The Collector (50 page)

So straightforward now, she thought. All the steps neatly in place. “It's really done.”

“Essentially,” he said, and made her smile. “They asked if we'd stay in tonight, stay low in case Vasin's still having us watched. It might look off for us to go out.”

“I guess that's right, considering. I'm too wired—ha ha—anyway.”

“We'll have that celebration with Luke and Julie tomorrow, as planned.” He crossed over to take her hands. “Anywhere you want to go.”

Anywhere, she thought, and he meant it literally.

“Why?”

“I'd say because we earned it.”

“No, why? Why did you ask me what you asked me? We'd just spent an hour pretending to be people we aren't, and the stress of that had me so twisted up I was afraid I'd lose it all over your classic car. Then I'm under your car, for God's sake, because Vasin would probably be just as happy to see us dead—the people we are or the people we pretended to be. I don't think it matters.”

“That's a good part of the reason.”

“It doesn't make sense. We didn't even know each other existed on the Fourth of July, and it's barely Labor Day and you're talking about . . .”

“You can say it. It won't burn your tongue.”

“I don't know how this happened. I'm good at figuring out how things work, but I don't know how this happened.”

“Love's not a faulty toaster. You can't take it apart and study the pieces, replace a part and figure out how it all fits back together. You just feel it.”

“But what if—”

“Try what
is
instead,” he suggested. “You crawled under the car in your blue dress. When I was grieving you gave me comfort. You told my father to go to hell when he was unpardonably rude to you.”

“I didn't exactly—”

“Close enough. You fix cabinets, paint bathrooms, ask the doorman about his family and smile at waiters. When I touch you, the rest of the world goes away. When I look at you, I see the rest of my life. I'm going to marry you, Lila. I'm just giving you time to get used to it.”

Everything that had softened while he spoke stiffened again. “You can't just say ‘I'm going to marry you' like ‘I'm going out for Chinese.' Maybe I don't want Chinese. Maybe I'm allergic. Maybe I don't trust egg rolls.”

“Then we'll get pork-fried rice. You'd better come with me.”

“I'm not finished,” she said when he pulled her from the room.

“I am. The painting. I think you need to see it.”

She stopped trying to tug free. “You finished the painting? You didn't tell me.”

“I'm telling you now. I'm not going to pull the ‘Picture's worth a thousand words' to a writer, but you need to see it.”

“I'm dying to see it, but you banned me from your studio. I don't know how you finished it when I haven't sat for you in days. How did you—”

She stopped, words and motion, in the doorway of his studio.

The painting stood on its easel, facing her, centered in the long ribbon of windows with the early-evening light washing over it.

S
he walked toward it slowly. She understood art was subjective, that it could—and should—reflect the vision of the artist and the observer.

So it lived and changed from eye to eye, mind to mind.

From Julie she'd learned to recognize and appreciate technique and form, balance or the deliberate lack of it.

But all that went out the window, whisked away on emotion, on amazement.

She didn't know how he'd made the night sky so luminous, how he could create the light of his perfect moon against the dark. Or how the campfire seemed to snap with heat and energy.

She didn't know how he could see her this way, so vibrant, so beautiful, caught in that spin, the red dress flaring out, the colors of the underskirt defiant against her bare leg.

Bracelets jangling at her wrists—she could almost hear them—hoops flashing at her ears while her hair flew free. Rather than the chains she'd posed in, she wore the moonstone. The one he'd given her. The one she wore even now.

Just above her lifted hands floated a crystal ball, one full of light and shadows.

She understood it. It was the future. She held the future in her hands.

“It's . . . it's alive. I expect to see myself finish that spin. It's magnificent, Ashton. It's breathtaking. You made me beautiful.”

“I paint what I see. I saw you like this almost from the beginning. What do you see?”

“Joy. Sexuality, but a delight in it rather than, I don't know, smoldering. Freedom, and power. She's happy, confident. She knows who she is, and what she wants. And in her crystal, everything that can be.”

“What does she want?”

“It's your painting, Ash.”

“It's you,” he corrected. “Your face—your eyes, your lips. The gypsy is a story, the setting, the costume. Dancing around the fire, the men watching her, wanting her. Wanting that joy, that beauty, that power, if only for a night. But she doesn't look at them—she performs for them, but doesn't see them. She doesn't look in the crystal, but holds it aloft.”

“Because knowing isn't the power. Choosing is.”

“And she only looks at one man, one choice. Your face, Lila, your eyes, your lips. It's love that lights it. It's in your eyes, in the curve of your lips, the tilt of your head. Love, the joy and power and freedom that comes from it. I've seen it on your face, for me.”

