The Collector (40 page)

“A middle-of-the-night hunt for secret bakeries. I'm absolutely in. Julie said you're going to open a second location. Tell me about that.”

She hooked her arm through his, wandered down the line of artists, canvases until, flushed with success, Julie joined them.

“I may have just changed a life. The boss gave me the go-ahead to sign him up—the kid-in-the-courtyard artist. It's him—in the painting. Painted from memory, of his home, his mother and a little accident with a soccer ball one summer afternoon.”

“That's so sweet. I love it.”

“His work has movement and tells a story. We're taking three of them. The first thing he did—after kissing me—was call his wife.”

“Also sweet.”

“Fabulous foot jewels and a new artist.” With her easy laugh, Julie lifted her arms high. “My day is complete.”

Luke grabbed her hand and gave her a spin that made her laugh again. “Nothing's complete without gelato. You up for that?” he asked Ash.

“Sure.”

“If gelato's on the agenda, I need more walking to earn it.” Julie glanced back, then at Ash. “You liked his work.”

“You could smell the flowers, the heat, feel the mother's amused exasperation and the boy's resignation to whatever was coming. He paints with heart, not just technique.”

“I felt the same. He doesn't even have an agent. I hope he follows up on that.”

“I gave him some names,” Ash said. “Once he comes down, I think he'll make some contacts.”

“Do you remember your first sale?” Lila wondered.

“Everyone remembers their first.”

“Which was?”

“I called it
Sisters
. Three faeries concealed in the woods, all watching a horseman approach. I'd just finished it, working outside at the compound, when my father brought the woman he was seeing at the time over to meet me. She wanted it,” he said as they walked. “He said she could have it.”

“Just like that.”

“He didn't get what I was doing, or trying to do, at that point. She did. She was an agent. I've always thought he brought her over so she'd tell me I should give it up. Instead, she gave me her card, offered to rep me and bought that piece outright. She's still my agent.”

“I love happy endings—and gelato. I'm buying,” Lila announced. “A tangible apology for before.”

They walked to the park, wandered down the wide path of the
Boboli Gardens. Ash steered her toward the pool where Andromeda rose and into the dusky green of plantings.

“Sit down there, cross-legged.”

She obliged, thinking he wanted a photo, then waved her hands when he pulled out his sketch pad.

“A camera's faster.”

“I have something in mind. Five minutes. Turn your head, just your head, toward the water. Good.”

She resigned herself as Julie and Luke wandered off.

“He's going to be a while,” Julie predicted.

“I know how it works.” Luke swung her hand up, as he had when they'd been teenagers, and pressed his lips to her knuckles. “It's beautiful here. Let's sit down a minute, enjoy it.”

“It's a gorgeous day. It's been a great day, even with the break for high drama. They look good together, don't they? I don't know Ash the way you do, but I've never seen him so focused on a woman the way he is with Lila. And I do know her. She's crazy about him, and that's a real first.”

“Julie.”

“Mmm.” She tipped her head onto his shoulder, smiling as she watched Ash sketch.

“I love you.”

“I know. I love you. It makes me so happy.”

“I want to make you happy. Julie.” He shifted, turned, turned her so they faced each other. “I want us to make each other happy, for a lifetime.”

He took the ring box out of his pocket, flipped it open. “Marry me, and let's get started.”

“Oh, God. Luke.”

“Don't say no. Say ‘Let's wait' if you have to, but don't say no.”

“No? I'm not going to say no. I was going to ask you, tonight. At sunset. I had it planned.”

“You were going to ask me to marry you?”

“I don't want to wait.” She threw her arms around his neck. “I don't want to wait. I want to marry you, again. And like it was the first time, like this is the first time. You bought me a ring.”

“I didn't want to go with a diamond. New start. So.” He slipped the square-cut emerald on her finger. “For today, and all the tomorrows we can pack in.”

“We found each other again.” Her eyes filled as she framed his face in her hands, and the stone flashed in the white sun. “And it's perfect, Luke.” She laid her lips on his. “We're perfect.”

It was closer to twenty minutes than five, but Ash finally walked to her, crouched down. He turned his sketch pad around.

She scanned the various views of herself sitting among the shrubs with the water at her back, the god rising.

