The Collector, Page 23

  “The way she played Vinnie, going all around the store, selecting pieces?” Since her dress had no pockets, she set the pins on the counter, rubbed her hands through her hair, circled her neck. “She knew what was going to happen to him—maybe not the way it happened, but, Ash, they would’ve killed him even if he’d had the egg and given it to them. She’s a spider, and she enjoyed spinning that web around Vinnie. You could see it.”

  “Can’t argue with that. You lay out a pretty good theory. One point of disagreement.”

  “Which point?”

  “The beautiful spider isn’t the client.”

  “Look, it just makes perfect sense she’s—”

  “Then who did she call?”

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Who did she call when she left the murderous thug alone with Vinnie? She took the time, had a conversation. Who would she call in the middle of trying to beat information out of a defenseless man?”

  “Oh. I forgot that part.”

  She lifted her hair off her neck, her shoulders, as she considered. Not a deliberate move, he thought—he recognized deliberate moves. But lifted it, let it fall again because she’d freed it from the knot she’d twisted it into, and it just felt good.

  Lack of purpose aside, the gesture winged straight to his loins.

  “She’d call . . . her boyfriend,” Lila suggested. “Her mother, the woman who feeds her cat while she’s out of town. No, shit! Her boss.”

  “There you go.”

  “She’s not the client.” Illuminated by the idea, she gestured with the beer she’d barely touched. “She works for the client. Somebody who could afford to buy that egg—even if she intended to steal it from Oliver—had to have some serious backing to convince him she was viable. If you can afford that, you don’t go hiking around New York, breaking into apartments, beating people up. You hire someone to do it. Damn, I missed that. But together we have a very good theory.”

  “It’s pretty clear the boss doesn’t mind paying for murder. You could be right about Sage being the link between this client—or his spider—and Oliver. The thing to figure out is how and who.”

  “Ash.” She set the beer down—he calculated she’d taken three girlie sips.

  “Do you want something besides beer? You want some wine?”

  “No, it’s fine. Ash, three people—that we know of—are dead because of that egg. You have the egg.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You could give it to the police, or the FBI—whatever. Make it known. Do interviews, make a splash. You turned this rare and almost priceless treasure over to the authorities for safekeeping.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because then they’d have no reason to try to kill you, and I really don’t want them to try to kill you.”

  “They didn’t have any reason to kill Vinnie.”

  “He’d seen them.”

  “Lila, bring back the logic. They—or at least she—knew their faces were on the shop security. She didn’t care. They killed Sage, Oliver and Vinnie because it’s what they do. Once I don’t have the egg, I’m expendable. With it, or if they’re not sure I have it or not, I might be useful.”

  She took another girlie sip of beer. “I hate that I think you’re right. Why didn’t you say that to the police?”

  “Because they’d be pretty lousy detectives if they hadn’t figured that out before I did. No point in telling lousy detectives anything.”

  “I don’t think they’re lousy.”

  “So, no point in telling good detectives either.” He opened a wine cooler, selected a bottle of Shiraz.

  “Don’t open that for just me.”

  “I need you to sit for me for about an hour. You’ll be more relaxed with a glass of wine in you. So it’s for me, too.”

  “Ash, I don’t think it’s a really good time for that.”

  “You shouldn’t have taken your hair down.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Pay more attention to yourself the next time you do,” he suggested. “And like you talking to Waterstone about his family”—Ash drew the cork from the bottle—“it’ll take my mind off things. We’ll let that breathe while you change,” he said as he got down a glass. “The outfit’s in the dressing room in my studio. I’m going to make those calls.”

  “I’m not sure, given everything, sitting for this painting’s going to work. Plus I’m going to be staying on the other side of the city for the next several days, so—”

  “You’re not going to let my father intimidate you, are you?” He cocked his head when he saw he’d surprised her into silence. “We’ll talk about that, but I need to make these calls. Go change.”

  She breathed in, breathed out. “Try this. ‘I need to make these calls. Lila, would you change and sit for me for an hour? I’d really appreciate it.’”

  “Okay, that.” He smiled a little at her cool and steady stare, then tipped up her face with a hand under her chin. And kissed her, going slow, going deep—just deep enough to bring a purr of pleasure to her throat.

