The Collector

by Nora Roberts

  “You should drink some, too. It’s good for you.”

  When he only grunted, she got down two juice glasses. “Back to possibly Luxembourg. Vasin’s not going to admit he had anything to do with what happened to Oliver. He’d be crazy to.”

  “He’s a recluse who hires killers to get his hands on objets d’art he can’t show to anyone. I think we’ve already established crazy.”

  “Point taken.” She set a glass of juice on the counter beside him.

  “But I just need him to make an offer on the egg. We can’t bluff we have the second one, because we know he does. So we use what we know. Having one is an enormous prize—a big accomplishment for a collector.”

  “And having two is beyond.” The waffle wasn’t as bad as it looked, she decided. But if she stayed any amount of time, she was definitely taking charge of the shopping. “What good does having him make you an offer do? There’s nothing illegal about that—you have a bill of sale, so it’s a legitimate deal.”

  “I’ll refuse it. Make it clear there’s only one thing I want in exchange for it. Maddok.”

  “His HAG? Why would he give her over—why would she let herself be traded that way?”

  “First part first. She’s an employee—almost certainly a valuable one, but paid help.”

  “She’s a person,” Lila objected. “A horrible person, but a person.”

  “You’re not thinking like a man who’d kill for a gold egg.”

  “You’re right.” She let her own sensibilities and morals go for a moment, tried to think, to feel, like Vasin might think or feel. “She’s a means to an end, a tool.”

  “Exactly. Frederick Capelli worked for him, at least must have taken a fee. Vasin didn’t have a problem disposing of him.”

  “All right, I’ll agree the egg’s worth more to him than a human being. But he can’t risk turning her over, Ash. She’d flip on him, she’d make a deal, tell the police chapter and verse. Or he’d certainly have to weigh that in.”

  Because it was right there, he sampled the juice, found it surprisingly good. “I’m not interested in giving her to the cops, letting her make a deal. Why would I take a chance of her getting immunity, or witness protection?”

  “Well, what else?”

  He set the glass down with a snap. “I want revenge, I want her to fucking pay. I’m going to make her fucking pay. The bitch killed my brother. She spilled my family’s blood, now I want to spill hers.”

  Her heart gave that hard kick again, then shuddered. “You can’t possibly mean—you don’t. You wouldn’t.”

  “For a second you thought I might.” He gestured with his fork, stabbed another bite of syrup-soaked waffle. “You should know me a lot better than he would or could, and you nearly believed it. He’ll believe me. He’ll believe me,” Ash repeated, “because there’s a part of me that means it.”

  “Even if he did believe you, and even if he said, ‘Hey, let’s shake on it,’ she wouldn’t go along. She killed two trained agents when they got too close.”

  “That’s his problem. You want the egg, give me the bitch who killed my brother. It’s all I want. Otherwise I’ll destroy it.”

  “He’d never believe you could do that.”

  “The hell I couldn’t.” He shoved back from the counter so violently she jerked back, braced. “That thing took the lives of two people in my family. Their blood’s on it. I’ve had enough of being hounded—by the police, by him and his hired killers. All over some frivolous toy some dead tsar had made for his pampered wife? Fuck that. This is about family. I’m not Oliver, and I don’t give a damn about money. She killed my brother, now I kill her or take a hammer to the egg.”

  “Okay. Okay.” She lifted her coffee cup with a trembling hand, took another jolt. “That was convincing. You scared the crap out of me.”

  “I mean some of that, too.” He leaned back against the counter, rubbed at his eyes. “I don’t give a damn about the egg, and I haven’t since she cut you.”

  “Oh, Ash, it was just—”

  “Don’t tell me it was just a scratch. Fuck that, too, Lila. Given the opportunity, she would kill you in a heartbeat. And you know it. Don’t push that button when I’m already wound up. I want—need—the people responsible for Oliver and Vinnie, even the woman I never met, punished. Put away. The egg matters for what it is, what it stands for, what it means to the art world. It belongs in a museum, and I’ll see it goes where it belongs. Because Vinnie would’ve wanted it. If not for that, I would take a hammer to it.”

  His eyes flashed to hers, sharp, intense, as they did when he painted her. “I’d take a hammer to it, Lila, because you mean a hell of a lot more.”

  “I don’t know what to do or say.” How could she when everything inside her trembled and ached? “No one’s ever felt about me the way you do. No one’s ever made me feel the way you make me feel.”

  “You could try taking it.”

  “I’ve never had anything solid I didn’t get for myself. It’s just the way it was. I’ve never let myself hold on to anything too tight because I might have to leave it behind. When it means too much it hurts too much.”

