Shelter Me: A Shelter Novel (6 page)

* * *

I
was shaken
. I locked the doors and stared at the goddamned daffodils. Dan Turner was up to something—Brayden should've warned me, dammit.

I stopped myself from firing off a snotty text. Instead, I went into the studio room and painted until the sun went down. Until my eyelids got heavy, and earlier than they normally would've. I blamed the stress of last night, of the last weeks, and I curled in bed and closed my eyes.

In what seemed like seconds, I was awake, staring up at a dreary gray sky. I blinked, and my mouth opened to a silent scream but those were the only motions I could accomplish. My body was otherwise paralyzed, slowly being covered in daffodils that kept falling on me, drifting in like a fat, steady rain.

By the time I realized I was lying in an open grave being slowly buried alive by the flowers, I did scream out loud and woke myself up.

Still shaking, the first thing I did was carry the vase with the daffodils out to the trash room and threw the vase down the chute. Satisfied, I went back into my apartment and locked the door behind me.

The second thing I did was call Lucas. He answered halfway through the second ring, sounding out of breath. I closed my eyes, mortified that I might've caught him in the middle of having sex. More mortified at the thought that he'd picked up. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to bother you," I choked out.

"Couldn't sleep. I'm out for a run," he huffed.

My body sagged in stupid relief. Silly, foolish girl. "It's three in the morning."

"What's your point?"

"I want to run with you."

"Then get dressed. I'll ring in nine minutes."

"I'll meet you downstairs." When I looked at the clock, I noted I'd only been asleep for a couple of hours. I pulled my hair into a messy bun and slid into jogging capris and a tank top. I put my sneakers on in the elevator. I was walking down the front hall when Lucas came into the building.

The locked building.

"Doorman," he said when I opened my mouth to ask how he got in, but I chose to accept that. I couldn't deny there was a certain excitement—and comfort—that Lucas could get to me at anytime.

We walked a few minutes—he'd already warmed up so I picked up my pace. I knew he was jogging slower for me, so I pushed hard and it felt good. I lost myself in the rhythm of my feet on the pavement, the blur of the shadowed surroundings, the sounds of the city instead of my usual music blaring from my iPod's earbuds.

I'd noticed him looking over his shoulder, but it took me a while. When he noticed me noticing, he stopped. But I'd felt it too, that overly paranoid
I'm being followed
sixth sense.

I had no idea how long we ran for, but it was long and hard enough to make my muscles tremble when I finally slowed. My mind was clear, almost dizzy, and it had been exactly what I needed.

We both slowed to a walk, not speaking still. As if in tune, we ended up in front of my building. In the elevator, I turned to him and kissed him. Wordlessly, he carried me into my apartment, never letting me down, only stopping the kiss to get the key inside the lock. I didn't stop, sucked on his neck, nipping, marking, hearing the growl vibrate in his throat as I did so.

I wondered briefly if he could go into work with hickeys on his neck, but it was too late to worry. My emotions were running overboard, and the running took the edge off, but it wasn't enough. I shoved him to the wall, and he let me pin him.

We were like two insatiable teenagers with some kind of crazy, forbidden love who couldn't get enough of each other. His mouth, hot on mine, slick skin sliding together. His hand between my legs. Caught between exposed and orgasm and not caring, only wanting to reach that place with him where nothing else mattered.

Sharing a run with him felt more intimate than sex, or at least I felt more vulnerable. Normally, I was able to distance myself during sex, but I'd already realized that none of my normal defense mechanisms worked with Lucas Caine.

If I wanted to outrun him, I'd have to try a lot harder.

* * *

I
n the aftermath
, we remained entwined, my back against the wall, his weight on me.

He lifted his head from where it had been buried against my neck to note wryly, "You remind me of me."

"Is that good or bad?"

"I haven't figured that out."

Impulsively, I reached up and stroked his cheek. He looked surprised, but definitely not unhappy. "What if I hadn't called you?"

"Why do you think I was out running at three in the morning? It was either that or end up at your door."

"But you're here anyway."

"I was invited," he murmured, but now I knew he would've shown up anyway. I shivered, partly at his words, but Lucas frowned. "We need to get you into the shower."

Reluctantly, we untangled from each other. Naked, with his gaze lingering on me, I put on fresh coffee then went to start the shower. When I went back out to get him, he was turning the business card Turner had left on the counter over and over between his fingers.

Now, he asked, "Why was this guy here?"

"You know him?" I asked and he nodded. "He's with Brayden's insurance company for the gallery. He's investigating a stolen painting of mine. He said it went up in value…" I trailed off. "He was an asshole."

Lucas gave a faint smile. "Let Brayden take care of the business shit—that's why he gets a commission."

I nodded, then frowned, reminded again about last night. "Turner said that my fight was in all the papers. And that Meghan talked to reporters about suing me."

"Meghan didn't talk to reporters. Ann Maslow caught the end of the fight."

"How lucky of her, the fucking stalker."

He laughed. "You give her something to talk about, she's going to talk, Ryn. A simple formula."

