The Collector (37 page)

“A big disappointment, I imagine.”

“He got out of the movie business about then, to the best of my father's recollection. And the event they both attended was one of the last times Vasin accepted an invitation to a major affair. He became more reclusive, gradually began doing all of his business as Kerinov said, by remote.”

“To have that kind of wealth, and not use some of it to see the world, to go places, enjoy them, meet people.” Absently she wound more pasta around her fork. “He must be a serious germaphobe.”

“It doesn't, according to my father's gauge, make him any less of a ruthless businessman. He's been accused of corporate espionage, but his fleet of lawyers tamp that down, or pay it off—my father's not sure which. Hostile takeovers are a specialty.”

“Sounds like a prince.”

“He certainly thinks so.”

“Ha.” Amused, she stabbed another shrimp.

“He did once allow certain access to his art collection—for articles—but that's been shut down for a number of years, too.”

“So he shutters himself off from society, hoards art, runs his empire of businesses through technology—all of which he can do as he's rich.”

“So rich, no one's exactly sure just how rich. There's something else that makes me lean, along with Alexi, in Vasin's direction.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Twice that my father knew of a business competitor met with a tragic accident.”

“That's a big step up from ruthless,” she commented.

“In addition, a reporter in the mid-nineties was reputedly working on a book on Vasin's father, who was still living. On assignment covering the Oklahoma City bombing, he went missing. He's never been heard from again, no body was ever found.”

“You got that from your father?”

“He dug back, thinking about what happened to Oliver. He doesn't know what I'm after—”

“You haven't told him yet? About the egg? Ash—”

“No, I haven't told him. He's smart enough to realize my interest in Vasin connects to what happened to Oliver. And he's concerned enough as it is without me giving him all the details.”

“Giving him the details would at least give him answers. And I can't lecture you on it”—she brushed her own words away—“since all I told my parents was I'm taking a little vacation.”

“Probably best.”

“That's what I told myself, but I still feel guilty. You don't.”

“Not in the least,” he said easily. “As to the other two names Alexi gave us, Dad doesn't know the woman, but he does know the American, and reasonably well. My take after his rundown on Jack Peterson is the man wouldn't quibble about buying stolen goods, cheating at cards or insider trading, he'd consider all that a game. Murder, especially of an acquaintance's son, wouldn't be on the table. My dad's summary was Peterson likes to play, likes to win, but he can also take losing with good grace.”

“Not the type to hire an assassin.”

“No, it didn't strike me he would be.”

“Okay, so for now, the focus is on Nicholas Romanov Vasin. What do you think might happen if we drop that name on Bastone?”

“We'll find out. Did you sort out the packing?”

“Yes, all under control.”

“Good. Why don't we clear this up? I guess we need to take the dog out. Then I want some more sketches of you.”

To prolong the moment, and to postpone the dishes, the dog, she leaned back with her wine. “You've already started the painting.”

“This is another project. I'm thinking of putting together some new pieces for a show, next winter.” He rose, taking up both their
bowls. “I want at least two more of you, and what I have in mind first is the faerie in the bower.”

“Oh, right, you mentioned that before. Emeralds. Like glittery Tinker Bell.”

“Definitely not like Tinker Bell. Think more Titania, waking up from a midsummer sleep. And naked.”

“What? No.” She laughed at the idea, then remembered she'd said no to the gypsy. “No,” she repeated, and a third time, “No.”

“We'll talk about it. Let's walk the dog. I'll buy you an ice cream cone.”

“You can't bribe me out of my clothes with ice cream.”

“I know how to get you out of your clothes.” He grabbed her, pressed her back against the refrigerator. His mouth ruled hers, his hands roamed, took, teased.

“I'm not posing naked. I'm not hanging in Julie's gallery naked.”

“It's art, Lila, not porn.”

“I know the difference. It's still my naked . . . ness,” she managed when his thumbs brushed over her nipples.

“You have the perfect body for it. Slender, almost delicate but not weak. I'll do a few sketches, some concepts. If you don't like them, I'll tear them up.”

“You'll tear them up.”

He lowered his lips to hers again, lingered. “I'll let you tear them up. But first I need to touch you, I need to make love with you. Then to sketch you when your eyes are still heavy, your lips soft. If you don't see how perfect you are, how powerful, how magical, you'll tear them up. Fair enough.”

“I . . . yes, I—”

“Good.” He kissed her again, took his time, then eased back. “I'll get the dog.”

Half dreaming, Lila went to the closet for the leash. Stopped.

She'd gone from a firm no, she realized, to a qualified yes.

