What a Woman Gets (6 page)

Y
OU
look lovely, Cassidy. As usual.” Burton held out a glass of Clicquot to her.

Cassidy resisted the urge to down it in one swallow. She and Burton hadn't gone much beyond attending these sorts of events and the occasional dinner together, so he'd probably be stunned if she did guzzle it. Her father would have a cow at her appalling lack of breeding, but, man, wouldn't it feel good to shock them?

She did drink a third of her glass. Champagne flutes were too small anyhow, and after the day she'd had, she needed the pleasant fuzziness the bubbles could provide. Not enough to get her drunk, though. God knows what she'd unleash on her father if she had a buzz going and he decided to mention her painting.

“So your father told me you have a new hobby.” Poor Burton. He'd walked into the trap with no warning. But it was interesting that her father had thought to share the info with Burton. Dad was pushing this relationship a little too much.

“Actually, I don't. I have a career.”

“A career?” Burton smiled the smile that had always left her feeling a bit icky but she'd never figured out why.

At this moment, she knew. It was Mitchell's smile. That patronizing, isn't-that-nice-dear smile he gave most of the women in his life. Actually, now that she thought about it, Deborah was the only one Cassidy had never seen be the recipient of it.

“So what is this new
career
?” Burton sipped the champagne with his pinkie finger slightly extended.

God, what an affectation. Why hadn't she ever noticed before now? What else was an affectation?

She looked at him. The gold cufflinks, the Rolex, the diamond pinkie ring . . . Oh my God. He was becoming her father. Burton hadn't had all the trappings of
über
-wealth when they'd first met. Mitchell had recruited him out of Wharton, and while she knew he'd been groomed to fit in with the company, she'd never realized until right this minute that Mitchell had groomed him to
be
him.

Oh God. Her father was grooming Burton to take over his role in the company when he retired. Not that Cassidy could see that happening any time soon, but this was suddenly as plain as the diamonds on that Rolex's face. And if he was planning
that
, she got why he was pushing Burton on her. He wanted Burton as a son-in-law to keep the company in the family.

It'd be a cold day in hell before Cassidy would
ever
marry a man handpicked and tutored by her father.

“So what is it?” Burton, to his credit, tried to look interested, but Cassidy could see the little darts out of the corners of his eyes as he looked for some advantageous conversation to become a part of. He'd obviously already been given Mitchell's blessing to pursue her—none of her other boyfriends lasted long if Mitchell didn't approve. Since none of them had been her Prince Charming, she hadn't really minded, but this . . .

Burton was a nice guy, could hold a conversation, and had actually seemed to find talking to her interesting instead of merely staring at her cleavage, but marriage material he was not.

Maybe Mitchell ought to marry him.

“Cassidy?”

Oh. Right. He'd asked a question. “I paint.”

“What, like watercolors and stuff?”

“No. Furniture. I turn old pieces into custom-painted pieces of art.”

“You mean with flowers and butterflies and rainbows?”

And unicorns and fairy princesses, too,
she wanted to add. Did he really think she was that shallow?

Maybe he did. In which case, that just proved how much he
hadn't
been paying attention to her for the last eight months. “No, Burton. I paint landscapes or faux finishes or textures on them.”

“Like Thomas Kinkade?”

Kinkade had had talent and he'd certainly had marketing savvy, but she did not want to be classified with him. “No, not like Kinkade. More along the lines of Davenport. Cassidy Davenport.”

Burton didn't seem to get the point, but he raised his champagne flute to her—extended pinkie finger and all. “Well, congratulations, sweetheart. That's quite a handy talent to have. You could paint murals on nursery walls. You know, I was thinking . . .”

Oh God. She didn't want to know what he was thinking. Not with that lead in. And the champagne and the cuff links and her father's knowing smile as he chose that moment to look over . . .

“Excuse me, Burton.” She didn't even look as she handed him her champagne glass and turned away. The ladies' room was always a handy excuse and the truth was, she could use some cool water over her wrists—to cool down her heated temper. Mitchell was behind this. No wonder he'd dismissed her at lunch. If he was hoping she'd marry Burton and raise little Davenports, of
course
she wouldn't have time for a career . . .

Best to head this cataclysm off at that pass before it ever got a chance to gather strength.

And then she ran into Mitchell.

“Cassidy. Enjoying yourself? Why isn't Burton with you? He's looking rather well tonight, don't you think?”

“He's talking to someone over there.” She did a vague wave of her hand, hoping Mitchell would go off in search.

