The Collector
Page 86

“So do I.” But he was thinking of her. Just of her.
“I’ll trade Brooklyn for Italy, let you handle the details and I’ll get us the Bastone connection. And we’ll take the rest as it comes.”
“That works. Are you up for sitting for me?”
“That’s why I’m here. The rest was a detour.”
“Then let’s get started.”
She walked over, picked up the dog. “He goes where I go.”
“After today, I wouldn’t argue with that.”
He blocked it out when he painted. She could see it, the way everything focused on the work. The sweep or swirl of his brush, the angle of his head, the firm stance of his legs. At one point he clamped one brush between his teeth, wielded another, mixing, blending paint on his palette.
She wanted to ask how he knew which brush to use, how he decided on that or the mix of colors. Was it a learned technique or did it all come from the belly? Just a knowing.
But she thought when a man looked that intense, when he could peer into her as if he could see every secret she had—had ever had, ever would have—silence served them both.
Besides, he rarely said a word while the music thumped, and his hand swept or arrowed into the canvas for some minute detail.
And for a time that green laser of a gaze focused solely on the canvas. She thought he’d forgotten she was there. Just an image to create, just colors, textures, shape.
Then his eyes locked on hers again, held, held until she swore the breath just left her body. One hot, vibrant moment before he trained his attention on the canvas again.
He was, she thought, an emotional roller coaster. She had to remind herself she liked fast, wild rides—but a man who could leave you breathless without a word, without a touch, held formidable power. Did he know what he did to her, the way her heart bounced around in her chest, the nerves he had racing over her skin?
They were lovers now, and she’d always been comfortable with the physical. But this emotional whirlwind was new, and heady, and just a little unnerving.
Just as her arms began to tremble, the dog woke, whined and pranced over to her.
“Don’t,” he snapped when she started to lower her arms.
“Ash, my arms weigh a ton each, and the dog wants to go out.”
“Just hold it, another minute. A minute.”
The dog whined; her arms trembled. His brush moved in long, slow strokes.
“Okay. All right.” He stepped back, eyes narrowed, brows drawn to study the day’s work. “Okay.”
Lila scooped up the dog, rubbed aching shoulders. “Can I see?”
“It’s you.” With a shrug, he stepped to a worktable, began to clean his brushes.
He had her body, the long flow of the dress, the flirtation of the underskirts. She could see the outline where her arms would be, her face, but he’d yet to paint those in. Just the lines of her, the angles, one exposed leg with the foot lifted onto her toes.
“I could be anyone.”
“But you’re not.”
“The Headless Gypsy.”
“I’ll get to it.”
He’d done some of the background—the orange and gold of the campfire, the billow of smoke behind her, a section of star-slashed sky. He wouldn’t need her for that, she realized.
“Why do you wait to paint the face?”
“Your face,” he corrected. “Because it’s the most important. The lines, the colors, the curve of your arms—they’re important, they all say something. But your face will say it all.”
“What will it say?”
“We’ll find out. You can go ahead and change, and you can grab something from the dressing room if you want to replace your shirt. I’ll take the dog out. I need to toss a few things together, then we can go back. I’ll stay tonight.”
“Just like that?”
The faintest flicker of annoyance ran over his face. “We’ve crossed that point, Lila. If you want to backtrack you can tell me to sleep in one of the other bedrooms. I won’t, I’ll seduce you, but you can tell me.”
Since she couldn’t decide if his matter-of-fact tone was irritating or exciting, she left it alone, walked back to the dressing room.
She considered her options, settled on a mint-green tank, studied her bandaged graze before she put it on. And then studied her face.
What would it say? she wondered. Did he already know? Was he waiting? She wished he’d painted it so she could know what he saw when he looked at her.
How could she settle in, settle down without the answers? How could she until she knew how it all worked—how he really worked?
She took down the dramatic makeup wondering why she’d bothered with it since her canvas face remained a blank. He’d probably have some artistic reason she needed to be fully in this character he envisioned.
Seduction? she thought. No, she didn’t want to be seduced. That implied an imbalance of power, a kind of involuntary yielding. But he was right, they’d crossed that line—and both knew she wanted him to stay with her, to be with her.
Posing for him had left her feeling edgy, she admitted. Better to put that aside, as God knew there were bigger things to feel edgy over.
The blood on her ruined shirt served as a stark reminder of that. Studying it, she took herself back through the attack. She could admit she should’ve been more aware, paid more attention. If she’d been more aware she might not have been taken by surprise—and might not have a ruined shirt and a bandaged side. She could and would correct that. Still, she felt she’d won that little battle.
Jai drew a little blood, but that’s all she got.
She rolled up the shirt to stuff it in her bag. Better to toss it out in the trash at her client’s than at Ash’s. If he came across it, he’d only toughen his stance on protecting her.
She pulled her phone out, pushed the shirt in. And since the phone was in her hand, did a quick check.
Five minutes later, she rushed down the stairs just as Ash brought the dog back in.
“Antonia got back to me. I got the hook in, Ash. She spoke to her father—the one who dated Miranda Swanson. The name-dropping worked, plus she has a friend who read my book. It worked.”
“What did her father say?”
“He wants to know more about what I’m doing, what I’m looking for. I told her I was traveling to Florence with some friends next week, asked if it would be possible to meet him—when and where at his choosing. Then I dropped the Archer name because, well, money talks to money, right?”