“That was very underhanded.”

“You still have first refusal,” he reminded her, and took the leash. “And an ice cream cone.”

“For an artist, you're a hell of a negotiator.”

“Archer blood.” He clipped on the leash, set Earl Grey down. “Let's go for a walk,” he said, and grinned as the little dog danced.

S
ince room wouldn't be an issue, Lila divided what she thought she needed to take between her suitcases. Room for new that way, she decided. Though she'd intended to send a bag of not-going-to-Italy items to Julie's, Ash took them to his place, and carted her bag of to-be-donated items with him.

He'd take care of it.

She had to admit it was easier, even more efficient—but she couldn't quite pinpoint when she'd started adjusting to “I'll take care of it.”

Plus, she'd caved and posed nude. She'd felt awkward and self-conscious—until he'd showed her the first sketch.

God, she had looked beautiful, and magical. And though the faerie she'd become was obviously naked, the way he'd posed her, the addition of the wings he'd given her, had added just enough modesty to relax her.

The emeralds had become sparkles of dew in her hair, the shimmering leaves in her bower.

The nudity was implied, she thought—but she wasn't sure what the Lieutenant Colonel would have to say about that, if he ever saw the work.

She hadn't torn up the sketches. How could she?

“He knew that,” she said to Earl Grey as she finished arranging the welcome-home flowers for her clients. “He knew he'd get just what
he was after. I can't figure out how I feel about that. You have to admire it, though, don't you?”

She hunkered down where the dog sat, watching her with his paws protectively over the little toy kitten she'd gotten him as a parting gift.

“I'm really going to miss you—my teacup hero.”

When the buzzer sounded, she went to the door, used the peep, then opened it for Ash.

“You could've just called up.”

“Maybe I wanted to say goodbye to Earl Grey. See you around, pal. Ready?”

Her two cases, her laptop and her purse sat by the door. “Stay and be good,” she told the dog. “They'll be home soon.” She took one last glance around—everything in place—then picked up her purse, took the handle of one of the suitcases.

“I picked Luke and Julie up on the way, so we can head straight to the airport. Got your passport? Sorry,” he added when she flicked him a glance. “Habit. Ever travel to Europe with six siblings, three of whom are teenage girls?”

“I can't say I have.”

“Trust me, this is going to be a lot easier, even considering the main purpose of the trip.”

Then he ran a hand down her hair, leaned down, kissed her as the elevator started down.

He did things like that, she thought. Everything practical, organized, “taken care of,” then he'd touch her or look at her, and nothing inside her stayed practical or organized.

She rose up to her toes, tugged his head back to hers. Kissed him back. “Thanks.”

“For?”

“First, for stowing my excess at your place, and taking my cast-offs away. I didn't thank you.”

“You were too busy telling me I didn't have to bother.”

“I know. It's a little problem, but I'm thanking you now. Next, thanks for the trip—whatever the main purpose, I'm going to Italy, one of my favorite places. I'm going with my best friend and her guy, who I like a lot. And I'm going with you. So thanks.”

“I'm going with my best friend, and his lady, and with you. Thanks back.”

“One more thanks, this time in advance. Thanks for not thinking less of me when we get on the private jet and I can't hold back the squeal. Plus there are bound to be buttons and controls for various devices—I looked up the G4. I'm going to want to play with all of them. And talk to the pilots, talk them into letting me sit in the cockpit for a while. Some of this might embarrass you.”

“Lila.” He guided her off the elevator. “I've herded teenage girls around Europe. Nothing embarrasses me.”

“It's a good thing. So,
buon viaggio
to us.”

She took his hand, walked out with him.

S
he didn't squeal, but she did play with everything. Before the wheels were up she'd progressed to first-name basis with the pilot, copilot and their flight attendant.

Minutes after they boarded, she followed the flight attendant into the galley for a tutorial.

“There's a convection oven,” she announced. “Not just a microwave, but an actual oven.”

“You cooking?” Ash wondered.

“I could, if it was like
2012
—the movie—and we had to fly to China. And we have BBML. You didn't say anything about BBML.”

“Possibly because I don't know what it is.”

“Broad band multi-link. We can e-mail while we're flying over the Atlantic. I have to e-mail somebody. I love technology.”

She did a little turn in the aisle. “And there's flowers in the bathroom. That's so nice.”

She laughed at the pop of the champagne cork, said, “Hot damn!”

And drank deep.

