Now You See Her (8 page)

“What?” The word was faint with surprise.

Candra laughed again. “Don't sound so shocked. I don't care if he has a lover, or ten lovers. I don't hate him; I don't wish him ill. I just want him to stop being so stubborn about the settlement so we can be finished with this and move on. If he were interested in someone, he might want to get the divorce finalized and out of the way so he would be free. I know Richard, I know how he is when he focuses on one woman.” For a moment Candra's voice softened, warmed with memory, and then she gave a little chuckle. “I had some
very
good times.”

Sweeney almost said Richard
had
asked her out. She wanted to ask exactly how good a time Richard showed a woman. For a moment the words lay on her tongue like ball bearings, ready to roll out. Caution made her swallow them. She had turned Richard down, so there was no point now in putting herself in the middle of this situation. Nor did she want to exchange girly talk on how good a lover Richard was, not that she knew or had any intention of knowing. She couldn't bear any more of this weird conversation, so she subtly changed the subject.

“I thought I would bring some new pieces to the gallery.” Then she grimaced; damn, why had she blurted that out? Why couldn't she have come up with something else? She didn't want anyone to see the mess her work had turned into.

Candra laughed. “Enough of Richard, huh?” She shifted into business mode. “I'd love to see your new work. I've been so worried about you; you haven't been producing the way you were before.”

“Oh, I've been producing,” Sweeney muttered.

“I know, you think it's crap. I admit, I've been consumed by curiosity, but I didn't want to push you. When can you bring them by? I want to be certain I'm here.”

She was committed, damn it. She glanced out the window to check the weather. “If it doesn't start raining again, how about this afternoon?”

“Wonderful. I don't have any appointments, so I'll be here. See you then.”

Sweeney hung up the phone, then hugged the blanket tighter around her. Damn it, damn it, damn it. This was it, then. She had to take some canvases in, let someone else see them. She cringed at the thought, but at least now she would know if what she was doing was awful, or salable. This uncertainty about her work was dreadful, paralyzing.

She shivered violently and swore under her breath. Damn, why couldn't she get warm?

*   *   *

Candra stretched to hang up the phone, then lay with her head pillowed on her arms. A large warm hand stroked her naked bottom. “No luck, huh?” Kai said. “I told you.” He bent to press kisses down her spine, more interested in his libido than her financial worries.

Normally she loved having sex with Kai. He was young enough to still be obsessed with sex, but old enough to have acquired some skill. There was a certain freedom in being with him, because he was so innately self-centered she had no qualms about focusing totally on herself, which intensified her
pleasure. Now, however, she felt annoyed that he couldn't seem to grasp how important it was that Richard stop being such a hard-ass about the divorce settlement. She shrugged away from his kisses and buried her face in the pillow.

He merely shifted closer, pushing the damp head of his erection against her leg. The hand on her bottom curved downward, fingers probing.

“Stop it,” she said irritably, shaking her ass to dislodge his hand. “I don't feel like doing it again. You should be worried, too,” she added spitefully. “If Richard doesn't back down on the money, you'll be out of a job.”

“There are other jobs,” he said, so blissfully unworried she wanted to slap him. He slipped his hand back between her legs, this time sliding two fingers right in. Despite herself she couldn't stop her indrawn breath or the automatic arch of her back.

“Not at what I'm paying you.”

“I'll get by.” Slowly he began moving his fingers in and out, and Candra bit the pillow to hold back her moan. His ego was big enough as it was.

Because she was so irritated with him, she wriggled once more, dislodging him again. “You were staring at Sweeney yesterday, too. I thought she wasn't your type.”

A slow smile curved his lush mouth. “I'm not
her
type. Sweeney's cool, and all that hair gives a man ideas. Besides, the way that red sweater hugged her tits was something else.”

“I didn't notice,” Candra said frigidly.

