The Collector
Page 29
She changed into the soft blue dress. Reveled for just a moment in not only wearing it—she’d tried designer labels on before, for fun—but in knowing it could be hers.
A little big in the bust, she thought—big surprise—but not a bad fit. And she could have it altered. As she wanted the damn dress, she slipped out of her sandals, pulled the band out of her hair.
When she stepped out again, he stood at the window, looking out.
“I don’t have any makeup with me,” she began.
“You don’t need it for this. Just some preliminary work.”
He turned, studied her. “The color’s not bad on you, but you’re better in bolder. Over here.”
“You’re bossy when you put the artist on.” She walked by the easel, stopped. There was her face, over and over from different angles, with different expressions.
“It’s all me. It’s odd.” And made her feel exposed again. “Why don’t you use the mermaid girl for this? She’s so beautiful.”
“There are all sorts of beauty. I want your hair . . .” He simply pushed her over from the waist, scrubbed his hands through it, then pulled her back up. “Toss it,” he ordered.
And when she did, her eyes flashed—not anger, but pure female amusement.
“That.” He took her chin, angled her head up. “Just exactly that. You know so much more than I do, than any man can. I can watch you in the moonlight, in the starlight, in the firelight, but I’ll never know what you know, what you think. They think they can have you, the men who watch the dance. But they can’t, not until or unless you choose. You belong to no one until you choose. That’s your power.”
He stepped back to the easel. “Chin up, head back. Eyes on me.”
There went her heart again, and her throat. And this time she actually felt her legs go a little weak.
How did he do it?
“Do all the women you paint fall in love with you?”
“Some fall into hate. Or at least intense dislike.” He tossed aside the page of sketches, began a new one.
“And that doesn’t really matter to you, because you get what you’re after, and it’s not really them.”
“Of course it’s them, some part of them. Look at me. Why young adult novels?”
“Because it’s fun. There’s so much drama during the teenage years. All the longing, the discovery, the terrible need to belong to something, the terrible fear of not being like everyone else. Add werewolves, and it’s an allegory, and more fun.”
“Werewolves always bring the fun. My sister Rylee really liked your first book.”
“She did?”
“Kaylee rules and Aiden’s hot, but she’s especially fond of Mel.”
“Aw, that’s nice. Mel’s the best pal of the central character and a very awkward nerd.”
“Makes sense, as she’s a nerd herself, and always roots for the underdog. I promised her I’d get the second book for her, have you sign it.”
Pleasure bloomed inside her. “I have some advance copies coming in about a month. I’ll sign one for her, get it to you.”
“Great. I’ll be her favorite brother.”
“I bet you are anyway. You listen, and even when things are bad, you give her something happy.”
“Twirl around.”
“What?”
He circled a finger in the air while he sketched. “No, no, twirl around.” This time he whipped his finger.
She felt silly, but did a quick spin.
“Again, arms up, have some fun with it.” Next time he’d put music on to distract her, keep her relaxed. “Better, hold it there, keep your arms up. Was your father stationed overseas?”
“A couple of times. Germany, but I was just a baby and don’t remember. Italy, and that was nice.”
“Iraq?”
“Yeah, and that wasn’t nice. He was deployed out of Fort Lee in Virginia, so we stayed there.”
“Tough.”
“The army life’s not for weenies.”
“And now?”
“I try not to be a weenie. But you meant what’s he doing now. He retired, and they moved to Alaska. They love it. They bought a little general store, and eat moose burgers.”
“Okay, relax. Toss your hair one more time. Do you get up there?”
“To Juneau? A couple of times. I wrangled a job in Vancouver, then went to Juneau after, then got one in Missoula, did the same. Have you been there?”
“Yeah, it’s staggering.”
“It is.” She brought it into her mind. “Like another world, literally. Like a new planet. Not the ice planet Hoth, but close.”
“The what?”
“Hoth, the ice planet. Star Wars—The Empire Strikes Back.”
“Okay. Right.”
Obviously a casual Star Wars fan at best, Lila decided, so shifted the topic back. “What did you paint in Alaska?”
“Some landscapes because you’d be crazy not to. One of an Inuit woman as an ice queen—probably ruling the ice planet Hoth,” he added, and had her grin flashing.
“Why women, especially? You paint other things, but it’s mostly women, and fanciful, whether benign like the violin-playing witch in the moonlit meadow, or the man-eating mermaid.”
His eyes changed—from intense, looking straight into her, to calmer, more curious. “Why do you assume the woman in the meadow is a witch?”
“Because power, and her pleasure in it as much as the music, is right there. Or it’s just how I saw it—and why, I guess, I wanted it.”
“You’re right. She’s caught in a moment of embrace—her music, her magic. If I still had it, I’d make you a deal because you understood that. But then, where would you put it?”
“There is that little hitch,” she agreed. “But again, why women most often?”
“Because they’re powerful. Life comes from them, and that’s its own magic. That’s good for now.” As his gaze hung on her, he tossed his pencil aside. “I need to find the right dress, something with movement.”
Because she wasn’t sure he’d say yes, she didn’t ask if she could see what he’d done, but just walked over and looked.
