The Collector

by Nora Roberts

  The blood on her ruined shirt served as a stark reminder of that. Studying it, she took herself back through the attack. She could admit she should’ve been more aware, paid more attention. If she’d been more aware she might not have been taken by surprise—and might not have a ruined shirt and a bandaged side. She could and would correct that. Still, she felt she’d won that little battle.

  Jai drew a little blood, but that’s all she got.

  She rolled up the shirt to stuff it in her bag. Better to toss it out in the trash at her client’s than at Ash’s. If he came across it, he’d only toughen his stance on protecting her.

  She pulled her phone out, pushed the shirt in. And since the phone was in her hand, did a quick check.

  Five minutes later, she rushed down the stairs just as Ash brought the dog back in.

  “Antonia got back to me. I got the hook in, Ash. She spoke to her father—the one who dated Miranda Swanson. The name-dropping worked, plus she has a friend who read my book. It worked.”

  “What did her father say?”

  “He wants to know more about what I’m doing, what I’m looking for. I told her I was traveling to Florence with some friends next week, asked if it would be possible to meet him—when and where at his choosing. Then I dropped the Archer name because, well, money talks to money, right?”

  “It might listen more willingly.”

  “Same thing.” Pleased with herself, she dug into her purse for a little ball, rolled it so the dog could give chase. “I’m doing a research-slash-pleasure trip with you and two friends. I think the door just cracked open a little wider.”

  “Maybe. The Bastones have to know what they have. Miranda Swanson might be clueless, but I’m not buying that a man like Bastone doesn’t know he has a rare objet d’art worth a fortune.”

  Since Earl Grey brought the ball back to him, dropped it hopefully at his foot, Ash gave it a boot.

  “If he still has it at all,” he added, while the dog ran joyfully after the rolling ball.

  “If he— Crap, they might have sold it. I didn’t think of that.”

  “Either way, the family businesses—vineyards, olive groves—generate millions a year, and he’s their CEO. You don’t hold and maintain that position being clueless. If he still has it, why would he tell us, show us?”

  “You did some very pessimistic thinking while walking the dog.”

  He kicked the ball again. “I consider it more realistic thinking.”

  “We’ve got our toe in the crack of the door. We need to see what happens next.”

  “That’s what we’re going to do, but with realistic expectations. Let me toss some stuff into a bag, then we’ll go back to your place.” He crossed to her, then cupped her face in his hands. “With realistic expectations.”

  “Which are?”

  He laid his lips on hers, easy, for a moment easy. Then he dived, fast and deep, dragging her with him, leaving her no choice. And for a moment, another moment, to wish for one.

  “We have something.” He kept her face in his hands. “Something I think we’d have whenever, however, we met. It needs attention.”

  “There’s so much happening.”

  “And this is part of it. This door’s open, Lila, and I’m going through it. I’m taking you with me.”

  “I don’t want to be taken anywhere.”

  “Then you need to catch up. I won’t be long.”

  As she watched him walk up the stairs, every inch of her body vibrated, from the kiss, from the words, from the steady, determined look in his eyes.

  “What the hell have I gotten myself into?” she muttered to the dog. “And if I can’t figure it out, you’re sure no help.”

  She picked up his leash and, tucking it into her bag, noted her balled-up shirt. Time to pay more attention all around, she told herself.

  Being taken by surprise could cause more than a little damage.

  She didn’t mind the circular route back. She considered it a kind of safari. Going out by Ash’s service entrance, a subway to midtown, where he detoured into Saks to replace her shirt. Then the walk east to Park to catch a cab uptown.

  “The replacement cost twice what I paid for the original,” she said as she unlocked the apartment—where Earl Grey raced to his squeaky bone in wild joy. “Plus you can’t keep buying me clothes.”

  “I haven’t bought you any clothes.”

  “First the red dress—”

  “Wardrobe, necessary for the painting. Do you want a beer?”

  “No. And you just bought me a shirt.”

  “You were coming to me,” he pointed out. “If I’d been coming to you, you’d be buying me a shirt. Are you going to work?”

  “Maybe—yes,” she corrected. “For a couple hours anyway.”

  “Then I’ll take this upstairs, finish making the arrangements for the trip.”

  “I came to you because of the painting.”

  “That’s right, and now I’m here so you can work.” He ran his hand down her hair, gave the ends a little tug. “You’re looking for trouble, Lila, where there isn’t any.”

