Free Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1) by Ani Keating

usual. He stands taller, tenser, more angular—as though every cell in his body is straining to contain a force within. This is not the dragon. This is whatever dragons are afraid of.
    “Elisa.” He does not give me his customary nod, and his voice is Kasia-cold. Thinking of Kasia, I realize why he is livid. Feign must have torpedoed the painting.
    “Mr. Hale. This is a nice surprise. Have you been waiting long?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’m sorry, I had no idea you were coming. Is everything all right?”
    “There are about seventeen answers to that question in a dichotomous key, Elisa.”
    Heat burns my cheeks—nothing less than I deserve—so I start to babble. “That bad, huh? May I recommend hot chocolate instead of sangria? The theobromine—”
    “Why is Brett Feign trying to convince me to use his protégé, Harvey Sellers, for your painting?” His voice cuts me off like an ice blade.
    Bollocks! Sweat gathers in my armpits and my stomach clenches violently. He must have offered Feign an enormous amount of money for Feign to take this risk. But I can’t take any chances with Javier’s life—even if my instincts tell me that Hale would not hurt him.
    “What do you mean?” I hedge, wishing for nothing more than a Margaret Thatcher voice but sounding instead like Snow White by the wishing well.
    He gazes at me until I reach potassium. Then something changes in his eyes. They lose their icy regard and zoom in on my face like a camera lens.
    “What are you hiding, Elisa?” he asks. The change is there in his voice too. For the first time, it is not cold. It’s calculating, with a warm undercurrent.
    In that moment, I want to tell him my secret. I want to tell him everything about me. But I can’t form the words, and I finally understand why. Because the moment Hale knows, it becomes real. He has become the fantasy, just like this land once was. And he will be one more thing I have to lose.
    “I don’t know why Feign is asking you to use Harvey Sellers.” I can’t look at him and lie, so I start worrying my camera’s strap around my wrist.
    “Maybe you know this then. Why is there no record of anyone named Harvey Sellers anywhere? No personnel files, no bank accounts, no driver’s licenses, no addresses, no credit reports, nothing. It’s almost…as if he does not exist.” He speaks in a steady, measured tone—the way a chess player moves the pawns before playing the queen.
    “In fact, Elisa, the dearth of information on Harvey Sellers is even more absolute than information about you. Then I remembered you said that CIS keeps immigration records sealed. So I became suspicious, Elisa. Very suspicious.”
    He lowers his head and his eyes come level with mine. Moth and flame. I can’t even blink. When I don’t say anything, he goes on.
    “But then last night, I found my clue in the most unexpected place.” He pauses again, and I sense he just played his queen. My breathing grows shallow and I think wildly of a hummingbird with broken wings. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”
    I shake my head.
    “Don’t you? Well, let me see if I can help you. I remembered what Kasia Moss told me the very first time I laid eyes on you. Do you remember?”
    “I remember seeing you.” I say the only truthful thing I have spoken for a while.
    If he heard the softness of my voice, he shows no sign. “Kasia Moss said that the artist uses only black, white and gray in his paintings. Is that ringing any bells?”
    I nod.
    “Imagine my surprise when I saw those very same colors staining the T-shirt of your tango partner, Javier Solis , last night.”
    Checkmate! Javier’s paint stains—I never thought they would be the telltale clues.
    “Can you explain the coincidence, Elisa?”
    “No, I cannot.” I speak the truth because I really can’t explain. It is not my secret to tell.
    He nods as if he already anticipated my answer. “Why is it that a woman with a four-point-oh GPA, who has invented a highly