blued by the backwash of streetlights, he carried her into his bedroom, across the wide-planked floor, and fell with her onto the bed he hadn't bothered to make since he'd last slept in it.

Immediately she rolled, using the momentum of the drop to flip him onto his back. And straddled him. Her hair fell in twin curtains around his head as she leaned down, took a quick nip of his bottom lip. Her fingers were already busy on the buttons of his shirt.

“It's been a while.” She tossed her hair back, and it fell silkily over one side of her face. “But I think I remember how this goes.”

“If you forget a step . . .” He slid his hands up her thighs, down again. “I'll cue you.”

Spreading his shirt open, she stroked the heels of her hands firmly up his chest. “Nice build, especially for a man who works out with paints and brushes.”

“Don't forget the palette knife.”

On a low laugh, she ran her hands over his shoulders. “Very nice.” She lowered again, brushing her lips over his—touch, retreat, touch—then down his throat, over his shoulders.

“How'm I doing?”

“Haven't missed a step.”

He turned his head until her lips came back to his. As she sank in, he rolled, reversed their positions—and added heat to lush.

She'd intended to set the pace this time, this first time, sort of ease herself into it. Keep it light, build up from there.

Now he undermined those intentions so they crumbled to dust.

How could she plan her moves, her rhythm, when his hands raced over her? He touched and took the way he sketched, with sure, strong strokes, with a skill that knew how to awaken the passion he wanted. As it rose in her, she reached for more, arching under him, offering, wrapping around him, taking.

Hard muscles, long lines, all hers to explore and possess in that soft wash of blue light.

They rolled together now, a little frantic, groping and grasping, pulses pounding as blood swam faster, faster under heated skin.

He flipped open the clasp of her bra, tossed it aside and, rearing up, took her breast with his mouth.

She arched, cat-like, purring with it, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she rode the wave of sensation. His tongue swept over her, his teeth tormented, all laser-focused on that single point of her body—until the whole of her rocked, trembled.

Open, so open to the pleasures, to the speed of them layered over each other, over her.

Skin slick now, his and hers as they tangled, as her fingers fought with the button of his pants. Then his mouth raced down her torso, down, down, down until her world exploded.

She cried out, embracing the glorious shock, riding it to its breathless peak, holding on, savoring the endless fall.

Now, oh God, now. Her mind all but wept the words, but she could barely moan his name as she all but clawed at him to come back, come back to her. To take her, finally, completely.

He watched her, watched those dark, gypsy eyes, black moons in the night. Then the graceful arch of her neck as he drove into her. His own body quaked as he struggled to hold on, just to hold on to the moment of discovery. Inside her, caught there, with her eyes on his, with her hair spread wild over the sheets.

She shuddered, then took his hands, gripped tight.

Joined, they broke the moment, surrendered to need, to speed, to the movement and the drenching, drowning heat.

She lay spent, hands sliding limply from his slick shoulders to drop onto the tangled sheets. She felt beautifully used, and wanted nothing more than to bask in that until she worked up the stamina to be used all over again.

She said, “Oh boy.”

He made a sort of grunt she took as agreement. He sprawled over her, full weight, which she found absolutely fine and dandy. She liked feeling the gallop of his heart against her skin, the lines of his most excellent and sated body limp over hers.

“Do you usually cap off an art session this way?”

“Depends on the model.”

She let out a snort, would have given him a light punch or pinch if she'd been able to lift her arms.

“Usually I have a beer. Sometimes I take a run or hit the treadmill.”

“I don't get treadmills. You get all sweaty and go nowhere. Now, sex? You get all sweaty and go everywhere.”

He lifted his head to look at her. “Now I'm going to think about sex whenever I'm on the treadmill.”

“You're welcome.”

He laughed, rolled off her and onto his back. “You're unique.”

“A major goal achieved.”

“Why a goal?” When she just shrugged, he hooked an arm around her, turned her onto her side so they lay face-to-face. “Why a goal?” he repeated.

“I don't know. Probably growing up in the military. Uniforms, regimentation. Maybe unique is my personal rebellion.”

“It works for you.”

“And shouldn't you be some big corporate honcho, taking the ambitious route—or the summering-in-Monte-Carlo private-jet-setter? Maybe you do summer in Monte Carlo.”

“I prefer Lake Como. No, I'm not a summering type, or a honcho. I didn't have to go through the starving-artist stage, but I would have.”

“Because it's not just what you do, it's who you had to be. It's good to have the talent and the love. Not everybody can or does.”

“Is writing who you had to be?”

“It feels like it. I love it, and I think I'll get better. But I'd be a starving literary artist without the house-sitting. I like that, too, and I'm really good at it.”

“You don't go through drawers that don't belong to you.”

“Absolutely true.”

“I would,” he decided. “Most people would. Curiosity demands it.”

“Give in to curiosity, draw unemployment. Plus, it's just rude.”

“Rude gets a bad rap.” Lightly, he touched his finger to the tiny dimple beside her mouth. “Let's nuke dinner.”

