The Collector (42 page)

“It worries you. It's easier if it stays with affection and sex and figuring out something that involves us both. Love leaves a mark that doesn't erase easily. More, given my family history, I promised myself a long time ago if and when I finally got there, I'd make it permanent. And that really worries you.”

“We really can't think about any of that now.” Panic climbed up her throat, clouded her mind. “Not now when we're in the middle of . . . a thing.”

“If I can't tell you I love you in the middle of ‘a thing,' when? Maybe a perfect moment will happen by, but the odds are slim, especially since I'm dealing with a woman afraid of commitment.”

“I'm not afraid of commitment.”

“Yes, you are, but we'll make it ‘resistant to' if that's better for you.”

“Now you're being annoying.”

“Let's add to the annoyance and get it done.”

He brought her hands up, kissed them. Lowered them again.

“I'll get what I want because nothing I've ever wanted matters a fraction of what you matter. So I'll get what I want. Meanwhile I can put you somewhere safe, somewhere out of all of it—even this. That'll give you time to think.”

“I'm not going to be tucked away like the helpless damsel in the tower.”

“Okay.”

“And I'm not going to be manipulated so—”

He cut her off, just leaned forward, yanking her toward him and closing his mouth over hers. “I love you,” he said again when he let her go, when he rose. “You're going to have to deal with it. I'm going to pack.”

He walked out, leaving her staring after him.

What the hell was wrong with him? Who couched being in love like some sort of threat? And why the hell couldn't she stop this slide, even being pissed?

What the hell was wrong with
her
?

H
e woke in New York, at some ungodly hour thanks to a body clock completely skewed from the time change from one continent to another and back again.

The dark, the relative quiet, told him he wouldn't like what he saw on his watch.

Right on both counts, Ash decided when he picked it up from the nightstand, squinted at the luminous dial. Four-thirty-five in the morning was ungodly, and he didn't like it.

He might have put the ungodly hour to good use, but it appeared Lila was not only awake, but up—and somewhere else.

It hadn't taken much to convince her that staying in his loft made more sense than crowding in with Julie and Luke, or into a hotel room, until her next job.

He'd put her on edge, telling her he loved her, intended to dig in for the long haul. But he didn't mind that. He preferred laying things out clearly, whenever possible. And she needed to get used to it.

He understood perfectly well that laying it out, then letting it lie, threw her off. He didn't mind that either. He'd found that exact approach with the myriad members of his family usually bore satisfactory
fruit. He had no intention of pushing—too much, too soon. A goal, one worth reaching, took certain . . . strategies and tactics.

And a woman, a woman worth having, took the same.

He'd need to outline his, but the most important thing right here and now was keeping her safe. In order to keep her safe, Jai Maddok and Nicholas Vasin had to be stopped.

The key to that goal was hidden away in the old stables in the family compound.

Since sleep was done, he needed two things. To find Lila, and coffee.

He made his way downstairs, heard music. No, singing, he realized. Lila singing . . . rolling, rolling and doggies? Baffled, he paused a minute, scrubbed his hands over his face.

Rain and wind and . . . “Rawhide,” he thought. She was in his kitchen, in the middle of the night, singing “Rawhide” in a pretty admirable voice.

Why would anyone sing about herding cattle at four-thirty in the morning?

He stepped in while she was moving them on, heading them out. She sat on the kitchen counter in a short, thin robe covered with images of shoes that hiked high on her thighs. Her bare legs swung to the beat of her song. Her toes were painted a Caribbean blue, and she'd bundled her hair up in a messy knot.

Even without coffee he thought he'd be absolutely content to find her just like this—every morning for the rest of his life.

“What are you doing?”

She jumped a little, lowered the multi-tool she was gripping. “I'm going to buy you a collar with a bell on it. I had this weird dream my father, in full uniform, insisted I had to learn how to fly-fish, so we were standing knee-deep in this fast-moving stream, and fish were . . .”

She waved her arms up and down in the air to indicate jumping
fish. “But they were cartoon fish, which was another layer of weird. One was smoking a cigar.”

He just stared at her.

“What?”

“That's what I said. My dad used to watch old westerns on some old-western station. Now ‘Rawhide' is stuck in my head because I had to learn how to fly-fish. Help me.”

“I got ‘Rawhide.'” As far as the dream went, he couldn't begin to understand. “What are you doing with that tool at four-thirty in the morning?”

