Page 107 of Stalked
I set the phone on the nightstand and pull the covers up to my chin, willing sleep to come even though my mind races. The room's too warm despite the air conditioning unit rattling beneath the window. I kick off the comforter, then the sheet, until I'm lying in just my tank top and underwear, staring at the shadows.
Around five-thirty, I give up entirely. Pad to the window and pull back the gauzy curtain, expecting empty streets and early morning darkness.
My breath catches.
Vane's Kawasaki sits parked directly across from the inn, gleaming green even in the dim streetlight. And there—leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest—is Vane himself. Still wearing the same dark jeans and black shirt.
Watching.
He doesn't move when I appear at the window. Doesn't wave or gesture or make any acknowledgment beyond the slight tilt of his head that tells me he's registered my presence.
My hand hovers over the curtain. With one quick pull, I could block him out and establish a boundary that says his surveillance isn't welcome.
But I don't.
Instead, I let the fabric fall back into place, leaving the window exposed. Leaving myself visible.
It's a small thing. Meaningless.
Except we both know it's not.
I return to bed and close my eyes, acutely aware of his presence three stories below. Standing guard. Giving me space while simultaneously refusing to let me go.
The contradiction should terrify me.
It doesn't.
42
LIA
The gallery door chimes at precisely ten-fifteen, disrupting the careful silence I've built around myself since opening.
I look up from the invoice I've been pretending to review—the same invoice I've stared at for twenty minutes without absorbing a single line. A man steps inside, his tailored gray suit practically screaming money. Mid-fifties, distinguished silver threading through dark hair, expensive watch catching the track lighting.
“Welcome to Chambers Gallery.” I set down my pen, automatically shifting into professional mode. “Is there something specific I can help you find today?”
“Ms. Morgan, yes?” His accent places him immediately—Russian. “I was hoping you might show me the Volkov collection.”
My shoulders tense despite the pleasant smile I keep fixed in place. “Of course. It's just through here.”
I lead him toward the back gallery, where three Volkov pieces hang—abstract works that combine violence and beauty in ways that made my stomach turn when I first unpacked them. Now,after witnessing Vane with pliers and a knife, I understand their appeal on a visceral level. I wish I didn't.
“Magnificent, aren't they?” The man stops before the largest canvas, tilting his head. “The way he captures suffering through color rather than explicit imagery. Quite genius.”
“They're certainly provocative.” I maintain careful distance, my heels clicking against the hardwood as I step back. “Are you a collector, Mr.—?”
“Orlov.” He turns, and his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. “And yes, I collect many things. Beautiful things, especially.”
The way he says it makes my skin crawl. Not the obvious leer of a man being overtly sexual, but something colder. More calculating.
Like he's assessing merchandise.
“The Volkovs aren't for sale individually,” I hear myself say, voice steady despite the adrenaline suddenly flooding my system. “Mr. Chambers acquired them, sold as a complete collection.”
“Everything is for sale, Ms. Morgan.” He moves closer, casual enough that I can't justify backing away without seeming rude. “It's simply a matter of finding the right price.”
His gaze travels over me with the same analytical appreciation he showed the paintings.
