The Collector
Page 47
“It really is.”
“But to make a living at it, to gain clients, you’d have to be responsible, reliable. Trustworthy.”
“You’re tending people’s homes—their things, their plants, their pets. If they can’t trust you, the adventure ends.”
“Nothing lasts without trust. And what do you write?”
“I write a young adult series. Novels. High school drama, politics, romance, with warring werewolves.”
“Not Moon Rise?” Delighted surprise popped into her voice. “You’re not L. L. Emerson?”
“Yeah. You actually know . . . Rylee,” she remembered. “Ash told me his sister Rylee liked the book.”
“Liked? Devoured it. I have to introduce you. She’ll be thrilled out of her mind.”
She glanced over, inclined her head. “Spence.”
Ash’s—and Oliver’s—father, Lila thought. Heartthrob handsome, tanned and fit, his thick dark hair perfectly touched with gray at the temples, his eyes a cool and canny blue.
“Lila, this is Spence Archer. Spence, Lila Emerson.”
“Yes, I know. Ms. Emerson, we’re very grateful.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Archer.”
“Thank you. Let me pour you some champagne,” he said as a white-coated member of the staff brought in a silver bucket. “Then I’m going to steal her away from you for a bit, Monica.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time you went off with a pretty young thing.” She held up her hands, shook her head. “I apologize. Habit. Not today, Spence.” She rose, stepped over and kissed his cheek. “I’ll get out of your way. I’ll see you again, Lila. Be prepared for our Rylee to worship at your feet.” She gave Spence’s arm a squeeze, then left them.
“It was kind of you to come today,” Spence began, and handed Lila the glass of champagne.
“It was important to Ashton.”
“Yes, so I understand.” He sat across from her.
She thought he looked tired and grim, understandably—and honestly wished herself anywhere else. What could she say to the father of a dead son she hadn’t known, and the father of a son she shared a strange and dangerous secret with?
“It was a beautiful service in a beautiful setting. I know Ashton wanted to make everything as . . . comforting for you and Oliver’s mother as possible.”
“Ash always comes through. How long did you know Oliver?”
“I didn’t. I’m sorry, it must seem strange for me to be here when I didn’t know him. I was just . . . that night I was just looking out the window.”
“Through binoculars.”
“Yes.” She felt the heat rise to her face.
“Just coincidence? It’s more plausible to me you were spying on Oliver’s apartment because you were one of his women. Or more troubling, you have a connection to the person who killed him.”
The words, the matter-of-fact delivery, were so unexpected, so stunning, it took a moment to register.
“Mr. Archer, you’re grieving for your son. You’re angry, and you want answers. I don’t have answers to give you. I didn’t know Oliver, and I don’t know who killed him.”
She set down the champagne she hadn’t touched. “I should go.”
“You persuaded Ash to ask you here today, into our home. I’m told you’ve spent considerable time with him since your chance meeting at the police station the day after Oliver’s death. That Ashton has already begun painting you. That’s quick work, Ms. Emerson.”
She got slowly to her feet, as did he. “I don’t know you,” she said carefully. “I don’t know if it’s your nature to be insulting. Since I don’t, I’m going to chalk it up to shock and grief. I know what death can do to the people left behind.”
“I know you’re a woman of no fixed address who spends her time living in other people’s homes while she writes fantasy stories for impressionable teenagers. A connection to Ashton Archer, with his name, his resources, would be quite a step up for you.”
Every ounce of sympathy died. “I make my own way, take my own steps. Status and money don’t drive everyone’s train. If you’ll excuse me.”
“Trust me,” he said as she started out of the room, “whatever game you’re playing, you won’t win.”
She stopped for one last look at him, so handsome and polished, so broken and hard. “I’m sorry for you,” she murmured, and walked out.
Blind with anger, she made a wrong turn but quickly corrected. She needed to get out, get away. She hated that Spence Archer had managed to make her feel both guilt and fury but knew she needed to chew on both—somewhere else.
Anywhere out of this huge and amazing space, full of people with their strange and convoluted relationships.
Screw his enormous and gorgeous home, his expansive lawns and pools and fricking tennis court. And screw him for trying to make her into a gold-digging social climber.
She made her way outside, remembered Luke had the driver’s information, and the driver had her damn luggage in the trunk. She didn’t want to talk to Luke or Julie or any damn body. She found one of the parking attendants, asked him for the number of a cab company, one that would take her into New York.
She’d leave her luggage—it would just go with Julie anyway. At some point she’d text Julie, let her know, ask her to haul her things up to her apartment for the night.
But she wouldn’t stay here feeling humiliated, attacked and guilty one minute more than absolutely necessary.
She spotted the cab cruising down the long drive, squared her shoulders. She made her own way, she reminded herself, paid her own way. Lived her own way.
“Lila!”
She turned at the open door of the cab to see Giselle hurrying toward her.
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes, I have to go.”
“But Ash was just looking for you.”
“I have to go.”
“The cab can wait.” Giselle took Lila’s arm, firmly. “Let’s just go back and—”
“I really can’t.” Just as firmly, Lila took Giselle’s restraining hand, gave it a squeeze. “I’m very sorry about your brother.” She got into the cab, closed the door. And sat back once she told the driver to go, trying not to think just how big a dent the cab fare back to the city would make in her budget.
