The Collector
Page 107

“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.”
His eyes flashed to hers, sharp, intense, as they did when he painted her. “I’d take a hammer to it, Lila, because you mean a hell of a lot more.”
“I don’t know what to do or say.” How could she when everything inside her trembled and ached? “No one’s ever felt about me the way you do. No one’s ever made me feel the way you make me feel.”
“You could try taking it.”
“I’ve never had anything solid I didn’t get for myself. It’s just the way it was. I’ve never let myself hold on to anything too tight because I might have to leave it behind. When it means too much it hurts too much.”
“This is solid.” He took her hand, closed it into a fist, laid it on his heart. “You got it for yourself.”
She felt his heartbeat—strong, steady, and hers if she could take it. “I can’t figure out how.”
“You got me when you reached out, gave me something to hold on to when you didn’t even know me. So let me do the holding on to for a while.”
To demonstrate, he drew her against him. “We’re not going to leave anything behind. You’ll paint the bathroom, I’ll call lawyers. You’ll do your work, I’ll do mine. And I’ll hold on until you’re ready to.”
She closed her eyes, steadied herself. She’d take what he offered, accept what she felt. For right now.
Prepping the powder room, doing more research on the technique, buying the supplies, agreeing on the base color—and she should have known the artist would have firm and definite ideas there—kept her occupied. She made herself take an additional day to let the process circle around in her head, and took the time to sit down, start polishing up the book.
Then she let that process circle, shoved up her sleeves and dived in with brush and roller.
Ash spent most of his days in the studio. She expected him to tell her he needed her to sit again, but it didn’t come up. She imagined he had enough on his plate, talking to the lawyers, trying to set the stage for the showdown with Vasin.
She didn’t bring any of it up again. She could plot a half dozen scenarios in her mind—and did—but none of them worked without the first step. So Ash would set things up, then she’d step in, add her weight, her thoughts—like a final polish.
She had plenty on her plate, too, with her feelings and his as the main course. Could she push the plate aside—no thanks, it looks great but? Did she want to? Could she sample a little then say thanks, that’s enough? Or could she settle in, eat hearty?
But if you settled in, wouldn’t the plate eventually be empty? Or was it a loaves-and-fishes sort of thing?
“Stop it,” she ordered herself. “Just stop it.”
“If you stop now, nobody can use the room.”
She glanced over her shoulder.
There he was, the center of her thoughts, glorious black hair tousled, gorgeous face scruffed from his aversion to daily shaving, excellent body in jeans—with a faint streak of crimson paint at the left hip—and a black T-shirt.
He looked like an artist, and every time he did, he stirred all her juices.
He hooked his thumbs in his front pockets, studying her as she studied him. “What?”
“I’m wondering why men are sexy when they’re scruffy, and women are just unkempt or sloppy. I guess we’ll blame it on Eve—she gets blamed for everything anyway.”
“Eve who?”
“As in Adam. Anyway, I’m not stopping the painting—just some head games I have to quit. Don’t frown.”
She gestured, a little dangerously, with her coated roller. “This is just the base coat. The Venetian plaster technique has many steps. Go away.”
“I’m about to do just that. I have to go out, get some supplies. Need anything?”
“No, I—” Reconsidering, she pressed a free hand to her stomach. “I could be hungry later. Are you interested in splitting a calzone? I’ll be done with the base by the time you get back.”
“I could be interested in a calzone, but I want my own.”
“I can’t eat a whole one.”
“I can.”
“Never mind, get me half a cold-cut sub. Turkey and provolone, and whatever. Load it up—but just half.”
“I can do that.” He leaned in, kissed her. And eyed the wall she was painting again.
“You do understand the concept of base coat?”
“As it happens, I do.” He also understood the concept of paint in the hands of an amateur. Just a bathroom, he reminded himself, and one he rarely used anyway.
“Keep the door locked, don’t go out, and stay out of my studio.”
“If I need to—”
“I won’t be long.” He kissed her again.
“You’re going out alone,” she called after him. “Maybe you need to wait until I grab a kitchen knife and come with you.”
He only glanced back, smiled. “I won’t be long.”