Collection (2 page)

She headed to her usual seat in her usual gallery. It was the exact same place where she had first seen him, and so this is where she waited. The wandering guards now knew her by sight and didn't bother to hover around her anymore. They knew she would just sit and sketch for hours without making any suspicious moves towards defacing the art.

The gallery had changed a little with the new exhibit, but Jane still remembered every moment of her brief encounter with her mystery man several weeks ago. Expecting a boring day at the museum, Jane had kept her headphones on for most of their trip. She was engrossed with her sketching, but when she saw him, she couldn't resist a closer look and sat down a couple of feet away. She was finished with a quick study of the bronze lion they were both viewing, and she turned her attention to him. As carefully and surreptitiously as she could, she managed to draw him also. It was slightly less forward than taking a picture of him with her cell phone, and maybe a little less aggressive. Maybe.

He was definitely tall, even sitting down, Jane could tell that. He was reclined with his arms behind him supporting his weight. He had broad shoulders and his white button down shirt revealed a little of the impressive chest that lay underneath. He was wearing khaki pants and brown leather work boots, all of which looked a bit worn but well cared for. He had to be 25 years old at the most, but Jane couldn't tell. When she started to fill in his face, she found her glances started to border on a wide-eyed stare. She tried to focus on the drawing and filled in a strong jaw and cheekbones. The eyebrows were a little unruly - expressive. His eyes were medium brown, probably dark sienna if she had to pick a paint color for them. His hair was longish and a lighter shade of brown with lighter ends as though he'd been in the sun. She was trying to look everywhere but straight at him, but his eyes never deviated from the bronze on the central
pedestal of the exhibit. As much as Jane was concentrating on him, he was focused on the sculpture. He was following every contour, and Jane wondered what it would be like to be the object of his undivided attention. She forced her own eyes to the sculpture to try to figure out what was so interesting. The bronze lion was rearing from a snake that was poised to strike from the ground near its leg. The muscles of the animals were twisted and tensed but frozen, the next second of motion was surely death for one or the other.

“Do you like it?”

Jane looked up at The Guy and hurriedly removed her earphones. “What? Sorry…” He smiled and repeated the question Jane had heard the first time.

“Do you like it?” He angled his perfectly formed face toward the bronze, and then right back at her. His eyes. She was not prepared for them. Those were the eyes of the guy that listened to your problems (with humor when necessary,) of a guy who said “I love you” without any fear, and a guy with utter confidence in his ability to make a woman climax, repeatedly. He was The Guy.

Jane looked back at the lion hoping an intelligent reply would spontaneously emerge from her lips, “I think that snake is toast.” He smiled, a small grin that showed only at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, the little guy always has a fighting chance.”

Jane paused and tried to think of something else to say that wouldn't make her seem like a tourist. “It's very powerful. I like the expressiveness of the form. It's very vigorous, I guess.” Jane realized she'd been using her hands to gesture wildly and self-consciously put them in her lap with her fingers tightly interlaced.

“Yeah. You know it was very difficult to cast a bronze of this size and detail given the technology of the time. It's still difficult to get it just right even today. It takes a lot of effort.” Jane was entranced by his voice. She remembered something her mother had told her about men with husky voices and bad intentions, but it didn't seem particularly helpful at this point. She continued to look at the bronze, not trusting herself to look at his eyes again without gaping. She wanted to keep talking to him, and listen to that voice and imagine those eyes looking at hers with familiarity and maybe something more. Sadie always said that the best way to hold a man's attention was to appeal
to his natural conceit. Actually, she'd said, “Talk about him, him, him, blah, blah, blah, then he buys you dinner.” Jane tried to think of a question that might engage him.

“Are you an art student also? I mean, I'm here with my Art History class from Branley to look at the exhibit for an assignment.”

She could tell that he'd turned toward her. His answer seemed guarded. “No, I'm not an art student, but I am a fan. I come to most of the new exhibits here.”

Just as Jane was warming up to the conversation, her art history professor appeared at her elbow. Professor Corlyn was the best teacher Jane had ever had. She was artistic, she wore improbably cool hemp overalls, and she blasted rap and alternative music during studio time. Her students loved her, and one of the perks of being a campus favorite was that she could make her students do just about anything.

