by Isabel Wroth
“Why are we watching my interview? You were there the whole time it was filmed.”
Callum shrugged, his gaze stroking over my face lovingly. “Honestly? I want you to watch it. I want you to see yourself the way I see you. Strong. Beautiful. Powerful. Because it seems like you've forgotten.”
From only a few inches away, I stared into his eyes, unable to keep myself from utterly melting.
He's too much. Leaves me sweet notes taped to the bathroom mirror, vehemently defends me against his mean girl partner, makes me dinner, refuses to listen to reason when I'm trying to give him a way out ... How did I get so lucky?
“It's been a rough few days,” I murmured as a lame excuse.
Callum nodded in agreement, pushing his hands up my back, urging me to lean forward so he could murmur against my lips, “I know, baby. Snuggle up with me, we'll watch the show, and then I'll bust out dessert.”
“Okay.”
He must have planned a little bit ahead because we spent a good twenty minutes making out like teenagers. Callum could make a full sensual meal just out of kissing me and never once pressured me into doing anything other than enjoying the foreplay.
Eventually, Callum's watch beeped, confirming my suspicions of a well thought out plan. He eased me out of our passionate kisses and I half fell to his side, my body buzzing happily with endorphins, my lips swollen and sensitive, and my cheeks pleasantly stinging from whisker burn.
Callum held me tucked against his side, tugging my heavy blanket across my legs, stretching out with a low groan, unapologetically shooting me a sideways smirk when he reached down to readjust the thick length of his cock straining behind the unforgiving denim of his jeans.
“You need me to do something about that?” I offered, licking my tingling lips.
His chuckle vibrated in his chest. “Soon.”
Turning down a blow job? I'm not taking that personally, but damn, he really wants to watch this interview. Correction: he wants me to watch this interview.
I watched, stunned by what Helena and her camera crew had been able to do in seventy-two hours.
The woman on the camera bravely talking about the worst moments in her life, looked calm, collected, and completely out of place in the overly elegant formal room.
My black clothes and black hair were at odds with the white, cloud blue, gold, and gray color scheme of the mansion's formal living room.
“I look like Morticia Addams's less creepy sister,” I muttered, thinking back to the day Callum had accused me of the same thing. I mean, I looked great.
My makeup was tasteful and natural, my hair was up in a high pony, and the only pieces of jewelry I wore had been a pair of delicate drop earrings with a tiny spear of crystal pressed into a silver cap that brushed my shoulders, and the bracelet Callum had given me.
Callum grunted at my comment, squeezing my shoulders. “This is my favorite part.”
His husky whisper sent chills racing across my skin, even as I watched my face soften on TV.
It was the point during the interview where I'd glanced behind Helena to where Callum was standing off-screen, my fingers playing over the smooth surface of the bracelet.
“You see what I see, Jo?” Callum asked me softly.
Of course I did. Anyone who was watching the interview saw the love I felt for him written on every inch of my expression.
“That right there is why I will never give up on you without a fight, baby. No matter what anyone says, or when you have days where you think who you are isn't enough.”
CHAPTER NINE
Five days passed since I'd painted Helena's portrait of death, and if my pattern held true, there were only two days left until she was strangled while wearing her favorite outfit.
I wondered if Helena had burned the red pants and leopard print blouse. She'd been in contact a few times but hadn't asked me anything else about what I'd painted.
Gone were the damning headlines that made me seem like an uptight bitch, and in their place were pictures of my parents' faces as they were hauled out of their hotel in handcuffs and outcries on social media for them to be spit-roasted for taking advantage of me and exploiting me for their own gain from such a young age.
In the court of public opinion, I had been found innocent, and my parents were the minions of Satan.
“You sure this is the place?” Callum asked, holding my hand as I climbed out of his cruiser.
We were at 15 Central Park West, the apartment building only a stone’s throw away from one of my favorite places to see during Fall in Central Park, the Greyshot Arch.
I'd thought about buying an apartment in the building just to get a view of Central Park, but a three-bedroom apartment on Park West cost three times what my entire half-block warehouse cost.
Besides, I had my own little rooftop park, so the lack of a view made up for it.
We were going to the 30th floor to visit a dentist, who'd purchased Katya's portrait for a stunning two hundred and fifty thousand dollars twenty years ago.
“This is the address Patricia gave me, and we're expected. Just to warn you, this guy is kind of a lech.”
Callum glanced my way as we crossed the street, his brows raised over his Aviators.
“Kind of a lech?”
My lover was currently armed and known to be dangerous when it came to my safety. Preparing him was in everyone’s best interest.
Ilan Laurent was an egotistical bastard who thought he was God's gift to women and was rich enough to make beautiful women put up with his shit just to have access to his money.
He was in his late sixties and thought that meant he could grab a woman's ass whenever he liked and call it a 'senior moment.'
We'd met one time at one of Patricia's charity auctions. Ilan made his reach for my butt, and because Nigel was as smooth as he was experienced, he stepped into the line of fire at the last minute and jokingly announced he was flattered, but Ilan wasn't his type.
Denied his prize and embarrassed that anyone might question his sexuality, Ilan stormed off in a huff before the auction could even begin.
