The Collector

by Nora Roberts

  When she opened the door, Ash stood, hair dripping, holding a takeout bag.

  “Your smile didn’t work as your umbrella. Come in, I’ll get you a towel.”

  “I got steak.”

  She poked her head out of the powder room. “Takeout steak?”

  “I know a place, and I wanted a steak. I guessed on yours, went with medium. If you want rare, you can take mine.”

  “Medium’s fine.” She came back with a towel, exchanged it for the bag. “I have wine open, but I picked up beer if you’d rather.”

  “Beer would be perfect.” Scrubbing his hair with the towel, he followed her, and stopped at the dining room.

  “You went to some trouble.”

  “Nice plates and candles are never trouble for a girl.”

  “You look great. I should’ve told you right off—and brought you flowers.”

  “You’re telling me now, and you brought me steak.”

  When she held out the beer, he took it, set it aside. And took her.

  There it was, she thought, that buzz, that frisson in the blood, all highlighted by a throaty boom of thunder.

  With his hands on her arms, he eased her back. “There’s a second egg.”

  “What?” Those gold-rimmed eyes went huge. “There are two?”

  “The translator Vinnie contacted called me just as I got home. He says there are documents describing another egg, the Nécessaire, and he thinks it can be tracked.” He pulled her back, kissed her again. “We just got more leverage. I’ve spent hours researching it. He’s coming back to New York tomorrow, and I’m meeting him here. We’re going to find the second egg.”

  “Wait a minute. I need to take this in.” She pressed her hands to the sides of her head. “Did Oliver know? Does HAG know?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t think so. Why wouldn’t Oliver have used the second one? Have gone after it, or bargained with the documents? But I don’t know.”

  Ash picked up the beer again. “I can only try to think the way Oliver would, and he’d have tried to find it. He couldn’t have resisted. Hell, I can’t resist, and I’m not anywhere near as impulsive. I should’ve asked about Kerinov coming here.”

  “Kerinov’s the translator?”

  “Yeah. I should’ve asked you. It seemed safer, and more efficient, for him to come straight here from the station.”

  “It does, it’s fine. My head’s spinning. A second egg—Imperial egg?”

  “Yes. I want to talk to the woman he bought the first one from. He must’ve gotten the documents from her. She couldn’t have known what she had, but she might be able to tell us something. She’s out of town, according to her housekeeper, and I couldn’t pull where out of her, but I left my name and number.”

  “One was beyond, but two?” Trying to take it in, she sat on the arm of the tufted chair. “What does it look like? The second egg.”

  “It was designed as an etui—a small, decorative case for women’s toiletries. It’s decorated with diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds—at least according to my research. The surprise is probably a manicure set, but there aren’t any known pictures of this one. I can follow it from the Gatchina Palace, to when it was seized in 1917, sent to the Kremlin, then in 1922 it was transferred to the Sovnarkom.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Lenin’s council—Bolshevik-dominated power. And after that transfer, there’s no record I could find.”

  “A manicure set,” she murmured. “Worth millions. It would be millions again?”

  “It would be.”

  “It doesn’t seem real—any of it. Are you sure you trust this Kerinov?”

  “Vinnie did.”

  “Okay.” She nodded, rose. “We probably need to warm up the steaks.”

  “There are a couple of salted baked potatoes in there, and some asparagus.”

  “So we heat and eat—I can’t think of the last time I had a steak—and we’ll plot and we’ll plan.” She opened the bag. “I’m pretty good at the plotting part.”

  She glanced up when he ran a hand down her hair. “What?”

  “It occurred to me that outside all of this, and all of this is quite a bit, I’m glad I’m here, having dinner with you. I’m glad that later I’ll go upstairs with you, be with you. Touch you.”

  She turned, wrapped her arms around him. “Whatever happens.”

  “Whatever happens.”

  And that, she thought, holding on another moment, was all anyone could ask for.

  Seventeen

  Lila opened one eye when her phone on the nightstand sang to her.

  Who the hell would text her this early? Her sleep-blurred mind couldn’t come up with a single person she knew who’d be up and functioning before seven A.M.

  She told herself to ignore it, to snuggle back to sleep. And gave up within thirty seconds.

  She was a girl, she admitted. She knew no girl who could comfortably ignore her phone.

  “Get it later,” Ash mumbled, drawing her back as she levered up to reach the phone.

  “I’m a slave to communication.” With her head cuddled on his shoulder, she called up the text.

