The note had been a risk, an unplanned, spur-of-the-moment aberration, but standing in that conference room, seeing Caitlin Bergman’s naked pain, he knew he had to reach out and let her know she’d been seen. Even after the mad dash down the hall and the perfect synchronicity of happening upon the paper and envelopes, he’d almost dared to go one dangerous step further and sign his name. He’d calmed himself, content with the knowledge he’d meet her at the signing.

Seasoned, real mileage to her; sweat, not perfume; blood, not makeup; wrinkles everywhere. If you licked her skin, she’d taste like alcohol and daring.

How random. Six months back he’d heard an interview on National Public Radio about the reporter who had not only uncovered a human-trafficking ring run by cops but who’d had to fight her way out of the Hollywood mansion they’d turned into a brothel. He’d bought the book that week but had seen the notice for the signing on a campus light pole only two days back. Now he’d met the woman face to face.

Well, almost.

He stroked his goatee. He thought the facial hair made him look like a dork that spent time in coffee shops, loudly comparing whatever the baristas gave him to what he’d gotten that magical summer he’d spent in Italy—an easily forgotten man with some equally forgettable name—a real Chet Watkins.

He pulled the corner, slowly. The layer of latex under the hair came up as designed, leaving only his scars. He reached for the scar tissue on his neck, pulled it off, inch by inch. He hated to lose the last remnants of Chet, but he’d been seen and had to burn. However insignificant Chet’s half-beard might’ve seemed to casual observers, the damaged skin beneath gave them an additional reason to look away. Even a young woman he’d recognized from campus had walked by at the signing, with no more than a passing glance.

Not Caitlin Bergman. She’d noticed the raised tissue and returned his gaze.

Are you a collector? she’d asked.

In that second he thought she’d peered through his latex camouflage and seen the real him, maybe even knew the answer. Maybe he was that obvious.

Was he a collector?

He wanted to be, but knew how collections worked. They started small with simple, elegant pieces, then built to top-shelf items through judicial choices, no room for greed.

He grabbed his copy of Caitlin’s book, stared at her photo on the back cover, tapped his fingertip on her face. Might be a risk to keep the book, but he and Caitlin Bergman had shared a moment, and he’d learned that some moments meant everything.

Caitlin Bergman, I didn’t expect you. Didn’t plan for you. You’re out of my budget—for now.

Chapter 6

CHAPTER

6