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 intersecting 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 . . .