The Collector
Page 24

“How are your parents?”
“They’re good. Yours?”
“The same. I remember the chocolate chip cookies—your grandmother’s recipe—and the really fabulous cake you made me for my eighteenth birthday.”
“And your mother said, ‘Luke, you could make a living.’”
Julie laughed. “She did! But I never imagined you would.”
“Neither did I. Actually, Ash pushed the idea. He’s good at pushing because you usually don’t know he’s pushed you where he thinks you should be until you’re there.”
“I just said, Why are you working for someone else when you could have people working for you?”
“Or words to that effect,” Luke finished. “And you, an art gallery. You always loved art, talked about studying art history, that sort of thing.”
“And I did. I went back to school, moved to New York, wheedled my way into the gallery. I got married, met Lila, got divorced and moved up to manager.”
“I had nothing to do with any of it,” Lila claimed.
“Oh, please.”
“Not on purpose.”
“We met at yoga class,” Julie began. “Lila and I, not me and Maxim—my ex. We hit it off during up dogs and down dogs, started hitting the juice bar together after. One thing led to another.”
Lila sighed. “I was seeing someone, and it looked like it might get fairly serious. So, being females, we talked about the men in our lives. I told her about mine. He was great-looking, successful. He traveled a lot, but was very attentive when we were together. And Julie told me about her husband.”
“Also great-looking and successful. Working longer hours than he once did, and not as attentive as he’d once been. In fact, things were a little rocky, but we were working on smoothing them out.”
“So with a few yoga sessions, a few smoothies, some sharing of details, it turned out the guy I was seeing was married, to Julie. I was sleeping with her husband, and instead of drowning me in my own smoothie, she dealt.”
“We dealt.”
“We did.” Lila tapped her glass to Julie’s. “And our friendship is written in his blood. Not literally,” she added quickly.
“No violence necessary when you take your husband’s slut—”
“Ouch.”
“When you take his slut home for drinks and introduce her to him as your new best friend. He packed up what he could in the twenty minutes I gave him and moved out. Lila and I ate the best part of a half gallon of ice cream.”
“Ben & Jerry’s Coffee Heath Bar Crunch,” Lila remembered, with a smile that had the little dimple flickering. “Still a favorite. You were so amazing. I just wanted to crawl into the deep dark hole of shame, but not Julie. ‘Let’s get the bastard,’ that was her reaction. So we did.”
“I ditched the bastard, kept the slut.”
“I ditched the bastard,” Lila corrected, “and kept the pathetic and clueless wife. Someone had to.”
“I want to paint you.”
Lila glanced at Ash. Blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I’ll need you at the loft for some preliminary sketches. A couple of hours would do it to start. What size are you?”
“What?”
“She’s a two,” Julie said, “as so many sluts are.” She angled her head. “What are you looking for?”
“Earthy, sexy gypsy, full skirt, flame red, bold colors in the underskirts.”
“Really?” Fascinated, Julie turned to Lila, gaze sharp and assessing. “Really.”
“Stop it. No. Thanks. I’m . . . The knee-jerk is flattered, but I’m more baffled. I’m not a model. I don’t know how to model.”
“I know what I want, so you don’t have to.” He glanced at the waiter, ordered the pasta special. “Day after tomorrow would work. About ten.”
“I don’t— What he said’s fine,” she told the waiter. “Thanks. Listen, I don’t—”
“I can pay you by the hour or a flat fee. We’ll work that out. Do you know how to play up your eyes?”
“What?”
“Of course she does,” Julie put in. “A full-length portrait? She’s got long and excellent legs.”
“I noticed.”
“Really, stop.”
“Lila doesn’t like being spotlighted. Toughen up, Lila-Lou. You’ve just been tapped to model for a highly respected contemporary artist whose fanciful, sometimes disturbing, sometimes whimsical, always sensual paintings are acclaimed. She’ll be there. I’ll get her there.”
“Might as well give it up,” Luke told her. “You’re going to end up standing where he wants you anyway.”
“I’ll paint you anyway.” Ash shrugged. “But the work will resonate more, have more depth if you’re involved. Lila-Lou?”
“Lila Louise, middle name after my father, Lieutenant Colonel Louis Emerson. And you can’t paint me if I say no.”
“Your face, your body?” He jerked a shoulder. “They’re right out there.”
“She’ll be there,” Julie repeated. “Come on, time for a little sortie to the ladies’. Excuse us.” To ward off protests, Julie simply rose, took Lila’s hand and hauled her to her feet.
“He can’t make me model,” Lila hissed as Julie towed her along. “And neither can you.”
“I bet you’re wrong.”
“Plus, I’m not an earthy, sexy gypsy type.”
“There, you’re definitely wrong.” She led Lila down the narrow flight of steps to the restrooms. “You have the coloring, and you have the lifestyle.”
“One fling with a married man I didn’t know was married, and I have an earthy lifestyle?”
“A gypsy lifestyle.” Julie drew her into the little bathroom. “It’s a fabulous opportunity—and a chance for an interesting experience, and you’ll be immortalized.”
“I’ll feel flustered and shy.” Might as well pee since I’m here, Lila thought, and went into a stall. “I hate feeling shy.”
“He’ll find a way around that.” Following the lead, Julie used the second stall. “And I’m going to lobby to be allowed to sit it on a session or two. I’d love to watch him work, and be able to talk about his process with clients.”