Evan was watching me intently. “Something happened. Something about the time that he changed his will. What?”
I glanced down at the table. “I fucked up. Jahn helped me out.” I lifted my head to look at Evan, and realized he was a little blurry. I blinked, and was mortified when I felt a tear snake down my cheek. “Shit,” I said as I brushed it away. “I just—I felt bad. I think the notebook was Jahn’s way of telling me it was all okay.”
“Angie—”
He was reaching for me, but I pushed back from the table and stood up, determined to get this conversation back on track. As in, not about me or my secrets. “So why you?” I said brightly.
“What do you mean?”
“Why was he going to leave it to you? Wouldn’t it make more sense to leave it to Cole?” I’d turned to the coffeepot as I spoke, but I caught a sharp movement in my peripheral vision, as if my words had jolted him.
“Why do you say that?” His voice was low and measured, and I had absolutely no idea what button I had pushed.
“Just because art is Cole’s thing. I mean, he did that whole internship in Rome, and he teaches classes at that community center.” I shrugged. “I dunno. It just made sense.”
“I suppose it does,” Evan said.
“So why did you want it?”
He focused on spreading cream cheese on the second half of his bagel, and for a moment I wasn’t sure he was going to answer. Then he said, “Because the notebook means something. It represents something huge.”
“The missing dragon shield, you mean? Or something more?” The story was that as a youth, Da Vinci had painted a fabulous dragon on a shield. It was so incredible that his father had not sold it to the original buyer, and it had disappeared into history. But I didn’t think that Evan was talking about a lost artifact.
“It’s a reflection of how Da Vinci looked at the world. He saw things that weren’t there. He looked beneath the surface. He looked at the world the way it really was, and it didn’t scare him.”
I stared at him in unabashed amazement.
“What?” he asked.
“It’s just—I can’t believe you said that. It’s exactly what I love about that notebook. About most of Da Vinci’s work, actually.”
The corner of his mouth curved up for just a moment before his features settled back into an expression of bland indifference.
I frowned. “Evan?”
“I want to buy the notebook from you, Angie.”
“You what?” Surely I hadn’t heard him right.
“I want the notebook. I need it. To be honest, I need it more than you do.” His voice was calm, like a businessman in the midst of negotiations.
I wasn’t calm at all. “Are you fucking kidding me? I just told you how much it means to me.”
“And it’s served its purpose. Whatever message Jahn was sending you, he delivered it. Giving me the notebook doesn’t change a thing.”
“It changes everything,” I said. And then—with the same shock as an unexpected slap in the face—I understood.
“Oh, shit.” With a jolt, I pushed back from the table, the screech of the chair against the tile underscoring the horror I felt. “You son of a bitch,” I shouted. “You fucking bastard! Is that why you changed your mind? Why you gave in at Destiny? Why you came here tonight? So you could try to seduce the damn notebook away from me?”
His face reflected shock, but I had no way of knowing if it was a reaction to my accusation or to being found out. And I was on too much of a roll to stop now.
“Well, fuck you, Evan Black. It’s mine.” I wanted to slap his face, but instead I grabbed my coffee cup and hurled it across the room. It shattered on the floor, sending dregs of coffee to splatter on the gray tiles and neutral beige walls.
I gasped, then turned to run from the room. I wanted to throw myself onto the bed and cry. I wanted to kick Evan Black in the balls. I wanted to race out of this building that right now felt so damn confining and just get lost.
I wanted to escape myself, but there was nowhere else to go and no one else to be.
And I couldn’t do any of that anyway, because Evan caught my arm and jerked me violently back to him. Then he clutched my other arm, as well. He held me there, his hands tight on my upper arms, as I battled down the urge to spit in his face.
“No,” he said. And then more forcefully, “Goddammit, Angie, no.”
I tried to shake free, but he held me tight. My arms, I was certain, would be bruised by morning.
“That is not why I’m here.” The ferocity in his voice slashed over me. “I’m here because I want you, dammit. Not because I want something from you.”
I wanted to believe it—I so desperately wanted to believe it—and yet how could I? I shook my head. “Bullshit, Evan. You promised my uncle that you wouldn’t do this. And you were damn sure willing to keep that promise—until you realized that I inherited the notebook.” I saw him flinch and knew that I’d struck a sound blow. “Kevin was right,” I said. “You’re only interested in yourself.”
“Do not—do not—bring that bastard into this conversation.”
“I’m not even going to have this conversation,” I said wearily. “Just get the hell out.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not going anywhere. Not until you listen to me.”
“I said to get out. I’m not kidding. Do you know how many panic buttons are hidden in this apartment? If you think I won’t push one—”
He tightened his grip on my arms, and I remembered the man I’d seen in the alley. The man who had so efficiently and ruthlessly pressed a knife to another man’s throat.
The truth was, unless he let me, I couldn’t push any button at all. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t call for help. I could do nothing but submit. And though I knew that empirically I should be afraid, I wasn’t. I was pissed off, sure, but I wasn’t afraid of this man. Not even a little.
“Push them all,” he said gently. “Kick me out, scream for Peterson. Do whatever the hell you have to. But listen to me first.”
I glared at him.
“Please,” he said, but it was his tone more than the plea that melted me.