“Some of the cabinet doors are a little loose—makes me crazy. I'm just tightening them up. And the pantry door squeaks a little—or did. I couldn't find any WD-40 in your utility closet, so had to get mine. You can't live in the world without WD-40, Ash. And duct tape. Plus super-glue.”

“I'll make a note of it.”

“Seriously. I wrote the manufacturers once—of WD-40—to thank them for making a travel size. I carry some in my purse because you never know.”

He walked over, laid a hand on the counter on either side of her hips. “It's four-thirty in the morning.”

“I couldn't sleep—cranky body clock and cigar-smoking cartoon fish. And I can't work because I have mushy travel brain. So, just a little household maintenance. We can consider it payment for the lodging.”

“Payment's not required.”

“For me it is. I feel better about it. I do it for Julie.”

“Fine.” He lifted her up, plucked her off, set her down.

“I wasn't quite finished.”

“You're blocking the coffee.”

“Oh. I had two cups back-to-back. I know better, and now I'm a little hyper.”

“Really?” He checked the level of beans, saw she'd refilled it. “I hadn't noticed.”

“Even mushy travel brain recognizes sarcasm. Have you considered painting the powder room down here? I was thinking about all those beautiful buildings, the old walls in Florence. There's this faux technique that looks like old plaster. It would be great as a background for art. I think I could do it, and doing the powder room means it's a small space if I mess it up.”

He just stared at her while his machine ground the beans and began to brew. “Rawhide” to WD-40 to painting bathrooms.

Why did coffee take so long?

“What? It's the middle of the night, and you're thinking about painting the bathroom? Why?”

“Because I've essentially finished my book, my next job doesn't start for nearly two weeks, and I've had two cups of coffee. If I don't keep busy I get even more hyper.”

“Don't you think outwitting a professional assassin and her lunatic boss is enough busywork?”

She'd been trying not to think about that. “Keeping busy helps me cope with the fact that I even know an assassin well enough to have punched her in the face. It's only the second time I've punched someone in the face.”

“What was the other time?”

“Oh, Trent Vance. We were thirteen, and I thought I liked him until he pushed me up against a tree and grabbed my breasts. I didn't really have any, but still, he just—” She held her cupped hands up. “So I punched him.”

Ash let his not-yet-caffeinated brain absorb the image. “In both cases, face-punching was completely warranted.”

“You'd say that as you've also punched faces. And still, I agree. Anyway, if I cope with the current aspect of punching, just keep busy, I can think clearly about what we might do, should do, shouldn't do.”

“Painting the bathroom will do all that?”

“It's possible.”

“Go for it.” He gulped down coffee, praised the Lord.

“Really?”

“You'll look at it or use it as much—probably more—than I will since you'll be living here between jobs.”

“I never said I'd—”

“Play with the bathroom,” he interrupted. “And we'll both see how we feel about it.”

“And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime, since the cops haven't given us any more, I'm going to contact Vasin directly.”

“Directly? How?”

“If we're going to have an actual conversation, I want actual food.” He opened the refrigerator, stared at the very limited contents. Opened the freezer. “I have frozen waffles.”

“Sold. He's a recluse, and we can't even be sure where he is. What if he's in Luxembourg? And you're going to say we'll just hop on your handy private plane and go to Luxembourg. I'm never going to get used to that.”

“It's not mine, specifically. It's the family's.”

“Or that either. With that kind of wealth, he'd have all kinds of walls around him. Metaphorically.”

“Metaphoric walls usually consist of people—lawyers, accountants, bodyguards. People clean his homes, cook his meals. He has doctors. He collects art, so someone arranges for that. He has plenty of staff.”

“Including his personal hit woman.”

“Including,” Ash agreed as he dropped two frozen waffles into the toaster. “I only need one person to start.”

Her heart gave a hard little skip. “You're not thinking of using his hired gun.”

“She'd be the most direct. But since she's probably still in Italy, I
think we start with the lawyers. He has business in New York, property in New York, he'll have lawyers in New York.”

He rooted through a cabinet—with a newly tightened door—came up with syrup.

Lila eyed the bottle warily. “How long has that been in there?”

“It's basically tree sap, what difference does it make?”

He plucked the waffles out when they popped, tossed one on each plate, dumped syrup over both. And handed her one.

She frowned at the underdone waffle drowning in a lake of questionable syrup. “You always had cooks, didn't you?”

