The Collector (35 page)

And for a time that green laser of a gaze focused solely on the canvas. She thought he'd forgotten she was there. Just an image to create, just colors, textures, shape.

Then his eyes locked on hers again, held, held until she swore the breath just left her body. One hot, vibrant moment before he trained his attention on the canvas again.

He was, she thought, an emotional roller coaster. She had to remind herself she liked fast, wild rides—but a man who could leave you breathless without a word, without a touch, held formidable power. Did he know what he did to her, the way her heart bounced around in her chest, the nerves he had racing over her skin?

They were lovers now, and she'd always been comfortable with the physical. But this emotional whirlwind was new, and heady, and just a little unnerving.

Just as her arms began to tremble, the dog woke, whined and pranced over to her.

“Don't,” he snapped when she started to lower her arms.

“Ash, my arms weigh a ton each, and the dog wants to go out.”

“Just hold it, another minute. A minute.”

The dog whined; her arms trembled. His brush moved in long, slow strokes.

“Okay. All right.” He stepped back, eyes narrowed, brows drawn to study the day's work. “Okay.”

Lila scooped up the dog, rubbed aching shoulders. “Can I see?”

“It's you.” With a shrug, he stepped to a worktable, began to clean his brushes.

He had her body, the long flow of the dress, the flirtation of the underskirts. She could see the outline where her arms would be, her face, but he'd yet to paint those in. Just the lines of her, the angles, one exposed leg with the foot lifted onto her toes.

“I could be anyone.”

“But you're not.”

“The Headless Gypsy.”

“I'll get to it.”

He'd done some of the background—the orange and gold of the campfire, the billow of smoke behind her, a section of star-slashed sky. He wouldn't need her for that, she realized.

“Why do you wait to paint the face?”

“Your face,” he corrected. “Because it's the most important. The lines, the colors, the curve of your arms—they're important, they all say something. But your face will say it all.”

“What will it say?”

“We'll find out. You can go ahead and change, and you can grab something from the dressing room if you want to replace your shirt. I'll take the dog out. I need to toss a few things together, then we can go back. I'll stay tonight.”

“Just like that?”

The faintest flicker of annoyance ran over his face. “We've crossed that point, Lila. If you want to backtrack you can tell me to sleep in one of the other bedrooms. I won't, I'll seduce you, but you can tell me.”

Since she couldn't decide if his matter-of-fact tone was irritating or exciting, she left it alone, walked back to the dressing room.

She considered her options, settled on a mint-green tank, studied her bandaged graze before she put it on. And then studied her face.

What would it say? she wondered. Did he already know? Was he waiting? She wished he'd painted it so she could know what he saw when he looked at her.

How could she settle in, settle down without the answers? How could she until she knew how it all worked—how he really worked?

She took down the dramatic makeup wondering why she'd bothered with it since her canvas face remained a blank. He'd probably have some artistic reason she needed to be fully in this character he envisioned.

Seduction? she thought. No, she didn't want to be seduced. That implied an imbalance of power, a kind of involuntary yielding. But he
was right, they'd crossed that line—and both knew she wanted him to stay with her, to be with her.

Posing for him had left her feeling edgy, she admitted. Better to put that aside, as God knew there were bigger things to feel edgy over.

The blood on her ruined shirt served as a stark reminder of that. Studying it, she took herself back through the attack. She could admit she should've been more aware, paid more attention. If she'd been more aware she might not have been taken by surprise—and might not have a ruined shirt and a bandaged side. She could and would correct that. Still, she felt she'd won that little battle.

Jai drew a little blood, but that's all she got.

She rolled up the shirt to stuff it in her bag. Better to toss it out in the trash at her client's than at Ash's. If he came across it, he'd only toughen his stance on protecting her.

She pulled her phone out, pushed the shirt in. And since the phone was in her hand, did a quick check.

Five minutes later, she rushed down the stairs just as Ash brought the dog back in.

“Antonia got back to me. I got the hook in, Ash. She spoke to her father—the one who dated Miranda Swanson. The name-dropping worked, plus she has a friend who read my book. It worked.”

“What did her father say?”

“He wants to know more about what I'm doing, what I'm looking for. I told her I was traveling to Florence with some friends next week, asked if it would be possible to meet him—when and where at his choosing. Then I dropped the Archer name because, well, money talks to money, right?”

“It might listen more willingly.”

“Same thing.” Pleased with herself, she dug into her purse for a little ball, rolled it so the dog could give chase. “I'm doing a research-slash-pleasure trip with you and two friends. I think the door just cracked open a little wider.”

“Maybe. The Bastones have to know what they have. Miranda Swanson might be clueless, but I'm not buying that a man like Bastone doesn't know he has a rare objet d'art worth a fortune.”

Since Earl Grey brought the ball back to him, dropped it hopefully at his foot, Ash gave it a boot.

“If he still has it at all,” he added, while the dog ran joyfully after the rolling ball.

“If he— Crap, they might have sold it. I didn't think of that.”

“Either way, the family businesses—vineyards, olive groves—generate millions a year, and he's their CEO. You don't hold and maintain that position being clueless. If he still has it, why would he tell us, show us?”

“You did some very pessimistic thinking while walking the dog.”

He kicked the ball again. “I consider it more realistic thinking.”

“We've got our toe in the crack of the door. We need to see what happens next.”

