“It might listen more willingly.”

“Same thing.” Pleased with herself, she dug into her purse for a little ball, rolled it so the dog could give chase. “I’m doing a research-slash-pleasure trip with you and two friends. I think the door just cracked open a little wider.”

“Maybe. The Bastones have to know what they have. Miranda Swanson might be clueless, but I’m not buying that a man like Bastone doesn’t know he has a rare objet d’art worth a fortune.”

Since Earl Grey brought the ball back to him, dropped it hopefully at his foot, Ash gave it a boot.

“If he still has it at all,” he added, while the dog ran joyfully after the rolling ball.

“If he— Crap, they might have sold it. I didn’t think of that.”

“Either way, the family businesses—vineyards, olive groves—generate millions a year, and he’s their CEO. You don’t hold and maintain that position being clueless. If he still has it, why would he tell us, show us?”

“You did some very pessimistic thinking while walking the dog.”

He kicked the ball again. “I consider it more realistic thinking.”

“We’ve got our toe in the crack of the door. We need to see what happens next.”

“That’s what we’re going to do, but with realistic expectations. Let me toss some stuff into a bag, then we’ll go back to your place.” He crossed to her, then cupped her face in his hands. “With realistic expectations.”

“Which are?”

He laid his lips on hers, easy, for a moment easy. Then he dived, fast and deep, dragging her with him, leaving her no choice. And for a moment, another moment, to wish for one.

“We have something.” He kept her face in his hands. “Something I think we’d have whenever, however, we met. It needs attention.”

“There’s so much happening.”

“And this is part of it. This door’s open, Lila, and I’m going through it. I’m taking you with me.”

“I don’t want to be taken anywhere.”

“Then you need to catch up. I won’t be long.”

As she watched him walk up the stairs, every inch of her body vibrated, from the kiss, from the words, from the steady, determined look in his eyes.

“What the hell have I gotten myself into?” she muttered to the dog. “And if I can’t figure it out, you’re sure no help.”

She picked up his leash and, tucking it into her bag, noted her balled-up shirt. Time to pay more attention all around, she told herself.

Being taken by surprise could cause more than a little damage.

She didn’t mind the circular route back. She considered it a kind of safari. Going out by Ash’s service entrance, a subway to midtown, where he detoured into Saks to replace her shirt. Then the walk east to Park to catch a cab uptown.

“The replacement cost twice what I paid for the original,” she said as she unlocked the apartment—where Earl Grey raced to his squeaky bone in wild joy. “Plus you can’t keep buying me clothes.”

“I haven’t bought you any clothes.”

“First the red dress—”

“Wardrobe, necessary for the painting. Do you want a beer?”

“No. And you just bought me a shirt.”

“You were coming to me,” he pointed out. “If I’d been coming to you, you’d be buying me a shirt. Are you going to work?”

“Maybe—yes,” she corrected. “For a couple hours anyway.”

“Then I’ll take this upstairs, finish making the arrangements for the trip.”

“I came to you because of the painting.”

“That’s right, and now I’m here so you can work.” He ran his hand down her hair, gave the ends a little tug. “You’re looking for trouble, Lila, where there isn’t any.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m in trouble?”

“Good question. I’ll be on the third floor if you need me.”

Maybe she wanted to use the third floor, she brooded. He didn’t think of that. Sure, all her work was set up on the main floor, but what if she had a sudden creative whim to work on the terrace?

She didn’t—but she could have.

There was almost more than a possibility she was being a moron—worse, a bitchy moron—but she couldn’t seem to stop.

He’d boxed her in so neatly, so skillfully, she hadn’t seen the walls going up. Walls made her feel restricted, so she didn’t own or rent any. That kept things simple, loose and ultimately practical, given her lifestyle.

He’d changed things, she realized, so she found herself standing in a brand-new floor plan. Instead of enjoying it, she kept checking to be sure the door was handy.

“A moron,” she muttered.

She plucked her ruined shirt out of her bag, buried it in the kitchen trash she’d take out later. She made a pitcher of cold lemon water, settled down with it in her work space.

A big perk of writing was that when her own world got a little bit too complicated, she could dive right into another.

She stayed in it, hit the sweet spot where words and images began to flow. She lost track of time, moving from wrenching loss, to steely determination and a quest for revenge, and ended with her Kaylee preparing for the final battle of the book—and final exams.

Lila sat back, pressed her fingers to tired eyes, rolled tensed shoulders.

And noticed for the first time Ash sitting in the living room, angled toward her with his sketch pad, and the little dog curled on his foot.

“I didn’t hear you come down.”

“You weren’t finished.”

She shoved at the hair she’d bundled back and up. “Were you drawing me?”

“Still am,” he said idly. “It’s a different look for you when you’re into the work. Intense. Almost weepy one minute, obviously pissed off the next. I could do an entire series on it.”

He continued to sketch. “Now you’re uncomfortable, and that’s too bad. I can go back upstairs until you’re finished.”

“No, I’m done for the day. I have to let what’s coming circle around a little.”

She got up, walked to him. “Can I see?” Then took the sketch pad from him. Paging through, she saw herself, hunched over—very bad posture, she thought, instinctively straightening—her hair a wreck, and her face mirroring the mood she was writing.