We walk into the living area and he turns toward me. “Sit down, baby, I need to tell you something.”
I drop to the couch without question.
Thump, thump, thump sounds my pulse in my ears.
He goes to his overnight bag and takes out a large, yellow envelope and passes it to me. “Images of Harriet Boucher.”
“Who?” I frown.
“The artist I was looking for, these are the images that were sent to me from the private investigator.”
“Why would I want to see who she is, haven’t you hurt me enough with her?” I spit.
“Open it,” he demands.
“I don’t—”
“Open it,” he barks.
I open the envelope and pull out the large A4-sized photographs, and I frown.
It’s Elanor.
I flick through them—image after image of Elanor. Black and white, color, different locations.
I shake my head, confused. “I don’t understand.”
He passes me a white envelope. “These are the paintings I have bought at auction.”
I screw up my face; what the fuck is he going on about? “Elliot, I don’t—”
“Open it,” he barks.
Jeez, psycho . . . I open the envelope and my eyes widen. I flick through the images, confusion takes me over. I know these paintings . . . I did these paintings.
My eyes rise to meet his.
“All those years, all that time . . . it was you,” he whispers.
Goosebumps scatter up my spine.
He drops to his knees on the floor in front of me, takes my hands in his. “It was you who was calling me through those paintings.”
My eyes well with tears as my world spins on its axis.
“It’s always been you,” he whispers. “I knew in my heart that I was called to them for a reason. It’s you, Kate, you are the reason.”
I drop my head, overwhelmed. “I don’t . . . how . . . I mean . . .” I look up at him. “How did this happen?” I whisper. “I don’t understand.”
“Brad and I have pieced this together.”
“Brad?” I frown. “Brad knows about this?”
He nods and leans up and kisses me tenderly as if to soften the blow, but I can’t feel it. I’m numb.
“Elanor cleared out your parents’ house to hide a crime.”
My eyes hold his.
“She had been selling your old paintings from the attic at auctions using a pseudonym. And she knew that once you and Brad cleared out your parents’ house, her crime would be discovered.”
Horror dawns.
“What she didn’t count on, was that one particular art collector, me, would become obsessed with the paintings and hire a private investigator to find her.”
My chest rises and falls as I scramble for air.
“And she would have gotten away with it, too. If she hadn’t got greedy and wanted the fame that my name delivered.”
Elanor is the artist he met in France?
“She agreed to meet with the full intention of seducing me, but what she didn’t count on was that I was already in love with someone else, and I wanted nothing to do with her plan.”
I put my head into my hands. “Elliot,” I whisper.
He hugs me and pulls my head to his. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
A thought comes to me and I pull back to look at him. “How much did you pay for those paintings?”
He puffs air into his cheeks. “Around twenty million dollars.”
I put my hands over my mouth as my eyes widen in horror. “You idiot. Daniel is completely right, you do have more money than sense. They’re abysmal, Elliot.”
His face softens, then he smiles and chuckles.
“I would have given you those paintings for free,” I scoff. “Hell, I would have paid you to take them away.”
He tips his head back and laughs hard, as if the weight of the world has been lifted.
“Oh no.” I stand as another thought comes to me. “What about Elanor?”
He falls silent, his eyes hold mine.
“Elliot, what about Elanor?”
“She will be dealt with by the law.”
“No.” My chest tightens. “I don’t want . . .”
He takes my hands in his. “We’ll talk about Elanor on Monday,” he says sternly.
“Monday?”
“For now”—he kisses me softly—“I just want to talk about us.” He kisses me again as he holds my head to his. “Can we just fix us before we worry about your witch of a sister?”
Elliot Miles calling Elanor a witch brings an unexpected smile to my face, and I know it shouldn’t, but it does.
“You think this is funny?” He smiles as his lips take mine; he walks forward and I walk back.
“This just confirms what I always knew,” I reply.
“What’s that?” He smiles against me.
“You are an idiot.”
In one sharp movement, he bends and throws me over his shoulder. I laugh out loud and he slaps my behind. “Where’s your bedroom, wench? You’re about to get it.”
“Aren’t you all wanked out?” I laugh as I hang upside down. “I saw the blisters.”
“Behave.” He slaps my behind again.
He carries me into the bedroom and throws me on the bed, and I bounce as I land.