The Collector
Page 105

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 br**sts. 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.”