“Now that you mention it, I'm officially starving. My dress is in the elevator.”

He waited a beat. “The windows are covered with one-way film to frustrate people much like yourself.”

“Regardless. Got a robe? Or a shirt? Or my luggage?”

“If you insist.”

He rose, and she decided he must have eyes like a cat to move so
easily through the dim light. He opened the closet, and since he stepped inside it, she judged it to be a pretty good size. And came back with a shirt he tossed at her. “It's too big for you.”

“Which means it'll cover my ass. Asses must be covered at mealtime.”

“That's strict.”

“I don't have many rules,” she said as she put it on, “but those I do have are very firm.”

It did cover her ass, and the tops of her thighs—and her hands. She buttoned it primly, rolled up the sleeves.

He'd paint her like this, too, he thought. Soft and mussed from sex, heavy-eyed, and wearing one of his shirts.

“There now.” She smoothed down the hem. “Now you have something to take off me after dinner.”

“When you put it that way, rules are rules.”

He grabbed a pair of sweats, a T-shirt.

They took the stairs down.

“You took my mind off everything else for a while. You're good at that.”

“Maybe letting it all go somewhere else—or everywhere else—will help us figure out what to do next.” She poked her head in the delivery bag. “God. It still smells good.”

He ran a hand down her hair. “If I could backtrack, I wouldn't have gotten you involved in this. I'd still want you here, but I wouldn't have gotten you involved.”

“I am involved, and I'm here.” Lifting the bag, she held it out. “So let's eat. And maybe we can work out what to do next.”

He had some thoughts on that, tried to line them up as they heated the food, settled down in the nook he used for most of his meals.

“You were right,” she said after a bite. “It's good. So . . . what do you have in mind? You've got your thinking look on,” she added. “Like when you're working out what to paint and how. Not the totally
focused, wickedly intense look you have when you're drawing, but when you're preparing to.”

“I have looks?”

“You do, and you'd see for yourself if you did a self-portrait. What are you thinking?”

“If the cops identify Hot Asian Girl, it may be moot.”

“But you don't think so, and neither do I. HAG—an appropriate term for her—wasn't worried about the security cameras. So either she doesn't care if she's identified, or she's not in the system anywhere to be identified.”

“Either way, she didn't appear particularly worried about police tracking her down on suspicion of multiple murders.”

“She's probably done others, don't you think? God, this is weird, eating chicken parm and talking about multiple murders.”

“We don't have to.”

“No, we do.” She focused on winding some pasta around her fork. “We do. Being weird doesn't make it less necessary. I thought I could think of it like the plot for a story, and a little removed. But that's not working for me. Reality is, and you have to deal with it. So. She's probably killed before.”

The tidy black hole centered between the body's eyebrows came to Ash's mind. “Yeah, I don't think she's new at this. And if we're right, her boss has to have deep pockets. He wouldn't hire amateurs.”

“If he hired her to get the egg from Oliver, she hasn't delivered.”

“Exactly.”

Lila wagged her fork at him. “You're thinking of a way to lure her out, with the egg. If she doesn't deliver, she could lose her job, or her fee—or maybe even worse since whoever's paying her doesn't worry about having people killed to get what he wants.”

“If it's the egg she wants—and what else?—she's run out of options. I don't know what Vinnie might have told her under that kind of duress. I think, considering who he was, he didn't tell her anything. But if
he did, he knew I'd taken it to the compound, to hide it for safekeeping, but not where in the compound.”

“If she somehow figures out it's there somewhere, it still puts her in a bind. It's a big place. And even if she could get in—”

“Big
if
with my father's security. But if she was smart enough to, say, get hired as staff, or wheedle an invitation, she still wouldn't know where to start looking. I put it—”

“Don't tell me.” Instinctively she covered her ears. “What if—”

“What if something goes very wrong and she gets to you? If it does, you're going to tell her the Cherub and Chariot is in the small safe in the office of the stables. We don't have horses currently, so it's not being used. It's a five-digit code. Three-one-eight-nine-zero. That's Oliver's birthday, month, day, year. If I'd told Vinnie, maybe he'd be alive.”

“No.” She reached out to touch his hand. “They meant to kill him all along. If they'd left him alive, he would have told you, told the police. I think, I honestly think, if he'd had the egg himself, given it to them, they still would've killed him.”

“I know that.” He tore a breadstick in two, more for the act of rending than out of a desire for it. Still, he offered her half. “And it's hard to accept it. But you need to know where it is.”

“To use as a bargaining chip for myself, or to retrieve it if she gets to you.”

“Hopefully neither one. Oliver had it. He must have reneged on the deal, or changed the terms of the deal looking for a bigger payoff. He'd never have considered they'd kill him for it, kill his lady—and he must have used her as the contact.”

“The optimist,” she said quietly. “The optimist always believes the best will happen, not the worst.”

“He'd have believed it. Give them some grief, sure, so he covered his bases sending me the key. But he'd have figured he'd convince them to pay up—maybe dangled finding other items of particular interest to the client.”