Chapter 7
The Metropolitan Museum of Art was crowded for a Thursday afternoon. Joanna moved through the Great Hall with her coat clutched tight, her eyes scanning the crowd for a face she wasn't sure she could forget even if she tried.
She found him in the European paintings wing, standing in front of a Caravaggio she didn't recognize. He didn't look at her when she approached, but she saw the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his head tilted to track her reflection in the glass.
"You're late."
"I'm here." She stopped three feet away, close enough to smell him, far enough to pretend she could still escape. "What do you want?"
He turned. Today he was in a charcoal suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone. He looked like what he was-wealth, power, the kind of man who moved through the world expecting it to bend to his will.
"I want to understand." He gestured to the painting behind him. "Do you know this one?"
Joanna glanced at it. A woman, young, beautiful, holding a sword and a severed head. Judith Slaying Holofernes. "I know the story. She killed him to save her people."
"She killed him because he wanted to possess her." Cain's eyes were on her face, not the painting. "Because he thought her body was his right. Because he couldn't imagine that she might have her own desires. Her own will."
"Is that supposed to be you? The victim?"
His mouth curved. "I'm many things, Joanna. But I'm not Holofernes. I don't want to possess you against your will." He stepped closer. She held her ground. "I want you to want me. I want you to admit that what happened between us was real. That it meant something."
"It was sex." Joanna's voice was harsh, too loud for the quiet gallery. A docent glanced over, frowning. She lowered her voice. "It was one night. It doesn't have to mean anything."
"Then why did you run?"
"Because-" She stopped. Because you scared me. Because I wanted you too much. Because I knew that if I stayed, I would lose myself in you completely.
"Because you're a control freak who thinks he can order people around," she finished. "Because I don't want to be someone's possession. Not yours. Not anyone's."
Cain was silent for a long moment. Then he reached into his pocket, withdrew something small and silver. A phone. He held it out to her.
"Take this."
Joanna didn't move. "I have a phone."
"Take it." He pressed it into her hand, his fingers warm against her palm. "It's programmed with one number. Mine. You can call me anytime. Day or night. If you need something. If you want something. If you just-" He stopped. Started again. "If you just want to talk."
Joanna looked at the phone. It was sleek, expensive, the kind of device that cost more than her monthly rent. "I don't want your gifts."
"It's not a gift. It's a lifeline." He stepped back, putting space between them. "I'm not going to force you, Joanna. I'm not going to show up at your apartment, your work, your dinner dates. Not unless you want me to."
"Why would I want that?"
"Because you're as alone as I am." The words were soft. Almost gentle. "Because you spent last night with a stranger rather than face another evening in that cramped apartment with your judgmental roommate. Because-" He reached out, his hand finding her chin, tilting her face up to his. "Because when I touched you, you lit up like you'd been waiting your whole life for someone to see you. Really see you."
Joanna jerked away. The phone was heavy in her hand, a chain she didn't want but couldn't seem to drop.
"I have to go."
"Keep the phone." He didn't follow her. "And Joanna?"
She stopped. Didn't turn around.
"The next time a man like Daniel Morrison puts you in a position where you feel you have to meet him for dinner just to draw a line, you call me instead. I'll draw the line for you."
She walked away. Through the galleries, down the stairs, out into the cold November air. The phone burned in her pocket like a brand.
She didn't throw it away. She told herself it was because she couldn't afford to replace it if she needed to call for help. Because it was practical. Because she was being smart.
She didn't admit, not even to herself, that she'd already memorized the number programmed into it. That she'd checked, twice, to make sure it was really there.
That some part of her, the part she'd been trying to kill since she was sixteen, wanted him to be right.
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