  Luke was waiting for me when I got home and made me a turnover before he left this morning. He’s my muffin.

  “Aw.” So saying, she texted back just that.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s from Julie. She and Luke are together.”

  “Good. Better somebody stay with her until all this is done.”

  “No—I mean yes, but he’s not there to look out for her.” After setting the phone down, Lila curled back to Ash. “Of course he’ll look out for her. I mean, they’re together.”

  “You said that.” His hand slid down her back, over her butt.

  “Together-together.”

  “Hmm.” The hand detoured up her side, skimmed her breast. Stopped. “What?”

  “They’re a couple—and don’t say a couple of what. A couple-couple.”

  “They’re having sex?”

  “That’s a definite yes, but that’s not all. They still love each other, which Julie told me when she came by yesterday. But she didn’t need to tell me because I already knew.”

  “You already knew.”

  “It’s all over them. Anyone with eyes can see it.”

  “I have eyes.”

  “You just weren’t looking. You’ve been distracted by this and that. And . . .” Her own hand got busy, trailed up between them and found him hard and ready. “This.”

  “This is distracting.”

  “I should hope so.”

  Her lips curved as he lowered his to them, then warmed, parted, welcomed.

  She felt so soft—her skin, her hair, the curve of her cheek. Soft everywhere his lips and hands roamed. She’d left a chink in the curtains when she’d drawn them the night before, so sunlight beamed through in a narrow slant.

  He touched her in the dreamy light, wakening her body as she wakened his and all the needs inside him. No rush in the light as they both seemed to feel in the dark. No need to hurry the climb. Instead, they savored the long, easy ride, wallowed in the sensations, skin against skin, the slide of tongues, the brush of fingers, until together they reached for more.

  Just a little more.

  And more still when he slipped inside her, with the rise and fall like a slow, sleepy dance. Her hands framed his face, fingers stroking as her eyes stayed on his. Watching him watching her as if there was nothing else.

  Only this. Only her.

  Only this, she thought, as she arched up to give him more.

  Only him, as she drew his face to hers, poured that only into the kiss.

  Gentle, tender, the quiet pleasure flowed like wine until, drunk with it, they spilled over the crest.

  Later, she shuffled her sleepy, satisfied way downstairs to make coffee with Earl Grey on her heels. “Just let me get this down, okay? Even half of it. Then I’ll take you for your walk.”

  She winced even
as she said the word “walk.” As she’d been warned, the dog let out piping yips, rose up on his hind legs to dance in joy and anticipation.

  “Okay, okay, my mistake. One minute.”

  She opened the little utility closet for the leash, the plastic baggies and the pair of flip-flops she’d stowed with them for just this purpose.

  “What’s all this?” Ash asked when he came in. “Is he having a seizure?”

  “No, he’s not having a seizure. He’s happy. I erred in speaking the word W-A-L-K, and this is the result. I’m going to take him out before he dances himself into a heart attack.” She grabbed a travel mug, filled it with black coffee. “It shouldn’t take long.”

  “I’ll take him out.”

  “My job,” she reminded him, and pulled a hair clamp out of her pocket to bundle her hair up in a couple of expert wrist flicks. “But I made eggs yesterday.” She eyed Ash as she clipped the leash onto the nearly hysterical dog. “Luke baked Julie a muffin—from scratch—yesterday. Today he made her a turnover.”

  “That bastard’s just showing off. I can make breakfast. I’m excellent at pouring cereal. It’s one of my major skills.”

  “Fortunately I stocked Cocoa Puffs—top cabinet, left of the fridge. We’ll be back.”

  “Cocoa Puffs?”

  “It’s a weakness,” she called back as she grabbed her keys and let the little dog race her to the door.

  “Cocoa Puffs,” he repeated to the empty room. “I haven’t had Cocoa Puffs since . . . I don’t think I’ve ever had Cocoa Puffs.”

  He found them, opened them, studied them. With a what-the-hell shrug, reached in and sampled some.

  And realized he’d been a cereal snob his entire life.

  He had some coffee, poured two bowls. Then remembering she’d fussed the night before—and it seemed he was now in competition with Luke—put together a tray.

  He found a notepad, a pencil, and wrote his version of a note before hauling everything up to the third-floor terrace.

  Lila rushed in as she’d rushed out—but this time carrying Earl Grey. “This dog’s a riot! He wanted to take on a Lhasa apso—to fight or have sex, I’m not sure. After that adventure we’re both starved, so . . . and I’m talking to myself,” she realized.

