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As she fled, she asked herself how she could make any promises to him at all. Because she’d built a web of lies she didn’t know how to tear down.
San Holo painted in near darkness, only one small lamp lit in the studio. But Saskia couldn’t bear to look at herself in the long cheval mirror she used for self-portraits. Not that anyone would have recognized her from any of those paintings.
The lies ate her up from the inside out. She’d seen the hurt in Clay’s eyes when she’d left. Clearly, she’d blindsided him.
But if she’d stayed, they would have made love. She simply couldn’t stomach being intimate with him again while she fed him lies. Not when it felt like so much more than just sex. She craved his touch, but her lies and her guilt would crush her right there in his bed.
She wanted to tell him. She would never feel clean on the inside if she didn’t. She couldn’t make love with him because he’d want to know why tears came to her eyes afterward. But how could she tell him, knowing he’d never forgive her?
She studied her work, all blacks and browns and streaks of gray. Dark and ugly, reflecting the dark of her soul, the guilt of her lies. She grabbed a can of black spray paint, obliterating the entire canvas.
Pacing back and forth, she wore down the studio’s hardwood floor. Then she threw herself into a chair, stared out the window at a streetlight. Repeated the actions—pacing, staring, flinging herself into that chair.
Fog rolled in, muting the streetlight. Muting her whole being.
She wasn’t sure she could even paint again. All her lies would steal her talent. Steal San Holo from her.
The only person she’d ever trusted with her secret was Adrian. But then, she’d known Adrian since she was sixteen. Adrian had seen her grow from a nameless street artist to Lynx to San Holo. Saskia had known Clay only a week—eight days, to be exact. She’d even thought he could be a dirty rotten scoundrel like Hugo.
But that week had shown her how different he was from her first impression. Her gut and her heart believed every word his artists told her. She believed in what Dylan said. She believed in what Clay had done tonight, researching all the resources he could offer them. Even asking Dylan for his opinion.
She believed in Clay.
But if she believed in him, didn’t that mean she had to trust him one thousand percent? The way she trusted Adrian?
The thought was like a sledgehammer to her stomach.
She did trust Clay. The way all his artists did. The way Gareth did. The way Dylan did.
One thousand percent.
She had to tell him. No matter what his reaction was, he deserved the truth. So did Dylan. She wouldn’t even run it by Adrian. For the first time in five years, she would put her heart before her art.
Even if Clay hated her once he knew.
Clay paced his loft from one end to the other.
She’d left. Had he done something wrong, pushed her too hard about San Holo’s identity? Did work always have to come before everything else? Or could he lead with his heart and give up the hunt for once in his life?
Yes, he’d promised Dylan. But he was coming to realize that finding out who San Holo was had been all about his desire to win. Maybe winning wasn’t everything.
Unless it was winning Saskia’s heart.
He almost texted her. Almost called her. Almost raced to her.
But he didn’t even know where she lived, except that her home was somewhere in the Haight. He blamed himself for that too. Everything had been about him—his warehouses, his artists, his promise to uncover San Holo. He’d never asked anything about her life outside of her job. Because that was all that mattered to him. That and getting her into his bed.
No wonder she needed a break. He’d driven her away.
He sent her only one text then, because she’d been clear about needing space tonight.
Whenever you’re ready, let’s talk. He didn’t even beg for an answer.
When she was ready, he vowed, he’d tell her she’d become more important to him than anyone or anything else.
Chapter Eighteen
Rather than make the long drive to Pebble Beach after last night’s family mastermind, then all the way back again for the Maverick birthday party on Sunday, Dane and Camille stayed at the Nob Hill flat. As did Gabrielle.