Love Kills Twice
Page 13
A fresh canvas here won’t have any old memories clinging to it.
When the car finally slows to a stop, my jaw drops. Campbell mentioned a villa, but this is a full-blown château. The architecture is early eighteenth century, surrounded by a massive swath of trees and dripping with ivy. There are at least a couple of acres on the property, stretching out back to a distant lake. A bright band of wildflowers blossom along a stone path leading to the water, and a more deliberately tended garden on the other side.
It’s incredible.
“Campbell, how much did this cost?” The question is breathless—I’m honestly mystified. “You don’t own this place, do you?”
I know how much they charge, but this place is worth a couple million on the low end. The amount of blood money it would take…
They shake their head. “No. Owning property leaves a fairly permanent paper trail. But an old colleague of mine does. We might see him if we stop by the summer house.”
Campbell has colleagues?
I’m trying to figure out if they mean a fellow assassin or something else entirely while following them into the house. It’s just as gorgeous inside as without, although a lot of careful remodeling has added modern amenities while safeguarding the charm. Floorboards made of warm red oak stretch from the foyer into a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a perfect view of the lake and garden. The kitchen is a shrine of stainless steel and marble counters with enough room to feed twenty people.
Words. I’m capable of words. “This is all for us?”
Campbell pauses at the foot of the stairs, glancing back at me. “Of course. I prefer my privacy, and that extends to you.”
“How many bedrooms is this?” I ask, following them up. The banister is cool black iron under my fingertips—it might even be original to the place.
“Originally four, I believe, although Ulysse turned one into an office space and another into a gym because he rents it out to tourists.” Campbell points out the rooms as we walk down the hall, each one spacious and welcoming the sun. “But this one is for you.”
They pause at an old oak door on the left and turn the handle, opening it to let me in. I’m expecting a nice bed—followed by a very specific invitation—but what I find is a clean, bare room with a tarp spread across the floor. A pair of easels take up the center, with a line of blank canvases leaning against the far wall. There’s a wooden box full of oil paints on the floor, next to another box of brushes.
Oh.
“Campbell.” Their name catches tight in my throat, nearly lost to disbelief.
Gorgeous as it is, the rest of the house doesn’t matter anymore. Standing in this room, sense of joy and relief suffusing me, is like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
They did this all for me.
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