  Frowning, she picked up the notepaper on the counter. And the frown turned to a brilliant smile.

  He’d sketched them sitting at the table on the terrace, clinking coffee cups. He’d even added Earl Grey standing on his hind legs, front paws waving.

  “That’s a keeper,” she murmured while her heart mimicked the sketch of the dog. “Who knew he could be adorable? Well, EG, it appears we’re to breakfast on the terrace. I’ll just get your kibble.”

  He stood at the high wall, looking west, but turned when she came out balancing the little dog and two small bowls.

  “What a great idea.” She set Earl Grey down in some shade, with his bowl of kibble, filled his tiny water bowl with the hose. “And look how pretty—you and your artist’s eye.”

  He’d arranged the blue cereal bowls, another of strawberries, glasses of juice, a ribbed white pot of coffee with its matching cream and sugar bowl and blue-and-white-striped napkins. And added a spear of yellow snapdragon—one he’d obviously stolen from the garden pot—in a bud vase.

  “It’s no turnover, but . . .”

  She walked to him, rose on her toes to kiss him. “I’m cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but they’re not bad.”

  She tugged him to the table, sat. “I especially loved the sketch. Next time I’ll remember to brush my hair before I take the dog out.”

  “I like it messy.”

  “Men do go for the mongrel look. Milk?”

  He eyed the contents of his bowl dubiously. “What happens to this stuff when you add milk?”

  “Magic,” she promised, and poured for both of them. “God, it’s a gorgeous day. The rain washed everything, including the humidity, away. What are you doing with your morning?”

  “I thought about doing more research, but it feels like a waste of time. Might as well wait to see what Kerinov has to tell us. Maybe I’ll work up here for a while, do some sketching. Bird’s-eye of New York. And I have some calls to make.

  “It’s not bad,” he repeated as he spooned up the cereal. “It looks bad, but if you don’t look, it’s okay.”

  “I’m going to try to work. And when this guy gets here, I guess we’ll see. Shouldn’t we consider they—whoever they are—might already have this other egg? The Nécessaire?”

  “Possible.” He hadn’t thought of that. “But not from Oliver, and he had the documents. I spent a lot of time going through his paperwork. If they have it, they still want the one I have. But considering Oliver, I think he counted on cashing in big time on the one, using some of that to finance finding the other for an even bigger payoff. Big and bigger, that was Oliver’s MO.”

  “Okay, so we go on that assumption. It’s probably not still in Russia. It just seems like it wouldn’t still be lost if it had stayed in Russia. It was probably smuggled out, or sold off the books, something. The odds of it being with the same person your brother dealt with are pretty slim. Just hard to believe one person had two, and he’d have asked, right—arranged to buy both? Big and bigger?”

  She nibbled on a strawberry. “So that potentially eliminates Russia and one person in New York. Progress.”

  “We wait for Kerinov.”

  “We wait. I hate waiting.” She propped her chin in her hand. “I wish I read Russian.”

  “So do I.”

  “I can read French—a little. Very little. I only took French in high school because I imagined I’d move to Paris and live in a clever little flat.”

  He could see her there, he realized. He could see her anywhere. “What were you going to do in Paris?”

  “Learn how to wear scarves a million ways, buy the perfect baguette and write a brilliant and tragic novel. I changed my mind when I realized I really just wanted to visit Paris, and why would I want to write a brilliant and tragic novel when I don’t want to read one?”

  “How old were you when you realized all this?”

  “My second year in college, when a dried-up, narrow-minded snob of an English lit professor made us read brilliant and tragic novel after brilliant and tragic novel. Actually I didn’t see what was so brilliant about some of them. The kicker was selling a short story to Amazing Stories—a kind of precursor, as it turned out to be the series I’m writing now. I was insanely excited about it.”

  “You’d’ve been what, nineteen or twenty?” He’d make a point of finding it, reading it—gaining some insight into who she’d been. “It’s something to be insanely excited about.”

  “Exactly. Even my father got a kick out of it.”

  “Even?”

  “I shouldn’t say it like that.” She shrugged it off, scooped up more cereal. “To his way of thinking, writing fiction’s a fine hobby. But he assumed I’d knuckle down, be a college professor. Anyway, word got back to this college professor, who announced it to the class—and said it was poorly written popular dreck, and anyone who read or wrote popular dreck was wasting their time in