The Collector
Page 26

“There’s not that much to talk about, and other people are more interesting. Did you do fabulous and insightful finger paintings in kindergarten which your mother has framed?”
“My mother’s not that sentimental. My father’s second wife framed a pencil sketch I did of her dog when I was about thirteen. Nice dog. It’s this place.”
He walked up to a three-story building, old brick, big windows. One of the old warehouses, she thought, converted to lofts. She loved spaces like this.
“I bet you have the third floor, for the light.”
“Yeah, I’ve got the third floor.” He unlocked the big steel door, stepped in, dealt with the alarm code while she walked in behind him.
Dazzled, she turned a circle. She’d expected some small common space, one of the old freight elevators, maybe, walls and doors of first-level apartments.
Instead she walked through a huge open space made fluid with arches of old brick. Wide-plank floors, scarred but gleaming, spread over a living area, rich colors against neutral walls, jewel-toned chairs arranged for conversation, the charm of a double-sided fireplace built into the leg of an arch.
The ceiling soared, opening the space for the second floor and its sleek rails and turned pickets of copper gone to verdigris.
“This is amazing.” Since he didn’t stop her, she wandered, studying the long stretch of kitchen, all black-and-white tiles, polished concrete counters and a dining area with a generously sized black table, a half dozen high-backed chairs.
The neutral walls throughout served as the backdrop for art. Paintings, sketches, charcoals, watercolors. A collection, she thought, any gallery would swoon for.
“This is yours. All yours.”
She stepped into another area, a sort of den/library/sitting room with its own little fireplace. A cozier spot, she decided, despite the open floor plan.
“It’s all yours,” she repeated. “It’s big enough for a family of ten, easy.”
“Sometimes I am.”
“You— Oh.” She laughed, shook her head. “I guess that’s true. Your spreadsheet family visits a lot.”
“Now and then, off and on.”
“And you kept the old elevator.” She walked over to the wide, grated lift.
“It comes in handy. But we can use the stairs if you’d rather.”
“I’d rather because then I get to be nosy about the second floor. It’s a wonderful use of space—color, texture, everything.” Because she was serious about the nosy, she walked to the angled stairs with their old copper rail. “I spend time in some spaces, and wonder what people were thinking. Why they put this here instead of there, or why they took out that wall—or didn’t take it out. Not here. Anytime you need a house-sitter, you’ve got my number.”
“Yeah, I think I’ve got it.”
She glanced up at him, a quick, easy smile. “You’ve got my phone number, the rest could still surprise you. How many bedrooms?”
“Four on this level.”
“Four, on this level. How rich are you—and that’s not because I plan to marry you for your money. It’s the nosy again.”
“Now you’ve ruined my night.”
She laughed again, started toward what looked like a pretty guest room with an open canopy bed, and more compelling, a large painting of a field of sunflowers simply saturated with color.
Then she stopped, eyebrows drawn together. “Wait,” she said, and followed her nose.
She walked quickly, heading away from the stairs, stopping again at what she assumed was the master bedroom with its big iron bed of steel gray and rumpled navy duvet.
“I wasn’t thinking company when I—”
“No.” She held up a hand, walked straight into the room. “Boudoir.”
“Guys don’t have boudoirs, Lila-Lou. They have bedrooms.”
“No, no, the perfume. Julie’s perfume. Don’t you smell it?”
It took him a minute, and made her realize his senses had been caught up in her scent—something fresh and flirty. But he caught it, the deeper, more sensual tones lingering in the air.
“Now I do.”
“This is crazy, God, it’s crazy, but you were right.” Heart thumping, she gripped his arm. “You were right about the break-in at Julie’s, because whoever broke in there, they’ve been here. Maybe they still are.”
“Stay right here,” he ordered, but she not only tightened her grip, she grabbed his arm with both hands.
“Absolutely not, because the big brave man who says to stay right here is the one who gets cut to ribbons by the crazy slasher who’s hiding in the closet.”
He went straight to the closet with her still latched on, flung it open. “No crazy slasher.”
“Not in this closet. I bet there are twenty closets in this place.”
Rather than argue, he took her with him as he systematically searched the second floor.
“We should have a weapon.”
“My AK-47’s in for repair. There’s no one up here, and no one on the first floor, since you went pretty much everywhere down there. Plus the scent’s strongest in my bedroom.”
“Wouldn’t that mean she was in there last? Or longest? She, because I can’t see a killer-slash-burglar-slash-potential slasher who wears stolen Boudoir perfume being a man.”
“Maybe. I need to check my studio. Look, lock yourself in the bathroom if you’re worried.”
“I will not lock myself in the bathroom. Did you read The Shining?”
“For Christ’s sake.” Resigned, he went back to the stairs, started up with her gripping his belt.
Ordinarily, the big, cluttered and colorful work space would have fascinated her. Now she looked for movement, braced for attack. But she saw only tables, easels, canvases, jars, bottles, rags, tarps. One wall held a massive corkboard crowded with photographs, sketches, the odd scribbled note.
She smelled paint, what she thought was turpentine, chalk.
“A lot of scents here,” she commented. “I don’t know if I’d find the perfume through it.”
She looked up to the big dome of the skylight, over to a cobbled-together sitting area with a long leather couch, a couple of tables, a lamp, a chest.
She relaxed enough to let go of his belt, stepped away enough to get a better sense of the room.