Wanted (23 page)

I cleared my throat. “The truth is, I’m starving.”

The moment I said it, I had to acknowledge that it was true. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.

“Unless there’s a grill, I’m a terrible cook,” he confessed. “How are your culinary skills?”

“Worse than yours,” I admitted. “I’m not allowed near a grill unless I dial ahead and put the nearest fire station on notice.”

“Apparently we won’t be having soufflés as our late night snack.”

“How does a frozen bagel with cream cheese sound?”

“Can you operate a toaster?” he asked.

“I can not only work a toaster,” I bragged, “I can even manage a pot of coffee. French roast,” I added. “That’s your favorite, right?”

“Sweetheart,” he said, with a smile that soothed all my worries, “you’ve just made my evening.”

I managed to pull together a feast of toasted bagels, cream cheese, strawberry jam, and fresh blueberries in heavy cream. We sat at the cafe-style table in the breakfast area and as we ate in companionable silence, I glanced around this kitchen that was now mine. Even here, fine art decorated the walls. Alan had told me that a crew would be coming soon to crate it up and move it to the foundation’s storage facility, and I couldn’t help the pulse of sadness at the knowledge that these lovely canvases would be hidden away, lost in some sort of warehouse until whoever ran the foundation found a home for them.

“What’s the matter?” Evan said, and I looked up to see that he was peering at me over the rim of his coffee cup, his brow furrowed as if he was pondering some knotty problem.

I gathered myself and used my knife to smear jam on top of my cream cheese. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“Deep thoughts, apparently.”

I laughed. “I don’t know how deep,” I said. “Just melancholy.”

He reached out and brushed his fingers over my hand that still held the knife. “Tell me.”

“I was just thinking about all this,” I said, glancing pointedly at all the art that filled the room. “Jahn used to tell me about his plans for the foundation. About how he was operating it only on a shoestring, but that when he died he wanted to see it blossom.” My words were very matter-of-fact, but inside I was all twisted up. The thing I’d shared most with my uncle was our love of art, and the knowledge that all these wonderful paintings were going to go away only made the pain from Jahn’s loss that much more brutal. I sucked in a breath and let it out slowly, willing myself not to cry. “I knew this was coming—the transfer to the foundation, I mean. But I never expected it to happen so soon.”

“I know.” The words were simple, yet held so much meaning. He
did
know. He’d loved Jahn, too. They’d connected just as Jahn and I had, and I wondered if it was art that they’d shared, or something else entirely.

I took a sip of my coffee. “Why did you stick around? After you finished Jahn’s seminar class, I mean.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Complaining?”

“Hardly. No, I was just thinking about connections. Jahn was my uncle, but that’s just an accident of birth, you know? It was the art that really drew us together. I guess I was wondering what it was for you.”

“I enjoy art,” he said, “but no, it’s not my passion. Not the way it is for Cole. And art wasn’t your uncle’s first passion, either,” he said.

“You don’t think so? What was? Business?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he got up and moved to the counter to pour fresh coffee. There was nothing awkward about his movements, but I had the impression that he was measuring his words.

Finally, he turned back to me with an enigmatic smile. “Your uncle liked to win.”

“I know. I mean it pissed him off so much when Neely acquired the Creature Notebook that he went to a hell of a lot of trouble to commission a copy.”

“True enough,” Evan said, but there was something in his voice that made me think that he wasn’t talking to me so much as acknowledging a private joke. Or maybe he was just trying to hide his irritation. Under the circumstances, it was probably indelicate of me to mention the notebook.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

As always, he understood what I meant. “Why do you think he changed his will? He knew I wanted it. And the time we spoke of it, he was very clear that he wanted me to have it.”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “He never mentioned it to me at all. Not as a bequest, anyway. But he knew I loved it and that it was my favorite of all his pieces. And I think—” I hesitated, then rushed recklessly on. “I think he wanted me to know that he trusted me and that he loved me.”

Evan was watching me intently. “Something happened. Something about the time that he changed his will. What?”

I glanced down at the table. “I fucked up. Jahn helped me out.” I lifted my head to look at Evan, and realized he was a little blurry. I blinked, and was mortified when I felt a tear snake down my cheek. “Shit,” I said as I brushed it away. “I just—I felt bad. I think the notebook was Jahn’s way of telling me it was all okay.”

