The Collector, Page 28

  triple threat.”

  “It’s not right, that’s all. Sex, then muffin, then sexy baking cave. I went there for a simple answer.”

  “Oh.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Oh’? I know that ‘Oh.’”

  “Then I shouldn’t have to elaborate, but okay. He baked you a muffin, which, I agree, has meaning. And you went to his work space and asked him what it meant.”

  “That’s right. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Maybe you could’ve just eaten the muffin and thanked him later.”

  “I wanted to know.” Julie dropped into the chair beside Lila.

  “I get that. But from his perspective—do you want my take on his perspective?”

  “I probably don’t. No, I definitely don’t. But I should, so go ahead.”

  “He did something nice, something thoughtful—and given he’s a baker, something that fits. He wanted to make you smile, and think of him because he thought of you—and I bet he smiled. Instead, it worried you.”

  “It did worry me—it does—even though there’s a rational woman in my head shouting, ‘Stop being stupid. Just stop, stop, stop.’” She tossed back some wine. “I wanted it to be a fling. Simple, easy, grown-up. And the minute I saw that damn muffin . . .”

  “You’re still in love with him.”

  “I’m still in love with him. It would never have worked with Maxim—I knew it, wouldn’t accept it, when I married him. It wouldn’t have worked even without you sleeping with him. Bimbo slut.”

  “Clueless wife.”

  “Luke would never cheat. It’s not in him. And last night, it was like coming home, but everything fit better, made more sense.”

  “Then why aren’t you happy?”

  “Because I don’t want to be here, Lila. I don’t want to be this woman who can’t let go of this”—the hand circled again—“this frothy illusion of the past. I could’ve handled the sex. I was handling the sex.”

  “And the muffin changed that.”

  “I know that sounds ridiculous.”

  “It doesn’t.” Lila laid a hand over hers. “It absolutely doesn’t.”

  “I guess that’s what I needed to hear. I should’ve accepted the thoughtful and sweet—because that’s all it was—and left it alone instead of wondering if it meant more. Hell, wanting it to mean more even as meaning more scared me.”

  “Second chances are scarier than first chances, because the second time you know how much you’re risking.”

  “Yes.” Julie closed her eyes. “I knew you’d get it. I’ll have to smooth it over with him, especially since he’s close friends with Ash, I’m yours. And I’m a crappy friend today because I haven’t asked anything about how you’re feeling. About you and Ash.”

  “I feel great—but then I didn’t get a muffin. I did scramble eggs for both of us.”

  “You look so good together. I didn’t say so before, because you’d start putting up blocks.”

  “No, I wouldn’t, and yes, I would,” she corrected before Julie could. “Probably. Look good together? You really think so? He’s so gorgeous, both ways.”

  “Both ways?”

  “The artist—jeans, T-shirt, a couple of paint smudges here and there, a couple days of scruff on his face. And the wealthy heir apparent, polished up in an Armani suit. Or it might’ve been Armani. What do I know?”

  “Yesterday? Tom Ford. Definitely.”

  “You’d know better.”

  “I would. And yes, you look good together. You’re both gorgeous.”

  “Only my best friend, and maybe my mother, would say so. But I can look pretty good when I put some time and effort into it.”

  “You have amazing hair—a yard of it, fabulous eyes, a very sexy mouth and perfect skin. So shut up.”

  “You’re so good for my ego. Last night was good for my ego. I think he’d have made a move—you know how you can tell.”

  “For good or ill.”

  “But I made it first—or opened the door. He walked through and . . . it wasn’t like coming home. It was like discovering a new continent. But—”

  “Here come the blocks.” Julie lifted her glass to the Chrysler Building.

  “No, no blocks—I’m still exploring the new world. It’s that he’s carrying all this guilt, Julie. It’s not right that he carry so much. But as I’ve gotten to know him—and especially after seeing the family dynamics for myself yesterday—he’s really the head of the family. His father’s the figurehead. Ash is the go-to.”

  “From what Luke told me, it’s been that way for years. His father runs the businesses, but Ash tends the family. Luke says ‘Ashton will handle it’ should be the family motto.”

  Lila let out a breath, sipped some wine. “That’s an issue—not a block,” she insisted. “He takes over a little too much for me—it’s his wiring. He decides I’m staying at his place because Luke was at yours—and that made sense. But ‘discuss’ is better than ‘decide,’ and he sent for my luggage before any of the discuss.”

  “His perspective?”

  “Crap, reap what you sow.” She stuck out her chin, tapped a finger on it. “Okay, hit me.”

  “Dealing with the details, and yes, looking out for you. It’s not a bad thing to have someone look out for you, as long as they’re willing to learn where the lines are, and you’re willing to let some of the lines flex.”

