The Collector by Nora Roberts Page A

looker—just not obvious about it. Are you going to ask her?”
    â€œIt doesn’t seem appropriate.” He shrugged when Luke simply raised his eyebrows. “And yeah, appropriate’s not much of a concern to me when it comes to the work, but this situation’s . . . awkward.That’s what she called it. Awkward. Me, I call it fucked to hell and back.”
    â€œSemantics.”
    That brought out a grin. “Yeah, words are words. Anyway, she’s probably had enough of me, and the cops. I’d say she’ll be glad to move on to the next job, the next place, so she doesn’t have to remember what she saw every time she looks out the window. Added to it, apparently her friend had a break-in the night after this happened. Or thinks she did.”
    â€œIt’s pretty clear when you’ve had a break-in.”
    â€œYou’d think, and I actually know the friend, which adds to the fucked up. She manages one of the galleries I work with. Lila says somebody broke in and took makeup and shoes.”
    â€œCome on.” On a snort, Luke lifted his beer, gestured. “Shoes in the back of the closet, makeup in some purse she’s forgotten she has. Case closed.”
    â€œI’d say just that if I didn’t know the woman. She’s pretty damn steady. Either way, more cops, more upset, more . . .” He straightened from broody slouch to furiously rigid. “Son of a bitch.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œShe uses that address—that’s Lila’s listed address. Maybe somebody did break in, but not to rob the place. Looking for her. If I found out she was a witness, someone else could.”
    â€œYou’re looking for trouble, Ash.”
    â€œNo, if I was looking for trouble I’d’ve thought of this before. I’ve just been looking to get through. But when you step back, someone killed Oliver and his woman, tried to make it look like murder/suicide. She’s the one who reported it, who actually saw an altercation and the fall. And the day after it happens, someone just happens to prowl around in the apartment she’s listed as her official address?”
    Concern moved over Luke’s face. “When you put it that way. Still, it’s a stretch. What kind of murderer takes makeup and shoes?”
    â€œA woman. Maybe. Hell, a cross-dresser, a guy who has a woman he wants to impress. The point is it’s awful damn close. I’m going to check on her,” he decided. “And see if Julie’s had any trouble.”
    â€œJulie?” Luke set his beer down. “I thought you said her name was Lila.”
    â€œJulie’s the friend—mutual friend.”
    Very slowly, Luke set his beer down again. “Julie. Art gallery. Since this is fucked up to hell and back, tell me what this Julie looks like.”
    â€œAfter a date? She’s a jackpot, not really your type though.”
    Ash turned the napkin over, thought for a moment, then did a sketch of Julie’s face.
    Luke picked up the napkin, studied it carefully, his face blank. “Tall,” he said after a moment. “Built. Texas-bluebonnet eyes. Redhead.”
    â€œThat’s Julie. You know her?”
    â€œI did.” Luke took a long drink of beer. “I was married to her. For about five minutes. In another life.”
    â€œYou’re shitting me.” He knew about the impulsive marriage, the quick divorce—all when Luke had barely been old enough to buy a legal beer. “Julie Bryant’s the one that got away?”
    â€œThat would be her. You’ve never mentioned her before.”
    â€œShe manages a gallery. We’re professional friends. We don’t hang out—never dated, in case that’s an issue here. And she’s not your type. You usually go for the bouncing balls of energy, not smoking-hot class with a side of arty.”
    â€œBecause I still have the scars.” He poked a