His Obsession by Ava Lore Page A

elbows on the table in front of me, I buried my hands in my hair, staring sightlessly at my barely touched meal. I just couldn't wrap my head around this, that anyone could be so meticulous in the planning of their death. I mean... killing himself courteously on a Friday so everyone could be talking about it on Monday? As if he wanted his suicide to have the greatest positive impact on the world? It was weird. Awful. It made me sick to think about. In fact, the shellfish in my wine-basted stomach was starting to turn on me with this news. Well, as long as we were being honest, I might as well put it out there.
    "I think I'm going to be sick," I said.
    "If you are," Malcolm replied, "please be sick into your soup bowl. These floors are very old and it would be a shame to have to replace them."
    I almost told him thank you for the sympathy, but that seemed silly to say to a man who had just confessed he wanted to kill himself because his oldest, closest friend had betrayed him. Everything seemed silly, except now every encounter with him took on a different significance in my head. The auction, the art, the freaking movers... had he made arrangements to have his house packed up to make sure no one would be inconvenienced by his death? Just... got the ball rolling on the particulars afterward? What was going on here?
    "So..." I shook my head. "You were going to kill yourself before you met me, and I've convinced you to live?"
    "You have... stayed my execution," Malcolm said after a moment, which sounded downright ominous. I didn't like it one bit. That was definitely not a life affirmation.
    "How long?" I said.
    He scooped the last bit of bisque from his bowl and ladled it into his mouth before swallowing thoughtfully. "What do you mean?" he said. "How long have I been planning my exit, or how long have you delayed it?"
    "Delayed it," I said. I had to know how much time I had to convince him not to do it, though even as I felt moved toward him, moved to help him, Felicia's words came back to me: You always fall for the broken ones. Don't get in the trap of trying to fix him.
    God. I had no idea what to do. Everything depended on his answer.
    He seemed to ponder the question as Dominic came out and removed our soup bowls, replacing them with large rectangular plates. Three delicate portions of food had been spooned artfully onto them in a neat little row. "I suppose," he said, "that I will hold off killing myself until I have finished my masterpiece."
    I felt like crying. I felt like leaping across the table and tackling him to the floor where I would beat the everloving snot out of him.
    "You're a shithead," I told him. "You really are."
    "I'm sorry you feel that way," he replied, and he did sound genuinely sorry. "I was hoping we could learn a bit more about each other on this trip—I think it's very important for me to understand you before I can complete my masterpiece—but if you are just going to hurl invective at me we could cut the trip short and I could turn myself into the authorities."
    "And then kill yourself," I said.
    He shrugged.
    "That's manipulative. You are being a manipulative asshole."
    A flash of pain crossed his face. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be. I am only trying to be honest with you. You are free to leave at any time. I will happily send you back to the States on the next plane out of Dubrovnik."
    "You should just gift your private jet to me," I said crankily. "Since you aren't going to be using it any more, that is."
    To my surprise, he smiled at that. "Yes, I suppose that's true. But I doubt you could afford the upkeep on it."
    I passed a hand over my face as he began to eat his meal. Savory scents wafted across the table to me, and my mouth watered. "All right," I said. "Fine. So you're going to kill yourself, even though it's really stupid. What's all this business with seducing me and doing all the art and shit?"
    He chewed thoughtfully. "I don't know," he said at last. "I enjoy your company. I