“That relieves me, darling.” Kai leaned over and
began kissing her spine again, this time down close to the twin dimples set high on her buttocks. He liked the idea of Candra being jealous, and that was what he was hearing in her voice. “But take it from me, her tits are fine.” Candra went rigid with rage, and he chose that moment to push his fingers into her again, knowing her stiffness would make her less receptive, make the penetration rougher. Sometimes Candra liked being handled a little roughly. She stifled a moan, and he knew he had her.

The bedroom was silent for several minutes, except for her heavier breathing and the rustle of the sheets from their movements. Kai continued to work her with his fingers, until her thighs loosened and spread. “Do it,” she ordered angrily, and immediately he moved behind her. She raised up a little on her knees, lifting her buttocks and giving him better access. His fingers were replaced by the hard, smooth thrust of his dick. She sighed and pushed her worries away to better concentrate on the physical pleasure. Kai wouldn't stay around if she went out of business, damn his shallow hide, but for now he was here, so she might as well use him while she had him.

As soon as they had finished and she got her breath back, however, all her worries returned with a rush. She had so hoped she hadn't misread Richard yesterday afternoon. If he were involved with Sweeney, he might be more amenable to meeting her terms, just to get the divorce out of the way so he could concentrate on his new relationship.

She sighed. It had been a long shot, but at this
point she was desperate enough to grasp at straws. Unfortunately, Sweeney was so oblivious to everything but her work, she probably wouldn't notice that a man was attracted to her until he took off his clothes, and even then she might think he wanted her to sketch him. Richard wasn't a man who would play second fiddle in a woman's life, not even to talent, and Sweeney was undeniably talented.

Worry gnawed at her insides. If only Richard would back down—no, there was no sense in fretting about
if onlys.
That was like planning your future if you won the lottery: useless.

She knew she hadn't managed her money well; she had never had to. There had always been plenty of it, first her father's money, and by the time that was gone, there had been Richard's. But she wasn't stupid, she had learned from her mistakes. With the profit from the gallery and the lump-sum alimony Richard had agreed to pay, she would be able to manage—not as well as she would like, but she could manage—if she could pay off the mountain of debt hanging over her.

That was the real problem. When she thought of what she owed, she broke out in a sweat. The amount was staggering to her now that she was on her own. After the split she had gone on a spending binge, furnishing her apartment with top-of-the-line everything, and she had taken several very expensive trips and bought new clothes. Somehow she hadn't thought Richard was serious about the divorce, and she'd spent all that money as a means of punishing him for scaring her so. But he was
deadly serious about the divorce and had no intention of covering her new debts, even though he could probably pay them out of petty cash and never know the difference, if he just would.

Candra squashed a tinge of regret. There was no point in rehashing the past, and Richard was irretrievably in the past. All her attempts to smooth things over with him had been rebuffed. She imagined a tiny part of her would always miss him. It wasn't just the sex, though God knows that had been hot, at least for the first five years. None of her other lovers had ever matched Richard in bed.

What she missed most, though, was the security. Richard was a very secure man, a rock on which she could always depend. His attributes sounded like an ad in a singles column: reliable, intelligent, good sense of humor, great lover, honorable. By all means, don't forget “honorable.” His damn standards were so high you'd think he'd been born in Buckingham Palace instead of on some little dirt farm in western Virginia.

It was her fault, though. She'd always known how he would react if he found out about the abortion. She had been so careful, paying for it in cash so there was no chance of him finding a canceled check or a credit card slip. She hadn't
liked
having an abortion, but she hadn't seen another option. She didn't want a child; she had never wanted children, not even when she was young and just married and wildly in love with him. Nor was having the child and giving it up for adoption a possibility, because Richard would have died before he let that happen.
And it wasn't so much raising a child that she found so distasteful as actually being pregnant, having it wriggling around inside her like some larva, distorting her body and wrecking her life.

