The Collector
Page 126
“It’s . . . it’s alive. I expect to see myself finish that spin. It’s magnificent, Ashton. It’s breathtaking. You made me beautiful.”
“I paint what I see. I saw you like this almost from the beginning. What do you see?”
“Joy. Sexuality, but a delight in it rather than, I don’t know, smoldering. Freedom, and power. She’s happy, confident. She knows who she is, and what she wants. And in her crystal, everything that can be.”
“What does she want?”
“It’s your painting, Ash.”
“It’s you,” he corrected. “Your face—your eyes, your lips. The gypsy is a story, the setting, the costume. Dancing around the fire, the men watching her, wanting her. Wanting that joy, that beauty, that power, if only for a night. But she doesn’t look at them—she performs for them, but doesn’t see them. She doesn’t look in the crystal, but holds it aloft.”
“Because knowing isn’t the power. Choosing is.”
“And she only looks at one man, one choice. Your face, Lila, your eyes, your lips. It’s love that lights it. It’s in your eyes, in the curve of your lips, the tilt of your head. Love, the joy and power and freedom that comes from it. I’ve seen it on your face, for me.”
He turned her. “I know infatuation, lust, flirtation, calculation. I’ve seen all of it go in and out of my parents’ lives. And I know love. Do you think I’ll let it go, that I’ll let you hide from it because you, who’s anything but a coward, is afraid of what ifs?”
“I don’t know what to do about it, with it, for it. For you.”
“Figure it out.”
He lifted her to her toes, took her mouth with his in a long, smoldering kiss suited to campfires and moonlit nights.
He ran his hands, molded them from her hips, up her torso, to her shoulders, before easing away.
“You’re good at figuring things out.”
“It’s not a faulty toaster.”
He smiled at the use of his own argument. “I love you. If you had a dozen or so siblings you’d find it easier to say, and to feel, under every possible circumstance. But this is you and me. It’s you,” he said, shifting her to face the painting again. “You’ll figure it out.”
He touched his lips to the top of her head. “I’ll go pick up some dinner. I feel like Chinese.”
She tilted her head to look over her shoulder, sent him a look martini-dry. “Really?”
“Yeah, really. I’ll stop by the bakery, check in with Luke if he’s around. Either way, I’ll buy you a cupcake.”
When she said nothing, he gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Do you want to come with me, get out, take a walk?”
“Actually, that would be great, but I think I should start figuring things out. And maybe try to sneak in some work.”
“Fair enough.” He started out. “I told Fine to call, no matter what time it was, when they have them both in custody. Then you’ll be able to sleep.”
He knew her, she thought, and for that she could be grateful. “When she calls, when they’re in custody, prepare to be ridden like a wild stallion.”
“That’s a definite date. I won’t be long—an hour tops.”
She walked to the door of the studio, just to watch him walk down.
He’d get his keys, check his wallet, she thought, and his phone. Then he’d walk to the bakery first, talk things over with Luke. He’d call in the dinner order so it would be waiting when he got there, but he’d take a few minutes, talk to the owners, the delivery guy if he was there.
She walked back to the painting. Her face—her eyes, her lips. But when she looked in the mirror, she didn’t see the brilliance.
Wasn’t it amazing he did?
She understood now why he’d waited to paint her face, her features. He’d needed to see this look on it—and he had.
He painted what he saw.
She glanced at another easel and, surprised, went over for a closer look. He’d pinned dozens of sketches to it—all of her.
The faerie in the bower, sleeping, waking, the goddess by the water—wearing a diadem and thin white robes. She rode a winged horse over the city—Florence, she realized—legs bare, one arm raised high. And over her upturned palm a ball of fire shimmered.
He gave her power, she realized, and courage, and beauty. He put the future in her hands.
She laughed at sketches of her at her keyboard, eyes intense, hair tumbled—and best of all her body caught in mid transformation to sleek wolf.
“He has to give me one of these.”
She wished she could draw so she could draw him as she saw him, give him that gift. Inspired, she ran downstairs, into the little bedroom. She couldn’t draw, but she damn well knew how to paint with words.
A knight, she decided. Not in shining armor because he used it—not tarnished because he tended it. Tall in stature and demeanor. Both honorable and fierce.
A short story, she mused—something fun and romantic.
She set it in the mythical world of Korweny—he’d enjoy the anagram—a world where dragons flew and wolves ran free. And he, warrior prince, defended home and family above all. He gave his heart to a gypsy who rode beside him and spoke the language of wolves. Add the evil tyrant seeking to steal the magic dragon’s egg and usurp the throne, the dark sorceress who did his bidding—she could have something.
A couple pages in, she backtracked, began a new opening. She realized she could write a novella instead of a short story. And she realized she’d gone from a character sketch to short story to novella in about twenty minutes.
“Give me an hour, I’ll start thinking novel. And, hey, maybe.”
Considering just that, she decided to go down, get a tall glass of lemon water, take a few minutes to think it through.
“Just a few rough pages,” she promised herself. “I have to focus on the book, but a few rough pages—for fun.”
She started out, imagining a battle—the clang of swords and ax, and the morning mists rising from the blood-soaked ground.
She smiled as she heard the front door open. “Did I lose track of the time? I was just—”
She broke off, froze at the top of the steps as Jai shut the door behind her.