He turned her. “I know infatuation, lust, flirtation, calculation. I've seen all of it go in and out of my parents' lives. And I know love. Do you think I'll let it go, that I'll let you hide from it because you, who's anything but a coward, is afraid of what ifs?”

“I don't know what to do about it, with it, for it. For you.”

“Figure it out.”

He lifted her to her toes, took her mouth with his in a long, smoldering kiss suited to campfires and moonlit nights.

He ran his hands, molded them from her hips, up her torso, to her shoulders, before easing away.

“You're good at figuring things out.”

“It's not a faulty toaster.”

He smiled at the use of his own argument. “I love you. If you had a dozen or so siblings you'd find it easier to say, and to feel, under every possible circumstance. But this is you and me. It's you,” he said, shifting her to face the painting again. “You'll figure it out.”

He touched his lips to the top of her head. “I'll go pick up some dinner. I feel like Chinese.”

She tilted her head to look over her shoulder, sent him a look martini-dry. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. I'll stop by the bakery, check in with Luke if he's around. Either way, I'll buy you a cupcake.”

When she said nothing, he gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Do you want to come with me, get out, take a walk?”

“Actually, that would be great, but I think I should start figuring things out. And maybe try to sneak in some work.”

“Fair enough.” He started out. “I told Fine to call, no matter what time it was, when they have them both in custody. Then you'll be able to sleep.”

He knew her, she thought, and for that she could be grateful. “When she calls, when they're in custody, prepare to be ridden like a wild stallion.”

“That's a definite date. I won't be long—an hour tops.”

She walked to the door of the studio, just to watch him walk down.

He'd get his keys, check his wallet, she thought, and his phone. Then he'd walk to the bakery first, talk things over with Luke. He'd call in the dinner order so it would be waiting when he got there, but he'd take a few minutes, talk to the owners, the delivery guy if he was there.

She walked back to the painting. Her face—her eyes, her lips. But when she looked in the mirror, she didn't see the brilliance.

Wasn't it amazing he did?

She understood now why he'd waited to paint her face, her features. He'd needed to see this look on it—and he had.

He painted what he saw.

She glanced at another easel and, surprised, went over for a closer look. He'd pinned dozens of sketches to it—all of her.

The faerie in the bower, sleeping, waking, the goddess by the water—wearing a diadem and thin white robes. She rode a winged horse over the city—Florence, she realized—legs bare, one arm raised high. And over her upturned palm a ball of fire shimmered.

He gave her power, she realized, and courage, and beauty. He put the future in her hands.

She laughed at sketches of her at her keyboard, eyes intense, hair tumbled—and best of all her body caught in mid transformation to sleek wolf.

“He has to give me one of these.”

She wished she could draw so she could draw him as she saw him, give him that gift. Inspired, she ran downstairs, into the little bedroom. She couldn't draw, but she damn well knew how to paint with words.

A knight, she decided. Not in shining armor because he used it—not tarnished because he tended it. Tall in stature and demeanor. Both honorable and fierce.

A short story, she mused—something fun and romantic.

She set it in the mythical world of Korweny—he'd enjoy the anagram—a world where dragons flew and wolves ran free. And he, warrior prince, defended home and family above all. He gave his heart to a gypsy who rode beside him and spoke the language of wolves. Add the evil tyrant seeking to steal the magic dragon's egg and usurp the throne, the dark sorceress who did his bidding—she could have something.

A couple pages in, she backtracked, began a new opening. She realized she could write a novella instead of a short story. And she realized she'd gone from a character sketch to short story to novella in about twenty minutes.

“Give me an hour, I'll start thinking novel. And, hey, maybe.”

Considering just that, she decided to go down, get a tall glass of lemon water, take a few minutes to think it through.

“Just a few rough pages,” she promised herself. “I have to focus on the book, but a few rough pages—for fun.”

She started out, imagining a battle—the clang of swords and ax, and the morning mists rising from the blood-soaked ground.

She smiled as she heard the front door open. “Did I lose track of the time? I was just—”

She broke off, froze at the top of the steps as Jai shut the door behind her.

Purpling bruises marred her extraordinary face under her right eye, along her jawline. The tailored black shirt showed a rip in the shoulder seam.

Baring her teeth, she drew a gun from the waistband at the small of her back, said, “Bitch.”

Lila ran, choking out a scream when she heard the slap of a bullet hit the wall. She flew into the bedroom, slammed the door, fumbled with the lock.