  “Maybe. I know he’s painting me now when I didn’t think I wanted him to, and now I do. So I ask myself, Do I want him to paint me or did I get roped into it? And I’m not sure. I am sure I want to be with him, and I’m sure I want to see this whole strange Fabergé thing through with him, and I want to sleep with him again. Those are definite check marks.”

  Putting her wine down, Julie leaned over, tapped her hands on Lila’s cheeks. “Look at that face. You’re happy.”

  “I am. It tells me something—not sure just what—that I can be happy even with all that’s going on. Three people are dead, two who were important to Ash, and he’s got a priceless Fabergé egg hidden away. And there’s a ridiculously gorgeous Asian woman who killed or helped kill those three people who wants that egg. She knows who I am, she has your perfume.”

  “I think she’s ruined that scent for me. I know you want to help Ash. We all do. But as much as I like him, you’re my girl. You have to be careful.”

  “I am. I will. The woman may be looking for us, and the egg, but the cops have their eye on us. Plus, think about it. Killing Oliver and his girlfriend didn’t get her what she wanted. Why would she make the same mistake twice?”

  “I don’t know, because she’s a killer. Potentially a psycho. You can’t depend on logic, Lila.”

  Considering, Lila nodded—Julie had a very big point. “Then I’ll be smarter. I think I am—and don’t give me that eye roll. I think I am. It wasn’t smart to take things from your place. If she hadn’t, we’d never have known she was there. It wasn’t smart to wear your perfume when she broke into Ash’s loft—though part of that, I accept, was luck that we came in soon enough after she’d been there for it to linger. It wasn’t smart to leave that thug alone with Vinnie after he’d already demonstrated his lack of control with Oliver’s girlfriend. All that’s arrogance and impulse, Julie, not smart. I’ll be smart.”

  “Just be safe. I’ll settle for safe.”

  “I’m sitting on the roof of a very secure building where only a scant handful of people know I am. I’d say I’m safe.”

  “Stay that way. Now I should go, hit the paperwork.”

  “And figure out how to untangle things with Luke.”

  “And that.”

  “I’ll walk out with you. I need to take the dog for a walk anyway, and pick up a few supplies.”

  “What dog? I didn’t see a dog.”

  “He’s easy to miss. You know you can bring your paperwork here if you don’t want to be alone,” she said as she led the way back to the little elevator. “It’s a big place.”

 
“I probably need a little brooding time, and I expect Ash is coming back tonight.”

  “He is, with dinner. But like I said, it’s a big place. You’re my girl, too.”

  Julie gave her a one-armed hug as they stepped out onto the main floor. “Work and brooding tonight. I may take you up on it later this week.”

  She set her empty glass on the wet bar, picked up her work bag as Lila came back from a detour into the kitchen with a little blue leash studded with rhinestones.

  “Oh!” she said when Lila picked up the little white ball that was Earl Grey. “He’s so tiny, he’s so adorable.”

  “And very sweet. Here.”

  She passed him to Julie, who made kissy noises and coos while Lila got her own purse. “Oh, I want one! I wonder if I could take him to work. He’d completely disarm clients and they’d end up buying more.”

  “Always thinking.”

  “How else am I going to get that major raise, my terrace apartment and a tiny little dog I can carry in my purse? I’m glad I came by,” she added as they walked out. “I came in feeling frustrated and stressed, and I’m leaving feeling like I just finished a good yoga class.”

  “Namaste.”

  They parted ways on the sidewalk, with Julie slipping into a cab hailed by the efficient doorman. She settled in for the ride downtown, checked her e-mail. Nothing from Luke—but why would he contact her? She’d figure out how to approach him, but for now she had enough messages from work to keep her occupied.

  She answered her assistant, contacted a client directly to discuss a painting, then, checking the time, decided she could reach out to the artist—currently in Rome. When a client wanted to negotiate, it was her job to broker the best deal for the gallery, the artist and the client.

  She spent the ride soothing artistic moodiness, boosting pride, hammering a bit of practicality. Then advising her artist to go celebrate because she believed she could persuade the client to purchase the second piece he’d shown interest in if they made it seem like a deal.

  “You have to buy paint,” she muttered when she ended the call. “And food. I’m about to make you almost rich . . . Mr. Barnseller! It’s Julie. I think I have a very good proposition for you.”

  She signaled the cabbie as she went into her pitch, pointed to the corner, fumbled out her wallet. “Yes, I’ve just spoken with Roderick personally. He has such an emotional attachment to Counter Service. I did tell you he worked in that diner to support himself through art school? Yes, yes, but I’ve explained your reaction to it—and to the companion piece, Order Up. They’re wonderful individually, of course, but as a set, so charming and compelling.”

  She paid off the cabbie, wiggled her way out of the cab, balancing phone and bag. “As he’s so reluctant to break the set, I’ve talked to him about pricing them as a set. Personally, I’d hate to see someone else snatch away Order Up, especially since I believe, strongly, Roderick’s work is going to go up in value very quickly.”

