Page 49 of Canvas of Lies
“Promise me,” he said, not releasing his grip on my chin. “Promise me you will not go into that house without me.”
My heart fluttered in my chest. “I promise, Nico.”
I didn’t like it, and I didn’t agree with his assessment of the danger, but he’d never forgive me if I went against his wishes in this—and he’d never forgive himself if something happened to me because I did.
Before he released me, his other arm slipped around to the small of my back, pressing me to him. By the time his mouth landed on mine, my lips were already parted in invitation. He was definitely being a bit overbearing by demanding my word like that, but I knew I was impulsive enough to terrify him at times. I’d done it often enough in my youth to recognize the fear in his eyes.
It felt strange to have someone concerned over my safety, and stranger still to like it.
Once I was breathless and flushed in his arms, Nico drew back and grinned. “Plenty of time for an encore later. If we want to eat, I better get started on dinner.”
It turned out Nico had learned a number of things about cooking from his father, despite his own professed disinterest in the culinary arts. I watched him as he worked, trying not to let my nerves over the interview get the best of me. Even though I was sure he must be feeling the same, he didn’t show it, not anymore. He looked calm, capable, and impossibly at ease in my kitchen as he chopped vegetables and whisked sauce on the stove.
“You really never thought about following in your father’s footsteps?” I asked, propping my chin on one hand as I leaned against the countertop. “Chef Nico sounds pretty hot, you know.”
“I thought about it, sure,” he replied. “It was just never my passion, not the way it was his.”
“But hacking is?”
He pointed a spatula at me. “Not a hacker.”
“You know what I mean. I remember when you started bringing a laptop on our adventures instead of a book. I just thought you were messing around.”
“I started programming maybe a year before high school. It just made sense to me, the way mechanical stuff makes sense to you. Writing a really beautiful set of code, that’s what makes mefeel like I’m on top of the world. For my dad, it was coming up with a truly stellar recipe. He loved watching people enjoy what he made. Especially you. I think he got more joy out of cooking for you than for anyone else. You’re very enthusiastic in your responses, you know.”
I rolled my eyes at his innuendo, but then I cocked my head, considering. “You know, I always thought he was just offering me a haven from my father, but he would make me sit and keep him company when I was at the cottage, and he’d always put a plate of something or other in front of me.”
“He loved you,” Nico said simply. “I hope you know that. Even if your father would choose to swim with electric eels rather than see us together, I’m pretty damn sure my dad always dreamed you’d be his daughter-in-law someday.”
“I miss him. I wish . . .” I trailed off, then refocused my gaze on him. “Well, I wish a lot of things. I’m just glad you’re here now.”
He added a pinch of seasoning to the pan and turned down the heat before crossing over to me. With one hand curled around the back of my neck, he tilted my face up so he could kiss me. This wasn’t a sizzling demand or a gentle reassurance, but a slow, thorough reminder that we were together, here in this moment. As my soft sigh whispered across his lips, Nico lifted his head.
“I’m glad I’m here, too.” He kissed the tip of my nose and moved back to the stove.
We ate in relative silence, apart from the low moan of pleasure I made upon my first bite of chicken chasseur. It was a dish his father had made time and again, sentimental and delicious, and it had always been one of my favorites.
“This is heavenly,” I purred, choosing to ignore the pointed look he leveled at me.
It wasn’t that I didn’t know how to cook, I simply detested it—cooking was a necessary evil in my world. I’d never found the same joy as Pierre Beaumont had in what I viewed as a survival skill and I certainly didn’t have one iota of Nico’s unconscious talent for it, but I knew a good meal when I tasted one.
After dinner, we moved to the couch and I turned the TV to Evelyn’s news channel. Nico was silent but tense, though he tried to hide it by draping his arm along the couch cushion and toying with the curls at the back of my neck. I couldn’t think of anything to say that might distract him for the few minutes remaining before the news came on, so I just leaned my head against his shoulder and set a hand on his knee.
When the anchor on screen started talking about the upcoming exhibit of pieces by Hugo Clément, my stomach clenched. Under my palm, Nico’s thigh muscles were taut.
The anchor gave an introduction and cut to Evelyn’s interview. She was petite and exquisitely beautiful, with long black hair and delicate features, and she was seated diagonally from my father in his office. I fought back a bubble of nervous laughter as I thought about squeezing under that desk again now, with Nico’s long limbs and my own curves.
“How did you come by this magnificent piece of artwork, Mr. Willoughby?” Evelyn asked, gesturing up to the wall behind them.
My father gave her what I’d always called his schmoozing smile, wide and patronizing. “I purchased it at an estate sale when my daughter was born and it’s been hanging in the house ever since. We had no idea that it was anything more than a beautiful piece until recently, when an art collector friend saw it and questioned who the artist was. Imagine my surprise to learn it was painted by Hugo Clément.”
Nico growled, but I squeezed his knee in warning. I didn’t want to miss a word of this, even if it was all lies—and even if my father was dragging me into the dirt along with him.
Evelyn smiled, then followed up with, “Have you been asked to lend the painting to the Warner Museum of Fine Arts for the duration of their Clément exhibit? It seems they’re very eager to feature such a newly discovered piece.”
My father’s expression turned almost mournful. “They’ve asked, certainly, just as a number of collectors around the world have asked if I’d ever sell it. The fact of the matter is that this painting is very sentimental to me, given its connection to my daughter. I simply couldn’t bear to part with it.”
The interview ended soon after, but I barely paid attention. My mind whirled with possibilities, shifting the puzzle pieces back and forth, tilting them every which way.
