Right Through Me (The Obsidian Files #1) (13 page)

“Thanks,” she whispered.

He put the duffel bag down, and lifted her coat off her shoulders. “Take off your disguise.” He waited, as she hesitated. “You’re completely safe here.”

She still hesitated. Even with the shield lenses, he could see that she’d frozen.

“This is the safest place you’ve been in a long time,” he said with quiet intensity. “I would never do anything to you that you didn’t want. I would never hurt you.
I would never let anyone else hurt you. I would crush anyone who tried into pulp.”

She laughed at him. “Oh, stop. I hate to break it to you, but you’re not going to strike terror into the hearts of the legions of darkness in a business suit. Not that it doesn’t look awesome on you.”

He grinned. If she only knew. “I’m tougher than I look,” he said. “Take off your disguise.”

Caro did as he asked. The mouth thing went into its hinged container, the glasses went into their case, the yanked-off wig was slung into a satin carrying bag.

He unwound out her coiled hair, loving the way her curls twisted around his fingers. “That’s better,” he murmured. “Caro.”

He clasped her waist and pressed her against the wall, lifting her and setting her astride the bulge in front of his pants. Letting her lean against it. Her eyes looked so wary and dilated, her lush mouth slightly open, her breath quick and uneven. So beautiful. He wanted to admire every detail of her pale face. But there was work to do.

She was too pale. Her lips were bluish. He forced his attention away from his groin and charged up his AVP to scan her
.

Borderline hypoglycemic. Dizzy. Low blood pressure. Slightly dehydrated.

He couldn’t seduce a woman in that condition. He had to take care of her first.

Food, then. Not a bad idea for him, either. Running AVP burned a lot of glucose. He fueled up with an extra ten thousand calories at one go sometimes. And his AVP had been in high gear all afternoon and evening.

He lifted her and set her down, stepping back. Calling on all of his hard-assed self-control. “Not yet,” he said. “Let me get some food into you.”

She frowned slightly, as if regular meals were a foreign concept to her. “All right.”

He breathed out, to the count of ten. He had to chill. Until her sig looked brighter and steadier.

Ironic, when he thought about it. He had her in his lair, secretly and under cover of darkness. Defenseless. He had every advantage over her that she could imagine, and plenty of others that she probably couldn’t. And all it amounted to in the end was that he had to compensate like a son of a bitch for every single one of those advantages.

He had to treat her like blown glass.

Chapter 10

Caro felt lost, and awkward. He’d been looking at her if he could see inside her, for miles on end. Then he suddenly withdrew. She felt cut adrift, alone.

She wondered if it was something she’d said.

“I’ll order some dinner,” he said. “What do you like?”

“Anything is fine.”

He frowned. “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

Damn. Choosing had never been much of a problem in her previous life, when she could afford what she wanted and didn’t worry about money, thanks to solid consulting fees from doing GodsEye Inner Vision coaching. She’d been able to afford New York rent, trendy restaurants and clubs, designer clothes at a discount, and had enough money left over to pursue her art in her spare time.

She might have known she’d have to pay the piper eventually. She just never dreamed that the price would be her life.

Noah was waiting for an answer. “Ah . . . let me think,” she said vaguely.

After so long on the run, she’d forgotten what she’d liked. She was grateful if she had milk fresh enough to pour over cereal in the morning. That, and freeze dried soup for dinner were mainstays. Cheap peanut butter was a go-to. A banana was a treat. And to think that she used to get up on her nutritional high horse and scorn simple carbs.

She was coming up blank. She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. You choose.”

He pulled out his smartphone and tapped the screen. “This is Noah Gallagher. I have an account with . . . yes, thanks. I’d like a meal for two delivered to my home . . . yes, that’s the address. Bring us roasted asparagus, fresh greens, goat cheese and walnut salad, the root vegetable roast, a double serving of oven roasted potatoes with spring onion, fresh thyme and shaved parmesan. Beet and peppercorn salad.”

Quite a list. And he wasn’t even done.

“Some fruit, berries, melon, whaever you’ve got,” he went on. “A double order of the fresh bread with herb butter. I like it hot out of the oven. Both kinds of cheese. Throw in some extra aged pecorino. Entrée? OK. Grilled Florentine steak for two . . .”

