The Collector (28 page)

“And figure out how to untangle things with Luke.”

“And that.”

“I'll walk out with you. I need to take the dog for a walk anyway, and pick up a few supplies.”

“What dog? I didn't see a dog.”

“He's easy to miss. You know you can bring your paperwork here if you don't want to be alone,” she said as she led the way back to the little elevator. “It's a big place.”

“I probably need a little brooding time, and I expect Ash is coming back tonight.”

“He is, with dinner. But like I said, it's a big place. You're my girl, too.”

Julie gave her a one-armed hug as they stepped out onto the main floor. “Work and brooding tonight. I may take you up on it later this week.”

She set her empty glass on the wet bar, picked up her work bag as Lila came back from a detour into the kitchen with a little blue leash studded with rhinestones.

“Oh!” she said when Lila picked up the little white ball that was Earl Grey. “He's so tiny, he's so adorable.”

“And very sweet. Here.”

She passed him to Julie, who made kissy noises and coos while Lila got her own purse. “Oh, I want one! I wonder if I could take him to work. He'd completely disarm clients and they'd end up buying more.”

“Always thinking.”

“How else am I going to get that major raise, my terrace apartment and a tiny little dog I can carry in my purse? I'm glad I came by,” she added as they walked out. “I came in feeling frustrated and stressed, and I'm leaving feeling like I just finished a good yoga class.”

“Namaste.”

They parted ways on the sidewalk, with Julie slipping into a cab hailed by the efficient doorman. She settled in for the ride downtown, checked her e-mail. Nothing from Luke—but why would he contact
her? She'd figure out how to approach him, but for now she had enough messages from work to keep her occupied.

She answered her assistant, contacted a client directly to discuss a painting, then, checking the time, decided she could reach out to the artist—currently in Rome. When a client wanted to negotiate, it was her job to broker the best deal for the gallery, the artist and the client.

She spent the ride soothing artistic moodiness, boosting pride, hammering a bit of practicality. Then advising her artist to go celebrate because she believed she could persuade the client to purchase the second piece he'd shown interest in if they made it seem like a deal.

“You have to buy paint,” she muttered when she ended the call. “And food. I'm about to make you almost rich . . . Mr. Barnseller! It's Julie. I think I have a very good proposition for you.”

She signaled the cabbie as she went into her pitch, pointed to the corner, fumbled out her wallet. “Yes, I've just spoken with Roderick personally. He has such an emotional attachment to
Counter Service
. I did tell you he worked in that diner to support himself through art school? Yes, yes, but I've explained your reaction to it—and to the companion piece,
Order Up
. They're wonderful individually, of course, but as a set, so charming and compelling.”

She paid off the cabbie, wiggled her way out of the cab, balancing phone and bag. “As he's so reluctant to break the set, I've talked to him about pricing them as a set. Personally, I'd hate to see someone else snatch away
Order Up
, especially since I believe, strongly, Roderick's work is going to go up in value very quickly.”

She let him wheedle, express reluctance, but she heard the closing deal in his voice. He wanted the paintings—she only had to make him feel he'd gotten a bargain.

“I'll be frank, Mr. Barnseller, Roderick's so reluctant to break the set he won't budge on the price for it alone. But I was able to convince him to agree to two hundred thousand for the set—and I know I can
get him to agree to one-eighty-five—even if it means adjusting our commission to make both of you happy.”

She paused a moment, did a little happy dance on the sidewalk even as she kept her voice cool and professional. “You have wonderful taste, an exceptional eye for art. I know you'll be pleased every time you look at the paintings. I'm going to contact the gallery, have them mark them as sold. We'll pack and ship them for you. Yes, of course you can settle that with my assistant over the phone, or come in and see me tomorrow. Congratulations, Mr. Barnseller. You're very welcome. There's nothing I love more than putting the right art with the right person.”

She did a second dance, then contacted the artist. “Buy champagne, Roderick. You just sold two paintings. We got one-eighty-five. Yes, I know I told you I'd ask for one-seventy-five. I didn't have to go that low. He loves your work, and that's as much to celebrate as your forty percent. Go, tell Georgie, celebrate, and tomorrow start painting me something fabulous to replace the ones you sold. Yes, I love you, too.
Ciao.
”

Grinning, she texted her assistant with instructions, automatically veering around other pedestrians. Still looking at her phone, she turned at the short steps of her building. And nearly tripped over Luke.

He'd been sitting on her front steps for nearly an hour, waiting. And he watched her progress down the sidewalk—the rapid-fire conversation, the pause to bounce from foot to foot, the big, happy grin.

And now her jolt of surprise.

“I went by your gallery. They said you'd left early, so I figured I'd wait.”

“Oh. I went by to see Lila uptown.”

“And got some good news in the last block home.”

“A good sale. A good one for the gallery, for the artist, for the client. It's nice to be able to broker for all three parties.” After a moment's
hesitation, she sat on the steps beside him, and for another moment watched, as he did, New York rush by.

God, she thought, how could a twice-married, twice-divorced urbanite feel so much the way she had at eighteen, sitting on her parents' stoop in Bloomfield, New Jersey, with her high school sweetheart? Stupid in love.

“What are we doing here, Luke?”

“I figured out an answer to your question from this morning.”

“Oh, that. I was going to get in touch. That was just silly. I don't know what got into me, and I'm—”

“I've loved you since the first day I saw you—first day of high school, first day of Mrs. Gottlieb's deadly U.S. history class.”

It had been deadly, Julie thought, but pressed her lips together to hold in words, emotions, tears.