  “I would really appreciate it.”

  “All right, and I’ll take that wine after all, when you come up.”

  So he knew why she’d left the compound. Probably just as well, she thought as she took the stairs to the third-floor studio. And maybe she had decided not to sit for him after all—but not because she’d been intimidated.

  Because she’d been pissed. And really, what was the point in getting tangled up sexually—because this was certainly going there—when his father pissed you off, and you pissed off his father?

  “The sex,” she muttered, answering her own question. The sex was the point—or part of it. The main part was Ashton himself. She liked him, liked talking to him, being with him, looking at him, liked thinking about sleeping with him. The situation very likely intensified all of that, and the ultimate resolution of the situation would very likely diffuse it.

  But so what? she thought as she stepped into the dressing room. Nothing lasted forever. It made it all the more important to squeeze all the juice out of the right now.

  She took the dress off the rack, studied it, and the colorful hem of the underskirt. They’d altered it lightning fast, but she supposed people did things lightning fast for Ash. Fortunately for him—or her—she was wearing one of the new bras.

  She stripped down, hung up her all-purpose black dress, slipped out of her black shoes. And into the gypsy.

  It fit now, dipping low where the new bra pushed her breasts high. An illusion, she thought, but a flattering one. And it skimmed down her torso to sweep out with that fiery skirt. One twirl and the boldly colored flounces of the underskirt flashed.

  He knew just what he wanted, she mused. And got it.

  She wished she had more than lip gloss and blotting papers in her purse—and the jewelry he’d envisioned.

  She whirled around when the door opened.

  “Here’s your wine.”

  “You should knock.”

  “Why? The dress is right,” he continued over her puff of breath. “Just right. I need more on your eyes—smoky, sultry—and darker lips.”

  “I don’t have makeup with me.”

  “There’s plenty over there.” He gestured to a cabinet with a dozen drawers. “Didn’t you look?”

  “I don’t open drawers that don’t belong to me.”

  “You’re probably one of five people in the world who can say that and mean it. Look now, use whatever you need.”

  She opened the first drawer, and her eyes popped. Eye shadows, eye pencils, liners—liquid, powder, cream, mascaras—with disposable wands for same. Everything arranged according to type, color palettes.

  She opened the next—foundations, blushers, bronzers, brushes and more brushes.

  “My God, Julie would weep with joy and rapture.”

  She opened more. Lipsticks, lip gloss, lip liners, lip dyes.

  “I’ve had various sisters fill it out for me.�
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  “You could open your own boutique.”

  She found jewelry in other drawers, earrings, pendants, chains, bracelets. “Shiny.”

  He moved beside her, pawed through. “Try this, and these, and, yeah—try that.”

  Like playing dress-up, she decided, and got into the swing.

  Hell, maybe she could pull it off.

  She selected bronzer, blush, considered her eye palette, then frowned at him. “Are you just going to stand there and watch?”

  “For now.”

  With a shrug, she turned to the mirror, began to play.

  “Should I apologize for my father?”

  Her eyes met his in the glass. “No. He’ll have to do that for himself. I won’t hold my breath.”

  “I won’t offer excuses for him either. He can be a hard man under the best of circumstances. These are far from the best. But he had no right, none, to treat you the way he did. You should’ve come out to find me.”

  “And what, tell you, boo-hoo, your daddy hurt my feelings? His house, and clearly he didn’t want me there. What man would want a woman he sees as a scheming, gold-digging, opportunistic piranha around his son?”

  “No excuses,” Ash said again. “He was wrong in every possible way.”

  She blended shadows, studied the effect. “You fought with him.”

  “I wouldn’t say we ‘fought.’ We laid out our opposing viewpoints, very clearly.”

  “I don’t want to be a wedge between you and your father. Now especially, all of you need family.”

  “If you’re a wedge, he put you there. He’ll have to deal with that. You should’ve come and told me.”

  She swept color over her cheeks. “I fight my own battles.”

  “It wasn’t just yours. Come out when you’re done. I’m going to set up.”

  She stopped long enough to pick up the wine, take a sip because now she was just pissed off again, feeling what she’d felt when she walked out of that big, beautiful house in Connecticut.