Call the police, she ordered herself, then clearly saw her phone sitting beside her keyboard in the little bedroom.

No way to call for help. She bolted toward the window, wasted time trying to shove it open before remembering the lock, and heard the solid kick hit the door.

She needed a weapon.

She grabbed her purse, dumped everything out, pawed through it.

“Think, think, think!” she chanted as she heard wood splinter.

She grabbed the can of pepper spray, sent by her mother a year
before and never used. Prayed it worked. She closed her fist around her Leatherman—a solid weight in her fist. Hearing the door give, she ran, put her back to the wall beside it.

Be strong, be smart, be fast, she told herself, repeating it over and over like a mantra as the door crashed open. Biting back a fresh scream as a swath of bullets swept through the doorway.

She held her breath, shifted and aimed for the eyes as Jai stepped in. The scream ripped like a scalpel. Thinking only of escape, Lila punched out with her weighted hand, glanced a blow off Jai's shoulder, followed it with a shove. With Jai firing blindly, Lila ran.

Get down, get out.

She was nearly halfway down when she heard running footsteps. She glanced back, braced for a bullet, saw the blur of Jai leaping.

The force knocked her off her feet, stole even the thought of breath. As the world spun, pain shot into her shoulder, her hip, her head as they fell down the steps, rolling like dice from a shaken cup.

She tasted blood, watched streaks of light spear across her vision. She kicked weakly, tried to crawl as nausea churned up from belly to throat. Her own scream tore free as hands dragged her back. Pulling on her strength, she kicked again, felt the blow land. She gained her hands and knees, sucked in a breath to shove to her feet, and tumbled back, the streaks bursting into stars when the fist caught the side of her jaw.

Then Jai was on her, a hand clamped around her throat.

No beauty now. Eyes red, leaking, face splotched, bruised, bloodied. But the hand cutting off Lila's air weighed like iron.

“Do you know how many I've killed? You're nothing. You're just the next. And when your man comes back,
biao zi
, I'll gut him and watch him bleed out. You're nothing, and I'll make you less.”

No breath, a red mist crawling over her eyes.

She saw Ash at his easel, saw him eating waffles, laughing into her eyes at a sun-washed café.

She saw him—them—traveling together, being home together, living their lives together.

The future in her hands.

Ash. She'd kill Ash.

Adrenaline surged, an electric jolt. She bucked, but the grip on her throat only tightened. She struck out, saw Jai's lips peel back in a terrible smile.

Weight in her hand, she realized. She still had the tool; she hadn't dropped the tool. Frantic, she fought to open it one-handed.

“Egg.” She croaked it out.

“You think I care about the fucking egg?”

“Here. Egg. Here.”

The vicious grip loosened a fraction. Air seared Lila's throat as she gulped it in.

“Where?”

“I'll give it to you. To you. Please.”

“Tell me where it is.”

“Please.”

“Tell me or die.”

“In . . .” She garbled the rest on a fit of coughing that had tears streaming down her cheeks.

Jai slapped her. “Where. Is. The. Egg,” she demanded, slapping Lila between each word.

“In the . . .” she whispered, hoarse, breathless. And Jai leaned closer.

In her head, she screamed, but her abused throat only released a screeching wheeze as she plunged the knife into Jai's cheek. Weight shifted off her chest, for just an instant. She bucked, kicked, stabbed out again. Pain radiated down her arm as Jai twisted her wrist, pulled the knife from her.

“My face! My face! I'm going to carve you up.”

Spent, defeated, Lila prepared to die.

A
sh carried Chinese takeout, a small bakery box and a bouquet of gerbera daisies bright as candy.

They'd make her smile.

He imagined them opening a bottle of wine, sharing the meal, sharing the bed. Keeping each other distracted until the call finally came, and they knew it was over, it was finished.

Then they'd get on with the business of their lives.

He thought of her reaction to his proposal by the side of the road. He hadn't meant to ask her then and there, but it had been the moment for him. The way she'd looked, the way she was—the way they'd read each other's every cue during the charade with Vasin.

What they had together was a rare thing. He knew it. Now he had to make her believe it.

They could travel wherever she wanted as long as she wanted. The where didn't matter to him. They could use the loft as a base until she was ready to put down roots.

And she would be, he thought, once she really believed, once she trusted what they had together.

As far as he was concerned, they had all the time in the world.

He shifted bags to pull out his keys as he started up the steps.

He noticed that the lights on the alarm, on the camera he'd had installed, were off. They'd been on, hadn't they, when he left? Had he checked?