The storm outside the long window in the bathroom appears to have slowed. And I’ve scrubbed the raccoon off my face. Do I now look like a fourteen-year-old boy? Possibly, but I can fix that when Percy brings my bags up.
Water off, there’s a noise out in the main bedroom.
“Perfect timing. Thank you. I’ll be right out.” My hair’s wrapped in a towel, another around my body. I pull open the wardrobe in the bathroom. But it’s not what I expected. It’s not a little closet with a robe and a pair of complimentary slippers. It’s full of light blue clothing. I tense up because it really doesn’t feel like I should be in this room now. The clothes are lovely, although it’s a little weird that they’re all the same color. It’s more than weird. And it setsoff an inkling of panic. Even odder, all the clothes appear brand new.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”My mother’s voice echoes in my head.“Are you sure they only want you to catalog their art?”I shake her away.
Toward the back of the clothes, I find a robe. The tag’s in German, a label I don’t recognize, but then I’ve never bought clothes in Switzerland before. And I’m certainly not planning on it now. Most of the clothes I have are thrifted or gifted. My favorite kind.
I’ve been on my own for a bit. And that’s hard enough in the city when you have a job that pays decently. Because I wanted to docent at art museums for free, my hours for a real job were limited. Hence how I became a house manager at a crash pad for my sister and her flight attendant friends. I pay next to nothing in rent. My barista salary doesn’t leave much for clothes, though.
I hang the towel up and tighten the belt on my robe. It’s nice. Larger than usual sleeves, but not as big as divas, and no ostrich feathers either. Though, light blue feathers would be lovely. I laugh.
I’m tightening the cord when I catch myself in the mirror. There on the collar is a mushroom. Not the kind you get on pizza but the type that’s normally red with little white dots. This one is embroidered in all white with the dots raised. It’s adorable. So adorable it matches the tattoo on my upper thigh.
There’s another noise out in the main room. Hmmm. I would have thought that Percy, the driver and I’m guessing handyman, would have left my luggage in the room and not hung around.
I inch the door open. “Percy?” I ask.
There’s a man sitting on the end of my bed. His browneyes flash at mine. He’s wearing charcoal gray suit pants, the top two buttons of his dress shirt are unbuttoned, and his sleeves are rolled up. On the side of his right arm, there is a dark tattoo that shoots part of the way to his wrist. A wing? Maybe, but not a bird’s. I’ve got a weird thing for attractive arms. I divert my attention before he realizes I’m staring.
“I’m not Percy.” He crosses his arms over his chest, covering his forearms.
Too late. I’ve been caught. “You’re sitting on my bed.”
“Your bed. Interesting.” His amber brown eyes stare me down.
“I mean the bed in the room Leo assigned to me. While I’m here.”
“You mean Leopold.”
“Well, I call him Leo.”
“Do you now?”
My chest inflates and deflates. I’m escalating the situation, and I need to stop it. It’s suddenly become really warm in here. Too warm.
“It didn’t end well for the last person who called him Leo.”
I nod. Because Leopold—Leo—seems like the kind of man to tell me that for himself. “Well, let’s start over. I’m Raine Fischer. I’m the new curator for the collection at Cloud Rift.” I hold my hand out, but he doesn’t take it, so I drop it. “And you are?”
“Evander Slate. I live here.”
“As in this room?”
He laughs. “No, you won’t find me in here again.”
I give him a polite smile.
“I’m hurt, Raine. You’re relieved that I won’t be in your bedchamber again.”
“I’m here for a job. That’s all. I love art, and from the waythe collection was described to me, I’m going to enjoy my job very much.” If the art is anything like the mosaic or the tapestries, I may never get over the next six months of my life.
Evander humphs. “You’ve signed the NDA?”
“I signed a lot of papers but no NDA—I would remember that. But it won’t be a problem.” I took several classes in school about being a private curator. Owners don’t want it known what they have in their collection. Some because they’re afraid their collection will be stolen, others that their collection will be seen as not good enough. “I would never tell anyone anything about a collection without the owner’s consent. But I’m more than willing to sign.”
“Collection,” Evander says, like I’ve said something off. “Yes, yes, the collection. Cloud Rift’s collection is quite impressive. Never complete.”
