The Collector

  “I went to the police. I wanted to tell you.”

  “Stand over there and tell me. No, put this down.”

  He came over, snatched the takeout bag out of her hand, set it on a crowded worktable, then just pulled her over in front of the wide ribbon of windows. “Angle this way, but look at me.”

  “I didn’t come to pose—and besides, you said tomorrow for that.”

  “Today’s good. Just look at me.”

  “I didn’t say I’d pose for you. In fact, I’m not really comfortable—”

  He made a shushing sound—as terse as his greeting through the intercom. “Be quiet a minute. It’s not right,” he said, long before the minute was up.

  Relief sighed through her. She’d felt, even for that half minute, like a pinned butterfly. “I told you I wouldn’t be any good at it.”

  “No, you’re fine. It’s the mood.” He tossed down his pencil, narrowed his eyes at her. Her heart beat a little faster; her throat went dry.

  Then he shoved his hands at his hair. “What kind of muffin?”

  “Oh, ah, it’s French apple. It sounded fabulous. I went by Luke’s bakery on the way back from the police. Then I thought I should just come by here and tell you.”

  “Fine. Tell me.” He rooted through the bag, came out with two coffees and the oversized muffin.

  When he bit into the muffin, she frowned.

  “It’s a really big muffin. I thought we’d share.”

  He took another bite. “I don’t think so. Police?”

  “I went there, and I caught Fine and Waterstone just as they were leaving. But they held up so I could tell them about your theory, then about the perfume here.”

  Watching her—too much, as he had been with the pencil in his hand—he gulped down coffee.

  “And they said they’d look into it in a way that made it pretty clear they thought you were wasting their time.”

  “They were polite about it. It ticked me off. Why doesn’t it tick you off?”

  “Because I see their point. Even if they believed it, which is low on the scale, what does it give them to go on? Nothing. I’ve got nothing, you’ve got nothing. Whoever broke in here, and into Julie’s, has probably figured that out by now. Whatever Oliver and his girlfriend were involved in, we’re not. I’m going to ask the relatives, see if he told anybody what he was up to. But that’s unlikely, not if it was illegal or sketchy, and it was probably both.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. Maybe he bragged about whatever it was—bits and pieces to this sib or that sib. I might be able to piece something together.”

  He broke what was left of the muffin in half, offered it.

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “It’s good. You should’ve gotten two.” He grabbed the coffee before he crossed the studio, then yanked open double doors.

  “Oh, my God! It’s the costume department!” Delighted, Lila hurried over. “Look at all this. Dresses, scarves, baubles. And really, really skimpy lingerie. I did theater in high school—well, briefly because my father got transferred, but the costumes were the most fun.”

  “None of these are right, but this is close enough for now.” He pulled out a soft blue sundress. “Wrong color, wrong length but the shape’s close from the waist up. Put it on, take off your shoes.”

  “I’m not putting it on.” But she touched the skirt—the soft, fluid skirt. “It’s really pretty.”

  “Wear it for an hour, give me an hour, and it’s yours.”

  “You can’t bribe me with a . . . it’s Prada.”

  “It’s yours for one hour.”

  “I have errands, and Thomas—”

  “I’ll help you with the damn errands. I have to pick up my mail anyway. I haven’t picked it up in days. And Thomas is a cat. He’ll be fine.”

  “He’s a cat who likes a pal around.”

  Prada, she thought, touching the skirt again. She’d bought a pair of black Prada pumps, convincing herself they were serviceable. And on sale. In fact she’d fought a vicious war at Saks’s annual shoe sale on the eighth floor to win them.

  Labels don’t matter, she reminded herself, while a sly little voice whispered, Prada.

  “And why do you have to pick up your mail?” She asked as much to distract herself from Prada as innate curiosity. “Don’t they just bring it?”

  “No. I keep a box. One hour, and I’ll run the stupid errands for you.”

  “Great.” She beamed out a smile, tiny dimple winking. “I need several items in the personal female hygiene department. I’ll give you the list.”

  He simply aimed an amused look out of those sharp green eyes. “I have sisters, a mother, a small bevy of stepmothers along with countless aunts and female cousins. Do you think that bothers me?”

  “An hour,” she said, defeated. “And I keep the dress.”

  “Deal. You can change in there. And take your hair out of that thing. I want it down.”