She embraced, Ash thought. Maybe he'd seen that without recognizing it in that first meeting, even through the grief, the anger, the
shock. Her openness to the new, interest in whatever came her way. And what seemed to be an absolute refusal to take anything for granted.

He could enjoy this, with her and friends, this in-between. New York and death behind, Italy with whatever they found ahead. But these hours spread into a welcome limbo.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, after a lovely little meal and wine, she made her way to the cockpit.

He had no doubt that before she was done she'd have the life stories of the pilots. It wouldn't surprise him if they let her take the controls for a stretch.

“She'll be flying us before she comes out,” Julie said.

“I was just thinking that.”

“You already know her well. She's getting used to you.”

“Is she?”

“It's hard for her to accept things she didn't earn, to accept someone giving her a hand, and even more, to let herself rely on someone. But she's getting used to you. As someone who loves her a whole lot, it's good to see. I'm going to settle in with my book for a while.”

She rose to move to the front of the cabin, kicked her seat back, snuggled in.

“I'm going to ask her to marry me. Again.”

Ash blinked at Luke. “What?”

“We said we were going to take it slow.” He looked forward, toward the bright fire of her hair. “If she says no, wants to wait, I'm okay with it. But she's going to marry me sooner or later. I'd rather sooner.”

“A month ago you swore you'd never get married again. You weren't even drunk.”

“Because there's only one Julie, and I thought I'd blown it with her. Or we'd blown it with each other,” Luke qualified. “I'm going to buy a ring in Florence, and ask her. I thought I should tell you as we have an agenda, and I'm in for whatever you need. I just need to fit that in.”

He poured the last of the champagne into their glasses. “Wish me luck.”

“I do. And I don't have to ask if you're sure. I can see that.”

“Never been surer.” He looked toward the front of the cabin. “Don't say anything to Lila. She'd try to keep it zipped, but girlfriends have a code. I think.”

“It's in the vault. You're breaking Katrina's heart.”

On a laugh, Luke shook his head. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious. Thanks for that. She'll stop texting me, trying to get me to bring you to a club, or go sailing, or whatever other ploy she thinks of.”

“She does that? She's twelve.”

“She's twenty, and yeah, she does that. I've been your shield, man. You owe me.”

“You can be my best man.”

“I already am.”

H
e thought about being sure and moving ahead, about accepting. He thought about his brother, who had always tried to grab too much and held on to nothing.

He slept lightly when Lila finally wound down and stretched out beside him. When he woke in the darkened cabin with her curled toward him, he knew what he wanted.

He'd always known what he wanted, found the way to get it.

But now it was someone he wanted, not something. To win Lila, he needed more than her acceptance, but he wasn't quite sure what the more was. How could he see clearly when so much blocked the way?

Death brought them together. They'd gone beyond that, but it
remained the start. Death and what had followed, and now what they pursued together.

They needed resolution, both of them, to see the way clear.

He checked his watch, saw they'd land in just over an hour.

The in-between was almost done.

T
hey walked off the plane into Italian sunshine and to a waiting car with a young, flirty driver named Lanzo. With cheerful and excellent English he welcomed them to Florence, vowed to be at their disposal anytime, night or day, during their visit.

“My cousin owns a trattoria very near your hotel. I have a card for you. You will have most wonderful service. My sister, she works at the Uffizi, and she can arrange for you a tour. A private one if you wish it.”

“Do you have a big family?” Lila asked.

“Oh,
sì
. I have two brothers, two sisters and many, many cousins.”

“All in Florence?”

“Most are here, some are not too far away. I have cousins who work for the Bastones. I drive you to the villa in two days' time. They are a most important family, and the villa is very beautiful.”

“Have you been there?”

“
Sì, sì
. I have been, ah . . . a waiter there for important parties. My parents, they have flowers, a shop of flowers. I sometimes take flowers there.”

“You're a jack-of-all-trades.”

“
Scusi?
”

“You work many jobs. Have many skills.”

He drove like a maniac, but then so did everyone else. Enjoying him, Lila engaged him in conversation all the way from the airport, through Florence and to the hotel.

She loved the city, where the light made her think of sunflowers, and the air seemed to breathe art. Florence spread under a bowl of summer blue, motorbikes zipping and weaving along narrow streets, between wonderful old buildings, around colorful piazzas.

And people, she thought, so many people of so many nationalities mixing, mingling at cafés and shops and wonderful old churches.

Red-tiled roofs simmered in the August heat with the curve of the Duomo rising above. Bold blooms in baskets, boxes and fat pots flashed against sun-baked walls.

She caught a glimpse of the lazy snake of the River Arno, wondered if they'd have time to take a walk along its curves, climb up to the bridges—and just
be
.

