Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Warner
Clandestine Affairs
When the door clicks shut behind us in the storage bunker, the sound lands soft like an ellipsis.
A silent promise somewhere between my releasing Whitney’s hand and the hum of the fluorescent lights buzzing, filling the space where the rest of the world used to be.
Suddenly, there’s nowhere for my feelings to scatter.
It’s just Whitney, standing too close, and me, acutely aware of the narrow aisle and the art racks hemming us in.
Her question about the kiss hangs between us, pointed and electric.
“Yes, so this is it…”
I toss her a steady smile, clearer-headed than I’ve felt in years, and stubbornly fighting it.
She takes a shallow breath, warm brown eyes drifting over the cool industrial space, her slender frame swallowed by my oversized sweatshirt and pants, seeming almost weightless. She’s utterly untethered, as if this moment can’t quite hold her.
From the second she opened that guest room door, I think I knew this was never just about the kiss. And maybe that does make me a relationship guy. Maybe I can’t form meaningless connections. Is that the worst thing?
Could I be any luckier than to be with Whitney?
“I, um, didn’t realize there were so many.” Whitney’s laugh scrapes out rough, breath still ragged from running as she blinks up at me briefly, then tosses a glance at the endless, tall, sliding-metal frames mounted on tracks dominating the room. “Are they all hers?”
Hers.
I must look confused, opening my mouth only to close it again.
Logically, I know the entire reason Whitney and I ran out, braving the wind and rain on the cusp of an impending tropical storm, to be in this cold concrete building.
The reason we met in the first place, broke bread at Cibo Nero, and boarded that terrifying flight together.
She’s here to look at an art collection.
To evaluate the pieces, check for water damage, determine the best course toward exhibition.
It’s always been the plan.
But how can she focus on art when we’re finally alone, and the thought of explaining what was going through my head when I kissed her steals my breath?
My jaw tightens. I tip up her chin, searching her sparkling eyes.
“The last six rows are hers,” I say, tucking my hands into my pockets, straightening. As much as I can with only inches between us. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
She drags her gaze over me, slow, intense.
“Okay.”
A whip of wind outside the door seals the moment. We’re still, hearts beating, listening, waiting for it to break. Thankfully, it does.
Whitney rubs her arms as she walks away, trailing slowly down the aisle, and slides out the first wire-mesh panel. Vibrant oil on canvas.
It’s a Kehinde Wiley.
“Portrait of Nelly Moudime II.” She turns back to me, beaming, wistfully admiring the use of color and pattern, the same way structural framing just speaks to me. It’s her purpose. “His World Stage series always leaves me in awe.”
I straighten, drawing my shoulders back, settling into her world, content just to witness the kaleidoscope of emotions flicker across her beautiful face as she observes each piece, taking her time to “absorb the storytelling,” she says.
The way her brow furrows. The small breaths. Her hand pressed tenderly to her heart.
It’s so intense, how she appreciates Sherry’s prized collection, silently interpreting where she drew her inspiration. Jean-Michel Basquiat, Kara Walker, Betye Saar, Kerry James Marshall, Sam Gilliam, and Alma Thomas. Her direct influences, when she never believed she was influential.
At least half an hour passes before Whitney reaches the last six rows.
She exhales.
What she’s seeing are oil paintings. About a dozen.
Luxe Ladies across the seasons. No rhyme or reason to them that I could discern.
Some repeats, plus one self-portrait. All an explosion of dark, rich colors, layered with evocative storytelling, challenging parasocial and classicist stereotypes and embedded with celebrated pop culture references.
“They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen, Warner,” she says breathlessly. “I’ve got chills.”
“Yeah, I told you.” I pull in air through my nose, releasing it slowly out my mouth. “Pictures wouldn’t do them justice.”
“Why are they here?” Whitney asks as she whips around to face me, and there might as well be twenty miles between us instead of twenty feet, the way she’s looking at me.
I don’t know what she sees, but she doesn’t say anything else.
She takes long, unsteady strides back to me, her fiery gaze piercing.
And then we’re inches apart. She smells like fresh laundry and raspberries. All I can think of is peeling my clothes off her and using them as a drop cloth so we can make love… right here, on this floor.
Lord, give me the strength.
“You never answered my question,” she says.
She means the kiss. But I can’t resist.
“They’re here because…” I shrug and give her a faraway gaze, killing her with a long pause.