“It's about half my life. Maybe we were too young, maybe we screwed it up.”

“We were.” Tears blurred her vision; she let them come. “We did.”

“But I never got over you. I'm never going to get over you. I did pretty well between then and now—damn well. But it's now, and it's still you. It's always going to be you. That's it.” He looked at her. “That's what I've got.”

A ball of emotion rolled up from her heart into her throat. The tears could come, but they were warm, and sweet. Her hands trembled a little as she lifted them to frame his face. “It was you, that first day. It's still you. It's always going to be you.”

She laid her lips on his, warm and sweet, while New York rushed by, and thought of her mother's hydrangeas, big balls of blue, beside the stoop where they'd sat in summers so long ago.

Some things came back to bloom.

“Let's go inside.”

He laid his forehead on hers, let out a long, long breath. “Yeah, let's go inside.”

L
ila planned candles and wine, pretty plates and glasses on the terrace. Whatever the takeout meal, it could be romantic and lovely with the right accessories. And she considered New York on a summer night the best of them.

Then it started to rain.

She reassessed. A cozy meal in the dining room in front of the rain-lashed windows. Still romantic, especially since thunder began to roll.

She took time to fuss with herself as well, brushing her hair smooth into a low, loose tail, makeup that didn't look like she fussed but took forever to perfect. Slim black pants and a sheer copper-colored top she liked to think brought out the gold in her eyes—over a lacy camisole.

It occurred to her if she and Ash continued to see each other, she'd have to reup her very tired wardrobe.

It also occurred to her he was late.

She lit candles, put on music, poured herself a glass of wine.

By eight, she was on the point of calling him when the house phone rang.

“Ms. Emerson, this is Dwayne on the door. You have a Mr. Archer in the lobby.”

“Oh, you can . . . put him on, would you, Dwayne?”

“Lila.”

“Just making sure. Give the phone to Dwayne, I'll have him send you up.”

See, she thought after she'd cleared Ash, careful. Smart. Safe.

When she opened the door, Ash stood, hair dripping, holding a takeout bag.

“Your smile didn't work as your umbrella. Come in, I'll get you a towel.”

“I got steak.”

She poked her head out of the powder room. “Takeout steak?”

“I know a place, and I wanted a steak. I guessed on yours, went with medium. If you want rare, you can take mine.”

“Medium's fine.” She came back with a towel, exchanged it for the bag. “I have wine open, but I picked up beer if you'd rather.”

“Beer would be perfect.” Scrubbing his hair with the towel, he followed her, and stopped at the dining room.

“You went to some trouble.”

“Nice plates and candles are never trouble for a girl.”

“You look great. I should've told you right off—and brought you flowers.”

“You're telling me now, and you brought me steak.”

When she held out the beer, he took it, set it aside. And took her.

There it was, she thought, that buzz, that frisson in the blood, all highlighted by a throaty boom of thunder.

With his hands on her arms, he eased her back. “There's a second egg.”

“What?” Those gold-rimmed eyes went huge. “There are two?”

“The translator Vinnie contacted called me just as I got home. He says there are documents describing another egg, the Nécessaire, and he thinks it can be tracked.” He pulled her back, kissed her again. “We just got more leverage. I've spent hours researching it. He's coming back to New York tomorrow, and I'm meeting him here. We're going to find the second egg.”

“Wait a minute. I need to take this in.” She pressed her hands to the sides of her head. “Did Oliver know? Does HAG know?”

“I don't know, but I don't think so. Why wouldn't Oliver have used the second one? Have gone after it, or bargained with the documents? But I don't know.”

Ash picked up the beer again. “I can only try to think the way Oliver would, and he'd have tried to find it. He couldn't have resisted.
Hell, I can't resist, and I'm not anywhere near as impulsive. I should've asked about Kerinov coming here.”

“Kerinov's the translator?”

“Yeah. I should've asked you. It seemed safer, and more efficient, for him to come straight here from the station.”

“It does, it's fine. My head's spinning. A second egg—Imperial egg?”

“Yes. I want to talk to the woman he bought the first one from. He must've gotten the documents from her. She couldn't have known what she had, but she might be able to tell us something. She's out of town, according to her housekeeper, and I couldn't pull where out of her, but I left my name and number.”

“One was beyond, but two?” Trying to take it in, she sat on the arm of the tufted chair. “What does it look like? The second egg.”

“It was designed as an etui—a small, decorative case for women's toiletries. It's decorated with diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds—at least according to my research. The surprise is probably a manicure set, but there aren't any known pictures of this one. I can follow it from the Gatchina Palace, to when it was seized in 1917, sent to the Kremlin, then in 1922 it was transferred to the Sovnarkom.”

“What's that?”

“Lenin's council—Bolshevik-dominated power. And after that transfer, there's no record I could find.”

“A manicure set,” she murmured. “Worth millions. It would be millions again?”

“It would be.”

“It doesn't seem real—any of it. Are you sure you trust this Kerinov?”

“Vinnie did.”

“Okay.” She nodded, rose. “We probably need to warm up the steaks.”

“There are a couple of salted baked potatoes in there, and some asparagus.”

“So we heat and eat—I can't think of the last time I had a steak—and we'll plot and we'll plan.” She opened the bag. “I'm pretty good at the plotting part.”

She glanced up when he ran a hand down her hair. “What?”

“It occurred to me that outside all of this, and all of this is quite a bit, I'm glad I'm here, having dinner with you. I'm glad that later I'll go upstairs with you, be with you. Touch you.”