  “This is solid.” He took her hand, closed it into a fist, laid it on his heart. “You got it for yourself.”

  She felt his heartbeat—strong, steady, and hers if she could take it. “I can’t figure out how.”

  “You got me when you reached out, gave me something to hold on to when you didn’t even know me. So let me do the holding on to for a while.”

  To demonstrate, he drew her against him. “We’re not going to leave anything behind. You’ll paint the bathroom, I’ll call lawyers. You’ll do your work, I’ll do mine. And I’ll hold on until you’re ready to.”

  She closed her eyes, steadied herself. She’d take what he offered, accept what she felt. For right now.

  Prepping the powder room, doing more research on the technique, buying the supplies, agreeing on the base color—and she should have known the artist would have firm and definite ideas there—kept her occupied. She made herself take an additional day to let the process circle around in her head, and took the time to sit down, start polishing up the book.

  Then she let that process circle, shoved up her sleeves and dived in with brush and roller.

  Ash spent most of his days in the studio. She expected him to tell her he needed her to sit again, but it didn’t come up. She imagined he had enough on his plate, talking to the lawyers, trying to set the stage for the showdown with Vasin.

  She didn’t bring any of it up again. She could plot a half dozen scenarios in her mind—and did—but none of them worked without the first step. So Ash would set things up, then she’d step in, add her weight, her thoughts—like a final polish.

  She had plenty on her plate, too, with her feelings and his as the main course. Could she push the plate aside—no thanks, it looks great but? Did she want to? Could she sample a little then say thanks, that’s enough? Or could she settle in, eat hearty?

  But if you settled in, wouldn’t the plate eventually be empty? Or was it a loaves-and-fishes sort of thing?

  “Stop it,” she ordered herself. “Just stop it.”

  “If you stop now, nobody can use the room.”

  She glanced over her shoulder.

  There he was, the center of her thoughts, glorious black hair tousled, gorgeous face scruffed from his aversion to daily shaving, excellent body in jeans—with a faint streak of crimson paint at the left hip—and a black T-shirt.

  He looked like an artist, and every time he did, he stirred all her juices.

  He hooked his thumbs in his front pockets, studying her as she studied him. “What?”

  “I’m wondering why men are sexy when they’re scruffy, and women are just unkempt or sloppy. I guess we’ll blame it on Eve—she gets blamed for everything anyway.”

  “Eve who?”

  “As in Adam. Anyway, I’m not stopping the painting—just some head games I have to quit.
Don’t frown.”

  She gestured, a little dangerously, with her coated roller. “This is just the base coat. The Venetian plaster technique has many steps. Go away.”

  “I’m about to do just that. I have to go out, get some supplies. Need anything?”

  “No, I—” Reconsidering, she pressed a free hand to her stomach. “I could be hungry later. Are you interested in splitting a calzone? I’ll be done with the base by the time you get back.”

  “I could be interested in a calzone, but I want my own.”

  “I can’t eat a whole one.”

  “I can.”

  “Never mind, get me half a cold-cut sub. Turkey and provolone, and whatever. Load it up—but just half.”

  “I can do that.” He leaned in, kissed her. And eyed the wall she was painting again.

  “You do understand the concept of base coat?”

  “As it happens, I do.” He also understood the concept of paint in the hands of an amateur. Just a bathroom, he reminded himself, and one he rarely used anyway.

  “Keep the door locked, don’t go out, and stay out of my studio.”

  “If I need to—”

  “I won’t be long.” He kissed her again.

  “You’re going out alone,” she called after him. “Maybe you need to wait until I grab a kitchen knife and come with you.”

  He only glanced back, smiled. “I won’t be long.”

  “I won’t be long,” she muttered, and went back to painting to work off steam. “Lock the door, stay inside. Stay out of the studio. I haven’t even thought about going up there till he told me not to.”

  She glanced up at the ceiling. It would serve him right if she went straight up there, poked all around.

  Except her work ethics bled over. You stay out of personal spaces, respect the boundaries.

  Besides, she wanted to finish the base coat, and rework a scene from the book in her head. It might work better from an alternate point of view.

  She entertained herself with roller and brush—and yes, definitely a POV switch. She’d change gears and hit the keyboard right after the lunch break.

  She stepped back, studied the walls. A nice warm Tuscan yellow—subtle, with some orange notes to enrich it. Now she had to wait a good twenty-four hours before she started brushing on the plaster color—a deeper, richer cardamom. That would begin the more interesting, less pedestrian part of the process.

  Until then, she needed to clean up—her brushes and rollers, and herself.

  Still studying her work, she pulled her phone out of her pocket to answer its throbbing ringtone. “Hi, it’s Lila.”

  “Did you enjoy your Italian holiday?”