“Jane, we're loading up. If you haven't drawn it by now, you never will. Be on the bus in five minutes or you're hitching home.” She disappeared towards the exit in a flurry of dark dreads and the scent of patchouli. Professor Corlyn was patient with Jane's tendency to lose focus on the task at hand, but only to a point.

Jane started to gather her things. She risked a glance at him. “You know, I wonder if the real one is as impressive.” The Guy smiled oddly.

“What do you mean ‘the real one'?”

Jane grimaced as she shoved her sketchbook into her bag. “The original bronze. This one's a copy. It's good, but it's not the genuine article.”

The Guy looked much more serious. “How do you know it's a copy?”

Jane realized she had talked herself into a corner. If she said too much she would be the “weird girl.” She didn't want to be the weird girl this time, not to this guy. She hesitated.

“Well, it's got that ‘new bronze' smell, I guess.” Lame! She tried to cover herself with a more rational explanation. “You know, a lot of museums put out copies. I've seen quite a few. I'm sure it has something to do with the insurance risk or whatever. What your admission-paying public doesn't know won't hurt them, I guess.”

The Guy looked back intently at the bronze, and leaned forward; he was very concerned now. It was like he was trying to see through it, trying to see what she was talking about, but couldn't explain.

Jane stammered. “Don't feel cheated or anything. Seriously, most people don't even realize it, so I guess it's just a good business practice.”

He looked at Jane intently now, as if he wanted to say more, but Jane was saved by the return of her teacher.

“You. Bus. Now.” Professor Corlyn pointed her finger and arched her right eyebrow in an unmistakable sign of displeasure. Jane decided not to press her luck given the approach of finals. Jane wanted to ask him his name or at least give him hers, but she just blurted “Bye” and ran after her professor. Professor Corlyn strode quickly and smoothly to the bus as Jane fumbled after her. The professor could beat Jane on gracefulness any day despite Jane's advantage of height and youth. Jane caught up to her and apologized for hanging back. As she entered the parking garage, she looked behind her in nagging regret. Nothing exciting ever happened to Jane.

2

CICERO WOKE UP SUDDENLY
and out of breath. The room was pitch black, but it would be with the windows covered with several layers of blackout drapes. He rolled over onto his side and looked at the alarm clock. It was noon, or midnight. Cicero stretched in bed and seriously considered staying there for another several days, or weeks. However, Lucien was counting on him to be up and about by the time he returned. As a general rule, Cicero didn't always do what his brother asked, but this time he was going to make the effort.

He pulled the dark blue satin sheets off, sat up, and turned on the bedside lamp. He was just getting used to his room after being gone for so long, and he wanted to make sure he didn't stumble or walk into a wall in the dark. Overconfidence had gotten him into trouble in the past, and in worse ways than navigating a dark room. Toes stubbed on bedsteads were nothing compared to the fallout from his more spectacular gaffes. He smiled. For the first time in a very long time, he wasn't the screw up. Lucien had fallen from grace. Just a little, but enough for Cicero to enjoy a touch of schadenfreude, and require a relocation to Atlanta to look after his newly wayward brother. That was why he was now groping around an unfamiliar room in the middle of the night…or day. Either way, he'd rather not turn on the light. The dark was better than seeing the flouncy decor. Lucien and Cicero had their own rooms wherever they had houses to further their business. Cicero visited most of them at least once a year. This one was not his favorite. It was far too fussy for his taste, but he didn't have to spend a lot of time here.

He tried to remember what had woken him. The setting of his dream was almost gone from his memory, but he knew that something
in his sleeping mind had forced him into waking. It was something violent, something that scared him. He hadn't been afraid in a long time, and the feeling was uncomfortable. Finally, after failing to reconstruct the dream, he decided that it wasn't important. Cicero believed that mysteries benefited greatly from not being explained. What little joy he got from life lay in the bits that he still couldn't understand. Every day he was more aware of how few of those bits remained to him. He felt old.

