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Oh, my God.
I feel suddenly sick. My throat is parched, my skin clammy.
Fortunately, Nick is distracted just a moment later with another call, this time from his assistant, Lily. As he runs through his morning’s schedule with her, I turn to stare out the window, seeing nothing but the gray haze of my barely contained panic.
I have to get rid of Rodney.
I have to find a way to pay his price.
Nick draws my hand up to his mouth, startling me out of my dark thoughts. His lips are warm and tender on my knuckles. The car is stopped now, parked at the curb on Lexington outside the studio building.
“I’ll call you later,” Nick says. “Any preference on where we go tonight?”
I blink, trying to wrestle my focus back to him and me, not the threat that lurks just a few miles behind us.
“Dinner,” he prompts when I stare at him blankly. “Where would you like me to take you?”
I shake my head. “Um. Surprise me.”
His answering grin is positively sinful. “Careful, Ms. Ross. That could become one of my favorite things to do.”
As heavy as my misery is right now, his smile and the heat of his low-voiced promise has the power to kindle true joy inside me. Framing my face in his palms, he leans forward and tenderly kisses me.
“I’ll see you tonight, sweetheart.”
“Okay.” I nod, my heart so full of affection for him it reduces my reply to a whisper. ?
??I miss you already.”
He climbs out of the car, helping me alight behind him. I manage a smile as I leave him, waving to both him and Patrick as I enter the building.
As soon as the limo drives off a few moments later, I reach into my purse and pull out Kathryn Tremont’s card.
I don’t know if she’s the answer to my problems with Rodney.
I don’t know if she’s the answer to my questions about Nick, either.
Right now, all I do know is that she’s the only hope I’ve got.
My fingers tremble as I call her number. I’m surprised that she answers personally. She sounds tired, slightly distracted, but I forge on.
“Hello, Kathryn. It’s Avery . . . Avery Ross. Are you still interested in seeing my art?”
Chapter 18
Not even an hour later, I am being shown in to Kathryn Tremont’s Fifth Avenue apartment. Although calling the massive, richly appointed residence in one of the loveliest pre-war historic brick and limestone buildings a mere apartment is tantamount to calling St. Patrick’s Cathedral a simple church.
I have my large zippered portfolio in my hand as I enter the elegant vestibule, following the handsome blond male attendant who greeted me at the door.
“Kathryn’s in the drawing room,” he says, walking ahead of me.
He is young—probably younger than my twenty-five years—and he carries himself with the smooth fluidity and vague aloofness of a model. Or an escort. It wouldn’t surprise me if he is both. At least when he isn’t playing doorman for the lady of this grand house.
He leads me off the main hallway where I find Kathryn seated in the middle of a large room with soaring ceilings and windows that must be twelve feet tall. The long draperies are drawn, dimming the room to a state of near darkness.
Ornately framed art graces the silk-covered walls. Beautiful antique sofas and chairs upholstered in gleaming velvets and rich satins are arranged in intimate groupings within the formal sitting room, but Kathryn isn’t using any of them.
Dressed in black silk pajamas and robe, she lies on an overstuffed modern recliner, her bare feet elevated on the raised footrest. A nurse is seated on a stool beside her, monitoring the portable machine and tubes that are hooked up to Kathryn’s body. One of the tubes is attached to a taped port affixed to her chest.
