The Collector (25 page)

“That's a fool's game.”

“He was.” Ash looked down into his wineglass. “I could play a variation on it.”

“What sort of variation?”

“Oliver had to have a way to contact this woman or her boss, or knew someone who had a way to contact them. I have to find that. Then I contact them and propose a new deal.”

“What's to stop them, once they know you have it, from coming after you, the way they did Oliver and Vinnie? Ash.” She laid a hand over his. “I really meant it when I said I didn't want them to try to kill you.”

“I'll make it clear the egg is well secured. Let's say a location that requires my presence and that of an authorized representative to remove. If anything happens to me—I'm killed, have an accident, go missing—I've left instructions with another representative to transfer the box and its contents to the Metropolitan Museum of Art for immediate donation.”

To her mind, he said it all—especially the words “I'm killed”—too casually. “Maybe it would work. I need to think about it.”

“Since I have to figure out how to let her or her boss know I'm in the market, there's time to think.”

“Or you could donate it now, make that previously suggested splash about it, and they'd have no reason to come after you.”

“She'd disappear. Either to evade the authorities or to evade them and the man who hired her. Three people are dead, and two of them meant a lot to me. I can't just step aside.”

She had to take a moment. She had feelings for him—she'd slept with him—she was
involved
with him on a number of levels now. And still she wasn't quite sure how to approach him on this.

Direct, she told herself, was always best.

“I think you're probably right about her disappearing. If that happened, the worry and risk would be over.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Let's be optimistic ourselves on that, just for now. And still you'd never have justice or closure, or at least the possibility of justice and closure would be out of your hands. And that's really it, isn't it? You want them, at least a part of them, in your own hands. You need to deal with her the way you need to deal with an obnoxious drunk in a bar.”

“I wouldn't punch her. She's a woman, and some rules are too ingrained.”

She sat back, studied his face. He had a way of appearing calm and reasonable, but the underlayment was steely determination. He'd made up his mind, and he'd move forward with or without her help.

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“I'm in. We'll need to refine things, work it all out step-by-step because I doubt running a con is in your repertoire.”

“Maybe we should sleep on it.”

She picked up her wine, smiled. “Maybe we should.”

J
ulie couldn't sleep. Hardly a wonder given the circumstances. She'd started her day attending a funeral, where her closest friend had stormed off after being insulted by the departed's father, and ended it with her ex-husband sleeping in her guest room.

And in between there'd been another murder, which was horrible, especially since she'd met Vincent Tartelli and his wife at one of Ash's shows.

But knowing it all generated from the discovery of one of the lost Imperial eggs? That was fascinating.

She really wished she could see the egg, and knew she shouldn't be
thinking about the thrill of seeing a lost treasure when people were dead.

But thinking about that was considerably less uncomfortable than thinking about Luke sleeping in the next room.

She rolled over—again—and finding herself staring at the ceiling, tried to use it as a backdrop, constructed her image of the Cherub with Chariot there.

But the compass of her thoughts veered right back to her true north, and Luke.

They'd had dinner together, just two civilized people discussing murder and priceless Russian treasures over Thai food. She hadn't argued about his staying over. She'd been unnerved, understandably, she told herself. It seemed perfectly clear now that whoever had killed Oliver, and now poor Mr. Tartelli, had broken into her apartment.

She wouldn't come back, of course she wouldn't come back. But if she did . . . Julie could stand for women's rights and equality, and still feel safer having a man in the house, considering everything.

But when the man was Luke, it brought back all those memories—most of them good. A lot of them sexy. Good, sexy memories didn't encourage sleep.

Obviously she shouldn't have gone to bed so early, but it had seemed safer, smarter, to tuck herself into her own room with Luke tucked away elsewhere.

She could get her iPad, do some work, play some games. She could read. Any of that would serve as a productive distraction. So she'd just go quietly into the kitchen, get the tablet and make herself some of the herbal tea recommended by the nutritionist she'd fired for being completely unreasonable—her body
needed
regular infusions of caffeine and artificial sweetener. But the tea relaxed her.

She rose, took the precaution of putting a robe over her chemise. Easing her door open, careful as a thief, she tiptoed into the kitchen.

Using only the stove light, she put water in the kettle, set it on to boil. Better, much better than tossing and turning and reliving old sexy memories, she decided as she opened a cupboard for the tin of tea. A nice, soothing drink, a little work, then maybe a very dull book.

She'd sleep like a baby.