No, abortion had been the only answer. The bloom had long since been off their marriage, had been ever since Richard discovered that little fling with . . . what was his name? He hadn't been important, just a moment's entertainment. It had taken all her persuasiveness to keep their marriage together then, and she had been extremely cautious about her affairs after that; they weren't serious to
her,
but she had known Richard wouldn't see it that way. Still, she had no doubt they would have made the best of things and continued to rock along if she hadn't had too much to drink, if they hadn't been arguing, if she hadn't gotten so angry she had thrown the words at him like rocks, just for the satisfaction of hurting him. If, if, if. The mistake had been final. Their marriage, in all but the legal sense of the word, had ended on the spot.

She accepted the blame. That didn't mean she would meekly accept whatever Richard deigned to give her. She had hoped he would become involved with Sweeney, because Sweeney, for all her quirkiness, had a soft heart. Moreover, Candra genuinely liked Sweeney and thought the regard was returned. Richard would do a lot to please a woman he wanted, as she had reason to know. If he wanted Sweeney, and she thought he did, and Sweeney urged him to generosity, there was a good chance he would do as she asked.

After speaking with Sweeney, though, Candra thought that scenario was shot. Her thoughts jumped to the other plan she had formulated. She didn't like it, it wasn't without risk, but at this point it looked as if her best bet was Carson McMillan.

When you danced with the devil, or slept with him, it was a good idea to find out all you could about him and take steps to protect yourself. She knew a lot about Carson, things he wouldn't want known, though maybe she wouldn't have to use them. Perhaps she could get him to believe the child had been his; the timing made it roughly possible, though of course she had no doubt Richard was the father. Yes, that might work. Tell him about the abortion, that it had been his, but when Richard found out about the child, he had assumed it was his and that was why they were being divorced. That would obligate Carson to cover some of her financial obligations. Yes, she would prefer doing it that way.

If he balked, then she would bring out the big guns.

C
HAPTER
    F
IVE

T
he chill was worse. Sweeney sat huddled in the blanket, shivering continually. She felt as if she might die from the cold and had some fun imagining the medical examiner's perplexity at someone's dying of hypothermia in an eighty-degree apartment on a warm September day. She thought of going back to bed and getting under the electric blanket, but if she did that, she would have to admit she was sick, and she didn't want to do that. When the doorbell rang, she ignored it, because by staying huddled she could conserve what little heat she generated, and moving around made her even colder.

But it rang again, and again, and at last she struggled to her feet. “What!” she snapped as she neared the door.

There was a curiously muffled sound, and she
stopped in her tracks, sufficiently city-smart not to go any closer. “Who is it?”

“Richard.”

Stunned, she stared at the wood panels. “Richard?”

“Richard Worth,” he added helpfully. She thought she could hear laughter in his voice.

She thought of not opening the door. She thought of simply walking away and pretending she hadn't said anything. The thing was, he owned the building, and even though it wasn't the ritziest place in the world, she suspected he could get a lot more in rent than what she had been paying. And right now, she couldn't afford to pay more, so it behooved her to be polite to the landlord. That was the excuse she gave herself as she fumbled with the locks, and of course it was the cold that made her fingers tremble.

He stood in the hallway with its dingy, worn carpeting. He would have looked totally out of place, in his expensive Italian suit, if it hadn't been for those stevedore shoulders and that hard, almost-craggy face. Her artist's eye noted every detail, almost hungrily drinking them in; if she had hoped yesterday had been an aberration, the sight of him disillusioned her. Her stomach fluttered, her mouth watered just as it did when she saw cheesecake. This couldn't be a good sign.

He was smiling, but the smile quickly faded at the sight of her standing there swaddled in a blanket. His dark gaze went swiftly down her, then returned to her face. “Are you sick?” he asked in a brusque tone, stepping forward so that he crowded
her back, and that easily he was inside her apartment. He closed the door and reset the locks.

“No, just cold.” She moved away from the dangerously close proximity to him, scowling. “What are you doing here?” She felt terribly off-balance; she wasn't prepared to see Richard at all, much less be alone with him in her apartment. This was her sanctuary, where she could let down the guard she always kept between herself and the rest of the world, where she could relax and paint and be herself. Closing the door behind her often felt as if she had left a ton of chains in the hallway. Here she was free, but she could be free only if she was alone.