  The voice froze her blood. She hated knowing her first reaction came as white-knuckled fear. “I did, very much.” She looked around wildly as she spoke—door, windows—half expecting to see that stunning, exotic face through the glass.

  “I’m sure. Private plane, fine hotels. You’ve landed a big, shiny fish, haven’t you?”

  Lila bit back the spike of temper, of insult, even managed a little laugh. “And such a great-looking one. Did you enjoy your Italian holiday? I saw you in the Piazza della Signoria. You looked like you had somewhere important to go.”

  The brief pause told her she’d scored a point, and it helped ease the thunder of her heartbeat. And calmer, she remembered her record app.

  “I still like your shoes,” she said quickly, swiping back to the recording app, engaging it. “I bought several pairs while we were there.”

  “It’s a pity I didn’t see you.”

  “Well, you were preoccupied. Places to go, art dealers to murder.” Her throat, brutally dry, begged for water—but she couldn’t quite make her legs move. “Who do you think tipped the cops, Jai?”

  Second point, Lila thought. Terrified, yes, but not helpless—not stupid.

  “The police don’t worry me, biao zi. And they won’t help you. You won’t see me next time. You won’t see the knife, not until I make you feel it.”

  She closed her eyes, leaned weakly against the doorjamb, but forced bravado into her voice. “You and your knife didn’t do the trick last time. How’s the lip? All healed up? Or do you need to cover it up with the lipstick you stole from Julie?”

  “You’ll beg me to kill you. The Fabergé is a job, but you, bi? You’ll be a pleasure.”

  “Does your employer know you’re contacting me, talking trash? I bet he wouldn’t like it.”

  “Every time you close your eyes, you’ll know I might be there when you open them again. Enjoy your life while you can for life is short, but death, biao zi, it’s very, very long. I look forward to showing you how long. Ciao.”

  Lila pressed the phone to her racing heart. She managed to stumble into the powder room, splash cold water on her clammy face, then simply slid to the floor when her legs gave way.

  She needed to call the police—for whatever good that could do—as soon as she stopped shaking.

  But she’d held her own, hadn’t she? How many people could say they’d held their own with a vengeful professional assassin? And had the wits to get that holding her own on record?

  It was probably a pretty short list.

  And this was personal, she thought. This went back to a punch in the face.

  “Okay.” She drew in a breath, let it out, lowered her head to her drawn-up knees. “Better. Just call the cops, and—” No, she realized. Ash.

  She hadn’t called him in Florence, and she’d been wrong. She’d held her own, but it didn’t mean she had to stand—or sit—on her own.

  She lowered the phone, studied her hand to make sure it remained steady.

  And dropped it into her lap when the front door buzzer sounded.

  She snatched it up again, surged to her feet, stared at the door. Secured, of course—even if she hadn’t turned the internal lock after Ash went out. But windows were glass, and vulnerable.

  Her first thought was defense—a weapon. With her eyes locked on the door, she began to ease her way toward the kitchen. A kitchen held countless weapons.

  The buzzer sounded again, and she jerked again.

  The buzzer, she thought. You won’t see me or the knife. A woman bent on murder didn’t ring the damn buzzer.

  Stupid, she told herself, just stupid to jump just because someone was at the door.

  “Just see who it is,” she whispered. “Just walk over and see who it is instead of standing here shaking.”

  She made herself walk over, open the cabinet where—with Ash’s go-ahead—she’d moved the monitor. And recognizing the visitor, thought she’d almost rather have the murderous intentions.

  “Damn, hell, crap.” After shoving the phone back in her pocket, she pressed her hands to her face, fought back tears of relief.

  No one was here to try to kill her. The visitor might want her winked out of existence, but not dead in a pool of her own blood.

  Still.

  She tugged the ball cap tighter over her bundled-up hair. Why would Ash’s father come now? Why couldn’t he wait until Ash was here—and she wasn’t?

  Why did he have to show up when she was a basket case of nerves and panic?

  And did he just have to drop by when she had the single shirt, the single pair of shorts she’d kept out of the ragbag for scut work?

  “Crap, crap, crap.” She wanted to ignore the buzzer, the visitor, but couldn’t allow herself to be quite that rude—or, she admitted, quite that alone when even someone who detested her was company.

  She squared her shoulders, strode to the door. Deal with it, she ordered herself, and unlocked it.

  “Mr. Archer.” She didn’t bother to fake a smile. Manners were one thing, hypocrisy another. “I’m sorry it took me so long. I was painting.”

  “You’re a painter now?”

  “Walls, not canvases. I’m sorry, Ash isn’t here. He had some errands. Do you want to come in, wait for him?”