He wasn’t missed.
I had a feeling if Ilan tried to grab my ass today, he'd find himself facedown on the floor of his own home with his hands cuffed behind his back and picked up by a pair of uniforms on a sexual assault charge. Which wasn't necessarily a bad thing.
“Let's just say, the ladies attending events where Mr. Laurent has RSVP'd walk around with their large clutch purses held over their butts.”
Callum gave a grunt as he pulled the door open for me. “If this guy goes for your ass, he'll be kissing the floor before he can take his next breath. You think I'm joking?”
I shook my head even as I continued to laugh, going up on my toes to kiss the hard edge of his jaw.
“No way. I think you're dead serious, which is what's funny.”
In the elevator, Callum whipped his sunglasses off and tucked them into his pocket, jabbing the button for the 30th floor before curling his hand around mine, darkly muttering under his breath.
“Dead fuckin’ serious.”
IT WAS ONE OF THE HIGHLIGHTS of a really crappy week to see Ilan Laurent panic when Callum flashed his badge and identified himself as a detective with the NYPD.
As Ilan’s hairline receded, he decided to shave his head, which made me think of Yul Brynner's puckish visage, with Gerard Depardieu's nose perched over an unfortunately thin mustache.
Ilan clearly hadn't been expecting me to come to his home with company, and the black velvet smoking jacket he wore over a snowy white shirt—with four buttons undone—was a dead giveaway he thought I'd asked Patricia to connect us so I could come to his home for a hook-up.
Blech. As if. I hope he does try to cop a feel. Sicko.
“When Patricia called, she said you wanted to view my paintings, Josephine,” Ilan said with an insincere smile, his gaze bouncing back and forth between Callum and me, and at where my hand was tucked into the crook of Callu
m's elbow.
I was delighted to see the disappointment in Ilan's expression and the fine sheen of sweat that popped up on his forehead.
“I'm investigating a homicide, and the matter of the painting called 'Sweet Red' has come up, Mr. Laurent,” Callum drawled, using a suggestive tone of voice that made the person on the receiving end feel as though they were being investigated. I knew the feeling intimately and didn't envy Ilan.
“Is the painting still in your possession, sir?”
“Well, yes. Of course, it is. It's the gem of my collection!” Ilan declared, as though professing his innocence for a crime he wasn't sure he'd committed.
Callum made a sound that was so bland and unimpressed, Ilan fidgeted with the quilted collar of his smoking jacket.
“May I see it?”
Ilan waved us into the foyer of his obnoxious white and gold decorated apartment.
“Certainly, please. This way.”
Thirty million for this? Yuck.
I pasted a polite smile on my face and kept hold of Callum's sleeve.
The view of Central Park was stunning but living inside a Fabergé egg was too much.
Ilan led us through his tacky bachelor pad, past so many beautiful paintings that didn't fit in with the decor, and into his office where Katya's portrait held a position of honor above the faux fireplace opposite Ilan's desk.
He had so much faux stuff it was fauxing ridiculous, but I forgot about it all once I stood in front of Katya's softly smiling face.
“Really, Josephine, you didn't need to use false pretenses to arrange a visit with an old friend,” Ilan hissed in my ear, surprising me. I hadn't realized I'd pulled away from Callum to get closer to Katya's painting.
It took effort not to wave my hand at Ilan like he was a mosquito buzzing around my face, but thankfully, my hero saved the day.
“Mr. Laurent, you finish that move, and the next one you make will be from behind bars.”
Ilan jolted as though he'd been goosed, stepping away from me like I'd suddenly developed some terrible BO.
“I'm sure I have no idea what you mean, Detective, but I don't like your tone. I've allowed you into my home without a warrant and without explanation. Do I need to call my lawyer?”
A glance at Callum revealed my lover was wearing a rather predatory, arrogant smirk.
“Like I said, I'm investigating a homicide. Now, you can either allow myself and the woman who painted the portrait to take some photos and be on our way.
“Or you can call your lawyer to accompany you down to the station for questioning in regards to the incredible number of sexual assault charges that were filed and dropped in a staggeringly short amount of time.”
A trickle of sweat rolled down Ilan's flushed cheek, which he mopped up with the cuff of his jacket.
“I'll be in the kitchen. Please see yourselves out when you're finished.”
Ilan rushed out without a backward glance, which made me turn an appreciative smile on my man.
“My hero.”
Callum rolled his eyes but came to stand beside me, tangling his fingers with mine while we stood in front of Katya's portrait.
“I don't get why this would have upset your mom.”
I leaned on his arm and gave a hum, studying my own work from twenty years ago. In spite of my bias, it was lovely.
I'd painted Katya with her hair down and covering half of her face. The autumn leaves of the tree we'd sat under blurred around her face, making the coppery strands in her strawberry blonde hair pop.
“I'm not sure. We were outside in the yard, Elliot was playing in the grass next to me, and Katya and I were talking about what it was like to grow up in Russia.
“Mom came storming out of the house like her ass was on fire, yelled at Katya for letting Elliot get so dirty, and then said my painting was subpar compared to my usual standards."
Callum let go of my hand to take a few photos of my painting.
