Mile High (Up in the Air #2)(34)

I took several deep breaths, watching him sitting so calmly behind his desk. “I don’t know that I can ever give you what you want. I’m almost positive, in fact, that I can’t.”

His gaze hardened, but his voice was very even. “And I am determined to convince you otherwise.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

We didn’t speak for a long time after his pronouncement.

I didn’t know what to say to him. He couldn’t know me well enough to understand how impossible what he wanted was for me. I could give him control in bed, but I was utterly incapable of giving him control over the other parts of my life. Doing so would trap me. And I knew too well that I couldn’t be trapped and helpless ever again. It had almost destroyed me as a child. It had most certainly destroyed my mother.

I began the prep-work for my painting, but I felt a little too distracted to work at all efficiently. I sketched for nearly an hour before James spoke again.

“I spoke to the manager of my L.A gallery recently. She’s very excited about your debut. She and my New York manager actually had a little tiff over who would get your showing. Due to the desert landscapes, we leaned towards an L.A showing. She will start putting the showing together as soon as you give the go ahead.”

I just stared at him, dumbfounded. The idea of showing my work was still a foreign concept to me. And so much had happened since he’d had samples of my work shipped to his galleries.

“I don’t have to attend the showing, do I?” I asked, the thought daunting and unwelcome.

He looked genuinely surprised. “Well, no. I suppose you don’t have to. But why wouldn’t you want to?”

I gave him an exasperated look. “The press hates me. They will crucify my work if they find out it’s attached to me in any way. I would prefer not to use my own name for the work, as well.”

He looked troubled at the thought. Those exquisite eyes of his were raw with it. “I’m so sorry you’ve been dragged into this media circus of a life. It’s my fault they hate you. The things I’ve seen printed about you…it makes me feel murderous.”

I held up a hand at his tirade. “Fault isn’t the issue. We need to deal with the issues at hand, not whose at fault. And you have to admit that my showing won’t be helped by the media attention my name and appearance would bring to it.”

He flushed a little, though I couldn’t tell why. “Please just consider attending. You deserve to take pride in your work, and to get credit for it. I would love it if you would allow me to escort you to the event, but by all means take some time to think about it. I’ll have Sandra prep your work and hold off on the date until you decide what you want to do.”

I nodded that I understood, but still dwelled on it as I worked. If I was brave, I would just go through with the ordeal. It wasn’t as though I’d be forced to read the horrible reviews about my work.

I was so distracted that I made a mess of my initial sketch, finally having to just toss it and start over. I could hear James talking quietly on the phone or I would have turned on some music to relax. Finally, I put in some headphones and played the music on my phone, tucking it into the pocket of my jeans. The picture started to come together after that, the sketch much closer to the image I had in my head of what I wanted.

We worked for hours like that, in relative peace and barely speaking. We worked for so long that I even began the painting process, which sometimes took me several sessions to advance to. I liked to have a very good sketch, usually, before I broke out the paint.

I wasn’t sure what it was, but suddenly, I just felt a change in the air, a shift of energy. The hair on the nape of my neck stood on end, and I turned slowly to look at James. He had his phone to his ear, but he watched me. His eyes were…haunted, as though he’d just learned of a loved one’s death.

I moved to him, removing my earbuds. He just watched me, not taking the phone from his ear.

“Thank you for the update.” He just listened for a long time. “Yes, it is. Keep looking into it. And double your search efforts.” He hung up after that, but watched me almost warily.

I perched on the desk facing him, his laptop near my hip.

“What’s happened?” I asked, knowing with a certainty that something had.

“My investigators just found out from the police that your father has a warrant out not just for assault and battery, but also for murder.” He just stared at me for a long time, a torment in his eyes that was becoming familiar to me. Those dear eyes.

I cupped his cheek, bracing myself. “Yes, I know,” I told him reluctantly.

“I let a murderer lay his hands on you,” he told me in an agonized whisper.

I cupped his face in my other hand, as well. “That’s an unreasonable way to look at it. I’ve known he was a killer since I was fourteen, long before I knew you, and he’s laid his hands on me many times since then.”

He blinked at me, as though my words were beginning to register past his shock and fear.

“You knew he had killed someone?” he asked.

I nodded, my mouth tight, my chest aching. “I’m the one who reported him to the police, though I was nearly a decade too late. It was my mother that he killed. I was the only witness. I was standing close enough to touch her when he did it. I lied to the police for him for all these years. But after this last attack, I realized that I couldn’t live like that anymore. I can’t run anymore, even if it means he kills me, too.”