The Dirty Secret Read Online Free PDF Page A

the ceiling. The eclectic collection spanned centuries, a props master’s wet dream.
    She itched to paint the grubby walls museum white with glazes of warm age and patina, encouraging the urge to touch, to rub the dust off treasures to see the secret value underneath.
    “Mr. Luna?” she called.
    “Vessa!” Her landlord pushed through the double doors sectioning off the back room. He was a gentleman of a more fashionable time, with a marvelous Salvador Dali mustache. His silk shirt collar lay open an extra button, showing off a gold medallion of the Lady of Guadalupe, the moon at her feet, surrounded by sunrays.
    “Did you get moved in? Do you need anything?” His voice hooted like a dented trombone.
    “Everything is wonderful, thank you,” she said. “The little sink in the window, the one full of rubber ducks—is that for sale?”
    “Everything in my store is for sale, chica . Even me, if the price is right. But what do you need a barber’s sink for?”
    “It’s for a job, not for the loft.”
    “The pizza place needs a sink?”
    “Mr. Luna, we both know waiting tables won’t cover the rent of your— my —marvelous apartment. The sink is for a painting gig. Well, decorating. A house, not a set, but it’s a great way to get a pro credit on my resume, and hopefully bulk up my portfolio, and your little sink would be perfect.”
    “Call me Manny. And if you promise to bring me a sausage and mushroom Sicilian, I’ll give you a discount.” He handed her a ceramic bedpan with Elvis Presley’s signature on the side. “For the ducks.”
    She dusted the rubber bath toys off on the skirt of her dress before setting them in the chamber pot. She was giddy, caught up in the designer’s headspace of color and atmosphere and possibility, mentally sampling color schemes on the wall of the unpainted bathroom. The tiny lavatory was tucked up under the stairs, and had a high slanted ceiling, drawing the eye upward. The entire house was the same, with long windows and the fairy-tale roof, much like the architect, tower tall with his enigmatic eyes and distraught hair.
    She’d paint him in vertical stripes the width of his tie, black and white with a wash of blue, royal and slightly sad. He’d stood so stiff in his clothes, as if he didn’t know what to do with his hands, ill at ease until he spoke about his house and the type of woman he’d built it for. He hadn’t asked her any questions, professional or personal, and Vessa had been relieved at his lack of interest. She didn’t need anyone’s curiosity, not yet.
    He wanted a room with a feminine personality, even sensual, he’d said. She wiped a cobweb off the mirror of an antique medicine chest. What would a man like Killian find sexy?
    * * *
    Killian made his way to the back of the bar. A single couple swayed on the twenty-by-twenty-foot dance floor to an old rock song his father liked. The mirror ball scattered silver light, reminding him of the sparkle stuff on Vessa Ratham’s eyelids.
    She’d looked like she stepped out of one of those intellectual art magazines from Europe, disheveled and remote, ultra-feminine, her dark tousled hair streaked with violet and light blue. He’d stood on the doorstep, dumbstruck, no time to put his shoes on. She’d taken her shoes off, too, like it was natural, a courteous thing to do.
    Donna Edith had been right—she was fascinating, but also private. The way she tilted her head when she listened, her eyes hidden in the makeup and her hair...it was all body language saying it would be rude to ask her to reveal too much. He’d not asked her anything personal, like how old she was or where she was from, where she’d gone to college or if she had a boyfriend.
    He’d seen into her once, in that moment upstairs, when she’d spun around in the sun with her arms out. She had been every woman he’d designed that room for, the princess in the tower, the witch at an altar, the widow in solitude. She’d caught him gaping,