“Angie—”

He was reaching for me, but I pushed back from the table and stood up, determined to get this conversation back on track. As in, not about me or my secrets. “So why you?” I said brightly.

“What do you mean?”

“Why was he going to leave it to you? Wouldn’t it make more sense to leave it to Cole?” I’d turned to the coffeepot as I spoke, but I caught a sharp movement in my peripheral vision, as if my words had jolted him.

“Why do you say that?” His voice was low and measured, and I had absolutely no idea what button I had pushed.

“Just because art is Cole’s thing. I mean, he did that whole internship in Rome, and he teaches classes at that community center.” I shrugged. “I dunno. It just made sense.”

“I suppose it does,” Evan said.

“So why did you want it?”

He focused on spreading cream cheese on the second half of his bagel, and for a moment I wasn’t sure he was going to answer. Then he said, “Because the notebook means something. It represents something huge.”

“The missing dragon shield, you mean? Or something more?” The story was that as a youth, Da Vinci had painted a fabulous dragon on a shield. It was so incredible that his father had not sold it to the original buyer, and it had disappeared into history. But I didn’t think that Evan was talking about a lost artifact.

“It’s a reflection of how Da Vinci looked at the world. He saw things that weren’t there. He looked beneath the surface. He looked at the world the way it really was, and it didn’t scare him.”

I stared at him in unabashed amazement.

“What?” he asked.

“It’s just—I can’t believe you said that. It’s exactly what I love about that notebook. About most of Da Vinci’s work, actually.”

The corner of his mouth curved up for just a moment before his features settled back into an expression of bland indifference.

I frowned. “Evan?”

“I want to buy the notebook from you, Angie.”

“You what?” Surely I hadn’t heard him right.

“I want the notebook. I need it. To be honest, I need it more than you do.” His voice was calm, like a businessman in the midst of negotiations.

I wasn’t calm at all. “Are you fucking kidding me? I just told you how much it means to me.”

“And it’s served its purpose. Whatever message Jahn was sending you, he delivered it. Giving me the notebook doesn’t change a thing.”

“It changes everything,” I said. And then—with the same shock as an unexpected slap in the face—I understood.

“Oh, shit.” With a jolt, I pushed back from the table, the screech of the chair against the tile underscoring the horror I felt. “You son of a bitch,” I shouted. “You fucking bastard! Is that why you changed your mind? Why you gave in at Destiny? Why you came here tonight? So you could try to seduce the damn notebook away from me?”

His face reflected shock, but I had no way of knowing if it was a reaction to my accusation or to being found out. And I was on too much of a roll to stop now.

“Well, fuck you, Evan Black. It’s
mine.
” I wanted to slap his face, but instead I grabbed my coffee cup and hurled it across the room. It shattered on the floor, sending dregs of coffee to splatter on the gray tiles and neutral beige walls.

I gasped, then turned to run from the room. I wanted to throw myself onto the bed and cry. I wanted to kick Evan Black in the balls. I wanted to race out of this building that right now felt so damn confining and just get lost.

I wanted to escape myself, but there was nowhere else to go and no one else to be.

And I couldn’t do any of that anyway, because Evan caught my arm and jerked me violently back to him. Then he clutched my other arm, as well. He held me there, his hands tight on my upper arms, as I battled down the urge to spit in his face.

“No,” he said. And then more forcefully, “Goddammit, Angie,
no.
”

I tried to shake free, but he held me tight. My arms, I was certain, would be bruised by morning.

“That is not why I’m here.” The ferocity in his voice slashed over me. “I’m here because I want you, dammit. Not because I want something from you.”

I wanted to believe it—I so desperately wanted to believe it—and yet how could I? I shook my head. “Bullshit, Evan. You promised my uncle that you wouldn’t do this. And you were damn sure willing to keep that promise—until you realized that I inherited the notebook.” I saw him flinch and knew that I’d struck a sound blow. “Kevin was right,” I said. “You’re only interested in yourself.”

“Do not—
do not
—bring that bastard into this conversation.”