He'd had her lift her hand, palm up.

“What am I?”

“A latter-day goddess, drawing new power from the old. I might do it in charcoal, an absence of color, with a hint of a storm in the western sky.” He rose, held out a hand to help her up.

“You got all that from the pool?”

“It's you,” he said simply, then glanced around. “There they are.” He took Lila's hand, walked to the bench. “Sorry. I got distracted.”

“Me, too.” Julie held out her hand.

“Oh, what a gorgeous ring. When did you— Oh my God!”

“We're getting married.” Julie leaped up, hugged Lila, then Ash.

“What about sunset?”

“He beat me to it.”

“Congratulations.” Lila threw her arms around Luke in turn. “I'm so happy. We need to have a toast.”

“I know a place,” Ash said.

“So you said before. Lead us to it. We're going to drink to true love, lost then found.”

“Sorry,” he said when his phone signaled. “I should get this.”

“Is it—”

He only held up a finger, moved off.

Focus on the moment, Lila ordered herself. “We have a wedding to plan.”

“And fast. The end of September.”

“That is fast, but I'm up to the job. We need the where. I'm going to make a list. And . . . What is it?” she asked when Ash came back.

“She wasn't there. Maddok.”

“I'm telling you it was her. I watched her go in.”

“You weren't wrong. It was her—she wasn't there. But an art dealer by the name of Frederick Capelli was. She'd slit his throat.”

J
ai texted her employer from her pretty suite of rooms in Florence.
Package dispatched.

And simple enough, she thought as she set aside the phone, sat to thoroughly clean her knife. The little side job added to her account, and the efficiency would please her employer. She needed something on that side of the scale after the debacle in New York.

The skinny bitch should never have gotten away from her, she had to admit she'd been careless there. Who would've thought the bony bimbo had enough guts to run—or packed a real punch.

She wouldn't forget it.

She wasn't to blame for Oliver and his whore, or his ethical uncle. She'd been saddled with a fool in Ivan, a hotheaded one.

But she understood, very well, her employer didn't care for excuses.

She studied the knife, watched it glint clean and silver in the light spearing through the windows. The art dealer had been easy and quick—one easy slice.

Slitting his throat had brightened her day, even though it had been
a pathetically pedestrian kill. She glanced over at what she thought of as her bonus.

His wallet—with some nice fresh euros—his watch—an antique Cartier—his pretentious pinky ring, but still the diamond was a decent carat weight and had good light.

She'd taken the time to search through the apartment, take valuables easily transported. On a whim she'd taken a Hermès tie.

She'd dispose of everything but the tie—that would go in her collection. She did enjoy her little souvenirs.

And the police would, at least initially, look at the murder as a robbery gone bad.

But Capelli was dead because she'd made him dead, and because he hadn't located the egg, as promised, and Oliver Archer had.

No one would miss him until the following Monday, which gave her plenty of time to locate Archer and his bitch.

She'd tracked them this far, hadn't she? She'd been right to pay—at her own expense—for rooms where she could keep watch on Archer's New York loft. And she'd been lucky to have seen the limo, seen him leave with a suitcase.

But luck meant nothing without skill. Trailing him to the airport, finessing the flight data—that had taken skill. And had satisfied her employer enough for him to arrange for her flight to Florence on one of his jets.

A little vacation, she assumed, after death. Some friends to share it with. They'd be unaware they remained in her crosshairs, and all the more careless.

A man like Archer, with his money, would stay at a grand hotel, or lease a grand private accommodation. They would visit typical tourist attractions—art would play a part.

Now that she'd dispatched the package, she could begin the hunt.

And the hunt would be followed by the kill. She was looking forward to it.

She slid the knife into the custom-made case that carried her sharps, folded it neatly. She intended to use several of them on the bitch who'd bloodied her lip.

T
hey celebrated, raising sparkling drinks at a sidewalk table while Florence streamed by.

Jai Maddok didn't go by, Lila thought as she stayed alert, scanning faces even as she talked wedding venues, flowers.

“I get it.” Lila tapped a finger on the table. “You want simple elegance with a big side of fun. The ritual, and all it stands for, followed by a rocking party.”

“That sums it up.” Julie smiled at Luke. “Does that sum it up for you?”