Nothing about that was simple but what was in front of me: naked man, willing women, warm shower beckoning.

I chose wisely.

"
I
figured
I'd give you some space, but enough's enough," Brayden announced. At least he'd come bearing food. And coffee. And no recriminations from the night before last. Just the opposite, in fact. "Your show was a huge success, love."

It was an hour since Lucas had left, murmuring something about meetings. When Brayden set down the extra-large coffee in front of me, I admitted, "I thought you'd be angry."

"First of all, I was worried," he said. "But I knew you were in good hands and babe, I knew it sucked, but you sold double after you lost your shit."

I sighed. "Great. Even if they doubted it before, now everyone knows I'm imbalanced."

"Everyone knows they shouldn't fuck with you. It's an oddly compelling selling point. I've got people who want special orders."

It took a long, pre-caffeinated moment for that to sink in. "Wait, I'm being commissioned?"

Brayden smiled. "So you do listen when I talk."

I swatted him on the arm and grabbed for a bagel. I inhaled the soft, warm bread and cream cheese, realizing that I hadn't eaten since yesterday morning. "Details. I need details."

His words were cautious, but he couldn't hide his excitement. "Mystery buyer. Wealthy, of course. He wants a series of paintings, based on photos." I hesitated and he continued, "You've never done that, I know, but for half a million…"

"I swear my heart just stopped."

He grinned, then sobered. "I'm going to make sure you're taken care of, baby girl. The money's cool, but being commissioned is a good career step." He reached out and squeezed my hand. "So I told him, trial basis. Give me one picture, no promises."

I blew out a breath of relief. "What would I do without you, Bray?"

"You won't have to find out." He paused. "The pictures are normal. I already checked them out."

"Normal."

"No people. No faces. No beach."

"Okay. So what is it?"

"It's a house." He showed me the photo of an innocuous but beautiful house with the ocean behind it that might've been found in any beach community in this country. I stared at it, with no weird feelings whatsoever accompanying my gaze. In fact, the whole thing looked really…boring. "Okay, I'll give it a try."

"A try? For this money, Ryn—"

I held up my hand. "Temperamental artist, remember?"

"Can't forget even if I tried. Promise." He glanced at the bed. "Up all night working?"

I could've lied, but why start now? "I saw Lucas."

"Again?"

"Yes."

Brayden gave a small frown. "He called you?"

"I called him. At three in the morning. We went for a run…and then…"

He held up his hand. "I don't need the details." After a small pause, he said, "He must've freaked when you ran out on him the morning after the show."

"How do you know I ran out on him?"

He gave me a meaningful look that reminded me of just how well he knew me and capped it with, "You're such a guy sometimes."

"I'm sure I'm just a convenient piece of ass."

"Baby girl, you're not convenient at all," Brayden assured me.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You outmaneuvered him without even trying, so of course that means you two will end up chasing each other all around the goddamned city."

"I don't want that," I insisted. I already had a dark past I couldn't remember. I shouldn't be involved with a dangerous man like Lucas, no matter how badly my body wanted him. Nice guys liked me, and I tried with them, I truly did. But I tended to walk over them. I needed someone stronger. Someone who wouldn't put up with my shit.

Someone who let me run, who gave me just enough rope to tangle myself up in…someone who enjoyed the challenge as much as they challenged me.

"So, you're thinking one-night stand?" Brayden asked. "Because it's already been two nights."

"Same thing." I shrugged. "You said yourself that Lucas isn't into long term. He's more the conquer and move on type."

Brayden smiled. "I thought that was you."

I nudged him. "I learned from the best. And hey, it'll give Ann Maslow more to write about when Lucas moves on to his next conquest."

"Or when you do. And hey, all press is good press. I stand by that. But for the time being, I'm banning art magazines and gossip columns from your place."

"Smart move."

Brayden's gaze flicked over mine. "You've got to realize that you're as much of a mystery to him as he is to you."

"Maybe."

"Definitely," Brayden asserted. "All I can tell you is that he's dark. And he's not the kind of guy you want to be involved with."

"I didn't say I wanted to be"—air quotes—"
involved
."

"Good. Except you're lying."

"Shut up," I muttered. I had other things to worry about, like the fact that I was losing my mind. I'd thrown out the vase of flowers, but when I'd checked the garbage this morning, it had been empty of the daffodils I'd thrown out the night before the show. Either Brayden was acting as full-time butler or else I'd dreamed the spill. And I knew I hadn't taken my meds that night, but as of this morning, two were missing.

I was always careful. I wrote down when I took the pills and I never, ever took two pills at once.

God, was I going crazy? Had I
been
crazy at one point?

I rubbed the light scars that ran behind my ears. I had a new face—did I somehow have a new personality too? Was my old self breaking through?

Your eyes will always be the same
, Brayden would tell me when I went through periods of doubt like this.
You can't hide from them—they'll tell you who you are.

Brayden had wisely dropped the subject of me and Lucas. But I realized that was because something else had caught his attention. Dan Turner's business card was still on the counter—it had taken Brayden only slightly longer than it had Lucas to notice it, forget whatever else he was talking about and frown in my direction.