Purpling bruises marred her extraordinary face under her right eye, along her jawline. The tailored black shirt showed a rip in the shoulder seam.
“I paint what I see. I saw you like this almost from the beginning. What do you see?”
“Joy. Sexuality, but a delight in it rather than, I don’t know, smoldering. Freedom, and power. She’s happy, confident. She knows who she is, and what she wants. And in her crystal, everything that can be.”
“What does she want?”
“It’s your painting, Ash.”
“It’s you,” he corrected. “Your face—your eyes, your lips. The gypsy is a story, the setting, the costume. Dancing around the fire, the men watching her, wanting her. Wanting that joy, that beauty, that power, if only for a night. But she doesn’t look at them—she performs for them, but doesn’t see them. She doesn’t look in the crystal, but holds it aloft.”
“Because knowing isn’t the power. Choosing is.”
“And she only looks at one man, one choice. Your face, Lila, your eyes, your lips. It’s love that lights it. It’s in your eyes, in the curve of your lips, the tilt of your head. Love, the joy and power and freedom that comes from it. I’ve seen it on your face, for me.”
He turned her. “I know infatuation, lust, flirtation, calculation. I’ve seen all of it go in and out of my parents’ lives. And I know love. Do you think I’ll let it go, that I’ll let you hide from it because you, who’s anything but a coward, is afraid of what ifs?”
“I don’t know what to do about it, with it, for it. For you.”
“Figure it out.”
He lifted her to her toes, took her mouth with his in a long, smoldering kiss suited to campfires and moonlit nights.
He ran his hands, molded them from her hips, up her torso, to her shoulders, before easing away.
“You’re good at figuring things out.”
“It’s not a faulty toaster.”
He smiled at the use of his own argument. “I love you. If you had a dozen or so siblings you’d find it easier to say, and to feel, under every possible circumstance. But this is you and me. It’s you,” he said, shifting her to face the painting again. “You’ll figure it out.”
He touched his lips to the top of her head. “I’ll go pick up some dinner. I feel like Chinese.”
She tilted her head to look over her shoulder, sent him a look martini-dry. “Really?”
“Yeah, really. I’ll stop by the bakery, check in with Luke if he’s around. Either way, I’ll buy you a cupcake.”
When she said nothing, he gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Do you want to come with me, get out, take a walk?”
“Actually, that would be great, but I think I should start figuring things out. And maybe try to sneak in some work.”
“Fair enough.” He started out. “I told Fine to call, no matter what time it was, when they have them both in custody. Then you’ll be able to sleep.”
He knew her, she thought, and for that she could be grateful. “When she calls, when they’re in custody, prepare to be ridden like a wild stallion.”
“That’s a definite date. I won’t be long—an hour tops.”
She walked to the door of the studio, just to watch him walk down.
He’d get his keys, check his wallet, she thought, and his phone. Then he’d walk to the bakery first, talk things over with Luke. He’d call in the dinner order so it would be waiting when he got there, but he’d take a few minutes, talk to the owners, the delivery guy if he was there.
She walked back to the painting. Her face—her eyes, her lips. But when she looked in the mirror, she didn’t see the brilliance.
Wasn’t it amazing he did?
She understood now why he’d waited to paint her face, her features. He’d needed to see this look on it—and he had.
He painted what he saw.
She glanced at another easel and, surprised, went over for a closer look. He’d pinned dozens of sketches to it—all of her.
The faerie in the bower, sleeping, waking, the goddess by the water—wearing a diadem and thin white robes. She rode a winged horse over the city—Florence, she realized—legs bare, one arm raised high. And over her upturned palm a ball of fire shimmered.
He gave her power, she realized, and courage, and beauty. He put the future in her hands.
She laughed at sketches of her at her keyboard, eyes intense, hair tumbled—and best of all her body caught in mid transformation to sleek wolf.
“He has to give me one of these.”
She wished she could draw so she could draw him as she saw him, give him that gift. Inspired, she ran downstairs, into the little bedroom. She couldn’t draw, but she damn well knew how to paint with words.
A knight, she decided. Not in shining armor because he used it—not tarnished because he tended it. Tall in stature and demeanor. Both honorable and fierce.
A short story, she mused—something fun and romantic.
She set it in the mythical world of Korweny—he’d enjoy the anagram—a world where dragons flew and wolves ran free. And he, warrior prince, defended home and family above all. He gave his heart to a gypsy who rode beside him and spoke the language of wolves. Add the evil tyrant seeking to steal the magic dragon’s egg and usurp the throne, the dark sorceress who did his bidding—she could have something.
A couple pages in, she backtracked, began a new opening. She realized she could write a novella instead of a short story. And she realized she’d gone from a character sketch to short story to novella in about twenty minutes.
“Give me an hour, I’ll start thinking novel. And, hey, maybe.”
Considering just that, she decided to go down, get a tall glass of lemon water, take a few minutes to think it through.
“Just a few rough pages,” she promised herself. “I have to focus on the book, but a few rough pages—for fun.”
She started out, imagining a battle—the clang of swords and ax, and the morning mists rising from the blood-soaked ground.
She smiled as she heard the front door open. “Did I lose track of the time? I was just—”
She broke off, froze at the top of the steps as Jai shut the door behind her.
Purpling bruises marred her extraordinary face under her right eye, along her jawline. The tailored black shirt showed a rip in the shoulder seam.