“You sum it up for me.”

“Aww. You're racking up such major points,” Lila said when Julie leaned over for a kiss. “I'm glad I've got my sunglasses on because the glow you two are beaming out is blinding. Maybe we should have sunglasses as guest favors. I'm making a note.”

“She's kidding,” Julie said.

“Maybe. I'm definitely not kidding about scoping out some of the shops for the single most important element—the wedding dress. If we have time we should take a look right here in Florence.”

“You read my mind.”

Lila gave Ash a poke. “You're very quiet.”

“Men, in my experience, have little to do with wedding plans and execution. They show up, and their job is done.”

“Think again. I'm going to have a list for you, Mr. Best Man. You can start another famous spreadsheet. I think—”

She broke off as his phone signaled.

He answered, “Archer . . . Yes . . . Okay . . . No name? . . . No, that's exactly right, thanks. . . . Yes, that's fine. Thanks again.”

He ended the call, lifted his glass again. “A woman called the hotel, asking to be connected to my room. As I requested, the desk told her I wasn't registered. And neither were you,” he told Lila, “when she asked.”

“She's making the rounds.”

“And if you hadn't seen her, I wouldn't have told the desk to tell any and all callers or visitors we aren't registered.”

“And she'd know where we're staying. So that's major points for me.”

“Spotting her and running after her are different things. But I'm mellowing. Let's get another round, and you can entertain yourself trying to find her in the crowd.”

“I was being subtle about it.”

He only smiled, signaled the waiter.

S
he wore the white dress and the new shoes, and had to admit Julie—as always—had hit a bull's-eye. A classy and classic summer look, she decided, and finished it off by braiding her hair and rolling it into a loose knot at her nape.

Nobody would suspect, if it mattered, it was her first non-job-related visit to an Italian villa.

“You look almost perfect,” Ash commented when he walked into the bedroom.

“Almost?”

“Almost.” He opened the top drawer of the dresser, took out a box. “Try this.”

Delighted, she lifted the top of the box, then stared at the case inside. Casual souvenir necklaces didn't come in leather cases.

“Problem?”

“No.” Stupid to feel nervous over a gift. “I'm building anticipation.” She took out the case, unfolded it.

The teardrop pendant glowed a soft lavender blue in a thin frame of tiny diamonds. It hung from two chains, delicate as spiderwebs, where more little diamonds sparkled like drops of dew.

“It's . . . it's beautiful. It's a moonstone.”

“It seemed appropriate for a woman who essentially finished her third book about werewolves. Here.”

He unclasped it himself, slid it out of the case, then around her neck. After securing it, he stood behind her, studied the results in the mirror they faced.

“Now you're perfect.”

“It's gorgeous.” But she looked at him, into his eyes. “Appropriate's the wrong word. Appropriate is just manners. This is thoughtful in a way that means you thought of something that would mean something specifically to me. I love it, not just because it's gorgeous, but because it's thoughtful. Thank you. I don't know what to say.”

“You just said it. We were right to take the day yesterday, to celebrate with Luke and Julie. This celebrates what you've done.”

She turned, pressed her cheek to his. “It's the most beautiful thing anyone's ever given me, and it means the most.”

He eased her back, stroking lightly at her shoulders as he studied her face. “There are things we need to talk about once we're back in New York.”

“That we can't talk about in Italy?”

“Today's the reason we came, so we need to deal with that. In fact, we should go. I'll call Lanzo.”

“I just need my bag. I'm ready.”

When he stepped out, she turned back to the mirror, brushed her fingers over the stone. And glanced at the binoculars she'd put by the window.

Wasn't it strange they'd led to this? And what was she going to do about this feeling of sliding down a long, long tunnel into love?

No foothold, she thought, no handy ledge to crawl onto to catch her breath, slow her speed. As exhilarating as the drop, she didn't have a clue how to handle the landing.

A day at a time? she asked herself as she picked up her bag. Do what
they'd come to do, then do what came next. It was the only way she knew.

But she looked in the mirror one last time, at the necklace. He'd known her, understood what would matter to her. And that, she understood, was as beautiful as the stone itself.