He caught her eye. “Medium rare?” She nodded.

“Medium rare,” he repeated. “Apple tart with cream sauce, to finish. Yes, that’s fine. Thanks.”

He hung up the phone. “Does that sound good?”

She was impressed, and a little overwhelmed by the prospect of eating so much. “More than good. And enough for an army.”

“I have a big appetite. And you need a real dinner.”

True enough. She was fine with him being in charge for tonight.

He led her into the main room, which was both luxurious and spare. Vaulted ceilings and arches defined the space, its hardwood floors brightened by huge picture windows opening onto a terrace overlooking the dark lake. A set of dark brown leather couches were arranged around a low, smoked glass table. Art hung on the far wall, she noted, as he used a rheostat to switch on and then dim the track lighting.

The whole house was paneled with richly colored wood. Beautiful planks, each with its own subtle pattern of grains and whorls. She felt like she was inside a tree. It smelled good. A resiny tang of summery sweetness.

“Your wood paneling is beautiful,” she said. “It feels alive.”

He looked pleased. “That’s the effect I was going for. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll get you a glass of wine. White or red?”

“Red, please.” She was drawn by curiosity to wander over to look at the art.

She was mesmerized by what she saw. Millions of dollars worth of original artwork hung on that wall. There was a contemporary painting by surrealist Elisa Keillor, of a strange, deformed male nude crouched on a cliff unfurling clawed wings, paired with centuries-old sketches of demons and monsters by Hieronymus Bosch
.
A bronze sculpture on a sideboard looked like a tormented swamp thing trying to break free of a tarpit. Painful to look at and, like the other works, faintly bizarre, but beautiful. It struck her as full of hope, straining and yearning. It was by Lara Kirk, a Northwestern sculptor Caro had heard a lot about before her own life exploded.

In the middle of the wall was a Sonia Delaunay. She leaned in closer, studying it. Not one she’d ever seen before. A portrait of an older woman’s face, with deep, intense eyes and a stern mouth, but bathed in a blaze of brilliant intersect
ing colors.

Her mind instantly went into wordless, no-thought mode, forgetting everything but what she was observing. Something about the Delaunay painting was just . . . not . . . quite . . .

“You like art?”

She jerked. She’d been concentrating so hard, she hadn’t heard his soft approach. He’d taken off his jacket and tie, and undone his top two buttons. Just seeing the hollow of his collarbone made her blush, as if he’d stripped off his shirt. “Ah . . .”

“That’s a general question,” he said. “Here, take this.” He handed her a glass of dark red wine.

“I love art.” She didn’t have to play dumb or lie. “Your Keillor is beautiful. The Bosch sketches are amazing. So is the Kirk. You seem to have a thing about monsters.”

“Yes, I do. And the Delaunay? I saw you looking at it. What do you think?”

She looked back at the painting and took a cautious sip of wine, wondering if she should share her reaction.

Better not. She had no business venturing an opinion on that particular painting.

Just tell him it’s pretty. You love pretty pictures. La la la.

“It’s, ah . . stunning,” she faltered.

His mouth twitched. “It’s OK. You can relax. I know.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know that the Delaunay is a fake. So don’t worry.”

“It is?” Relief flooded her, then a fresh stab of fear followed. Was he trying to catch her in a lie, or worse, the truth?

“Come on. You picked up on that right away.”

“And just how do you know that?”

He shrugged. “Your expression. Couldn’t be clearer.”

His tone did not invite argument. “Oh. Well, it’s a good fake,” she said warily. “But I didn’t want to be the one to tell you if you didn’t know.”

“The original is in the vault,” he said. “You’re the first person who’s ever noticed that it’s a reproduction.”

“It’s not like I was sure,” she assured him. “I’m no expert.”

“Don’t lie,” he said softly.

Her belly tightened. “Then we’ll have a very silent evening.”

He gazed up at the Delaunay. “Silence is fine, if lies are the alternative.”

“I, ah, took art history classes my freshman year in college,” she offered hastily. “I wrote a paper about Delaunay.”

“How about that. I’d like to read it.”

“And then you’d know where I went to college.”

“Hadn’t thought about that.” His lips twitched in a brief smile, and he gestured toward the glass she held. “Drink. Maybe a little buzz will make you a better liar.”

