“I’d also like a keypad entry system wired to all the doors and windows. If so much as a bird flies into a window mistakenly, I want the system to go off.”
“So something sensitive.” He didn’t take his eyes off his notebook.
Eve was chagrined that he didn’t seem to feel the electric current running between them. She should have been relieved.
“Yes, something along the lines of a Lorex. At my last gallery, we had a system custom designed, but I don’t have time for that.”
“You worked at a gallery?”
He glanced up from his notes, ignoring, as usual, whatever she’d said that didn’t appear to interest him. If it would get this done faster, she would tell him what he wanted to know.
“Yes, most recently I was assistant curator at Bonard’s in Paris. Before that, at their sister galleries in London and Vienna.”
Hudson’s eyebrows rose. “What do you expect to do out here? Chelsea has one gallery. Mostly seagulls and sunsets.”
Was it a mistake to have told him? She’d forgotten for a moment that he had connections to the world she had left behind. Perhaps it was a good thing he was focused more on her resume than on her knowledge of security systems.
“I’m reinventing myself.” She shrugged. He wasn’t the only one who could be terse.
He quirked his mouth at her answer and turned his attention back to his notes. “So you want a system that will alert the cops. I have to warn you, in a rural area like this, you aren’t going to get a real fast response time.”
“Are there any local security companies? One with patrol cars or anything like that?”
Hudson’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “Not that I know of. My brother might be willing to subcontract the work out…if you really think it’s necessary. B&Es are pretty rare in these parts.”
If her home was broken into, it wouldn’t be an amateur looking for electronics and jewelry. It would be a professional, and this system would be the first line of defense. She had a few other tricks up her sleeve.
“I’m cautious,” she said crisply. “Moving on.”
They covered the downstairs at a brisk pace, but if she was trying to overwhelm him, he’d show her he could keep up. She had made progress in the last few days. Simple but costly looking furniture had appeared in the living room, while stainless steel appliances filled out the kitchen, and items like a simple glass bowl brimming with fruit and placed on the kitchen’s long marble counter added a homey touch.
She rattled off some more specifications, then led him upstairs so he could count the windows and take some measurements. His pencil rarely stopped moving on the page. When they arrived at the landing to go down again, she stopped.
“Are you writing a novel?” she asked in that faintly accented voice of hers.
He wanted to grin but held back. He stilled his writing hand and flipped the notebook around so she could see his careful notations of everything she’d said, plus a remarkably accurate drawing of her face, done in bold lines with rough shading for depth.
“You just drew that?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He didn’t tell her he’d sketched her from memory half a dozen times over the last few days, but that he’d needed to see her again to capture the precise line of her chin.
Surprise, irritation, and appreciation clashed for dominance on her face.
“It’s lovely,” she said.
“So are you.”
Her mouth opened and closed a few times, then she frowned as if dismayed by her lack of a witty response, which made him like her even more. His heart sped up and he heard nothing but the rhythm of his blood, saw nothing but the blush stealing over her porcelain cheekbones.
They stood side by side at the top of the stairs, as if descending would end a moment neither wanted to break. Now was the time to act. He touched her arm, keeping her on the landing with him. She stared up at him, a foot shorter and dainty in some kind of flouncy flat shoes.
“Would you….”
Eve leaned her head to the side, waiting for him to finish, her lips slightly parted. Why was this so difficult? His hands started to sweat, something they hadn’t done since his date with Lorraine Strong at the homecoming dance senior year. What he was about to ask was an enormous step forward into unforeseen territory. He had to take this risk. That’s what artists did, and he was still an artist, despite not having created art in two years.
“Would you be willing to do a sitting for me? An hour or two, here or at my studio, whatever you’re comfortable with?” He spoke quickly, the faster to have the question asked and out there.
As much as he wanted to explore this flash of inspiration she’d managed to spark in him, a part of him wanted her to say no. Then he could ask her on a proper date. He didn’t have much experience working with live models, since he had been an abstract painter inspired by landscapes, but he’d heard enough horror stories from his artist friends to know you never, ever slept with your models, at least while you were painting them. It got too complicated, blurring the lines of professionalism that serious painters kept well established. He had the sense that if he showed interest in Eve Caplin, the woman, she’d never consent to sit for him. He might never get the courage to try to paint again if he let this tender bud of progress wither and die. As interested as he might be in her personally, he had to sate his interest in her as an artist first.
“You want to paint me?” She paused, and Hudson sensed something shift as her smile hardened into something merely polite, and her words took on a superficial tone. “How flattering. I’m afraid, however, that I am drowning in work to get moved in here, and I can’t spare the time.”
Her words made him oddly angry. He knew what he was asking was an imposition, but he needed her. He’d seen a softer side to her, but here she was, giving him the polished version of herself that he didn’t buy.
If she wanted to play it cool, he could play it frosty. “Of course, I understand. Think nothing of it.” His voice dripped with icicles.
She practically floated down the stairs, back straight as an arrow, her long, graceful fingers trailing lightly over the stair rail. Hudson thrust the pencil behind his ear and slammed his notebook closed, following her with loudly clomping footsteps. The doorbell rang as her cellphone went off. Eve answered both while thanking him coolly for his time.