  “Then why do I feel like I’m in trouble?”

  “Good question. I’ll be on the third floor if you need me.”

  Maybe she wanted to use the third floor, she brooded. He didn’t think of that. Sure, all her work was set up on the main floor, but what if she had a sudden creative whim to work on the terrace?

  She didn’t—but she could have.

  There was almost more than a possibility she was being a moron—worse, a bitchy moron—but she couldn’t seem to stop.

  He’d boxed her in so neatly, so skillfully, she hadn’t seen the walls going up. Walls made her feel restricted, so she didn’t own or rent any. That kept things simple, loose and ultimately practical, given her lifestyle.

  He’d changed things, she realized, so she found herself standing in a brand-new floor plan. Instead of enjoying it, she kept checking to be sure the door was handy.

  “A moron,” she muttered.

  She plucked her ruined shirt out of her bag, buried it in the kitchen trash she’d take out later. She made a pitcher of cold lemon water, settled down with it in her work space.

  A big perk of writing was that when her own world got a little bit too complicated, she could dive right into another.

  She stayed in it, hit the sweet spot where words and images began to flow. She lost track of time, moving from wrenching loss, to steely determination and a quest for revenge, and ended with her Kaylee preparing for the final battle of the book—and final exams.

  Lila sat back, pressed her fingers to tired eyes, rolled tensed shoulders.

  And noticed for the first time Ash sitting in the living room, angled toward her with his sketch pad, and the little dog curled on his foot.

  “I didn’t hear you come down.”

  “You weren’t finished.”

  She shoved at the hair she’d bundled back and up. “Were you drawing me?”

  “Still am,” he said idly. “It’s a different look for you when you’re into the work. Intense. Almost weepy one minute, obviously pissed off the next. I could do an entire series on it.”

  He continued to sketch. “Now you’re uncomfortable, and that’s too bad. I can go back upstairs until you’re finished.”

  “No, I’m done for the day. I have to let what’s coming circle around a little.”

  She got up, walked to him. “Can I see?” Then took the sketch pad from him. Paging through, she saw herself, hunched over—very bad posture, she thought, instinctively straightening—her hair a wreck, and her face mirroring the mood she was writing.

  “God.” She reached up to pull the clamp from her hair, but he caught her hand.

  “Don’t. Why do you do that? It’s you, working, you caught up in whatever you see in your head, then put on the page.”

  “I look a little crazy.”

  “No, involved.” He tugged on her hand until she relented, sat on his l
ap with the pad.

  “Maybe both.” She let herself laugh now, coming to one of her with her head back, her eyes closed. “You could call this Sleeping on the Job.”

  “No. Imagining. What were you writing?”

  “A lot today. It was one of those good, long stretches. Kaylee’s grown up some—hard and fast. I’m a little sorry, but it had to happen. Losing someone that close to her, knowing one of her kind could do that, kill someone she loved—did do that to punish her—it . . . Oh! It’s her.”

  She’d flipped to another page, and there was her Kaylee, in wolf form in deeply shadowed woods.

  Wildly beautiful, her body the sleek and muscled wolf, and her eyes eerily human and full of sorrow. Above the denuded trees, a full moon soared.

  “It’s exactly how I see her. How could you know?”

  “I told you I read the book.”

  “Yes, but . . . It’s her. Young, sleek, sad, caught between dual natures. It’s the first time I’ve seen her, except in my head.”

  “I’ll frame it for you, then you can see her whenever you want.”

  She let her head rest on his shoulder. “You drew one of the most important people in my life as if you knew her. Is that a form of seduction?”

  “No.” He trailed his fingers up her side. “But I’ll show you what is.”

  “Not before I walk the dog.”

  “Why don’t we walk the dog, go out to dinner, then come back and I’ll seduce you?”

  New floor plans, Lila remembered, were meant to be explored, tried on. “All right. But since I now have a very clear idea how I look, I need ten minutes first.”

  “We’ll wait.”

  He picked up his pad and pencil again as she dashed upstairs. And began to draw her from memory—naked, wrapped in tangled sheets, laughing.

  Yes, he’d wait.

  Twenty-one

  Lila lived by lists. Words on paper, to her mind, became reality. If she wrote it down, she made it happen. A list simplified a quick trip to Italy, made for more efficient packing, and all the steps to be taken before boarding.