  Following his direction, she went into a roomy bathroom, white and black like his kitchen, but with a triple mirror. The sort that made her want to shed a few tears in every department store dressing room.

  She changed into the soft blue dress. Reveled for just a moment in not only wearing it—she’d tried designer labels on before, for fun—but in knowing it could be hers.

  A little big in the bust, she thought—big surprise—but not a bad fit. And she could have it altered. As she wanted the damn dress, she slipped out of her sandals, pulled the band out of her hair.

  When she stepped out again, he stood at the window, looking out.

  “I don’t have any makeup with me,” she began.

  “You don’t need it for this. Just some preliminary work.”

  He turned, studied her. “The color’s not bad on you, but you’re better in bolder. Over here.”

  “You’re bossy when you put the artist on.” She walked by the easel, stopped. There was her face, over and over from different angles, with different expressions.

  “It’s all me. It’s odd.” And made her feel exposed again. “Why don’t you use the mermaid girl for this? She’s so beautiful.”

  “There are all sorts of beauty. I want your hair . . .” He simply pushed her over from the waist, scrubbed his hands through it, then pulled her back up. “Toss it,” he ordered.

  And when she did, her eyes flashed—not anger, but pure female amusement.

  “That.” He took her chin, angled her head up. “Just exactly that. You know so much more than I do, than any man can. I can watch you in the moonlight, in the starlight, in the firelight, but I’ll never know what you know, what you think. They think they can have you, the men who watch the dance. But they can’t, not until or unless you choose. You belong to no one until you choose. That’s your power.”

  He stepped back to the easel. “Chin up, head back. Eyes on me.”

  There went her heart again, and her throat. And this time she actually felt her legs go a little weak.

  How did he do it?

  “Do all the women you paint fall in love with you?”

  “Some fall into hate. Or at least intense dislike.” He tossed aside the page of sketches, began a new one.

  “And that doesn’t really matter to you, because you get what you’re after, and it’s not really them.”

  “Of course it’s them, some part of them. Look at me. Why young adult novels?”

  “Because it’s fun. There’s so much drama during the teenage years. All the longing, the discovery, the terrible need to belong to something, the terrible fear of not being like everyone else. Add werewolves, and it’s an allegory, and more fun.”

  “Werewolves always bring the fun. My sister Rylee really liked your first book.”

  “She did?”

  “Kaylee rules and Aiden’s hot, but she’s especially fond of Mel.”

  “Aw, that’s nice. Mel’s the best pal of the central character and a very awkward nerd.”

  �
�Makes sense, as she’s a nerd herself, and always roots for the underdog. I promised her I’d get the second book for her, have you sign it.”

  Pleasure bloomed inside her. “I have some advance copies coming in about a month. I’ll sign one for her, get it to you.”

  “Great. I’ll be her favorite brother.”

  “I bet you are anyway. You listen, and even when things are bad, you give her something happy.”

  “Twirl around.”

  “What?”

  He circled a finger in the air while he sketched. “No, no, twirl around.” This time he whipped his finger.

  She felt silly, but did a quick spin.

  “Again, arms up, have some fun with it.” Next time he’d put music on to distract her, keep her relaxed. “Better, hold it there, keep your arms up. Was your father stationed overseas?”

  “A couple of times. Germany, but I was just a baby and don’t remember. Italy, and that was nice.”

  “Iraq?”

  “Yeah, and that wasn’t nice. He was deployed out of Fort Lee in Virginia, so we stayed there.”

  “Tough.”

  “The army life’s not for weenies.”

  “And now?”

  “I try not to be a weenie. But you meant what’s he doing now. He retired, and they moved to Alaska. They love it. They bought a little general store, and eat moose burgers.”

  “Okay, relax. Toss your hair one more time. Do you get up there?”

  “To Juneau? A couple of times. I wrangled a job in Vancouver, then went to Juneau after, then got one in Missoula, did the same. Have you been there?”

  “Yeah, it’s staggering.”

  “It is.” She brought it into her mind. “Like another world, literally. Like a new planet. Not the ice planet Hoth, but close.”

  “The what?”

  “Hoth, the ice planet. Star Wars—The Empire Strikes Back.”

  “Okay. Right.”

  Obviously a casual Star Wars fan at best, Lila decided, so shifted the topic back. “What did you paint in Alaska?”