  She let him wheedle, express reluctance, but she heard the closing deal in his voice. He wanted the paintings—she only had to make him feel he’d gotten a bargain.

  “I’ll be frank, Mr. Barnseller, Roderick’s so reluctant to break the set he won’t budge on the price for it alone. But I was able to convince him to agree to two hundred thousand for the set—and I know I can get him to agree to one-eighty-five—even if it means adjusting our commission to make both of you happy.”

  She paused a moment, did a little happy dance on the sidewalk even as she kept her voice cool and professional. “You have wonderful taste, an exceptional eye for art. I know you’ll be pleased every time you look at the paintings. I’m going to contact the gallery, have them mark them as sold. We’ll pack and ship them for you. Yes, of course you can settle that with my assistant over the phone, or come in and see me tomorrow. Congratulations, Mr. Barnseller. You’re very welcome. There’s nothing I love more than putting the right art with the right person.”

  She did a second dance, then contacted the artist. “Buy champagne, Roderick. You just sold two paintings. We got one-eighty-five. Yes, I know I told you I’d ask for one-seventy-five. I didn’t have to go that low. He loves your work, and that’s as much to celebrate as your forty percent. Go, tell Georgie, celebrate, and tomorrow start painting me something fabulous to replace the ones you sold. Yes, I love you, too. Ciao.”

  Grinning, she texted her assistant with instructions, automatically veering around other pedestrians. Still looking at her phone, she turned at the short steps of her building. And nearly tripped over Luke.

  He’d been sitting on her front steps for nearly an hour, waiting. And he watched her progress down the sidewalk—the rapid-fire conversation, the pause to bounce from foot to foot, the big, happy grin.

  And now her jolt of surprise.

  “I went by your gallery. They said you’d left early, so I figured I’d wait.”

  “Oh. I went by to see Lila uptown.”

  “And got some good news in the last block home.”

  “A good sale. A good one for the gallery, for the artist, for the client. It’s nice to be able to broker for all three parties.” After a moment’s hesitation, she sat on the steps beside him, and for another moment watched, as he did, New York rush by.

  God, she thought, how could a twice-married, twice-divorced urbanite feel so much the way she had at eighteen, sitting on her parents’ stoop in Bloomfield, New Jersey, with her high school sweetheart? Stupid in love.

  “What are we doing here, Luke?”

  “I figured out an answer to your question from this morning.”

  “Oh, that. I was going to get in touch. That was just silly. I don’t know what got into me, and I’m—”

  “I’ve loved you since the first day I saw you—first day of high school, first day of Mrs. Gottlieb’s deadly U.S. history class.”

  It had been deadly, Julie thought, but pressed her lips together to hold in words, emotions, tears.

  “It’s about half my life. Maybe we were too young, maybe we screwed it up.”

  “We were.” Tears blurred her vision; she let them come. “We did.”

  “But I never got over you. I’m never going to get over you. I did pretty well between then and now—damn well. But it’s now, and it’s still you. It’s always going to be you. That’s it.” He looked at her. “That’s what I’ve got.”

  A ball of emotion rolled up from her heart into her throat. The tears could come, but they were warm, and sweet. Her hands trembled a little as she lifted them to frame his face. “It was you, that first day. It’s still you. It’s always going to be you.”

  She laid her lips on his, warm and sweet, while New York rushed by, and thought of her mother’s hydrangeas, big balls of blue, beside the stoop where they’d sat in summers so long ago.

  Some things came back to bloom.

  “Let’s go inside.”

  He laid his forehead on hers, let out a long, long breath. “Yeah, let’s go inside.”

  Lila planned candles and wine, pretty plates and glasses on the terrace. Whatever the takeout meal, it could be romantic and lovely with the right accessories. And she considered New York on a summer night the best of them.

  Then it started to rain.

  She reassessed. A cozy meal in the dining room in front of the rain-lashed windows. Still romantic, especially since thunder began to roll.

  She took time to fuss with herself as well, brushing her hair smooth into a low, loose tail, makeup that didn’t look like she fussed but took forever to perfect. Slim black pants and a sheer copper-colored top she liked to think brought out the gold in her eyes—over a lacy camisole.

  It occurred to her if she and Ash continued to see each other, she’d have to reup her very tired wardrobe.

  It also occurred to her he was late.

  She lit candles, put on music, poured herself a glass of wine.

  By eight, she was on the point of calling him when the house phone rang.

/>   “Ms. Emerson, this is Dwayne on the door. You have a Mr. Archer in the lobby.”

  “Oh, you can . . . put him on, would you, Dwayne?”

  “Lila.”

  “Just making sure. Give the phone to Dwayne, I’ll have him send you up.”

  See, she thought after she’d cleared Ash, careful. Smart. Safe.