L
ila would think of the drive into the Tuscan countryside in colors. Blue skies, yellow sunflowers dancing in fields along the roadside. The dusky green of hills, of olive groves, of the conical cypress, all the citrus hues of lemons, limes, oranges dripping from trees, and the deep purple of grapes thick on the vine.

Gardens blazing with hot reds and purples, or flames of yellow and orange shimmered in the sunlight against the baked white walls of houses or sturdy brick walls. Miles, it seemed, of vineyards stepped their way up terraced hills or blanketed fields in tidy rows.

If she could paint like Ash, she thought, she would paint this—all the color steeped in luminous sun.

Lanzo peppered the drive with snippets of local gossip, or questions about America, where he vowed to travel one day. As Ash had about the flight, she thought the drive a kind of limbo, as if they were traveling through paintings, from landscape to landscape.

Dusky and dusty one moment, then vivid with bold colors the next. Beauty to beauty, all saturated with heroic light.

They turned off the road onto a steep, narrow gravel track rising up through olive groves.

She saw rough steps hacked out of the hillside, as if some ancient giant had cut them out of the long drop. Wildflowers forced their way through the cracks to drink the sun just below a small flat area with an iron bench.

To sit there, she thought, was to see everything.

“This is the estate Bastone,” Lanzo told them. “Giovanni Bastone, you go to see him, has the important villa. His sister and his mother live also on the estate in a very fine house. His brother, he lives in Roma, and sees to their . . . what is it? . . . interests there. Still one sister more who lives in Milan. She sings the opera, and is known as a fine soprano. There was another brother, but he died young, in a car crash.”

He made a gentle turn toward iron gates connecting white walls.

“The security, you understand. They expect you,
sì
, and my car is known.”

Even as he spoke, the gates opened.

Groves of trees, a manicured terrace of gardens guided the way to the glamour of the villa.

It managed to present both the majestic and the soft with tall arched windows, the curves of porticoes and flowing terraces. Without the softer lines, the charm of vines spilling from those terraces, it would have dominated the landscape. Instead, to Lila's eye, it married it.

The red-tile roof rose, jutted, slanted above pale yellow walls. The drive circled around a central fountain where water flowed whimsically from the cupped hands of a mermaid perched on a tumble of rocks.

“I wonder if they ever need a house-sitter.”

Julie rolled her eyes. “You would.”

Lanzo popped out to open the door of the car just as a man in buff pants and a white shirt stepped out of the entrance.

His hair was white, dramatically streaked with black to match thick, arched eyebrows. He had a well-fed look, still shy of portly, and tawny eyes that blazed against a sharp-featured, tanned face.

“Welcome! You are welcome. I am Giovanni Bastone.” He extended his hand to Ash. “I see some of your father in you.”

“Signor Bastone, thank you for your hospitality.”

“Of course, of course, this is delightful.”

“These are my friends, Lila Emerson, Julie Bryant and Luke Talbot.”

“Such a pleasure.” He kissed Lila's hand, Julie's, shook Luke's. “Come in, out of the sun. Lanzo, Marietta has something special for you in the kitchen.”

“Ah, grazie, Signor Bastone.”

“Prego.”

“Your home looks like it grew here under the sunlight hundreds of years ago.”

Bastone beamed at Lila. “That is an excellent compliment. Two hundred years—the original part, you understand.” Already charmed, he drew Lila's arm through his, led the way inside. “My grandfather expanded. An ambitious man, and canny in business.”

He guided them into a wide foyer with golden sand tiles, creamy walls and dark beams above. The staircase curved, that softening line again, with archways wide enough for four abreast flowing room to room. Art, framed in old burnished gold, ran from Tuscan landscapes to portraits to still lifes.

“We must talk art,” Bastone said. “A passion of mine. But first we'll have a drink, yes? There must always be wine for friends. Your father is well, I hope.”

“He is, thank you, and sends you his best.”

“Our paths haven't crossed in some time. I have met your mother, as well. More recently.”

“I didn't realize.”

“Una bella donna.”
He kissed his fingers.

“Yes, she is.”

“And an exceptional woman.”

He led them out to a terrace under a pergola mad with bougainvillea. Flowers tumbled and speared out of waist-high terra-cotta pots; a yellow dog napped in the shade. And the Tuscan hills and fields and groves spread out like a gift beyond.