“Yes. I also know people on Long Island who have cooks, so that might be an avenue.” He grabbed a couple of knives and forks, passed hers to her and, standing at the counter, cut into his own waffle. “But the lawyer's more direct. Our lawyers contact his lawyers, inform them I want to have a conversation. Then we see what happens next.”

“He wouldn't expect the contact. It could piss him off or intrigue him. Maybe both.”

“Both is fine,” Ash decided. “Both is better.”

Understanding she'd need something to wash the soggy waffles down, she opened the fridge.

“You have V8 Fusion. The mango blend.” Her morning favorite, she thought as she took the still unopened bottle out, shook it.

He paid attention, and that—to her—was more romantic than roses and poetry.

“You should drink some, too. It's good for you.”

When he only grunted, she got down two juice glasses. “Back to possibly Luxembourg. Vasin's not going to admit he had anything to do with what happened to Oliver. He'd be crazy to.”

“He's a recluse who hires killers to get his hands on objets d'art he can't show to anyone. I think we've already established crazy.”

“Point taken.” She set a glass of juice on the counter beside him.

“But I just need him to make an offer on the egg. We can't bluff we have the second one, because we know he does. So we use what we know. Having one is an enormous prize—a big accomplishment for a collector.”

“And having two is beyond.” The waffle wasn't as bad as it looked, she decided. But if she stayed any amount of time, she was definitely taking charge of the shopping. “What good does having him make you an offer do? There's nothing illegal about that—you have a bill of sale, so it's a legitimate deal.”

“I'll refuse it. Make it clear there's only one thing I want in exchange for it. Maddok.”

“His HAG? Why would he give her over—why would she let herself be traded that way?”

“First part first. She's an employee—almost certainly a valuable one, but paid help.”

“She's a person,” Lila objected. “A horrible person, but a person.”

“You're not thinking like a man who'd kill for a gold egg.”

“You're right.” She let her own sensibilities and morals go for a moment, tried to think, to feel, like Vasin might think or feel. “She's a means to an end, a tool.”

“Exactly. Frederick Capelli worked for him, at least must have taken a fee. Vasin didn't have a problem disposing of him.”

“All right, I'll agree the egg's worth more to him than a human being. But he can't risk turning her over, Ash. She'd flip on him, she'd make a deal, tell the police chapter and verse. Or he'd certainly have to weigh that in.”

Because it was right there, he sampled the juice, found it surprisingly good. “I'm not interested in giving her to the cops, letting her make a deal. Why would I take a chance of her getting immunity, or witness protection?”

“Well, what else?”

He set the glass down with a snap. “I want revenge, I want her to fucking pay. I'm going to
make
her fucking pay. The bitch killed my brother. She spilled my family's blood, now I want to spill hers.”

Her heart gave that hard kick again, then shuddered. “You can't possibly mean—you don't. You wouldn't.”

“For a second you thought I might.” He gestured with his fork, stabbed another bite of syrup-soaked waffle. “You should know me a lot better than he would or could, and you nearly believed it. He'll believe me. He'll believe me,” Ash repeated, “because there's a part of me that means it.”

“Even if he did believe you, and even if he said, ‘Hey, let's shake on it,' she wouldn't go along. She killed two trained agents when they got too close.”

“That's his problem. You want the egg, give me the bitch who killed my brother. It's all I want. Otherwise I'll destroy it.”

“He'd never believe you could do that.”

“The hell I couldn't.” He shoved back from the counter so violently she jerked back, braced. “That thing took the lives of two people in my family. Their blood's on it. I've had enough of being hounded—by the police, by him and his hired killers. All over some frivolous toy some dead tsar had made for his pampered wife? Fuck that. This is about family. I'm not Oliver, and I don't give a damn about money. She killed my brother, now I kill her or take a hammer to the egg.”

“Okay. Okay.” She lifted her coffee cup with a trembling hand, took another jolt. “That was convincing. You scared the crap out of me.”

“I mean some of that, too.” He leaned back against the counter, rubbed at his eyes. “I don't give a damn about the egg, and I haven't since she cut you.”

“Oh, Ash, it was just—”

“Don't tell me it was just a scratch. Fuck that, too, Lila. Given the opportunity, she would kill you in a heartbeat. And you know it. Don't push that button when I'm already wound up. I want—need—the people responsible for Oliver and Vinnie, even the woman I never met, punished. Put away. The egg matters for what it is, what it stands for, what it means to the art world. It belongs in a museum, and I'll see it goes where it belongs. Because Vinnie would've wanted it. If not for that, I would take a hammer to it.”