Already more content, she got out her pretty little teapot because the soft green color and the lilac blooms made her happy. The process of heating the pot, measuring the tea, getting her strainer kept her focus on the homey task at hand.

“Can't you sleep?”

She let out a distinct and embarrassing squeal, dropped the tea tin—which fortunately she'd just closed—and stared at Luke.

He wore nothing but his suit pants—zipped but not buttoned—so it was hardly her fault her first thought was the boy she'd married had filled out really, really well.

The second was regret she'd taken off her makeup.

“Didn't mean to startle you.” He came forward, picked up the tin.

“I didn't mean to wake you.”

“You didn't. I heard you out here, but wanted to make sure it
was
you.”

Civilized, she reminded herself. Mature. “I couldn't turn my brain off. And I don't know what to think or what to feel having murder so close to home. Then the egg. I can't get my mind off that either. It's a major find, a huge discovery in the art world, and my closest friend is involved in all of it.”

Talking too fast, she told herself. Can't seem to slow down.

Why was her kitchen so small? They were all but on top of each other.

“Ash will take care of Lila.”

“Nobody takes care of Lila, but yes, I know he'll try.”

She pushed at her hair, imagined it a wild mess after the tossing and turning in bed.

Naked face, bad hair. Thank God she hadn't turned on the overhead light.

“Do you want some tea? It's an herbal mix with valerian, skullcap, chamomile and some lavender. Really good for insomnia.”

“Have a lot of that?”

“Not really. More your basic stress and restlessness.”

“You should try meditation.”

She stared at him. “You meditate?”

“No. I can't turn my mind off.”

It made her laugh as she reached for a second mug. “The couple times I've tried it, my
ohm
turns into: Oh, I should've bought that fabulous bag I saw at Barneys. Or should I be marketing this artist this way instead of that way? Or why did I eat that cupcake?”

“Me, it starts spinning around staff scheduling, health department inspections. And cupcakes.”

She set the lid on the pot to let the tea steep. “Tonight, it was murder and Fabergé and . . .”

“And?”

“Oh, things.”

“Funny, mine was murder and Fabergé and you.”

She glanced toward him, then away when that single quick meeting of eyes made her stomach flutter. “Well, considering the circumstances . . .”

“There's always been a lot of you in my head.” He trailed a finger from her shoulder to her elbow—an old habit she remembered well. “A lot of wondering with you in the center. What if we'd done this instead of that? What if I'd said this and not that? Asked this instead of not asking?”

“It's natural to wonder.”

“Have you?”

“Yes, of course. Do you want honey? I take it plain, but I have honey if—”

“Do you ever wonder why we couldn't make it work? Why both of us did stupid things instead of working toward figuring out how to fix it?”

“I wanted to be mad at you instead. It seemed easier to be mad at you instead of wishing I'd said this, or you'd done that. We were just kids, Luke.”

He took her arm, turned her, took her other arm. Held her so they were face-to-face. “We're not kids anymore.”

His hands so firm, warming her skin through the thin silk of her robe—and his eyes so fixed on hers. All the wondering, all the thoughts, all the memories simply cut through the line she'd told herself was common sense.

“No,” she said, “we're not.”

With nothing holding her back, she moved to him, moved into him, to take what she wanted.

And later, with the tea forgotten on the counter, with her body curled to his, she slept like a baby.

K
nowing she needed to play catch-up, and having nowhere else practical to play it, Lila made coffee, then set up a temporary workstation in Ash's eating nook.

And there, pushed herself back into the story—one she knew hadn't gotten enough of her attention in the last few days.

Dressed in Ash's shirt, she blocked everything else out, and went back to high school and werewolf wars.

She put in a solid two hours before she heard Ash come in. She held up a finger to ask for quiet, then finished off the last thought.

Keying it to save, she looked up, smiled. “Good morning.”

“Yeah. What are you doing?”

“Writing. I really needed to get back on schedule there, and you timed it perfectly. It's a good place to stop for now.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“Oh.” She brushed tears away. “I just killed off a sympathetic character. It had to be done, but I feel really bad about it. I'm going to miss him.”

“Human or werewolf?”

She pulled a tissue from the mini pack always kept handy at her
workstation. “Werewolves are human except for three nights—in my lore—a month. But werewolf. My main character's going to be shattered.”

“Condolences. Do you want more coffee?”