“You must get drunk every time you step outside. The view,” Lila said quickly, when he furrowed his brow. “It's heady.”

“Ah, yes. Heady as wine. You're clever, a writer, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Please to sit.” He gestured. A table already held wine, glasses, colorful trays of fruit, cheese, breads, olives.

“You must try our local cheese. It is very special. Ah, here is my wife now. Gina, our friends from America.”

A slender woman with sun-streaked hair, deep, dark eyes, came out at a brisk pace. “Please, excuse me for not greeting you.” She rattled something to her husband in Italian, made him laugh a little. “I explain to Giovanni, my sister on the telephone. Some small family drama, so I was delayed.”

Her husband made introductions, served the wine himself.

“You had a good journey?” Gina asked.

“The drive from Florence was lovely,” Julie told her.

“And you enjoy Florence? Such food, the shops, the art.”

“All of it.”

They settled into small talk, but the lively sort, in Lila's estimation. Watching the Bastones, she saw two people who'd lived a lifetime together, and still enjoyed it, treasured it.

“You met my husband's
amante
,” she said to Lila.

Bastone chuckled, cast his eyes to the sky. “Ah, the young American girl. We had such passion, such urgency. Her father did not approve, so it was only more passionate, more urgent. I wrote her odes and sonnets, composed songs to her. Such is the pain and joy of first love. Then she was gone.” He flicked his fingers. “Like a dream.”

He picked up his wife's hand, kissed it. “Then there was the beautiful Tuscan woman, who spurned me, brushed me aside so I would curse her, beg her, court her until she took pity on me. With her, I lived the odes and sonnets, the song.”

“How long have you been married?” Lila wondered.

“Twenty-six years.”

“And it's still a song.”

“Every day. Some days, the music is not in tune, but it's always a song worth singing.”

“That's the best description of a good marriage I've ever heard,” Lila decided. “Remember to sing,” she told Julie and Luke. “They're engaged—as of yesterday.”

Gina clapped her hands, and as women will, leaned over to study Julie's ring.

Bastone lifted his glass. “May your music be sweet.
Salute.
”

Gradually Ash guided the conversation back. “It was interesting meeting Miranda. Both Lila and I found the story about your grandfather and the poker game with Jonas Martin fascinating.”

“They stayed friends, though rarely saw each other when my grandfather came home to work the business. Jonas Martin loved to gamble, so my grandfather said, and almost always gambled poorly. They called him, ah . . .”

“Hard Luck Jonnie,” Ash supplied.

“Yes, yes.”

“And betting a family treasure? Was that his usual way?”

“Not unusual, you understand. He was, ah . . . spoiled, is the word. Young, you see, and a bit wild in his youth, so my grandfather told us. My grandfather said the father of Martin was very angry about this bet, but a wager is a wager. You have interest in writing about this time?”

“I'm very interested,” Lila answered. “Miranda didn't know what the bet was—what family heirloom was lost. Can you tell me?”

“I can do more. I can show you. You would enjoy to see?”

Lila's heart rammed into her throat. She managed to nod, swallow it down. “I'd love to.”

“Please come.” He rose, gestured to all. “Bring your wine. My grandfather loved the travel and art. He would travel on business, you see, what we would call networking now.”

He led them back, over travertine tiles, under archways.

“He would search for art, something intriguing, wherever he went. This interest he passed on to my father, and so my father to me.”

“You have a wonderful collection,” Julie commented. “This.” She paused a moment by a portrait of a woman—dreamy and romantic. “Is this an early Umberto Boccioni?”

“It is indeed.”

“And this.” Julie shifted to a painting of deep, rich colors, mixed shapes, which Lila realized were people. “One of his later works, when he'd embraced the Italian Futurist movement. Both are glorious. I love that you display them together, to show the evolution and the exploration of the artist.”

“You're knowledgeable.” He slid her hand in his arm as he'd done with Lila's earlier. “You have an art gallery.”

“I manage one.”

“A good manager has an ownership. I think you are a good manager.”

When they passed through the next archway, Julie stopped dead.

It wouldn't be called a sitting room, Lila thought. That was much too ordinary and casual a term. “Salon,” maybe. But “gallery” wouldn't have been wrong.