“I won’t be long,” she muttered, and went back to painting to work off steam. “Lock the door, stay inside. Stay out of the studio. I haven’t even thought about going up there till he told me not to.”

She glanced up at the ceiling. It would serve him right if she went straight up there, poked all around.

Except her work ethics bled over. You stay out of personal spaces, respect the boundaries.

Besides, she wanted to finish the base coat, and rework a scene from the book in her head. It might work better from an alternate point of view.

She entertained herself with roller and brush—and yes, definitely a POV switch. She’d change gears and hit the keyboard right after the lunch break.

She stepped back, studied the walls. A nice warm Tuscan yellow—subtle, with some orange notes to enrich it. Now she had to wait a good twenty-four hours before she started brushing on the plaster color—a deeper, richer cardamom. That would begin the more interesting, less pedestrian part of the process.

Until then, she needed to clean up—her brushes and rollers, and herself.

Still studying her work, she pulled her phone out of her pocket to answer its throbbing ringtone. “Hi, it’s Lila.”

“Did you enjoy your Italian holiday?”

The voice froze her blood. She hated knowing her first reaction came as white-knuckled fear. “I did, very much.” She looked around wildly as she spoke—door, windows—half expecting to see that stunning, exotic face through the glass.

“I’m sure. Private plane, fine hotels. You’ve landed a big, shiny fish, haven’t you?”

Lila bit back the spike of temper, of insult, even managed a little laugh. “And such a great-looking one. Did you enjoy your Italian holiday? I saw you in the Piazza della Signoria. You looked like you had somewhere important to go.”

The brief pause told her she’d scored a point, and it helped ease the thunder of her heartbeat. And calmer, she remembered her record app.

“I still like your shoes,” she said quickly, swiping back to the recording app, engaging it. “I bought several pairs while we were there.”

“It’s a pity I didn’t see you.”

“Well, you were preoccupied. Places to go, art dealers to murder.” Her throat, brutally dry, begged for water—but she couldn’t quite make her legs move. “Who do you think tipped the cops, Jai?”

Second point, Lila thought. Terrified, yes, but not helpless—not stupid.

“The police don’t worry me, biao zi. And they won’t help you. You won’t see me next time. You won’t see the knife, not until I make you feel it.”

She closed her eyes, leaned weakly against the doorjamb, but forced bravado into her voice. “You and your knife didn’t do the trick last time. How’s the lip? All healed up? Or do you need to cover it up with the lipstick you stole from Julie?”

“You’ll beg me to kill you. The Fabergé is a job, but you, bi? You’ll be a pleasure.”

“Does your employer know you’re contacting me, talking trash? I bet he wouldn’t like it.”

“Every time you close your eyes, you’ll know I might be there when you open them again. Enjoy your life while you can for life is short, but death, biao zi, it’s very, very long. I look forward to showing you how long. Ciao.”

Lila pressed the phone to her racing heart. She managed to stumble into the powder room, splash cold water on her clammy face, then simply slid to the floor when her legs gave way.

She needed to call the police—for whatever good that could do—as soon as she stopped shaking.

But she’d held her own, hadn’t she? How many people could say they’d held their own with a vengeful professional assassin? And had the wits to get that holding her own on record?

It was probably a pretty short list.

And this was personal, she thought. This went back to a punch in the face.

“Okay.” She drew in a breath, let it out, lowered her head to her drawn-up knees. “Better. Just call the cops, and—” No, she realized. Ash.

She hadn’t called him in Florence, and she’d been wrong. She’d held her own, but it didn’t mean she had to stand—or sit—on her own.

She lowered the phone, studied her hand to make sure it remained steady.

And dropped it into her lap when the front door buzzer sounded.

She snatched it up again, surged to her feet, stared at the door. Secured, of course—even if she hadn’t turned the internal lock after Ash went out. But windows were glass, and vulnerable.

Her first thought was defense—a weapon. With her eyes locked on the door, she began to ease her way toward the kitchen. A kitchen held countless weapons.

The buzzer sounded again, and she jerked again.

The buzzer, she thought. You won’t see me or the knife. A woman bent on murder didn’t ring the damn buzzer.

Stupid, she told herself, just stupid to jump just because someone was at the door.

“Just see who it is,” she whispered. “Just walk over and see who it is instead of standing here shaking.”

She made herself walk over, open the cabinet where—with Ash’s go-ahead—she’d moved the monitor. And recognizing the visitor, thought she’d almost rather have the murderous intentions.

“Damn, hell, crap.” After shoving the phone back in her pocket, she pressed her hands to her face, fought back tears of relief.

No one was here to try to kill her. The visitor might want her winked out of existence, but not dead in a pool of her own blood.

Still.

She tugged the ball cap tighter over her bundled-up hair. Why would Ash’s father come now? Why couldn’t he wait until Ash was here—and she wasn’t?

Why did he have to show up when she was a basket case of nerves and panic?

And did he just have to drop by when she had the single shirt, the single pair of shorts she’d kept out of the ragbag for scut work?

“Crap, crap, crap.” She wanted to ignore the buzzer, the visitor, but couldn’t allow herself to be quite that rude—or, she admitted, quite that alone when even someone who detested her was company.

She squared her shoulders, strode to the door. Deal with it, she ordered herself, and unlocked it.

“Mr. Archer.” She didn’t bother to fake a smile. Manners were one thing, hypocrisy another. “I’m sorry it took me so long. I was painting.”