“Don’t worry, I won’t bother you again,” he said, and gladly left her to the cable guy.
Chapter Three
Eve bolted upright in bed. Early morning gray light filtered through a break in her new charcoal-toned blackout curtains. She preferred a pitch-black room to sleep in, but that sliver of light wasn’t what had woken her up. She’d been running in her dream, chased by a faceless demon, never able to approach a haven of light that flickered on the edge of her consciousness. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t run fast enough. He was going to catch up with her before she reached the safety of the light.
She forced herself to take several deep breaths. She was awake; the dream was over. She ignored the shivers that were slowly subsiding and got up quickly. A hot shower and a cup of coffee would clear away the remnants of the dream, and the cloud of sadness that followed. Eve paused to pull the covers up. Her petite frame barely made a dent in the oversized bed, a visual reminder of her solitary existence.
For years, she’d lived in cities, among crowds, with flat mates and housemates. For a time, she’d even lived in a hotel, constantly surrounded by other guests and the staff. It had seemed safer to live anonymously amongst people who could distract you from things you’d rather not think about.
When that life had become more hazardous than she’d bargained for, it hadn’t taken much to let go. She said goodbye to beautiful European locales, her demanding work at the gallery, her lucrative extracurricular activities, and retreated to this house on a hill. By removing herself from the scene in which she’d occupied an important but precarious niche, she’d avoided the immediate risks. It would ha
ve been smart to shed her name, as well. But she hadn’t had time to set up a new identity for herself. Officially, Eve Caplin had nothing to hide. She’d spent a small fortune creating her on paper and ten years inhabiting her as a model citizen. Unofficially, Eve Caplin had plenty of secrets. Perhaps, in time, she’d be ready to put Eve, and those secrets, behind her for good.
She stepped into the shower, steaming water washing away some of the fear. She was safer alone, in this remote corner of the world where she might be able to begin again. She’d chosen bucolic and peaceful Chelsea instead of chic Carmel or rustic Los Olivos for another reason, as well, but that was too painful to contemplate.
After wrapping herself in the comforting softness of her extra-plush bathrobe, she checked her phone for messages. The date practically popped out of the glass screen. No wonder she was feeling blue this morning, on her mother’s birthday. Twenty-three years since Isabelle Walker had succumbed to ovarian cancer. In sleepy Chelsea, Eve felt closer to her memory than she had in ages.
Her melancholy faded in the face of the morning tasks that were becoming her routine. She dressed, pulled her thick black hair into a bun at the nape of her neck, and browsed through the morning’s news on her laptop while sipping espresso made from her thousand-dollar machine. She’d had to drive all the way to San Louis Obispo to get it, but each life-giving sip of caffeine was worth every mile and every dollar.
Keeping up with world affairs was proving a difficult habit to break. It no longer mattered to her what was going on in Rome, or London, or Geneva, but she’d been doing it so long, on the off chance that there might be a tidbit that meant something to her, that she found she couldn’t stop.
Her empty email inbox was a good sign, since John had promised to email her if there was anything she needed to know. Leaving her partner behind when she’d departed Paris had actually been a relief. She and John would continue to stay in touch, but she no longer had to worry about him knowing her too well, so well that it could get one of them hurt, or in trouble. He’d been brilliant at identifying opportunities and helping her with the technical side of things. He’d shown her how to pick her first lock and enter and exit a secure room without leaving a trace of her presence behind. She’d been useful to him, giving him access to legitimate sellers and buyers and getting into places that even he couldn’t. They’d worked out a rhythm, and it had been extremely lucrative for both of them.
They’d been a team for a decade, but it hadn’t taken long for John and her to realize they would never have a romantic entanglement. They made a splendid-looking couple, he tall, blond, and athletic, she diminutive and darkly elegant, and had used their natural chemistry to their advantage more than once. But he was light and tended to the frivolous, though that hid a razor-sharp edge. He was like a beautiful and extremely sharp knife; you admired the craftsmanship, but if you handled it the wrong way, you’d get cut before you even realized it. While that was useful in a business partner, it wouldn’t have suited her in a boyfriend. Not that she had much experience with what did or didn’t suit her. When she’d first come to Europe, she’d rushed into several ill-advised romances with dark, exciting men, only to have her heart broken. Then when her careers—as gallery curator and art thief—both took off, she had neither the time nor the energy to properly vet prospective boyfriends, lest they be Interpol plants or too inquisitive for their own good. So the relationships, if they could be called that, had been sporadic and brief. Was loneliness another reason she’d been so ready to chuck it all and return to America, land of her unresolved issues?
Annoyed at her self-pitying introspection, Eve shut the lid of her computer with a click and inspected the kitchen with a critical eye. The appliances were all installed, and most of the furniture had been delivered. She’d been living here for less than two weeks, but so far she was ahead of schedule. Should she start thinking about repainting the walls, or get to know the area better? Los Angeles and San Francisco were both within a half day’s drive if she were craving some culture. She’d always been good at finding things to occupy her time, but she’d have to get out of the house if she wanted activity. Opportunity wasn’t likely to literally knock on her door out here.
