“I’m all over that. Yeah, yeah, probably by nine. Really appreciate it, and tell Ari I owe him.” She laughed as she came to the top of the steps. “I don’t owe him that much. Later.”
She swiped off her phone, stuck it in her pocket as she saw Sasha and the easel.
“Hey, sorry. Didn’t know you were playing up here. I just got us . . . Wow.” She stopped in front of the canvas. “And let me repeat. Wow. That’s amazing.”
“It’s not quite finished.”
“You’re the boss, but it looks perfect to me. I Googled you, you know.”
“You did?”
“Oh, yeah, the first night. Wanted a sense of who was what. I brought up some of your paintings, and they were pretty great. But this? Alive and in person, it’s freaking awesome.”
“Thanks. I wanted to do something sunny, something clear and beautiful. Like cleansing the palate, I guess.” A thought struck her. “I’ll trade you.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll make you a trade for the painting if you want it.”
“I did enough digging to have an idea what an original Sasha Riggs goes for. But . . . I figure my firstborn’s a ways off, so that’s safe.”
Interested, she shoved her hands in her pockets, studied the painting again. Wanted it. “What did you have in mind?”
“Teach me to fight.”
“You want me to teach you to fight?”
“Today, in the cave, I froze. Now that I’ve calmed down, and finished my pity party, I accept that wasn’t altogether my fault.”
“A god had you by the throat, Sash. It’s give-yourself-a-break time.”
“Yeah, there was that. But my instinct right along was duck and cover, or run and hide. It wasn’t stand and fight. You had the gun, but now that I can look back on it, see it all more clearly than when it was exploding around me, you weren’t just shooting. You used your fists, your feet. Kicks and spins. And Annika . . .”
“Yeah, she had that whole Cirque du Soleil thing going.”
“And I just stood there because I don’t know how to fight, not physically fight. You could teach me.”
“You don’t have to give me the painting for me to teach you some basics.” Thumbs hooked in her pockets now, Riley studied the painting again. “But since I’m not an idiot, I’ll take it.”
“Can we start now? I just need to clean my brushes.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“But somewhere more private.”
“You should change into a T-shirt or a tank, something that gives you more room. Meet me in the olive grove around back.”
“All right. Thanks, Riley.”
“Hey, fun for me—plus the painting. I need a couple of things.”
She cleaned her brushes, knives, jars, exchanged her shirt for a black tank. By the time she got out to the grove, Riley was there, and pulling on leather gloves.
“Private enough?”
Sasha looked back at the villa. You could see if you looked, she thought, but she wouldn’t feel nearly as exposed as she would have on one of the terraces or on the lawn in front of the house.
“Yes. Just enough.”