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I put my coat back on and transfer my essentials to the pockets. My purse feels like too much of a burden right now. All I need is my slim wallet and my phone. I’ll be back before long, and when I come back, I’ll be able to breathe.
Emerson: Ten minutes.
The traffic gets heavier over the next ten minutes. My security guards pull the SUV into an alley down the street. They change shifts. New guards take their posts. Afternoons are so short in January. The days are short. It’s basically dark when I turn on a soft lamp in my living room and text the people on the night shift.
Daphne: I’m in for the night!!
It makes me feel lightheaded to lie. It makes my heart pound with guilt. But they just text back a thumbs-up emoji. I brush my teeth and go back to watching the traffic.
Emerson: Are you ready, little painter?
Daphne: Yes, but I don’t see you
Emerson: Go out through the alley. Opposite way. Turn left and walk two blocks.
Daphne: Okay
I get up and go before I can change my mind. The last thing I grab is my keys, to lock the door. Down the stairs. A moving shadow scares the shit out of me at the bottom and I freeze.
Robert. In the gallery. He hasn’t locked up yet. In a few minutes, he’ll be coming through to the outside.
Now or never. If I go back upstairs, I’ll lose my nerve. So I don’t. I tiptoe down the last two steps, lean my head out to make sure he’s gone back into the main gallery, and slip out the alley door.
It’s like being hit with a wall of snow. Every sense is alive. I smell bitter wind and concrete, feel the breeze playing with my hair. Please, let them not be watching the alley right now. Please let them not be watching. I walk close to the wall, trying to hide in the shadows, and reach the other end of the alley.
Turn left.
Two blocks.
I keep expecting footsteps to run after me. For my name to echo off the buildings. Half a block down. A full block. I look both ways and cross the street. I don’t see him—I don’t see Emerson. Dread and shame make my throat tight. Would he trick me like this? Lure me? Eva said that being a Morelli is about paying attention, and what did I do? I snuck away from my security to meet a dangerous man.
I’m a third of the way down the second block and about to turn back when a dark gray SUV glides to the curve. The back door opens.
Emerson steps onto the sidewalk and holds out his hand to me. I break into a run, like there’s someone chasing me, and let him help me into the car. It’s warm inside. It smells new and like him. He wastes no time sitting down and pulling the door closed.
His driver pulls back into traffic. I’m breathing hard, my eyes glued on the sidewalk. Emerson’s watching, too. We pass by the alley that leads to my place. It’s blessedly empty. As soon as he sees it is, he turns back to me with those stunning eyes, with that face.
“I made it,” I tell him. I’m gripping my collar for dear life. This is the most reckless thing I’ve ever done. The worst thing I’ve ever done. It’s bad. And it feels good.
“You’re very brave.” Pride glimmers in his eyes. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Emerson
It’s shadowed inthe back of the SUV as we coast over the highway. Distant city lights play over her face, her little nose, her delicate chin. Daphne’s dark eyes catch every bit of that glow. They glimmer. She’s so proud of herself. She’s such a brave little painter. I meant what I said. I meant every word.
I keep myself on the opposite side of the SUV, in the darker shadows. The sweet, cold-air smell of her fills every breath I take. It’s shoving sensation into my face, into my skin. I have to push it away again and again. Turn it into art. In a frame. Trapped. Still. So what if I’m turning this moment into an approximation of canvas? I’m not afraid of Daphne, or kissing her, or fucking her. I’m staying in control.
I want to lunge on her, but I won’t. I’ve had years of practice with waiting.
Never mind the bristling feeling I’ve been living inside since my front door closed behind that bastard.
I don’t want to scare her.
Even if it is inevitable.
Because, of course, I don’t want a few stolen moments at a charity gala. A man doesn’t steal precious items, he acquires them. And then he keeps them very, very safe. He binds them to him by virtue of his protection and his ownership. With art, this happens with money. With contracts and certificates and records of provenance.