A knock sounded on the front door, making her smile.
The man on the other side of the door resembled Hudson around the eyes and the chin, but his lips were thinner, and his nose a different shape altogether. His dark brown hair was straight and cut short and he wore a wide gold wedding band on his left hand.
“You must be Will,” she said. “Come on in.”
Will Cleary was an intelligent, efficient man who, along with his apprentice, Carlos, had her new locks installed within an hour. He presented a more than adequate plan for the rest of the security measures she’d requested, with a few more of his own ideas added in and approved by Eve.
They sat at the kitchen bar on her new stainless steel bar stools, finalizing the plans and going over the estimate.
“I met your brother the other day,” Eve said, broaching a subject that had been niggling at her brain for days.
“He covers for me from time to time,” Will said. “Did he do a good job?”
“Oh, yes, fine. Silly of me to lock myself out in the first place.”
“It happens,” Will said easily, shuffling papers back into a folder with her name on it. “I’ve done it myself, believe it or not.”
She smiled and showed him out. Will was likable and she trusted her gut feeling that he was honest. She rested with her back to the door and thought of her lock pick set, gathering dust. If she’d had them with her the day she’d moved in, might she never have met Hudson?
She’d tried not to think about him since he’d invited her to sit for him. The idea had thrown her, and not least because she had been certain he was going to ask her out when he had that cute, nervous, talking-too-fast thing happening. But he’d asked her to model instead of to dinner and she’d actually wanted to say yes to his—request? Offer? Who would turn down a chance to work with one of the most brilliant, not to mention, gorgeous, painters of the twenty-first century?
Getting involved with a man, a painter, no less, was not part of the plan. Eve was giving herself time and the space to think, to reflect, to decide what she was going to make of her life. The last decade had been some kind of bizarre dream, where she did things that regular people—real people—didn’t do. As a girl, she’d longed for glamour and adventure, and she’d gotten her wish, in spades. It had taken every ounce of her courage to walk away from that life and imagine a different path for herself. The still-rational part of her brain had known that if she didn’t walk away, that glamorous, adventurous life would end either in jail or death. Those were two adventures she could put off indefinitely.
But a life where the most pressing matter on her plate was picking a china pattern was not as fulfilling as she’d hoped it would be. Though she’d retired from her illegal activities, she didn’t want to be floating aimlessly for the rest of her life. The bulging manila envelope that sat unopened on the dining room table might have given her some direction, jump-started her progress. The name on the outside—Genevieve Walker—was the name of a stranger. She’d reinvented herself as Eve Caplin long ago and that was who she was now, for better or worse. Ruthlessly, she taped the envelope to the bottom of the table. It would be secure enough until her safe was installed. Until then, she wasn’t ready to open it. She might never be ready.
Home improvements were the best form of procrastination. She put away the tape, pulled out a pile of paint chips, and started debating between Swiss Coffee and White Dove.
Chapter Four
Hudson rounded the point and slowed from a brisk jog to a fast walk. He’d tacked an extra two miles onto his regular beach run, and his thighs were burning. The sharp sea air cooled the sweat on the back of his neck and he felt invigorated, if no less frustrated.
He’d started the day the way he spent every Thursday morning, volunteering at Chel
sea’s single convalescent home. Tomorrow, he was giving blood; he’d stop at the diner on the way home for a burger, to fortify his iron. He’d done something unusual after returning home from reading to Mr. Rosenbaum and holding the yarn for Mrs. Sinclair’s knitting project: he’d gone into his studio. Once in there, he’d sat down at his desk and started fiddling around with some images that had been rolling around in his head. They weren’t only Eve’s face, which he’d sketched over and over since he’d met her, each time not quite right. It had been nearly two years since he’d gone to his studio to do more than drink a beer and watch the rain fall outside the large plate glass windows that made up the entire northern wall.
Giving in to the need to sketch Eve had somehow reminded his fingers there was some life in there yet. The strangest thing remained how the large-scale abstracts he’d built his career on, that had fascinated him from his infancy as an artist, were nowhere to be found in the small pile of sketches. They were of chins, eyes, ears, recognizable features of the weathered looking man he’d seen at the gas station that morning, of his smallest niece, Caitlyn, even of Mrs. Sinclair, knitting needles and all.
He clearly had an itch, if only he knew where to scratch. If he was honest, that itch had started the day he’d set eyes on Eve Caplin, and hadn’t let up.
Her rejection still stung. He couldn’t console himself with the idea that he could ask her on a date. Dating had become as infrequent as studio sessions. If he could even begin to start thinking about painting again, then he could certainly manage a drink or dinner. Maybe after she got to know him, she’d reconsider. She couldn’t be blamed for being wary. She was a beautiful woman, and busy, besides. Modeling wasn’t everyone’s thing. It could be very hard work, which if she knew art, she’d be aware of. He could tell she’d been interested; she hadn’t let herself say yes.
He blew out an aggravated breath. He wanted to see her again, even more than he wanted to paint her.
Love Unlocked Page 2