Naked, Cicero finally got his bearings and wandered over to the en suite bathroom. The large bedroom was outfitted with antiques and demonstrated the richness of the owner's taste and experience. If that owner was born three hundred years ago. Lucien had an affinity for stuffiness; a characteristic Cicero tried to dissuade at every opportunity. Unfortunately, Lucien was as stubborn as his twin. They would inevitably remain at an impasse on home decor as well as a number of other subjects until one or the other forgot what they were fighting about and eased into unknowing accord.

Seeing an opportunity for compromise, Cicero had insisted on a change in style to the bathroom in “his” room when they had recently renovated the plumbing. It was now minimal and uncomplicated; a welcome emptiness from the ornate jumble of brocade, silk, and velvet in the bedroom. There were no spindly-legged tables or uncomfortable chairs here. Polished black granite covered most of the surfaces and gleamed from the conscientious efforts of the housekeepers. The chrome fixtures glowed in the dim lights. There were no baubles here to distract and the steam shower cleared his mind as he stepped into it.

His body contradicted the age Cicero felt. He looked to be about twenty-five years old, tan, and muscled as if he worked for a living. The kind of work that Cicero did required muscle, but more importantly, brains. He had been in too many tight spots where muscles weren't nearly as useful as his mental acuity. He had seen too many men fail when they lived by the “might makes right” philosophy. In this way, Cicero and his brother were very much alike. They didn't like to get into a situation that they couldn't get out of peacefully. An amicable resolution to conflict was desired, but they usually settled for “without injury.” Sometimes that required a little creativity on their part, but most of the time they could make it work. Lucien had recently gotten
into a situation where this wasn't the case, and he had paid for it. Now, Cicero was an unenthusiastic babysitter for a grown man.

Lucien wasn't completely recovered, and Cicero would help him. They might not always get along, but they were brothers. The Magnolia House, the Atlanta arm of their firm, called him in for help when Lucien failed to check in while on a business trip. So, with great reluctance, they had called Cicero. He'd taken the first flight to China, and found Lucien in bad shape. That was several weeks ago, and Cicero had nursed him through the worst of it. Now, Lucien was physically okay. Mentally, he wasn't one hundred percent yet. This was dangerous. Both brothers knew that in their business, they couldn't afford a moment of inattention or complacency. Together, they were much stronger than when they were apart. They also tended to fight like cats and dogs when they were in the same room, another symptom brought on by proximity.

When Lucien was well enough to talk, Cicero had spoken to him in private. He wanted to know how Lucien could have been careless enough to get caught by inexpert thugs, and then held captive for weeks. He had asked just one question, “Why?” Lucien had answered, “Why not?” Even now, Cicero wasn't sure Lucien even wanted to get better. What was the use of helping someone who just didn't care about himself? If he had been anyone else, Cicero would have left Atlanta and returned to London to continue his life there. Since it was Lucien, he would stay for as long as he was needed, even if it was a question of years.

If it was going to be a while before he moved back to London, he was going to have to redecorate the bedroom. It was fine for a proper English gentleman of the 18th Century, but not for Cicero. He got out of the shower and stared at his face in the mirror. He and his brother were identical, and seeing his brother's face stare back at him made him angry.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

His mirror image didn't answer, and he splashed hot water on his beard. Cicero's shaving kit cost five hundred dollars, was made with the finest materials, and had the sharpest blade available. This didn't prevent him from cutting himself due to distraction. The cut was deep, but only bled for an instant, and then sealed up without a trace. Cicero sighed as he blotted the orphan drop of red on his chin. It was going to be one of those days.

3

JANE HADN'T BEEN ABLE
to conceal her feelings when Professor Corlyn had put her arm around Jane's shoulder as they walked away from The Guy towards the waiting bus. It felt like she was leaving a theater early and missing the end of the movie. Professor Corlyn wasn't entirely oblivious to the emotions roiling in Jane's mind, so she spoke up to comfort her. “That's okay Jane, I was your age once, too. I've wasted time on men before. By the looks of that guy, he was definitely worth the time.” She grinned and practically bounced onto the bus.