Of course he didn't. Instead he lowered his voice and actually moved closer.

Never a good sign.

“Deborah tells me that that hobby of yours is costing me five figures. You'll want to contribute your profit from it, I'm sure, to defray the cost. I'm willing to take the loss on paper, but not quite that much in actual cash.”

“You're kidding me. You buy my artwork that I've already sold and expect me to pay for it?”

That damn eyebrow went north. “It should never have been sold in the first place.”

“Why not? It's a good piece. Enough that someone thought enough of it to pay a decent amount of money for it and display it in their home. You should have left it where it was and kept your precious money.”

“My
precious money
is what's keeping you in your designer clothes and that penthouse, young lady. I suggest you remember it.”

“As if I could forget,” she muttered.

“What?” Now the other eyebrow arched and he lowered his head as if he were looking over the rim of glasses.

“I said that my earnings from my art would help with my budget so you wouldn't have to.”

At that Mitchell laughed. “Oh please, Cassidy. You couldn't keep to a budget if it was a million dollars. You have no idea what it costs to keep you in your lifestyle. It's nice that you want to contribute, but don't get yourself all concerned with it. I have more than enough to take care of you.”

Walk. Away. Do not
say something that you're going to regret. Save it for later when you're alone.

Cassidy wanted to listen to her subconscious, knew she
should
listen to it. But that condescending tone just did her in.

She couldn't just let it go. Couldn't let him think that he could manipulate her into doing what he wanted. She was going to find
some
way to live on her terms.

“You know, Dad, I am actually capable of providing for myself. I just proved it. I haven't before because you needed me to be available for the company.
You
put me in that penthouse. I was happy in the loft.”

“The penthouse is more your style—”

“No, the penthouse is more
your
style and you like letting it be known that I live there. I've always been a figurehead for you. The single dad who took his daughter under his wing and set her up in the company. Only you and I know that my role is completely superficial and my job description is to be a size two and look good. Any one of your bimbettes could pull that off.”

Oh shit. That comment had gone too far. She knew it by the narrowing of his eyes and the V of his eyebrows. More than the arching, that shape meant a hell of a lot of trouble.

“Look, I should go. This isn't the time or the place.”

“You're right about that. I'll be at the penthouse tomorrow morning and we'll finish this.”

“Oh, but, the maid is going to be there.” There was just something so completely
wrong
about calling that guy a maid.

“So get rid of her. After all, I pay her salary. She'll do what I want.”

Doesn't everyone?
Cassidy almost said it out loud before she left, but figured she'd done enough damage for one night.

Tomorrow was time enough to say it.

I
don't care how it got in the paper, I want the story killed,” Cassidy said into her phone as she opened the door and waved Liam in the next morning, looking way too artfully messy with a pair of shorts hanging low on her hips and an off-the-shoulder professionally torn-and-frayed T-shirt like the chick from that eighties' welder-dancer movie, showing way too much skin for his liking and definitely too much leg.

On second thought, none of it was too much in the normal male-female interaction. But with
their
interaction . . . Yeah, definitely too much. He didn't need to be any more attracted to her than he was.

“Deborah, you always work miracles for my father. Can't you do something for me? I mean, how hard is it to kill a story?” Cassidy flicked the newspaper she was carrying and Liam got a glimpse of a large photo of her in one hell of an evening gown.

Okay,
that
was too much skin to be flashing around at
any
one, let alone having it plastered on the front of the society page.

“But it makes me sound like a spoiled brat.”

Liam's ears perked up. He'd never met a society chick who
complained
about being spoiled.

“But I didn't say any of those things. Can I get a retraction?” She groaned. “Well how about a rebuttal?”

“Never heckle the hecklers,” Liam muttered. Bryan, his movie star brother, had imparted those words of wisdom. You couldn't win when someone started heckling. Usually, the story grew.

She glanced at him, her eyes narrowing.

“I'm just sayin,' if you make a big deal out of something, its importance will grow. Whatever's in that article, let it go.”

“Look, Deborah, I'll have to call you back. But please see what you can do in the interim.”

She punched the face of her phone with her thumb. An unnecessary act, since the thing shut down with a swipe, but still, Liam could feel the anger rolling off her in waves from across the living room.

“Did you have something you wanted to share?” Cassidy asked, sounding
just
like her condescending father.

Liam had been to a few events and tradeshows where Mitchell Davenport had been the speaker. The man had an opinion on everything and his was the only one that counted. Granted, the guy
had
built an empire out of practically nothing, but he should never forget the people who'd helped him climb that ladder to success because those same people could pull that ladder out from under him.

