The Collector
Page 61

Using only the stove light, she put water in the kettle, set it on to boil. Better, much better than tossing and turning and reliving old sexy memories, she decided as she opened a cupboard for the tin of tea. A nice, soothing drink, a little work, then maybe a very dull book.
She’d sleep like a baby.
Already more content, she got out her pretty little teapot because the soft green color and the lilac blooms made her happy. The process of heating the pot, measuring the tea, getting her strainer kept her focus on the homey task at hand.
“Can’t you sleep?”
She let out a distinct and embarrassing squeal, dropped the tea tin—which fortunately she’d just closed—and stared at Luke.
He wore nothing but his suit pants—zipped but not buttoned—so it was hardly her fault her first thought was the boy she’d married had filled out really, really well.
The second was regret she’d taken off her makeup.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.” He came forward, picked up the tin.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. I heard you out here, but wanted to make sure it was you.”
Civilized, she reminded herself. Mature. “I couldn’t turn my brain off. And I don’t know what to think or what to feel having murder so close to home. Then the egg. I can’t get my mind off that either. It’s a major find, a huge discovery in the art world, and my closest friend is involved in all of it.”
Talking too fast, she told herself. Can’t seem to slow down.
Why was her kitchen so small? They were all but on top of each other.
“Ash will take care of Lila.”
“Nobody takes care of Lila, but yes, I know he’ll try.”
She pushed at her hair, imagined it a wild mess after the tossing and turning in bed.
Naked face, bad hair. Thank God she hadn’t turned on the overhead light.
“Do you want some tea? It’s an herbal mix with valerian, skullcap, chamomile and some lavender. Really good for insomnia.”
“Have a lot of that?”
“Not really. More your basic stress and restlessness.”
“You should try meditation.”
She stared at him. “You meditate?”
“No. I can’t turn my mind off.”
It made her laugh as she reached for a second mug. “The couple times I’ve tried it, my ohm turns into: Oh, I should’ve bought that fabulous bag I saw at Barneys. Or should I be marketing this artist this way instead of that way? Or why did I eat that cupcake?”
“Me, it starts spinning around staff scheduling, health department inspections. And cupcakes.”
She set the lid on the pot to let the tea steep. “Tonight, it was murder and Fabergé and . . .”
“And?”
“Oh, things.”
“Funny, mine was murder and Fabergé and you.”
She glanced toward him, then away when that single quick meeting of eyes made her stomach flutter. “Well, considering the circumstances . . .”
“There’s always been a lot of you in my head.” He trailed a finger from her shoulder to her elbow—an old habit she remembered well. “A lot of wondering with you in the center. What if we’d done this instead of that? What if I’d said this and not that? Asked this instead of not asking?”
“It’s natural to wonder.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, of course. Do you want honey? I take it plain, but I have honey if—”
“Do you ever wonder why we couldn’t make it work? Why both of us did stupid things instead of working toward figuring out how to fix it?”
“I wanted to be mad at you instead. It seemed easier to be mad at you instead of wishing I’d said this, or you’d done that. We were just kids, Luke.”
He took her arm, turned her, took her other arm. Held her so they were face-to-face. “We’re not kids anymore.”
His hands so firm, warming her skin through the thin silk of her robe—and his eyes so fixed on hers. All the wondering, all the thoughts, all the memories simply cut through the line she’d told herself was common sense.
“No,” she said, “we’re not.”
With nothing holding her back, she moved to him, moved into him, to take what she wanted.
And later, with the tea forgotten on the counter, with her body curled to his, she slept like a baby.
Fifteen
Knowing she needed to play catch-up, and having nowhere else practical to play it, Lila made coffee, then set up a temporary workstation in Ash’s eating nook.
And there, pushed herself back into the story—one she knew hadn’t gotten enough of her attention in the last few days.
Dressed in Ash’s shirt, she blocked everything else out, and went back to high school and werewolf wars.
She put in a solid two hours before she heard Ash come in. She held up a finger to ask for quiet, then finished off the last thought.
Keying it to save, she looked up, smiled. “Good morning.”
“Yeah. What are you doing?”
“Writing. I really needed to get back on schedule there, and you timed it perfectly. It’s a good place to stop for now.”
“Then why are you crying?”
“Oh.” She brushed tears away. “I just killed off a sympathetic character. It had to be done, but I feel really bad about it. I’m going to miss him.”
“Human or werewolf?”
She pulled a tissue from the mini pack always kept handy at her workstation. “Werewolves are human except for three nights—in my lore—a month. But werewolf. My main character’s going to be shattered.”
“Condolences. Do you want more coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’ve already had two. I thought setting up here would be the most out of your way,” she continued as he tapped his machine for his own cup. “I can’t go to my next job until this afternoon, and I don’t feel like I can go to Julie’s now. Not sure what’s what there.”
“You’re fine.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Everything’s wrong before coffee.” He took the first gulp of it black. “I could probably scramble some eggs if you want.”
She looked at him, hair tousled, face scruffy again—and definitely cranky around the eyes. “Scrambled eggs is one of the few things I cook really well. I’ll trade that for a place to hang out until two.”