So many angles, she thought, of her face, and of her body now.
A little big in the bust, she thought—big surprise—but not a bad fit. And she could have it altered. As she wanted the damn dress, she slipped out of her sandals, pulled the band out of her hair.
When she stepped out again, he stood at the window, looking out.
“I don’t have any makeup with me,” she began.
“You don’t need it for this. Just some preliminary work.”
He turned, studied her. “The color’s not bad on you, but you’re better in bolder. Over here.”
“You’re bossy when you put the artist on.” She walked by the easel, stopped. There was her face, over and over from different angles, with different expressions.
“It’s all me. It’s odd.” And made her feel exposed again. “Why don’t you use the mermaid girl for this? She’s so beautiful.”
“There are all sorts of beauty. I want your hair . . .” He simply pushed her over from the waist, scrubbed his hands through it, then pulled her back up. “Toss it,” he ordered.
And when she did, her eyes flashed—not anger, but pure female amusement.
“That.” He took her chin, angled her head up. “Just exactly that. You know so much more than I do, than any man can. I can watch you in the moonlight, in the starlight, in the firelight, but I’ll never know what you know, what you think. They think they can have you, the men who watch the dance. But they can’t, not until or unless you choose. You belong to no one until you choose. That’s your power.”
He stepped back to the easel. “Chin up, head back. Eyes on me.”
There went her heart again, and her throat. And this time she actually felt her legs go a little weak.
How did he do it?
“Do all the women you paint fall in love with you?”
“Some fall into hate. Or at least intense dislike.” He tossed aside the page of sketches, began a new one.
“And that doesn’t really matter to you, because you get what you’re after, and it’s not really them.”
“Of course it’s them, some part of them. Look at me. Why young adult novels?”
“Because it’s fun. There’s so much drama during the teenage years. All the longing, the discovery, the terrible need to belong to something, the terrible fear of not being like everyone else. Add werewolves, and it’s an allegory, and more fun.”
“Werewolves always bring the fun. My sister Rylee really liked your first book.”
“She did?”
“Kaylee rules and Aiden’s hot, but she’s especially fond of Mel.”
“Aw, that’s nice. Mel’s the best pal of the central character and a very awkward nerd.”
“Makes sense, as she’s a nerd herself, and always roots for the underdog. I promised her I’d get the second book for her, have you sign it.”
Pleasure bloomed inside her. “I have some advance copies coming in about a month. I’ll sign one for her, get it to you.”
“Great. I’ll be her favorite brother.”
“I bet you are anyway. You listen, and even when things are bad, you give her something happy.”
“Twirl around.”
“What?”
He circled a finger in the air while he sketched. “No, no, twirl around.” This time he whipped his finger.
She felt silly, but did a quick spin.
“Again, arms up, have some fun with it.” Next time he’d put music on to distract her, keep her relaxed. “Better, hold it there, keep your arms up. Was your father stationed overseas?”
“A couple of times. Germany, but I was just a baby and don’t remember. Italy, and that was nice.”
“Iraq?”
“Yeah, and that wasn’t nice. He was deployed out of Fort Lee in Virginia, so we stayed there.”
“Tough.”
“The army life’s not for weenies.”
“And now?”
“I try not to be a weenie. But you meant what’s he doing now. He retired, and they moved to Alaska. They love it. They bought a little general store, and eat moose burgers.”
“Okay, relax. Toss your hair one more time. Do you get up there?”
“To Juneau? A couple of times. I wrangled a job in Vancouver, then went to Juneau after, then got one in Missoula, did the same. Have you been there?”
“Yeah, it’s staggering.”
“It is.” She brought it into her mind. “Like another world, literally. Like a new planet. Not the ice planet Hoth, but close.”
“The what?”
“Hoth, the ice planet. Star Wars—The Empire Strikes Back.”
“Okay. Right.”
Obviously a casual Star Wars fan at best, Lila decided, so shifted the topic back. “What did you paint in Alaska?”
“Some landscapes because you’d be crazy not to. One of an Inuit woman as an ice queen—probably ruling the ice planet Hoth,” he added, and had her grin flashing.
“Why women, especially? You paint other things, but it’s mostly women, and fanciful, whether benign like the violin-playing witch in the moonlit meadow, or the man-eating mermaid.”
His eyes changed—from intense, looking straight into her, to calmer, more curious. “Why do you assume the woman in the meadow is a witch?”
“Because power, and her pleasure in it as much as the music, is right there. Or it’s just how I saw it—and why, I guess, I wanted it.”
“You’re right. She’s caught in a moment of embrace—her music, her magic. If I still had it, I’d make you a deal because you understood that. But then, where would you put it?”
“There is that little hitch,” she agreed. “But again, why women most often?”
“Because they’re powerful. Life comes from them, and that’s its own magic. That’s good for now.” As his gaze hung on her, he tossed his pencil aside. “I need to find the right dress, something with movement.”
Because she wasn’t sure he’d say yes, she didn’t ask if she could see what he’d done, but just walked over and looked.
So many angles, she thought, of her face, and of her body now.
