by Nora Roberts
He imagined, even as she took him around the main floor, she’d set up her workstation in the dining room, and enjoy the view. Even as she started to take one of the suitcases, he lifted them both to take them upstairs.
“Is that a man thing or a manners thing?”
“I’m a man with manners.”
“And this is a unit with an elevator. Small, but adequate.”
“Now you tell me.”
“Three bedrooms, all with baths, manly home office, and hers, more a sitting room where she keeps her orchids. They’re fabulous. I’m using this room.”
She walked into a compact guest room done in soft blues and greens, the furnishings in distressed white, and a painting of poppies on the wall to add an unexpected splash.
Lila gave herself a mental hug. This would be hers, just hers, for the next eight days.
“It’s the smallest, but it’s got a soothing, restful feel to it. You can just leave those over there, and we’ll check out the third level to be thorough.”
“Lead the way.”
“Do you have your phone on you?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s take the elevator, just to make sure it’s all good. I know it has an emergency button, but it’s always good to have a phone.”
He’d have taken it for a closet, which showed a clever design.
“Not as much fun as yours,” Lila commented as they rode up.
“A lot quieter.”
“I can fix the clunking, I think.”
“You repair elevators with that strange tool of yours?”
“It’s a Leatherman, and brilliant. Yours would be my first, as far as elevators go, but I actually like the clunks and grinds. Lets me know it’s working.”
When it stopped, they stepped out into a media room larger, by his eye, than most studio apartments.
It boasted a projection screen, six roomy leather recliners, another half bath, a wet bar with built-in wine cooler.
“They have an outrageous DVD collection I’m cleared to take advantage of. But my favorite?”
She picked up a remote. The blackout drapes opened to reveal wide glass doors, and the pretty bricked terrace beyond, complete with a central fountain—currently off.
“There’s nothing like having outdoor space in New York.”
She unlocked the door, pulled the doors open. “No tomatoes or herbs, but some nice patio pots of flowers—and that little shed there holds the garden tools, extra chairs.”
Automatically, she checked the dirt in the pots with her thumb, pleased to find it lightly damp. “A nice spot for a pre- or post-dinner drink. Do you want to have dinner with me later?”
“I’m just using you for sex.”
She laughed, turned to him. “Then we’ll order in.”
“I’ve got some things to do. I could come back around seven or seven-thirty, bring dinner.”
“That sounds perfect. Surprise me.”
He went to see Angie, getting out of the cab several blocks from the apartment to walk. He needed the walk, but more, if the woman was watching, she might tag the cab number, find a way to trace it back to where he now felt Lila was safe.
Paranoid, maybe, but why take chances?
He spent a hard, unhappy hour with Angie and her family. Then opted to walk from there.
How was his radar? he wondered. Would he feel it if she was watching him, following him? He’d recognize her, that he was sure of, if he spotted her, so he took his time half hoping—more than half—she’d make some move.
He saw Trench Coat Man marching and muttering, and a woman pushing an infant in a stroller. He remembered her walking the neighborhood weeks before, hugely pregnant. But he didn’t see a tall, stunning Asian woman.
He took a detour into a bookstore, wandered the stacks, one eye on the door. He found and purchased a coffee table book on Fabergé eggs, and another on the history, then struck up a conversation with the clerk so he’d be remembered should anyone ask.
He considered it laying a trail.
And maybe he did feel a prickle at the back of his neck when he crossed the street only a block from his loft. He pulled his phone out of his pocket as if to answer it, fumbled a little with his shopping bag, shifted angles, glanced behind him.
But he didn’t see the woman.
Before he shoved the phone back in his pocket, it rang in his hand. He didn’t recognize the number on his display.
“Yeah, Archer.”
“Mr. Archer. My name is Alexi Kerinov.”
Ash slowed his steps. The accent was light, he thought, but definitely Eastern European. “Mr. Kerinov.”
“I’m a friend of Vincent Tartelli’s—Vinnie. I heard only a short time ago what happened, when I tried to reach him. I’m . . . This is devastating.”
“How did you know Vinnie?”
“Both as a client and an occasional consultant. He recently asked me to translate some documents for him—from Russian to English—and he gave me your name and number.”