Ah, but what did it matter to Liam? He wasn't—and never would be—in the same league as Davenport. And perhaps that supercilious, I'm-better-than-you attitude was the reason.

Well that was okay with Liam. He was perfectly content to maintain his business and style of living at a level he could live with. Being an ego-inflated know-it-all wasn't for him.

“All I said was, if you make something a big deal, so will other people. Let it go.”

“Let it go? Do you know what this says?” She rattled the paper at him, the skin above the neckline of that top turning a nice shade of pink in anger.

It was a good look on her. Her green eyes were flashing like gemstones, and her breathing quickened enough so that those gorgeous breasts shifted beneath the clingy fabric in a way only a dead man wouldn't notice. And even that was questionable.

God, it was only 8:16 in the morning and already he was lusting after the client.

“I hear you, but this is slander. Libel. One of the two.” She raked her hair back off her forehead and that perfectly coiffed
do
she'd had yesterday had become a jumble of untamed waves that bounced over her shoulders in a way designed to make a man want to run his fingers through them. Tug on them. Hold them tight as he drove into her—

Shit. 8:17 and he was sweating again.

“I mean that it's lies. All of it is lies.”

“What's it say?” Damn, he didn't want to ask that. Didn't want to know. Didn't want a damn thing to do with Cassidy Davenport other than to get in and out of her home in the quickest time possible and still allow Mac to call her a client.

The things he did for his sister.

“It says, first, that I got engaged.” She held up her ringless left hand. “Do you see a ring here?”

“No.” Thank God.

And he'd examine why he was thanking the Lord for that later.

“Damn right you don't. Burton's a nice guy, but definitely
not
the man I'm going to marry.”

It was on the tip of Liam's tongue to ask
Burton who
?
but he didn't really want to know. He wasn't interested in Cassidy Davenport or who she dated.

“And I didn't storm out of the gala. I walked out nicely. Serenely. Said my good-byes. No one could take issue with my manners. I have no freaking clue if Burton's ex-fiancée was there, nor do I care. She can have him.”

He really shouldn't feel any satisfaction whatsoever at hearing those words, but for some reason, he did.

Dammit. Cassidy Davenport was nothing to him. Nothing. And never would be.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that, buddy. That'll explain all this hypersensitivity to her and the way she smells like peaches, and the way her nipples have hardened, and the flutter across her abdomen as she sucks in air to calm down. And
how you've noticed all of this about her. Yeah, you're not into her at all.

“. . . as if I'm this stuck-up snob who can't lower herself to talk to the common people.” She waved the newspaper at him. “Can you believe it? It actually uses the term
common people
in the article! What are we? Living in some feudal village? Who
does
that?”

She turned around and stormed across the room, those stomps doing some mighty nice things to her ass.

“I'm not going to stand for this. I'm just not. My father had to have planted at least part of the story.”

“He wants people to think you're stuck up?” Since Mitchell Davenport was all about image and this would not be the best public relations, Liam didn't buy it.

She spun around, her hair fanning out behind her, swinging around to curl over one shoulder, leaving the other bare, enticing him to kiss his way from her shoulder up the curve of her neck and lose himself in that scent of peaches.

“No. That I'm engaged to Burton. I'd hoped last night that he wasn't intending to propose, and I left before it could get awkward. Now my father is forcing my hand, so to speak, so that I can't turn him down. What would it look like if Mitchell Davenport's daughter said yes, then no, to his hand-picked son-in-law? I'll be the most ungrateful, spoiled, willful child there ever was.”

“So you're not getting married?” Why on God's earth was
that
the question he asked? Jesus, her perfume must have infected his brain.

“Not to Burton Carstairs I'm not. It'd be like marrying my dad, and that's the last thing I'm ever going to do.”

“Yeah, but who are you going to find except Daddy's hand-picked henchman to be able to afford this place?”

She stormed back across the room toward him, one finger pointed right at his chest. “Seriously? You actually have the
nerve
to say that?”

Liam stepped up onto the foyer level from the sunken living room so she wouldn't be eye-level with him.

That finger hit him in the chest. Ouch. Damn manicure was sharp.

“How
dare
you say that. You don't know anything about me. Don't believe what you read in the papers. Today's story is the perfect example of the lies they'll make up to sell advertising. I am not some spoiled, useless doll that my father puts on the shelf when not parading me out in public. I actually have a job at his company.”