“That's what we're going to do, but with realistic expectations. Let me toss some stuff into a bag, then we'll go back to your place.” He crossed to her, then cupped her face in his hands. “With realistic expectations.”

“Which are?”

He laid his lips on hers, easy, for a moment easy. Then he dived, fast and deep, dragging her with him, leaving her no choice. And for a moment, another moment, to wish for one.

“We have something.” He kept her face in his hands. “Something I think we'd have whenever, however, we met. It needs attention.”

“There's so much happening.”

“And this is part of it. This door's open, Lila, and I'm going through it. I'm taking you with me.”

“I don't want to be taken anywhere.”

“Then you need to catch up. I won't be long.”

As she watched him walk up the stairs, every inch of her body
vibrated, from the kiss, from the words, from the steady, determined look in his eyes.

“What the hell have I gotten myself into?” she muttered to the dog. “And if I can't figure it out, you're sure no help.”

She picked up his leash and, tucking it into her bag, noted her balled-up shirt. Time to pay more attention all around, she told herself.

Being taken by surprise could cause more than a little damage.

S
he didn't mind the circular route back. She considered it a kind of safari. Going out by Ash's service entrance, a subway to midtown, where he detoured into Saks to replace her shirt. Then the walk east to Park to catch a cab uptown.

“The replacement cost twice what I paid for the original,” she said as she unlocked the apartment—where Earl Grey raced to his squeaky bone in wild joy. “Plus you can't keep buying me clothes.”

“I haven't bought you any clothes.”

“First the red dress—”

“Wardrobe, necessary for the painting. Do you want a beer?”

“No. And you just bought me a shirt.”

“You were coming to me,” he pointed out. “If I'd been coming to you, you'd be buying me a shirt. Are you going to work?”

“Maybe—yes,” she corrected. “For a couple hours anyway.”

“Then I'll take this upstairs, finish making the arrangements for the trip.”

“I came to you because of the painting.”

“That's right, and now I'm here so you can work.” He ran his hand down her hair, gave the ends a little tug. “You're looking for trouble, Lila, where there isn't any.”

“Then why do I feel like I'm in trouble?”

“Good question. I'll be on the third floor if you need me.”

Maybe she wanted to use the third floor, she brooded. He didn't think of that. Sure, all her work was set up on the main floor, but what if she had a sudden creative whim to work on the terrace?

She didn't—but she could have.

There was almost more than a possibility she was being a moron—worse, a bitchy moron—but she couldn't seem to stop.

He'd boxed her in so neatly, so skillfully, she hadn't seen the walls going up. Walls made her feel restricted, so she didn't own or rent any. That kept things simple, loose and ultimately practical, given her lifestyle.

He'd changed things, she realized, so she found herself standing in a brand-new floor plan. Instead of enjoying it, she kept checking to be sure the door was handy.

“A moron,” she muttered.

She plucked her ruined shirt out of her bag, buried it in the kitchen trash she'd take out later. She made a pitcher of cold lemon water, settled down with it in her work space.

A big perk of writing was that when her own world got a little bit too complicated, she could dive right into another.

She stayed in it, hit the sweet spot where words and images began to flow. She lost track of time, moving from wrenching loss, to steely determination and a quest for revenge, and ended with her Kaylee preparing for the final battle of the book—and final exams.

Lila sat back, pressed her fingers to tired eyes, rolled tensed shoulders.

And noticed for the first time Ash sitting in the living room, angled toward her with his sketch pad, and the little dog curled on his foot.

“I didn't hear you come down.”

“You weren't finished.”

She shoved at the hair she'd bundled back and up. “Were you drawing me?”

“Still am,” he said idly. “It's a different look for you when you're into the work. Intense. Almost weepy one minute, obviously pissed off the next. I could do an entire series on it.”

He continued to sketch. “Now you're uncomfortable, and that's too bad. I can go back upstairs until you're finished.”

“No, I'm done for the day. I have to let what's coming circle around a little.”

She got up, walked to him. “Can I see?” Then took the sketch pad from him. Paging through, she saw herself, hunched over—very bad posture, she thought, instinctively straightening—her hair a wreck, and her face mirroring the mood she was writing.

“God.” She reached up to pull the clamp from her hair, but he caught her hand.

“Don't. Why do you do that? It's you, working, you caught up in whatever you see in your head, then put on the page.”

“I look a little crazy.”

“No, involved.” He tugged on her hand until she relented, sat on his lap with the pad.

“Maybe both.” She let herself laugh now, coming to one of her with her head back, her eyes closed. “You could call this
Sleeping on the Job
.”

“No.
Imagining.
What were you writing?”

“A lot today. It was one of those good, long stretches. Kaylee's grown up some—hard and fast. I'm a little sorry, but it had to happen. Losing someone that close to her, knowing one of her kind could do that, kill someone she loved—did do that to punish her—it . . . Oh! It's her.”

She'd flipped to another page, and there was her Kaylee, in wolf form in deeply shadowed woods.

Wildly beautiful, her body the sleek and muscled wolf, and her eyes eerily human and full of sorrow. Above the denuded trees, a full moon soared.

“It's exactly how I see her. How could you know?”

“I told you I read the book.”

“Yes, but . . . It's her. Young, sleek, sad, caught between dual natures. It's the first time I've
seen
her, except in my head.”

“I'll frame it for you, then you can see her whenever you want.”

She let her head rest on his shoulder. “You drew one of the most important people in my life as if you knew her. Is that a form of seduction?”