  In anticipation, she created the packing list, then set about making piles on the bed in the guest room.

  One pile to go with her, another to leave at Julie’s and a third for potential donations. Lightening her load, and leaving room for the shopping Julie would talk her into.

  Ash came in. “Kerinov just called me. He’s coming over.”

  “Now?”

  “Soon. He has some information to pass on. What are you doing? We don’t leave for three days.”

  “This is planning. A pre-packing stage. Since I won’t be setting up house, so to speak, there are things I don’t need to take. Plus my wardrobe needs a little turnover. Plus to plus, I’ll need room to pack things I can’t carry on.”

  She lifted the trusty Leatherman tool she habitually carried in her purse. “Such as. And such as the travel candles I always take with me, my lighter, my box cutter, my—”

  “I get it, but there’s no restrictions on those things on private.”

  “Private what? Plane?” She dropped her Leatherman. “We’re flying to Italy on a private plane?”

  “There’s no point in having one and not using it.”

  “You . . . you have a private plane?”

  “The family has one. Two actually. We each get a certain amount of air time a year—as long as the time isn’t already taken. I told you I’d take care of the details.”

  “Details.” She decided she needed to sit down.

  “Do you have a problem being able to take your intimidating multi-tool and box cutter on board?”

  “No. And flying in a private jet is a thrill—will be a thrill. It all just makes me feel out of balance.”

  He sat beside her. “My great-grandfather started it. The son of a Welsh coal miner who wanted better for his children. His oldest son made good, came to New York, made better. Along the way some of us squandered it, some expanded it. And if you let anything my father said to you get a grip, it’s going to piss me off.”

  “I’m used to paying my own way. I can’t keep up with private planes.”

  “Do you want me to book commercial?”

  “No.” Now she smiled. “I’m not a complete neurotic. I’m just telling you I don’t need private planes. I’ll enjoy the experience, and I don’t want you to think I take it for granted.”

  “It’s hard to think that when you looked like I said we were going on a jump ship instead of a G4.”

  “You’re wrong. I’ve been on a jump ship. I’d have looked vaguely green. Well.” She picked up her Leatherman, turned it over in her hands. “I’ll adjust my packing strategy. I could make dinner.”

  “That’d be nice.”

  “I meant for Kerinov.”

  “I don’t think he plans to be here that long. He’s coming by after a meeting and before meeting his wife for some family thing. You can fill him in on where we are with the Bastones.”

  “Then I’ll make us dinner.” She glanced at her ordered piles of clothes. “I need to reevaluate.”

  “You do that,” he said, then pulled out his ringing phone. “My father. I’ll take it downstairs.

  “Dad,” he said as he started out.

  She stayed as she was. She hated feeling guilty, but that’s exactly how Spence Archer made her feel.

  Forget it, she ordered herself, and started a new list.

  While Lila adjusted her travel strategy Ash stared out at New York while he spoke with his brother Esteban on the phone. One of the upsides of having so many siblings was a connection to almost everything.

  “I appreciate it. Yeah, I thought you might. I don’t know how far Oliver went. Too far. No, you’re right, I probably couldn’t have stopped him. Yes, I’ll be careful.”

  He glanced at the stairs, thought of Lila and knew he had plenty of reasons to be. “You did help. I’ll let you know what comes of it. I’ll be in touch,” he added as the house phone rang. “Yes, I promise. Later.”

  He shoved one phone in his pocket, picked up the other to clear Kerinov upstairs.

  Momentum, he thought. He could feel it building. Where it would take them, he couldn’t be sure, but the wind was finally at his back.

  He went to the door, opened it for Kerinov. “Alexi. It’s good to see you.”

  “Ash, I just heard from—” Lila paused on her run down the stairs. “Alexi. Hello.”

  “I hope this is a good time.”

  “Anytime is good. I’ll get you a drink.”

  “Please, don’t trouble. I have to meet my family soon.”

  “Let’s sit down,” Ash suggested.

  “We couldn’t talk, not about this,” Kerinov said to Ash as they sat in the living room, “at Vinnie’s funeral.”

  “It was a hard day.”

  “Yes. So many of your family came.” He looked down at his hands, spread them, linked them. “It’s good to have family on the hard days.”

  After a quiet sigh, he uncoupled his hands. “I have some information.” He dug into his satchel for a manila envelope. “I’ve written up some notes, but wanted to tell you I’ve spoken to