Not the woman’s boss, Ash thought. The translator.
“He told me he was giving them to you. Have you had a chance to look at them?”
“Yes, yes. I haven’t finished completely, but I found . . . I wanted to speak to Vinnie right away, but when I finally tried his home, Angie said . . . This is a terrible shock.”
“For all of us.”
“He spoke fondly of you. He said you’d acquired the documents and needed to know what they said.”
“Yes. He did me a favor.” And that would weigh forever. “And took them to you.”
“I need to discuss them with you. Can we meet to discuss this? I’m not in New York until tomorrow. I had a brief trip to D.C., and brought them with me. I come back tomorrow. Can we meet?”
When he reached his house, Ash took out his keys, went through the more laborious process of opening his own front door, keying in his new codes. “Yeah, no problem. Have you been to Vinnie’s house?”
“Yes, many times.”
“For dinner maybe?”
“Yes, why?”
“What’s Angie’s specialty?”
“Roast chicken with garlic and sage. Please, call Angie. You worry, I understand. She’ll tell you who I am.”
“You got the chicken, that’s good enough. Why don’t you tell me a little of what you found?”
Ash stepped inside, scanned the room, and the new monitor, satisfying himself before he locked the door behind him.
“Do you know anything about Fabergé?”
Ash dropped the book on a table. “As a matter of fact, yeah, some.”
“Do you know of the Imperial eggs?”
“I do, and about the eight lost ones. Specifically the Cherub with Chariot.”
“You already know? You understood one of the documents?”
“No, not those documents.” How to play it? “There were also some in English.”
“Then you know it’s possible to trace the egg, through the documents. It’s an enormous find. As is the other.”
“What other?”
“The other lost egg. There are two documented in these papers. The Cherub with Chariot and the Nécessaire egg.”
“Two of them,” Ash murmured. “When do you get in tomorrow?”
“I arrive just after one in the afternoon.”
“Don’t tell anyone about this.”
“Vinnie asked I only speak with him or you, not even my wife or his. He was a friend, Mr. Archer. He was my good friend.”
“Understood, and appreciated. I’m going to give you an address now, and I’ll meet you there. Tomorrow as soon as you get in.”
He gave Kerinov Lila’s address at Tudor City. Safer, he thought. Away from his own place, and Vinnie’s shop. “You have my number. If anything happens, if you feel uneasy about anything, contact me. Or the police.”
“Is this responsible for what happened to Vinnie?”
“I think it is.”
“I’ll come stra
ight to you tomorrow. Do you know the value if these could be found?”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
When he hung up, Ash grabbed both books, took them straight to his office. And dug into research on the second egg.
Sixteen
Lila unpacked, enjoying, as always, the feeling of the new. Her client had left some provisions for her, and she appreciated it, but she’d take Earl Grey for a walk later, pick up a few things. For a while she played with the dog, who—as advertised—enjoyed chasing a little red rubber ball rolled over the floor. So they played chase and fetch, then find-the-ball until Earl Grey retreated to one of his little beds to nap.
In the quiet, Lila set up her workstation, poured herself a tall glass of lemon water and updated her blog, answered e-mails, booked two jobs.
She considered dipping back into the book when her house phone rang.
“Lowenstein residence.”
“Ms. Emerson, this is Dwayne on the door. There’s a Julie Bryant in the lobby.”
“She’s a friend. You can send her right up. Thanks, Dwayne.”
“No problem.”
Lila checked the time, frowned. Much too late for Julie’s lunch hour, and still a little too early for the usual end of her day. But the visit couldn’t have been more welcome—she had to tell Julie about Ash, about her and Ash, about the night after the awful day.
She went to the door, opened it, waited. No point having Julie ring the bell and wake up the dog.
It wasn’t until she heard the elevator ping, saw its doors begin to open, that the thought jumped into her head. What if it wasn’t Julie, but HAG using Julie’s name to gain access? On the heels of it, as she started to slam the door, Julie stepped out.
“It’s you.”
“Of course it’s me. I said it was me.”
“Mind tricks.” Lila tapped her temple. “Did you get off early?”