“I bet I could get Laurent to give you this painting. I don't like the idea of that pervert sitting at his desk whacking off while Katya watches.”
My stomach turned, not really having thought about the particulars of why the painting was positioned the way it was.
“He's had it for twenty years and says it's the gem of his collection. I doubt he'll give it up without a fight.”
Callum's smirk turned into a grin, and without taking his eyes off of me, he turned his head and shouted for Ilan.
The short, portly man with his huge schnoz and shining bald head appeared like magic, looking nervously from me to Callum, like I was going to suddenly point a finger and proclaim Ilan a pervert at the top of my lungs.
“Mr. Laurent, we have a problem.”
Ilan's throat worked with enough force to be heard across the room. He even went so far as to reach up and grab the lapels of his coat.
“A p-problem?”
“I understand this portrait is the gem of your collection, but the skeletal remains of this young woman were found buried in a shallow grave.
“As far as we're able to tell, Josephine's portrait is the only image of the victim we have. The NYPD would consider it a personal favor if you would allow me to take the painting into evidence.”
My man was an absolute master. He'd made Ilan so uncomfortable with his earlier reminder of sexual harassment and assault charges I was betting Ilan had paid to make go away, that giving up Katya's portrait seemed like a gift.
“Of course, please. If it will help with the investigation. I can have the doorman help carry it down to your car.”
“No need for that,” Callum said smoothly, extending his hand to Ilan with a smile that was ninety percent teeth. “I can handle it. Thank you for your cooperation.”
CHAPTER TEN
“GB, you've been sitting here staring at that beautiful painting for two hours. Is everything okay?”
I looked up from where I'd parked myself on a pillow at the foot of my easel, staring up at Katya's softly smiling face, searching for answers on the canvas as though the paint and linen could tell me why she'd been murdered.
I discovered I had a very limited number of memories regarding Elliot's nanny and wondered if there was something to Callum's theory.
Was it that twenty-year-old memories faded unless linked to trauma?
Or was Rebecca onto something regarding memory loss related to the ECT and drug therapies I'd been on?
My memory of the day I'd painted Sweet Red and the day I'd looked back to see Katya and Elliot on the front stoop, watching as my parents drove me away from the mansion, were crystal clear.
Other memories seemed fuzzy, some downright elusive, which frustrated the hell out of me because I knew there was something else I could contribute.
And, I couldn't help but think about how Katya had been buried by her killer, not far from the spot where I'd painted her portrait. Did that make Sweet Red a POD?
Nigel stood over me now, looking elegantly casual in burgundy sweater and black corduroy trousers, the white collar and cuffs of his shirt especially white against his beautiful mocha skin.
His Botox prevented him from frowning at me, but the concern in his emerald eyes was plain.
I smiled at him and shrugged. “I keep thinking if I look at her face long enough, maybe I'll remember something that will help.”
Nigel crouched down beside me. “Honey, your man, his father, and two branches of the NYPD are working to solve Katya's murder. Give yourself a break; this isn't all on you.”
“Maybe if I spoke to my parents...” The thought made me physically sick, but I would do it for Elliot and Katya.
“That's not happening,” Nigel told me firmly, grabbing my hands to take me with him when he stood up. “You're not getting out of Big Girl Day that easily, missy!”
I groaned like a child, maybe even whined a little bit, “But I hate Big Girl Day! Didn't I just do that last week?”
“Nope! Chop, chop! Let's do this, boo thang!” I snort
ed derisively at his overly flippant response, letting him push me toward my office. “Alright, you've got bills to pay, checks to sign, and a handful of emails that require your direct response.
“You've got to decide which painting you're going to donate to the charity auction this year, and whether or not I'm going as your plus one. Oh, and Rebecca called.”
The excuse to put off Big Girl Day for a few hours longer made my heart soar.
“I should definitely call her back.”
Nigel snorted at me as I power walked into the office and snatched up the phone to dial her number before he could stop me. Rebecca picked up on the first ring.
“AND I'VE SPENT ALL morning staring at the portrait I painted, wondering what was so terrible about it that pissed off my mother.”
I ended the long-winded story of everything that had happened over the course of the last ten days, minus all the details about my psychic abilities, as I still hadn't told Rebecca or her husband anything about the PODs or what I could do.
Though, I was pretty sure if I confessed to Rebecca, she would take it in stride and ask me how I was feeling.
If anyone might be able to truly listen and objectively diagnose me with psychosis, it was Dr. Rebecca Zane. Which is why I think I didn't tell her.
“Well, Jo, your mother is a ... very complex person, driven by very base needs,” Rebecca tactfully replied.
Both of us knew my mom was a cast-iron bitch willing to exploit her own daughter to maintain her lavish lifestyle.
“Though such vindictive behavior from her back then seems uncharacteristic, her attacks were always quite passive-aggressive. If anyone was confrontational, it would have been your father.”
I rotated back and forth in my office chair, staring blindly at the bookshelves while I tried again to think back on the days when Katya had first come into my life.
“I don't remember things from the year Katya lived with us.”
“We talked about this, honey. You underwent two years of electroshock therapy and were incorrectly medicated.