  Still, she could consider the whole matter tabled now. He knew, she knew, they knew, and that was that.

  There were much more important things, much more immediate problems to deal with than the fact that his father held her in utter contempt.

  “You’re not going to sleep with his father,” she muttered while she fussed with eyeliner. “You’re not helping his father figure out what to do about a Fabergé egg and murder.”

  What happened was between her and Ashton—period.

  She finished the makeup, decided she’d done a very decent job.

  And for her own pleasure, did a spin.

  The reflection made her laugh, so she picked up her wine, carried it out. When Ash turned from his easel, she lifted her skirts, gave them a flirty shake.

  “Well?”

  He stared, those eyes looking over, and in and through. “Almost perfect.”

  “Almost?”

  “The necklace is wrong.”

  She pouted as she lifted the pendant. “I kind of like it.”

  “It’s wrong, but it doesn’t matter at this point. Over by the windows again. The light’s gone, but I can make do for this.”

  He’d taken off his jacket, his tie, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

  “You’re not going to paint in that, are you? Shouldn’t you have a smock or something?”

  “Smocks are for little girls in meadows. I’m not painting today. Tonight,” he corrected. “Finish the wine or put it down.”

  “You’re very bossy in artist mode.” But she set down the glass.

  “Twirl. Arms up, eyes on me.”

  She obeyed. Actually, it was fun. The dress, the flounces, made her feel sexy, and powerful with it. She held, twirled again when he told her, and tried to imagine herself under a full white moon in front of the gold flames of a campfire.

  “Again, keep your chin up. The men watch you, want you. Let them want. Make them want. On me. Eyes on me.”

  She spun until the room spun with her, held her arms up until they began to ache—and still his pencil worked, worked, worked.

  “I’ve got maybe one more twirl in me before I fall on my face.”

  “It’s all right. Take a break.”

  “Yay.” She went straight to the wine, took a long sip this time. “And another yay.”

  She took it with her as she crossed to him. And all she managed was, “Oh.”

  She looked fresh and fiery and feminine all at once. He’d drawn her with her hair flying, the skirts swirling, her body turned at the hips, one leg flashing out of frothing flounces.

  Her eyes looked straight out of the canvas, confident, amused and sultry.

  “It’s amazing,” she murmured.

  “Needs work.” He tossed his pencil down. “But it’s a good start.” He looked at her again, that same intensity she felt straight through to her spine. “I’m starving. We’ll order in.”

  “I could eat.”

  “You change, I’ll order. What do you want?”

  “Anything not involving mushrooms, anchovies or cucumbers. Otherwise, I’m not fussy.”

  “Okay. I’ll be downstairs.”

  She went back, took off the dress—more reluctantly than she’d imagined. After hanging it up again, she brought the makeup down to almost normal, tied her hair back in a tail.

  And in the mirror looked like Lila again.

  “And that concludes our performance for the night.”

  She went down, found him in the living room, on the phone.

  “I’ll let you know when I find out. Whatever you can do. Yeah, me too. Talk later.” He set the phone down. “My sister.”

  “Which one?”

  “Giselle. She says hi.”

  “Oh, well, hi back. What are we eating?”

  “I went Italian. My go-to place does a hell of a chicken parm. No mushrooms.”

  “Sounds just right.”

  “I’ll get you another glass of wine.”

  “Ice water first. Twirling’s thirsty work.”

  She walked over to the front window, watched the people stroll, strut and scramble. The streetlights laid pools, splashes of white, for them to slide into, slide out of.

  Later than she realized, she thought. What a strange day—a long, strange, complicated day.

  “You have a real show here,” she said when she heard him come back. “No binoculars needed. So many people with so much to do. Thanks.” She took the water he offered. “I love watching New York, more than any other city I’ve been in. There’s always something to see, someone with somewhere to go. And a surprise around every corner.”

  She eased a hip down on the wide windowsill. “I didn’t realize it was so late. I’m going to have to eat and run.”

  “You’re staying.”

  She turned her face from the window to him. “Am I?”

  “It’s safe here—I beefed up the security. Luke’s going to stay at Julie’s—just a precaution.”

  “Is that what they call it in polite circles?”