Liam decided discretion was the better part of valor when it came to that statement. From what he'd seen of her over the years, her so-called job
was
to come out and look pretty. Just like a doll.

Luckily, her cell phone rang then, saving him from making the matter worse. Sure, she could boast all she wanted that she wasn't going to marry this Burton guy, but she ought to know that Mitchell Davenport had rarely lost a battle he'd wanted to win. It would take a certain kind of man to marry Davenport's daughter, and Carstairs sounded like the perfect toady. Hand-picked and modeled after the man himself. That way, he'd never have to worry what Carstairs was going to do with his company or his daughter.

“No, Stacey,” Cassidy said into the phone, “it's not true. Burton didn't propose, so I couldn't have turned him down.” She raked a hand through her hair again, which hiked her shirt up a little bit.

Shit. That curve of her waist was enough to get his mouth watering.

Utterly inappropriate.

“Yeah, I know. It's going to be a major pain in the ass to set the record straight. I should just go away and let the whole thing blow over.” She tapped her finger against the corner of her mouth.

Yes, Liam was watching her a lot longer than he should—but he wasn't about to look away. Her toes were bare—except for that blue nail polish of course—and the way they curled into the thick carpet had him imagining how he'd get them to curl when he kissed his way down her body—

Back the fuck off, Manley. You are not going anywhere near this woman. Have you forgotten about Rachel?

Right. Rachel. His disillusionment and almost-downfall.

“Oh, that's right. I'd forgotten you are. Well, what about Donna? Isn't she going to Monte Carlo? I haven't been in a whi—Oh. I hadn't realized. Well, what about Janet? Wasn't her father buying her that house in Marbella? I love that town. The water's gorgeous and the atmosphere is just—” She tucked a shank of hair behind her ear. “She said that? Well I don't know what I did to her that she'd—” She sighed. “I guess. But Jean's in Long Island with her relatives, so that's out, and Mary's at the Cape with her new boyfriend, and Joy's in Europe for the rest of the summer, and with you going to LA, it looks like I'm stuck here, and alone to boot.”

Liam didn't say anything about the poor little rich girl having no place to go. Poor her; she had to stay holed up in this swanky penthouse with a doorman, concierge, and room service—not to mention a
maid
—while she rode out the “bad” storm of publicity surrounding her supposed engagement to a man who could afford to keep her in this lifestyle.

Even socialites got jaded, he supposed.

God, it was really hard for him to swallow. The woman had it all and was too damn spoiled to realize it and thank her lucky stars that there were still men in this world who wanted to treat the women they were with like the china dolls they wanted to be.

But Liam wasn't one of them. No way in hell. He wanted a woman of substance. A real human being. A partner. Someone he could count on to be by his side, not off spending his hard-earned money and complaining that he never took her anywhere or did things with her.

Now if only he could squash the physical attraction he felt for her, he might just be able to complete this job without losing his sanity.

*   *   *

C
ASSIDY
swallowed the question she really didn't want to ask, but hell, all of her friends were tied up or on vacation and she was going to be stuck here. But she'd love to go to LA with Stacey, except Stacey was off on her father's corporate jet to visit the movie star she was currently dating. Some women had all the luck while she got to sit home in her father's showplace and fend off rumors of her being spoiled. Hell, being stuck in this place was the epitome of being spoiled, but she didn't want to ask her father for the beach house or the place in the mountains because then he'd have one more thing to throw in her face. And no public hotel was as security-conscious as Dad's buildings, so she wouldn't have to face the paparazzi unless she went out.

She said goodbye to Stacey and turned off the phone. She was stuck.

Everything had been so clear when Jean-Pierre had called about the sale. Cassidy had been nervous to even approach him about displaying her work, but Franklin's memory had given her the courage. Then, when Jean-Pierre had been enthusiastic, Cassidy had felt the hope she'd tamped down for so long come out of hiding and blossom. Then there'd been the sale, and she'd finally felt as if she was someone. As if she had something to contribute. Granted, it wasn't what the doctors and nurses had done for Franklin, but it was a hell of a lot more than sitting on her butt while clothing designers flaunted their latest fashions in front of her.

“So you'll be here today while I finish up?”

She looked up, startled. That's right. Maid guy was here.

Damn. What was his name again? She didn't want to ask. She didn't want to come off as shallow as everyone thought she was.

“Um, yes, I will.” How was she going to find out his name? “Do you have a business card, by any chance?”