“But to make a living at it, to gain clients, you’d have to be responsible, reliable. Trustworthy.”
“You’re tending people’s homes—their things, their plants, their pets. If they can’t trust you, the adventure ends.”
“Nothing lasts without trust. And what do you write?”
“I write a young adult series. Novels. High school drama, politics, romance, with warring werewolves.”
“Not Moon Rise?” Delighted surprise popped into her voice. “You’re not L. L. Emerson?”
“Yeah. You actually know . . . Rylee,” she remembered. “Ash told me his sister Rylee liked the book.”
“Liked? Devoured it. I have to introduce you. She’ll be thrilled out of her mind.”
She glanced over, inclined her head. “Spence.”
Ash’s—and Oliver’s—father, Lila thought. Heartthrob handsome, tanned and fit, his thick dark hair perfectly touched with gray at the temples, his eyes a cool and canny blue.
“Lila, this is Spence Archer. Spence, Lila Emerson.”
“Yes, I know. Ms. Emerson, we’re very grateful.”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Archer.”
“Thank you. Let me pour you some champagne,” he said as a white-coated member of the staff brought in a silver bucket. “Then I’m going to steal her away from you for a bit, Monica.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time you went off with a pretty young thing.” She held up her hands, shook her head. “I apologize. Habit. Not today, Spence.” She rose, stepped over and kissed his cheek. “I’ll get out of your way. I’ll see you again, Lila. Be prepared for our Rylee to worship at your feet.” She gave Spence’s arm a squeeze, then left them.
“It was kind of you to come today,” Spence began, and handed Lila the glass of champagne.
“It was important to Ashton.”
“Yes, so I understand.” He sat across from her.
She thought he looked tired and grim, understandably—and honestly wished herself anywhere else. What could she say to the father of a dead son she hadn’t known, and the father of a son she shared a strange and dangerous secret with?
“It was a beautiful service in a beautiful setting. I know Ashton wanted to make everything as . . . comforting for you and Oliver’s mother as possible.”
“Ash always comes through. How long did you know Oliver?”
“I didn’t. I’m sorry, it must seem strange for me to be here when I didn’t know him. I was just . . . that night I was just looking out the window.”
“Through binoculars.”
“Yes.” She felt the heat rise to her face.
“Just coincidence? It’s more plausible to me you were spying on Oliver’s apartment because you were one of his women. Or more troubling, you have a connection to the person who killed him.”
The words, the matter-of-fact delivery, were so unexpected, so stunning, it took a moment to register.
“Mr. Archer, you’re grieving for your son. You’re angry, and you want answers. I don’t have answers to give you. I didn’t know Oliver, and I don’t know who killed him.”
She set down the champagne she hadn’t touched. “I should go.”
“You persuaded Ash to ask you here today, into our home. I’m told you’ve spent considerable time with him since your chance meeting at the police station the day after Oliver’s death. That Ashton has already begun painting you. That’s quick work, Ms. Emerson.”
She got slowly to her feet, as did he. “I don’t know you,” she said carefully. “I don’t know if it’s your nature to be insulting. Since I don’t, I’m going to chalk it up to shock and grief. I know what death can do to the people left behind.”
“I know you’re a woman of no fixed address who spends her time living in other people’s homes while she writes fantasy stories for impressionable teenagers. A connection to Ashton Archer, with his name, his resources, would be quite a step up for you.”
Every ounce of sympathy died. “I make my own way, take my own steps. Status and money don’t drive everyone’s train. If you’ll excuse me.”
“Trust me,” he said as she started out of the room, “whatever game you’re playing, you won’t win.”
She stopped for one last look at him, so handsome and polished, so broken and hard. “I’m sorry for you,” she murmured, and walked out.
Blind with anger, she made a wrong turn but quickly corrected. She needed to get out, get away. She hated that Spence Archer had managed to make her feel both guilt and fury but knew she needed to chew on both—somewhere else.
Anywhere out of this huge and amazing space, full of people with their strange and convoluted relationships.
Screw his enormous and gorgeous home, his expansive lawns and pools and fricking tennis court. And screw him for trying to make her into a gold-digging social climber.
She made her way outside, remembered Luke had the driver’s information, and the driver had her damn luggage in the trunk. She didn’t want to talk to Luke or Julie or any damn body. She found one of the parking attendants, asked him for the number of a cab company, one that would take her into New York.
She’d leave her luggage—it would just go with Julie anyway. At some point she’d text Julie, let her know, ask her to haul her things up to her apartment for the night.
But she wouldn’t stay here feeling humiliated, attacked and guilty one minute more than absolutely necessary.
She spotted the cab cruising down the long drive, squared her shoulders. She made her own way, she reminded herself, paid her own way. Lived her own way.
“Lila!”
She turned at the open door of the cab to see Giselle hurrying toward her.
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes, I have to go.”
“But Ash was just looking for you.”
“I have to go.”
“The cab can wait.” Giselle took Lila’s arm, firmly. “Let’s just go back and—”
“I really can’t.” Just as firmly, Lila took Giselle’s restraining hand, gave it a squeeze. “I’m very sorry about your brother.” She got into the cab, closed the door. And sat back once she told the driver to go, trying not to think just how big a dent the cab fare back to the city would make in her budget.