“No, thanks. I've already had two. I thought setting up here would be the most out of your way,” she continued as he tapped his machine for his own cup. “I can't go to my next job until this afternoon, and I don't feel like I can go to Julie's now. Not sure what's what there.”

“You're fine.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Everything's wrong before coffee.” He took the first gulp of it black. “I could probably scramble some eggs if you want.”

She looked at him, hair tousled, face scruffy again—and definitely cranky around the eyes. “Scrambled eggs is one of the few things I cook really well. I'll trade that for a place to hang out until two.”

“Sold.” He reached in the fridge, found a carton of eggs.

“Sit down and have your coffee, and I'll fulfill my part of the deal.”

He didn't sit, but watched her go back to the fridge, root around until she found some cheese, the butter. Drinking his coffee, he just leaned against the counter as she poked through the cabinets for his skillet, a little bowl, a whisk—a tool he couldn't quite remember buying.

“You look good in the morning,” he told her.

“Ah, coffee's doing its work.” She glanced back with a smile as fresh and cheerful as a spring tulip. “I feel good in the morning, usually. Everything starts fresh in the morning.”

“Some things hold over. Is there any way you can cancel this job? Just stay here until the only egg we have to think about is scrambled?”

“I can't. There's not enough time to find a replacement, or to clear that with the clients. They're counting on me. Besides,” she went on as she broke eggs into the bowl, “HAG can't know where I'll be.”

“You have a website.”

“That only lists when I'm booked, not where or any client information. She'd have no reason to look for me in Tudor City.”

“Maybe not, but it's a good distance from here if anything happens.”

She added cheese to the eggs, a touch of salt, a bit of pepper. “You're worried about looking out for me, but I have many skills for looking out for myself. You just haven't had occasion to see them in action.” She poured the egg mix into the skillet, where she'd melted a pat of butter. “Want some toast with this? Got any bread?”

He got the bread, popped a couple slices in the toaster. He could work on her, and this part of the problem, later. “How much more time do you need with the werewolves?”

“If I can get this next scene drafted—where Kaylee finds Justin's mauled body—I'd feel very accomplished. I've got it in my head, so another couple of hours should do it.”

“Then you'll have a couple hours after that and between your next job to pose for me again. That'll work.”

He finished his coffee, immediately made a second before getting out two plates.

“Try this,” she suggested. “Will that work for you, Lila?”

He snagged the toasted bread, dropped one on each plate. “Will that work for you, Lila?”

“I don't see why not.” She divided up the eggs, skillet to plates, then handed him one. “Let's see how the writing goes.”

“Fair enough.”

A
few blocks away, Julie woke. She felt amazing, wonderfully loose, blissfully rested, and let out a long, contented sigh as she stretched her arms high. Her mood bumped down a notch when she saw Luke wasn't beside her, but she shook that off.

He ran a bakery, she reminded herself. He'd told her he'd be up and gone before five
A.M
.

Gone were the days when she considered five
A.M.
a reasonable hour to fall into bed after a party, but she was a long way off from finding it a reasonable hour to get up and go.

She had to admire his work ethic, but a little lazy morning sex would've been so perfect. Especially followed up with breakfast where she could've shown off her own kitchen skills. Limited, yes, she thought, but she made killer French toast.

Catching herself dreaming of lazy mornings and long nights, she pulled herself up short. Those days were over, she reminded herself, just like all-night parties.

It had just been sex. Really great sex between two people with a history, but just sex.

No point in complicating it, she told herself as she climbed out of bed, found the robe where it had landed the night before—on top of her bedside lamp. They were both adults now, adults who could treat sex—whether a one-time thing or an affair—in a reasonable, responsible way.

She had no intention of thinking of it beyond just that.

Now, like a reasonable, responsible adult, she'd get her coffee, grab a bagel—or some yogurt because she hadn't remembered to buy bagels—then get ready for work.

She strolled into the kitchen, humming, then stopped dead.

There on her counter, sitting on one of her pretty china cake plates, was a big golden muffin, glistening with sugar. One of her glass bowls sat upside down over it like a dome.

Slowly, carefully, she lifted the bowl. Leaned down, took a little sniff.

Blueberry. He'd found the blueberries she'd bought the other day and used them in the muffin. Though given its perfect proportions it seemed almost sacrilegious, she broke off part of the top, sampled it.

It tasted every bit as perfect as it looked.

He'd baked her a muffin. From scratch.

What did that mean?