“I’ll get drunk instantly,” she warned him. “I haven’t eaten for a while.”

“That’s why I put out something to munch on while we’re waiting for dinner.”

She turned, and saw food on the table. How the hell had he gotten it out there without her noticing? Wheat crackers, sliced cheeses, a dish of meaty Greek olives and another with just cherry tomatoes. A bowl of gold-tinted muscat grapes. “You keep all this fun finger food around to impress the girls?” she asked.

“No, I just burn a lot of energy. I need a lot of high quality fuel. Come on. Eat.”

She followed his lead, and it tasted so damn good. The cheeses were nutty, savory, each more delicious than the last. The olives were tart, the tomatoes a salt-sweet explosion, the grapes perfectly ripe. She felt more centered after only a few bites.

“So is your art an investment?” she asked. “Or do you just like having it?”

“Both. I figure, if I like it and I’m convinced that it’s genuine, then it’s a good bet. Mostly I enjoy looking at them.”

He set aside his wineglass and studied his collection for several moments while she covertly studied him, seizing the opportunity to ogle.

When she dragged her gaze away, she noticed another shelf along the opposite wall with a series of striking carvings on it. All appeared to have been done by the same artist. Some were large, some small. All were of wild animals, some still attached to the rough chunks of wood from which they were carved, as if the animal was trying to escape. She went over to take a closer look, struck by the sense of trapped energy.

“Those are beautiful,” she said. “Who’s the artist?”

He was silent for such a long time, she turned around to repeat the question. Then she realized that he was simply reluctant to answer.

“You?” she guessed. “You did these?”

He shrugged. “I get insomnia.” He sounded almost defensive. “It passes the time.”

She looked back at the carved animals. They were detailed, dynamic. Original.

“You’ve never exhibited your work?” she asked.

“I’m not into that,” he said. “I just like keeping busy.”

“You have a lot of energy,” she commented. “I love them. They’re great.”

He smiled briefly. “Thanks.”

“So why do you have a fake Delaunay on the wall, but Bosch originals?”

“Interesting question. I’ll answer it if you explain how you learned to tell an original from an excellent professional reproduction.”

She shrank back. Put her wineglass on the table. “Some other time. Not now.”

“Sorry. I’m just curious. Insanely curious.”

Sneaky bastard. She flushed. “So much for not being nosy. That concludes this evening’s conversation.”

“We’ll be all right,” he said. “Like you said before. We can just, ah, not talk.”

Here it was. Her cue to do something sexy and uninhibited. But she felt so freaking self-conscious.

Noah caressed her arm soothingly, as if she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. “Don’t be nervous,” he said gently. “We both know it’ll be great.”

If only she could be so confident.

“All we have to do is get to where we were in my office. I suggest we start with a kiss. Unless you have a better idea.” He put down his wine glass and reached out.

She shivered as he brushed her cheek with the back of his knuckles. The gesture was tender, respectful, but it went too far somehow. She couldn’t handle tenderness, or any real intimacy. She was too raw. She’d set the limits in advance: she wanted nothing but the physical act of sex.

She would content herself with that. They both had to.

Really, it wasn’t like she had anything to complain about. She’d maneuvered herself into the luxury lair of a super-hot guy whose plan was to make her come all night long. The only hitch was that he was disappointed because he couldn’t take her to a fancy restaurant, where he wanted to wine her and dine her and ask her about herself where anyone could overhear.
Awww, tough. Poor her.

He took her hand, enveloping it in his. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

“Oh, I’m not,” she said quickly. “Really I’m not.”

“We’ll take our time,” he assured her. “There’s no rush. And I’ll be very gentle.”

“You don’t have to . . .”

Too late. He lifted her hand to his lips and started kissing it. Hot, intense, deliberate kisses.

The experience was new to her. His whole playbook was new. He kissed the inside of her wrist. A swift, hot shimmer flowed right up her arm.

“I . . .” She stopped, swallowed, tried again. “Shall we—”

“Get on with it? Let me have a look at you.” He pulled a case out of his pocket, opened it, and removed the dark contact lenses, stowing them. Then he turned his jewel-clear golden eyes squarely upon her.