“Thank you for trusting me,” Lucia said, quiet and unguarded, as if the words cost her nothing and meant everything.
It landed like a blow.
You’re so screwed.
Worse. She didn’t even want to be saved.
Chapter 11
Roller Coaster
Lucia rushed out of the Meridian as if someone had lit her on fire. Her heart drummed in her chest and sweat prickled at her lower back despite the museum’sveryefficient use of air-conditioning.
What was she doing?
Her mind replayed her entire visit: their conversation, the way Penelope’s gaze lingered on her, the tone of her voice, the exact shade of her dark eyes. They seemed almost black, but in the right light, there was a faint ring of umber around the iris—the most beautiful she’d ever seen.
She was losing her mind.
She needed to tell Francesca that Penelope had confirmed their source’s intel—theMadonnawould be the new centerpiece with the Bellini. She could also add that her visit had been a waste, because even when she managed to ask about conservation delays, it hadn’t been with any purpose. No clever segue, no subtle push—just empty words while her mind stayed fixed on Penelope. And she’d had an opening!
Oh, it was even worse than that.
Driven by her loathing of having to lie about the Collective’s plans (which she’d done what felt like a million times over the years), she’d practically split herself open and shared more intimate details with Penelope than with the last woman who’d shared her bed.
Why was Penelope so different?
She couldn’t tell Francesca or let Skye know she’d told Penelope about Ms.Lake or, heaven forbid, her name change.
What’s wrong with you?
Back at home, Lucia turned off her phone and slid it onto the kitchen island. She stood motionless before making up her mind and grabbing her keys to head back outside.
Quick steps led her from her walkway over a patch of grass to the cottage next door.
She unlocked the front door, pushed it open, and stepped inside.
The scent of drying oils hit her at once. Lucia’s gaze swept over the scattered charcoal sketches and half-finished canvases leaning against every wall. Her posture eased as she stepped farther in.
Yes, this was what she needed.
Late-afternoon light filtered through the large windows. Lucia propped up a new canvas and set to work.
She hadn’t decided what to draw, allowing her hands to move almost of their own accord. Lost in this daze, her fingers, black from the charcoal, drifted over the white canvas, adding lines and swirls. She wiped with her fingertips, adding shades that mimicked the shadow and light display from the sun.
The loud caw of a bird outside drew Lucia out of her stupor, and she stepped back, her fingers aching. Almost disoriented, she glanced at the clock. Over an hour gone.
She shook her head, gaze drawn back to her creation.
There, before her, immortalized on linen, was Penelope Blackwell—eyes that saw everything: the secrets, the lies, the doubts and fears Lucia kept buried, the tender, fledgling hope that maybe this wasn’t all there was to her life, to her art. To her.
Most devastatingly? As she edged closer, still staring unblinkingly at the face of the woman she couldn’t shake, the woman who needed to be nothing more than a pawn, Lucia realized something that crumbled this entire house of cards and scattered its pieces.
ShewantedPenelope to see her. Really see her. Know her.
She exhaled in a rush, vision blurring. If only she knew how to resist temptation.
~ ~ ~