“This bunker allows for protected storage from outside elements. Everything is aligned, labeled, and archived for easier access, say, if I were to seek out a gallery to exhibit—” Whitney swats my chest, and I catch her hand, laughing.
“You know what I meant.” She tilts her head, eyebrow raised, signaling for me to continue.
I nod, slowly piecing together our story, letting my smile fade.
“I do.”
As soon as those two words come out, my first thought is, wasn’t this the point of twenty questions? To peel the layers back, to step forward without knowing the ending, to let the story find me? Isn’t that what Dr. Bellamy meant? In their own way, Mom and Greer, too. And, not as subtly, Nacheline.
Love, romance, adventure, life—all of it.
Wager be damned.
And just like that, my heart’s involved. The need to voice my feelings is so overwhelming, I feel the blinders locking my tunnel vision in place.
“That kiss wasn’t what you think—”
A loud pounding at the door cuts me off, stealing the moment from us again.
Our heads snap to the door.
“Dammit.” My mind races, scrambling. I shift on my feet, annoy by the rattling handle. Should I take this as a sign that every time I get close to telling Whitney how I feel, something happens? Damn. “It’s probably just the wind.”
“Uh, I thought you said your favorite movie was Indiana Jones,” Whitney scoffs.
“It is.”
She frowns. “Sir, wind doesn’t slam its fists on doors and shake the handle. Someone’s out there trying to get in.”
I huff out a laugh. “Take it easy there, Lost City. Last I checked, you weren’t a romance writer with books mapping out locations of ancient treasures.”
Whitney doesn’t even chuckle at that one.
I watch as her entire demeanor changes. She goes from the soft, relaxed woman quietly taking up residence in my heart to guarded action heroine. First, she pulls out her apple, palming it like a fruity grenade. Which reminds me, I’ve got one too.
Pulling mine out, I take a loud bite, and she actually shushes me. “Well, why don’t you just tell them we’re in here? How can you eat now?”
Laughter hijacks my gasp.
“Are you for real? Who exactly is them? What do you think is happening?” I ask, stupidly watching as she unwraps a dish towel with two paring knives that might as well be freaking machetes.
“Whoa…” I stumble backward, chuckling. “Hello? Wind, rain, storm watch. Any of this ringing a bell? Things are bound to get thrown around outside.”
“You’re not getting it.” She lets out a humorless laugh.
And again, what?
“Listen, this is a precast concrete building hidden a few feet into the brush and secured with a key, a code, and a retina scanner. Even if there were someone out there, and there’s not, no one is getting in here.”
She busies herself, handing me a knife and fishing her phone out her other pocket. “Clearly, you haven’t watched enough action or horror movies.”
“Oh my goodness. You’re acting like this is DEFCON 1 and you’ve been called to duty.” I’m genuinely concerned how this escalated so fast. “No one’s outside—”
The lights go out.
“You were saying?”
As if she’s been training for this, she taps her phone screen and starts wildly swiping.
This bunker has a backup generator. That means, at any second, the power should kick back on, we’ll realize some debris got knocked into the door, we completely overreacted, and everything will return to normal.
But not this woman.
Instead, hidden amongst her survival tools, somehow, she just so happens to have a night-vision app readily available.
Go figure. You know, on the off chance there’s a deranged intruder—no, correction, an eccentric, money-crazed fictional billionaire—who’s stalked us to this remote bunker on a private island.
“Who exactly do you think is out there?” I ask.
Whitney turns to me, her face illuminated only by the faint green glow from her phone.
She’s all brusque, frantic… and annoyingly gorgeous, mind you.
Not at all rational, which is what I was hoping for.
Not thinking about the kiss question that seems intent on evading us, no. But like an armed assassin.
“Follow me,” she says quietly, conspiratorially.
Not that I’ve got much choice, since I left my phone in the main residence and she’s got the only light available. So I follow her, taking careful, but rushed, steps toward the back of the bunker until we’re both crouched down behind the paneled rack—staring at a shadow-streaked portrait of Sherry.
“Warner, you’re not putting the pieces together,” she whispers, focus centered on the door up front. “You had an attempted break-in at your house, right?”
“Yeah.” I’m still confused, but listening.
“Well, the night of Corinne’s art exhibition, we learned that someone had been in my gallery’s back storage area rifling through paintings. Nothing was taken…” She starts coring her apple with long, skilled slices. “Then your flight attendant’s sick. The landing gear fails…”
My heart drops. “Wait, you think someone tampered with the plane?”