“I’m not even going to have this conversation,” I said wearily. “Just get the hell out.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not going anywhere. Not until you listen to me.”

“I said to get out. I’m not kidding. Do you know how many panic buttons are hidden in this apartment? If you think I won’t push one—”

He tightened his grip on my arms, and I remembered the man I’d seen in the alley. The man who had so efficiently and ruthlessly pressed a knife to another man’s throat.

The truth was, unless he let me, I couldn’t push any button at all. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t call for help. I could do nothing but submit. And though I knew that empirically I should be afraid, I wasn’t. I was pissed off, sure, but I wasn’t afraid of this man. Not even a little.

“Push them all,” he said gently. “Kick me out, scream for Peterson. Do whatever the hell you have to. But listen to me first.”

I glared at him.

“Please,” he said, but it was his tone more than the plea that melted me.

“All right,” I whispered. “Talk.”

He released my arms, then took a step backward. “I need to show you something. Come with me.”

I followed, feeling lost and defeated and just wanting to get this over with. In the living room, he went to the briefcase he’d dropped beside the couch. He bent down, opened it, and pulled out a letter. “Recognize it?”

I shook my head. “Should I?”

“Alan gave it to me. It’s the letter Jahn left for me.”

“Oh.” I wanted to ask what the hell that letter had to do with anything, but I kept my mouth shut. Obviously that’s where we were heading, and Evan was going to get there on his own sweet time.

He handed it to me. “Read it.”

I took it tentatively, feeling strangely vulnerable.

It took me a second to get the letter out of the envelope. My hands were actually shaking. I didn’t yet know what Jahn had said in this note, but I knew that it was important. And, somehow, it affected me.

I unfolded the paper and read the words written in Jahn’s familiar scrawl:
I had my reasons.

I read it again, then looked up at Evan. “What does that mean?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “It means he’s not holding me to my promise to stay away from you. What I don’t understand is why.”

His words seemed to ricochet through my mind. “But—wait. Where does it say that? How do you know?”

“I know,” Evan said.

“How?” I repeated.

He turned so that his back was to me and moved toward the wall of windows and the gray of the lake and sky. “Because that’s what it has to mean.”

I shook my head in confusion. “I don’t get this at all.”

He turned to me, capturing me in the wild gray of his eyes. “That’s what it has to mean, because anything else is unacceptable. I was fine until I touched you, Angie. Fine until we crossed that line. But now that I’ve felt your skin against mine—now that I’ve tasted you—there is no way I can keep that promise. So that is what Jahn’s note has to mean. It’s a Get Out of Jail Free card, sweetheart. And I took it—took you—because I wanted you. It has nothing to do with the goddamn notebook.”

“Oh.”

I sank down to sit on the couch as I tried to organize my thoughts. At the moment, I didn’t exist as a rational being. I was only emotion, and that emotion was joy.

Joy, yes. But confusion, too. “But at Destiny—you put me off. I mean, not only did you put me off, but you put on that whole show with that redhead.”

I heard the jealousy in my voice, and from the way the corner of his lip twitched, I knew he heard it, too. “I don’t get involved with the girls at the club,” he said, as my body sagged with relief.

“Never?”

“I believe I’ve mentioned that I have a code. And not sleeping with my employees is high up on my list.”

“Does that little redhead realize that?” I asked cattily, then immediately wished I could pull back my words when Evan chuckled.

“Careful,” he said. “Green isn’t your best color.”

“Dammit, Evan, I—”

“Hush.” He moved to sit beside me, then gently stroked my cheek before tucking my hair behind my ear. “Christy was putting on a show. For your benefit, actually, though she’s done it before. Sometimes I find it beneficial for colleagues to have a certain impression of me.”

“And she knows it’s all a show?”

“She does,” he said, then gently kissed the tip of my nose. “And so does Maria.”

“Who’s Maria?”

“Her lover.”

“Oh.” I grinned. “Oh,” I repeated as what he said sank in. But then I thought about it more, and had to press. “I still don’t understand why you did that. The whole show to turn me off. All the fighting to push me away. You’d read the letter by then. You had your Get Out of Jail Free card.”