thought of anyone else selling them. It’s a gut reaction I’ve learned to respect.”
It was inexplicable, really, this mixture of possessiveness and wary vigilance, as if the works had some power she didn’t recognize and she’d just let that into her shop. Her life. She felt the same way about Daniel Logan. She didn’t understand him, with his logical, methodical approach to life as a series of puzzles to be solved. He used columns and rows and the law to make things plain, while she used paper and ink to hide what she didn’t want anyone to see. But the thought of him with anyone else left her shaky, cold.
Tilda finished the soup and dropped the container in the trash. “Run them over to Edith to see about getting them mounted and framed. We’ll take them in stages, hang them as she’s got them ready,” she said, then picked up the phone to call Edith.
– EIGHT –
Late November
D aniel pushed open the front door to Fifteen Perry Street, then locked it behind him before taking the stairs two at a time to the third floor, past the black-and-white pictures of the Eiffel Tower, the Brooklyn Bridge, the kind of art you could buy from any street vendor. Tilda had pictures of recognizable landmarks from all over the world—Oxford’s dreaming spires, Tokyo’s endless neon—but none of her family.
She’d texted him an hour ago: Meet me at Perry Street. He was used to her commands, but earlier in the week an average-looking guy in a bespoke suit had walked in off the street, and asked to talk to someone about an ongoing fraud. Daniel was the guy not on a call or in a meeting, so he sat across from an I-banker in a conference room who told him a story of greed, fraud, and deception that, if it panned out through to indictments, would make headlines around the world. A couple of days to check out his story, and Daniel went from routine duties to a career-making case. He hadn’t talked to Tilda since he’d picked her up at the airport after a trip to London, and frankly, he could use a quickie over lunch. He was uncharacteristically jacked, his brain dumping adrenaline into his system every time he thought about what this could mean for investors, for the department, for his career.
“You’ve got to stop leaving the front door unlocked like that,” he said as he swung into her office, expecting to find her at her desk. No Tilda. He walked into her bedroom, and found it empty as well. The bathroom door was closed.
“Tilda?” he said as he knocked.
Silence. He could hear her breathing behind the door. He squared up on the balls of his feet, put his hands on his hips, and stared at the locked door. Any number of possibilities had crossed his mind when he saw her text—Tilda in lingerie, Tilda naked, Tilda with lunch because he was hungry, too—but Tilda locked in the bathroom wasn’t on the list.
“Are you trapped in there?” he asked, trying to figure out if he had to call the FDNY or if he could jimmy open the lock with a credit card or a screwdriver.
“No.”
“So open the door.”
No movement, just a shaky inhale.
“Tilda.”
Silence.
His brain spun up an increasingly wild range of scenarios: being held hostage, a sudden psychotic break on her part, a sudden psychotic break on
his
part. He checked his phone. Yes, she’d texted him. He leaned against the doorframe, and tried to figure out where to start. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m late.”
“Well,” he said with a laugh, “you’re going to be even more late if you don’t come out of the bathroom.”
“Not that kind of late, Daniel.”
His grin disappeared so fast his jaw muscles tensed in protest. Emotion careened through him, shock, with a primitive possessiveness hard on its heels when the image of Tilda, pregnant with his baby, bloomed in his brain. He cleared his throat. “How late?”
“I’m not sure. My cycle has been off lately, with the travel.”
“How can you be sure you’re late, then?”
“I am. I have
It was inexplicable, really, this mixture of possessiveness and wary vigilance, as if the works had some power she didn’t recognize and she’d just let that into her shop. Her life. She felt the same way about Daniel Logan. She didn’t understand him, with his logical, methodical approach to life as a series of puzzles to be solved. He used columns and rows and the law to make things plain, while she used paper and ink to hide what she didn’t want anyone to see. But the thought of him with anyone else left her shaky, cold.
Tilda finished the soup and dropped the container in the trash. “Run them over to Edith to see about getting them mounted and framed. We’ll take them in stages, hang them as she’s got them ready,” she said, then picked up the phone to call Edith.
– EIGHT –
Late November
D aniel pushed open the front door to Fifteen Perry Street, then locked it behind him before taking the stairs two at a time to the third floor, past the black-and-white pictures of the Eiffel Tower, the Brooklyn Bridge, the kind of art you could buy from any street vendor. Tilda had pictures of recognizable landmarks from all over the world—Oxford’s dreaming spires, Tokyo’s endless neon—but none of her family.
She’d texted him an hour ago: Meet me at Perry Street. He was used to her commands, but earlier in the week an average-looking guy in a bespoke suit had walked in off the street, and asked to talk to someone about an ongoing fraud. Daniel was the guy not on a call or in a meeting, so he sat across from an I-banker in a conference room who told him a story of greed, fraud, and deception that, if it panned out through to indictments, would make headlines around the world. A couple of days to check out his story, and Daniel went from routine duties to a career-making case. He hadn’t talked to Tilda since he’d picked her up at the airport after a trip to London, and frankly, he could use a quickie over lunch. He was uncharacteristically jacked, his brain dumping adrenaline into his system every time he thought about what this could mean for investors, for the department, for his career.
“You’ve got to stop leaving the front door unlocked like that,” he said as he swung into her office, expecting to find her at her desk. No Tilda. He walked into her bedroom, and found it empty as well. The bathroom door was closed.
“Tilda?” he said as he knocked.
Silence. He could hear her breathing behind the door. He squared up on the balls of his feet, put his hands on his hips, and stared at the locked door. Any number of possibilities had crossed his mind when he saw her text—Tilda in lingerie, Tilda naked, Tilda with lunch because he was hungry, too—but Tilda locked in the bathroom wasn’t on the list.
“Are you trapped in there?” he asked, trying to figure out if he had to call the FDNY or if he could jimmy open the lock with a credit card or a screwdriver.
“No.”
“So open the door.”
No movement, just a shaky inhale.
“Tilda.”
Silence.
His brain spun up an increasingly wild range of scenarios: being held hostage, a sudden psychotic break on her part, a sudden psychotic break on
his
part. He checked his phone. Yes, she’d texted him. He leaned against the doorframe, and tried to figure out where to start. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m late.”
“Well,” he said with a laugh, “you’re going to be even more late if you don’t come out of the bathroom.”
“Not that kind of late, Daniel.”
His grin disappeared so fast his jaw muscles tensed in protest. Emotion careened through him, shock, with a primitive possessiveness hard on its heels when the image of Tilda, pregnant with his baby, bloomed in his brain. He cleared his throat. “How late?”
“I’m not sure. My cycle has been off lately, with the travel.”
“How can you be sure you’re late, then?”
“I am. I have
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