"Turner came here yesterday," I began. "He said he was tracking new leads on my stolen painting."

There was no mistaking the sarcasm in his "Really?"

"He implied that because the demand got higher after your show the insurance company renewed their search."

Brayden snorted. "Right."

"Did you know any of that?"

"I didn't know Turner would be coming to question you—I'll make sure it doesn't happen again," Brayden said, sidestepping the question.

I tried again with a different approach. "How much money are my paintings suddenly worth?"

Brayden gave a smile—a small one, and I suddenly knew exactly what was meant by treating triumph and tragedy as the same impostor. I shouldn't worry about money and success. I never had. I'd let Brayden do it, trusted him and Susan and a lawyer who'd been set up separately to look after all my interests, all so I could do what I loved unencumbered.

"I've seen it," Brayden told me now without me having to say a word. "An artist gets caught up in chasing the fame. It's not even the money most of the time, it's the fame. And from there, it's really easy to lose the gifts you were given. I don't ever want to see that happen to you."

He looked so heartbroken when he talked about it. That, and the casual way he dressed this morning, made me think about his past. His flannel shirt was opened and gray sweats and bare feet was a good look on him. He looked like a college kid, not a business owner, and I didn't have to wonder why he always dressed in suits when he went out. His suit of armor, he called it, different than how he'd spent time from ages fifteen to twenty. He didn't talk much about that time. I know he lived on the streets and he told me he did what he had to in order to survive. I could only imagine what that entailed.

I dropped that subject and veered off onto another uncomfortable one. "Should I ask how bad the news is surrounding the show, or at least ask about the reviews?"

Brayden shot me a "Do you really want to know" look. And I didn't, but I also didn't want others to know things about me they could use as darts to sling at me. "The competition's cutthroat, Ryn. You'll find out they'll use anything against you."

"There's nothing to know."

But I was lying—in truth, what Brayden told me shook me. Suppose something from my past was there, right in front of my face? It was one thing for the competition to plant stories about me, but I couldn't defend myself against what I didn't know.

"Ryn, I won't let anything happen to you," Brayden told me. "No one's going to use you."

"I don't think Lucas is," I said.

Judging by the look on Brayden's face, he wasn't accepting that easily at all.

* * *

L
ater that night
I had the dream, the one I'd started having nightly after I'd woken up in the hospital post-memory loss. It was rare for me to have it these days, probably because the contents of it were never far from my waking thoughts.

I stand on the beach in the dark. My toes curl in the cold sand. The scent of salty high tide is still on my skin to compete with the dank smell of ocean that wafts over me. The roar of the waves seems loud enough to drown out all other sounds. Except it doesn't.

Voices.

Shadowed figures.

Gunshots.

I scream, loud enough to be heard over the crashing water.

I scream in real life too, loud enough to no doubt wake the neighbors, so I force myself to stop, swallow the yells as I blink myself fully awake. I'm bathed in sweat and breathing hard. I stumble to the bathroom and splash water on my face. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I look wild-eyed.

It took me the better part of an hour, and a few shots of whiskey, to calm myself down sufficiently enough. I wrapped myself in a blanket on the couch, thankful that I didn't find any errant flowers lying around. That was a bright spot.

Even so, I had to force myself not to call Lucas.
No more of that
, I told myself firmly. I could get through this all by myself.

Finally, I felt better. I'd stopped shaking. So I went into my studio to study the night's work, to see if anything there might've triggered my dream.

Before I'd slept, I'd finished the first try at the painting I'd been commissioned to draw. The house in the photo was plain. Nondescript. And I'd been fine sketching it out. Perhaps my first drawing was a little uninspired, but I was sure that didn't show. And I'd managed to do a little more than a straightforward rendering. I'd blended and shaded. Made it look more art than photo.

And if the man who'd commissioned it didn't want it, so be it, I'd told myself. And then I'd gotten down to the actual painting of the house, ignoring my own inner critic, and anything else that threatened to get in my way.
I forced all of it out of my mind ruthlessly, like I did with anything that could fuck with my art.

Under the harsh morning light, I studied yesterday's pieces and wondered if maybe the dream was all about the risk of trying something new. Dr. B had warned me that change—even and especially good change—was high on the list of stresses.

This picture seemed to underscore that. The dark slashes of color undercut what would've been a conventionally pleasing picture. A beach, a wash of water foaming the shore…the skyline of a storm rolling in, but a sinister one. I even shivered when I looked at it, as though the icy rain was cutting my skin.

Disturbingly beautiful.
I could hear the critics now. But there was more to it. All of my paintings separately meant nothing. Put together, there was a pattern that I had yet to discern.

I had the book, my portfolio, kept painstakingly by Brayden. Pictures of each and every piece I'd sold. I flipped through them with a growing sense of dread.

What the hell happened to me?

I'd been on my own with an ID from the time I was seventeen, and I'd walked into that café with my new social security number and it hadn't triggered any manhunts or arrest records.

I was running. I knew that. From who, I couldn't remember.