“You have a most excellent hotel,” Lanzo announced. “You will have such service here.”

“And your cousins?”

“My uncle is bellman here. He will take good care of you.” Lanzo gave her a wink as he pulled up to the hotel.

Tall, thick, dark wood-framed windows against whitewashed walls. The moment Lanzo stopped the car, a man in a perfect gray suit stepped out to greet them.

Lila let it all flow around her—the manager, shaking hands, the welcomes. She simply stood for the moment, basking in it—the pretty street with its shops and restaurants, the buzz of traffic, the feel of being somewhere new and different.

And where she wasn't, she had to accept, in charge. She wandered the lobby while Ash dealt with the details. Everything so quiet and cool, big leather chairs, pretty lamps, more flowers.

Julie joined her, held out a glass. “Sparkling pink grapefruit juice. It's wonderful. Everything okay? You got so quiet.”

“Absorbing. It's all so beautiful, and just a little surreal. We're actually here, all four of us.”

“We're here, and I'm dying for a shower. Once I clear the cobwebs,
I'm going straight out to visit a couple of galleries so I feel like I'm earning my keep. Tomorrow, you and I are going to carve out some shopping time. We're both going to look like we visit the villa of an important Florentine family every day.”

“You were listening.”

“And so happy I could do that and not make conversation with our unquestionably charming driver—who probably has as many women pining over him as he does cousins.”

“He looks straight into your eyes when he talks to you—which worried me a little since he was driving. But it's so
mmm
,” she said for lack of a word.

Then realized Ash did exactly the same. When he spoke to her, when he painted her, he looked straight into her eyes.

They rode the tiny elevator up, with Lila content that their manager escort directed most of his conversation to Ash. And with a subtle flourish, he welcomed them into what turned out to be two combined suites.

Spacious, airy, it combined Old World and modern luxury in a perfect blend.

She imagined herself writing at the little desk angled toward the windows, where the city's rooftops jutted, or sharing breakfast on the sunny terrace, curled up with a book on the creamy white cushions of the couch.

Tangled and wrapped around Ash in the majestic bed under a gilded ceiling.

She plucked a perfect peach from a fruit bowl, sniffed it as she wandered into the bath with its generous glass shower, deep, deep jet tub and acres of black-veined white marble.

She made a date on the spot—candles, Florence glowing against the moonlit sky outside the window. With her and Ash together in hot, frothy water.

She needed to unpack, settle in, get her bearings. She had a steady routine for beginning in a new space. But she continued to wander,
breathing in the peach, tossing windows open to the air, the light, the scents of Florence.

She circled back around to the living space just as Ash closed the main door.

“I've stayed in a lot of impressive spaces,” she told him. “This one just leaped straight to number one. Where are Julie and Luke? We could lose each other in here.”

“In their section. She wanted to unpack, get freshened up. She has a list of galleries to go to, make contact.”

“Right.”

“You didn't ask the manager his marital status, political affiliation and favorite pastimes.”

She had to laugh. “I know, so rude. I was caught up in my own little world. It's wonderful to be in Florence again, and I've never seen it quite this way. But better than that? It's wonderful to be here with you—and even ahead of that? To be here with you when neither of us have to look over our shoulders. Everything's just a little brighter, just a little more beautiful.”

“When we're done, we'll be done looking over our shoulders. We can come back here, or go wherever you like.”

With a little hitch around her heart, she rolled the peach in her hands, studied him. “That's a big promise.”

“I make them, I keep them.”

“You would.”

She set the peach aside—she'd savor it later—because now she had another indulgence in mind.

“I should be practical, unpack, get things in order, but I really want a long, long, hot shower in that amazing bathroom. So . . .” She turned, started back. Then glanced over her shoulder. “Interested?”

He arched an eyebrow. “I'd be a fool not to be.”

“And you're no fool.” She stepped out of her shoes, just kept going.

“You're pretty fresh for somebody just off a transatlantic flight.”

“Ever travel coach?”

“Okay, got me.”

Yes, she thought, she did. “Even in that mode of travel I'm like jersey.” She pulled out the band she'd used to tie back her hair, tossed it on the long, smooth counter.

“You're like Jersey.”

“The fabric, not the state. I'm easy care and travel well.” Testing, she opened the shampoo in a basket on the counter, sniffed. Approved. With another glance at him, she smiled, peeled out of her shirt, her pants, the lacy tank she'd worn in lieu of a bra. “And I can take a lot of handling before I show any wear.”