Shelter Me: A Shelter Novel by Stephanie Tyler Read Free Book Online

texted Brayden to let him know I was home safe—and that I was going to work. That wasn't all avoidance, because I was itching to draw and I barely got through the door and punched the alarm code before I was grabbing for my supplies. I curled up on the couch before anything else could distract me, knowing I had to let it all out.
    My emotions were all still wrapped up in Lucas and would be until I could release them, purge them, and forget them.
    As if , a small, cynical part of me chided, which I ignored in favor of sweeping marks across the page with my eyes practically closed, remembering every inch of him. I let my confusion and leftover lust pour into the sketch, defining his biceps and lats and tattoos from memory, working feverishly, as though everything depended on it.
    I sketched him in charcoal, his arms, his chest, bare back, what I could remember of the individual tattoos I tried to memorize while he slept. There were so many of them, intricately connected but obviously each a masterpiece unto itself. His biceps held more of the single pieces that were still connected by scrollwork, each tattoo a standout but yet managing to fade into a pattern.
    I drew faster.
    Skull.
    Wings.
    Dice.
    Ace of spades.
    I slowed when I got to his backpiece, an intricate work in grayscale, masculine yet delicately exquisite. It reminded me of something, but like my memories, the harder I tried to grab it the slipperier it got.
    When I was done, I was exhausted but nowhere near satiated. Far from exorcizing my desire for Lucas, it had only served to make it worse. Annoyed, I left the sketchbook on the kitchen table, put on a pot of coffee and then headed for the shower, so I could stop pretending the smell of Lucas wasn't driving me crazy.
    When I came out, I dressed quickly in a T-shirt and leggings, but a strange sense washed over me, as if the energy in the apartment had been disturbed. The alarm was still armed, and after a quick check to make sure I was most definitely alone, I focused on the flowers. I'd registered them briefly when I'd first come in, a variety of vases gathered in the living room along the windowsill, and I'd assumed they'd been delivered to the gallery for me and brought here by Brayden.
    Upon closer inspection, I noticed, among the other, more arranged bouquets, a small vase of daffodils that looked as if they'dcome freshly picked, not from a flower shop. Even so, there was a small, white card with a typed message that simply read: Great show.
    Unlike the others, this card was plain white with no flower shop insignia. Maybe someone brought it to the gallery last night and Brayden dropped it by here. But could it be a coincidence that I'd found daffodils in here last night?
    I jumped at the sudden, harsh sound of the buzzer, as someone pushed it intensely and several times in a row to get my attention. I quickly shoved the daffodils back so they were semi-buried behind the other flowers and went to the intercom.
    Was it wrong that more than a small part of me was hoping it was Lucas? Ridiculous. I'd survived approximately twenty-four yearswithout relying on a relationship and now, in just over twenty-four hours after meeting Lucas, I was unable to shake him from my brain.
    An image flashed of him pinning me against the wall, followed quickly by one of me entangled in his sheets. Heat coursed through my body. I shook it off and pressed the intercom button.
    "Ryn Taylor? This is Private Detective Dan Turner. I'm an investigator with the insurance company Brayden Hamilton hired to protect your art in his gallery."
    I vaguely recalled Brayden mentioning Turner, back when my painting had first been stolen, but that was years ago. Why was he here now? And why for me? "Is there a problem?"
    "It's an ongoing investigation, but I need to speak with you directly."
    I hesitated but then buzzed him in. He wasn't technically law enforcement, but he also wasn't paparazzi and still I was a little—okay, a lot —unsettled