  “Some landscapes because you’d be crazy not to. One of an Inuit woman as an ice queen—probably ruling the ice planet Hoth,” he added, and had her grin flashing.

  “Why women, especially? You paint other things, but it’s mostly women, and fanciful, whether benign like the violin-playing witch in the moonlit meadow, or the man-eating mermaid.”

  His eyes changed—from intense, looking straight into her, to calmer, more curious. “Why do you assume the woman in the meadow is a witch?”

  “Because power, and her pleasure in it as much as the music, is right there. Or it’s just how I saw it—and why, I guess, I wanted it.”

  “You’re right. She’s caught in a moment of embrace—her music, her magic. If I still had it, I’d make you a deal because you understood that. But then, where would you put it?”

  “There is that little hitch,” she agreed. “But again, why women most often?”

  “Because they’re powerful. Life comes from them, and that’s its own magic. That’s good for now.” As his gaze hung on her, he tossed his pencil aside. “I need to find the right dress, something with movement.”

  Because she wasn’t sure he’d say yes, she didn’t ask if she could see what he’d done, but just walked over and looked.

  So many angles, she thought, of her face, and of her body now.

  “Problem?” he asked.

  “It’s like the triple mirrors in dressing rooms.” She wiggled her shoulders. “You see too much.”

  He’d see more when he talked her into a nude, but one step at a time.

  “So.” He picked up the coffee again. “Errands.”

  “You don’t have to help me run errands. I got a new dress.”

  “I have to get my mail anyway.” He glanced around the studio. “And I need to get out of here. You probably need your shoes.”

  “Yes, I do. Give me a minute.”

  Alone, he pulled out his phone, turned it back on. Seeing over a dozen v-mails, e-mails and texts gave him an instant headache.

  Yeah, he needed to get out.

  Still he took the time to answer a few, in order of priority, stopped, stuck the phone away again when she came back out, wearing the cropped pants and top she’d worn in. “I just folded the dress up in my bag, in case you decided I couldn’t keep it after all.”

  “It’s not my dress.”

  “It’s definitely too short for you, but— Oh.” Instant distress. “It belongs to someone. Let me put it back.”

  “No, I said keep it. Chloe left it here—or maybe it was Cara—months ago. She, whichever one it was, knows the rules.”

  “There are rules?”

  “Leave stuff here,” he began as he herded Lila to the elevator, “for more than two months, it goes into wardrobe or the trash. Otherwise, I’d have their stuff scattered everywhere.”

  “Strict but fair. Cara. Sister? Model? Girlfriend?”

  “Half sister, father’s side.” And since one of the messages had been from Cara, his thoughts circled back to Oliver yet again.

  “They’re releasing the body tomorrow.”

  She touched his hand as he pulled the grate open on the main level. “That’s a good thing. It means you can have the memorial soon, say goodbye.”

  “It means an emotional circus, but you can’t get out the push brooms until the elephants dance.”

  “I think I understand that,” she said after a moment, “and it wasn’t flattering to your family.”

  “I’m a little tired of my family right now.” He grabbed keys, sunglasses, a small cloth bag. “Put this in your purse, will you? For the mail.”

  She couldn’t imagine needing a bag for mail, but obliged.

  He stuck the keys in his pocket, shoved the sunglasses on.

  “It’s a tiring time,” she commented.

  “You have no idea.” He led her outside. “You should. You should come to the funeral.”

  “Oh, I don’t think—”

  “Definitely. You’ll be a distraction, plus you keep your head in a crisis. There’ll be several crises. I’ll send a driver for you. Ten o’clock should work.”

  “I didn’t know him.”

  “You’re connected, and you know me. Luke will ride up with you. Sunday. Is Sunday a problem?”

  Lie, she ordered herself, but knew she wouldn’t. “Actually it’s my interim day—between the Kilderbrands and the Lowensteins, but—”

  “Then it works.” He took her arm, steered her east instead of south.

  “I was going down a block.”

  “One stop first. There.” He gestured to a funky women’s boutique.

  Waiting for the walk signal, the rumbling mass of a huge delivery truck, the gaggle of what she knew to be tourists given the tone of their chatter, gave her a minute to catch her breath.

  “Ashton, won’t your family consider the nosy temporary neighbor an intrusion at your brother’s funeral?”

  “Lila, I have twelve siblings, many of whom have spouses, and ex-spouses, kids, stepchildren. I have assorted aunts, uncles and