Did a muffin mean thanks for the really good sex? Or did it mean relationship? Did it mean . . . ?

How the hell was she supposed to know what it meant? Nobody but her grandmother had ever baked her a muffin before. And he'd thrown her off with this before she'd even had a chance to clear her head with a cup of coffee.

She broke off another piece, ate it while she brooded over it.

I
n the basement below the bakery, Luke kneaded dough on the floured butcher-block worktable. He had a machine that efficiently cut this labor out of the process, but when he could, he preferred getting his hands in it.

It gave him time to think—or just not think at all, with the rhythm of his hands and arms, the texture of the dough. The first batches of the morning had already been mixed, finished their two risings, and were baking in the brick oven behind him.

Today he needed this second round of loaves for a specific customer request.

He and his main baker had done the muffins, rolls, Danishes, donuts and bagels for the early-morning crowd in the main ovens during that first rising—and started the cookies, pies, scones and cupcakes during the second.

Once he had this dough rising, he'd head up, pitch in.

He glanced at the clock set prominently on the stainless steel shelves against the far wall. Nearly eight now, so he imagined Julie was up.

He wondered if she'd found the muffin he'd left her. She'd always had a fondness for blueberries.

And dark chocolate. He'd have to make her something special there.

God, he'd missed her. So much more than he'd let himself admit all these years. He'd missed the look of her, the sound of her, the feel of her.

He'd sworn off redheads after Julie. Tall redheads with great bodies and bold blue eyes. For months, maybe years, after they'd split he'd ached for her at odd moments—when he saw something he knew would make her laugh, while he struggled through the hell of law school. Even the day he opened Baker's Dozen he'd thought of her, wished he could show her he'd found his way, had made something of himself.

Every woman who'd passed through his life since Julie had done just that. Passed through. Distractions, diversions, all temporary no matter how much he'd wanted to make something solid and real. She'd always been there, in the back of his mind, in the center of his heart.

Now he just had to figure out how to reel her slowly back into his life, and keep her there.

“Nearly done here,” he called when he heard someone coming down the stairs. “Five minutes.”

“They said it was all right if I came down. Well, the girl with purple hair did,” Julie added when he looked up.

“Sure. Come on down.”

She lit him up, that flaming hair tamed back with silver combs, the amazing body poured into a dress the color of the blueberries he'd mixed in her muffin.

“I didn't expect to see you, but welcome to my cave. I'm nearly finished with this. iPod's on the shelf there, turn the music down.”

She did so, muting Springsteen, and remembering he'd always been high on the Boss. “I spend a lot of time down here, or in the main kitchen, in the back office. It must be why I never saw you come in. There's cold drinks in the cooler,” he added, watching her while he kneaded the mass of dough. “Or I can get you a coffee from upstairs.”

“I'm fine. Thanks, I'm fine. I need to know what it means.”

“What? Like the meaning of life?” He shoved at the dough with the heels of his hands, gauged the texture. Just a couple more minutes. “I haven't come to any firm conclusions on that.”

“The muffin, Luke.”

“The meaning of the muffin?” God, she smelled good, and he realized the scent of her mixed with the yeasty smell of bread would fuse together in his head. “Its meaning, in fact entire purpose, is: Eat me. Did you?”

“I want to know why you baked me a muffin. It's a simple question.”

“I'm a baker?”

“So you bake a muffin in the morning for every woman you sleep with.”

He knew that clipped tone—it came back to him with perfect pitch. Nerves and annoyance, he thought. Over a muffin? “Some prefer a Danish—and no, I don't. But I didn't see baking one for you as a questionable move. It was a muffin.”

She hitched her enormous work bag more securely on her shoulder. “We slept together.”

“We certainly did.” He continued to knead—kept his hands busy—but his pleasure in the work, in the morning, in her, caved in. “Is that the questionable move or is the muffin?”

“I think we need to be clear about all of it.”

“Proceed to be clear.”

“Don't take a tone. We had a difficult day yesterday, and we have friends involved in something scary and confusing. We have a history, and we . . . we couldn't sleep so we had sex. Good sex, as adults. Without any . . . complications. Then you baked me a muffin.”

“I can't deny it. I baked the muffin.”

“I just want to be clear we both know what it was—last night. That it doesn't need to be complicated, especially when, through Lila and Ash, we're in a very complicated situation.”

“It's all simple, just like it was, I thought, a simple muffin.”

“All right, then. Good. Thanks. I have to get to work.”