Chapter 11 Roller Coaster
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’s very efficient 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—the Madonna would 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.
She wanted Penelope to see her. Really see her. Know her.
She exhaled in a rush, vision blurring. If only she knew how to resist temptation.
~ ~ ~
The week passed in a blur, Lucia dodging Francesca and all things Collective, claiming she was busy “working on Penelope.” Technically true; she’d finished Penelope’s portrait in the meantime. God, she was hopeless.
She entered her home, sank onto the couch, and stared at the third email about the Santini piece. She had to accept or reject the invitation. The safer—Francesca’s bet—was to decline. But Lucia was tired of this life.
Doesn’t mean you should blow it all up and land in prison.
“Good point,” she mumbled, drafting a quick reply and declining the invitation. There would be other, less self-destructive exits.
Her phone rang; she nearly dropped it. Seeing Francesca’s name, she wished she had. Lucia answered anyway. “Hey, what’s up?”
“What’s up? What’s going on with you? No updates, no messages. Then you’re a no-show at last night’s meeting! Are you all right?”
Lucia cringed. She’d meant to go but lost track of time in her studio.
“Sorry. I’m fine, just distracted. Had a lot of ideas and got a bit…lost.”
“Hmm.” Francesca’s tone was deceptively casual. “So? Any news aside from the confirmation about the Madonna?”
“Not really.”
“I thought you’d gotten closer to Blackwell?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean we’re joined at the hip.”
Francesca heaved a sigh. “Our stand-in for Deveraux can’t attend the preview, might not even make it to the ball. He’s got a previous engagement he can’t escape.”
Lucia groaned.
“You’ll go instead. Give his regards. Say he’s an eccentric recluse or had an emergency.”
“Since he’s already confirmed attendance, the recluse story won’t fly.”
“Then go with the emergency.”
“What if Skye goes instead?”
Francesca snorted. “Right. That’ll be the day. He is your client, Lucy.”
“Fine. Anything else new?”
Francesca hesitated, then sniffed.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. That awful woman just—taunting me. Flaunting her new acquisition of The Apostle’s Wake, as if we all don’t know that Belgrave Trust is a front for stolen art.”
Lucia hesitated. “But that’s what we do, too?”
“That’s not the point! Motives matter.”
“OK, sorry?”
“I don’t know why I bother. Did you send the report to Jules, at least?”
“Shoot, no. I forgot.”
“Lucia! You need to get a grip. This isn’t the time to slack. Five weeks until the ball, and Jules thinks we might have a security issue. She needs your notes.”
“I’ll send them today.”
“Do that.” Another sigh. “It feels like everything is going wrong.”
“I thought it was the ‘trifecta of the heavens?’”
Silence.
“I’m not mocking you,” Lucia said.
“Could have fooled me.”
“I’m sorry. Just got a lot on my mind.”
“Yes, and apparently that excludes me and your job.”
“I’ll try to do better.”
“Don’t try. Do.” Francesca hung up.
~ ~ ~
The next morning, Lucia woke to a text from Penelope.
Hey stranger. I hope the week has been kind to you.
She sat up, her bare feet cold on the hardwood floor, and stared at the message for a full minute.
Honesty still tugged at her, so she typed,
It’s been a bit rough, but nothing I can’t handle.
Penelope replied right away.
I’m sorry to hear that, but at least you’re confident.
I doubt that’s something you’re lacking. Lucia shot back, a small smile forming on her lips.
It depends on the circumstance.
True. How come you got time for texting on a Wednesday morning? I expected you’d be slaving over some reports or knee-deep in prep for the ball.
I’m waiting on compliance updates. Boring but necessary.
So you’re just passing time. Lucia worried her lower lip.
Or something like that.
A thought had been forming in Lucia’s mind all week—a dangerous one that refused to leave. She knew she shouldn’t, but temptation and she weren’t friends. Although perhaps temptation loved her because it always won when battling Lucia.
Do you have any plans for the weekend?
Why? Another coffee date?
No. I… I wanted to ask if you’d like to visit my art studio?
Silence.
I shouldn’t have done that. “Too forward. Damn it, Luce.”
She jumped up, left her phone on the bed, and headed to the bathroom, cursing her impulsivity under her breath.
Her phone beeped as she was washing her hands. She dried them, rushed back, and grabbed it.
Sorry. Work called. I’d love to see your art studio. Text me the details. Gotta go.
“Yes!” Lucia dropped onto the bed. “Oh, no.” She buried her face in the pillow.
This was a bad idea, and yet… God, she wanted it.
She wanted this connection with Penelope, even though she was still lying to her. How could this amount to anything other than betrayal—not just of Penelope’s trust, but of Francesca’s?