“I took off early. I needed a little mental health time.”
“You’ve come to the right place.” She swept her arm. “Amazing view, huh?”
“It really is.” Taking it in, Julie dumped her work bag in a tufted-back armchair. “I went to a party in this building last year, but the apartment wasn’t nearly as wow as this—and it was pretty wow.”
“You have to see the third-floor terrace. I could live out there all summer. You brought wine,” she added when Julie pulled a bottle out of her bag as slickly as a rabbit from a magician’s hat. “This is a wine visit.”
“Definitely.”
“Good, because I have to tell you something that goes with wine.”
“Me, too—you,” Julie said as she followed Lila to the wet bar. “Yesterday was crazy and awful, and then—”
“I know! That’s just it.” Lila used the fancy counter-mounted corkscrew. “It’s all about the then and then.”
She pulled the cork out.
“I slept with him,” they said in unison.
They stared at each other. “You did?”
“You did?” Julie echoed, pointing.
“You mean Luke, because I slept with Ash, so if you’d slept with him I’d have noticed. You slept with Luke. Slut.”
“Slut? You’re more qualified as slut here. I used to be married to Luke.”
“My point exactly. Sleeping with the ex?” Amused, Lila clucked her tongue as she reached for glasses. “Definitely slut territory. How was it? I mean, was it like a stroll down memory lane?”
“No. Well, yes, in a way. Knowing him, being comfortable with him. But we’ve both grown up, so it wasn’t like a rerun. I thought it was maybe, I don’t know, a kind of closure we didn’t really have. We were both just so sad and mad when we split. So young and stupid. Looking back, I understand we just saw it like playing house, didn’t consider being mostly broke, scrambling to pay rent—and with his parents still nudging him toward law school. No direction for either of us,” she added with a shrug. “Just run off, get married without a thought toward reality, then we were both like what do we do about all this real?”
“Real’s hard.”
“And has to be dealt with, but we couldn’t seem to figure out how we could want each other and want other things, too. How we could have each other and have other things. I guess— No, I know I decided it was his fault, and it wasn’t. He probably decided it was mine, but he never said it. Which was my other issue. He’d just say whatever you want, and it made me crazy. Say what you think, damn it.”
“He wanted you to be happy.”
“He did, and I wanted him to be happy—and we weren’t, and it was mostly because we just kept fumbling the real. Little fights, piling up to one big one until I walked out. He didn’t stop me.”
“You wanted him to.”
“God, I wanted him to. But I hurt him, so he let me go. And I’ve always . . .”
“Regretted it,” Lila supplied. “The split, not Luke. You told me that once after two chocolate martinis.”
“Chocolate martinis should be illegal, but yes, I guess I’ve always regretted how it ended, and maybe I’ve always wondered what if. And now . . .” She took the wine Lila offered. “Now it’s all messed up and tangled up and confused again.”
“Why? Don’t answer yet. Let’s go up. Bring the bottle and we’ll sit outside.”
“Sit outside, but leave the bottle,” Julie qualified. “I still have paperwork to do at home since I left early. One glass is all I get for skipping out early.”
“Fair enough.”
She let sleeping dogs lie and took Julie up to the terrace.
“You’re right, you could live out here. I need to move,” Julie decided. “I need to find an apartment with a terrace. I need a raise first. A really big one.”
“Why?” Lila repeated, and sat, lifted her face to the sky. “On Luke, not the raise.”
“He baked me a muffin.”
Lila looked at Julie again, smiled and said, “Aw.”
“I know. It means something. It’s not just ‘Here’s a baked good.’ He baked for me. At dawn. Before dawn, probably. It means something.”
“It means he was thinking of you, before dawn, and wanted you to think of him when you woke up. It’s so sweet.”
“Then why didn’t he say that when I asked him?”
“What did he say?”
“That it was just a muffin. I went to his bakery, and he’s down in this”—she circled a hand in the air—“this baking cave working with this big mound of dough. Damn it, why is that sexy? Why is it sexy when he’s up to his elbows in dough in this baking cave?”
“Because he’s sexy anyway, and a man in any kind of cave adds another layer of sexy. Add working with his hands, and it’s a