Jennifer Crusie - Faking It

Tilda nodded and took another drink. “Good choice. The money will probably solve all the other problems. It sure as hell would solve all of mine.”

“No it wouldn’t,” Davy said.

Tilda looked through the door to the gallery again, to where Clea was now dragging an unhappy Mason to the door. “Why you?”

“What?” Davy said, putting the bottle back in the cabinet.

“Why did Clea send him after you?”

“I had money.”

“Lots of people have money,” she said, the skepticism heavy in her voice.

“And some history with Clea,” Davy said, watching the mini-drama through the door. “And some history with Rabbit.”

“You slept with Rabbit, too?” Tilda said, feeling bitchy.

“No, I disagreed with Rabbit once,” Davy said. “We’d made another killing in tech stocks, and I watched the numbers and said, ‘This is too good to be true.’ And that made me think of my dad.”

“Your dad,” Tilda said. “The one in sales.”

“Michael Dempsey,” Davy said, turning back to her. He saluted the air with his glass. “God bless him, wherever he is now, as long as he’s not with me.” He considered that. “Or my sisters. He has many faults, but stupidity is not one of them. He always says, ‘If it looks too good to be true, get out.’”

“Your dad sounds a lot like you.”

“No,” Davy said flatly. “He is nothing like me. And I am nothing like him.”

“Oh-kay,” Tilda said, and took another drink.

Davy nodded. “So I said, ‘Rabbit, get me out of there.’ And he argued, but in the end he put me in blue chips and bonds. And then he sneered at me for six months while the market boomed and he made millions.”

“Wow,” Tilda said.

“Yeah, and then the tech market crashed and he lost everything and I still pretty much had it all.” Davy sighed. “He never really forgave me for that.”

“So he embezzled it.”

“And gave it to Clea, which is why I turned to theft for the one and only time in my otherwise blameless life,” Davy said.

So he really wasn’t a crook. Tilda found that depressing. “Did you get your money back tonight?”

“No. I found your painting and ran.”

“And now she’s seen you. She knows you’re here after the money.”

“Yes.”

Tilda leaned back, suddenly exhausted. “So we’ve completely screwed up your life.”

He looked down at her, and he didn’t look upset. “No, I’d pretty much done that before I met you, Vilma.”

Some of the warmth she’d felt for him in the closet began to ease back, or maybe it was vodka and relief. Whatever it was, it was a huge improvement over panic and guilt, and she drank some more to celebrate.

“I thought they’d never leave,” Gwen said, coming in from the gallery. “If Clea hadn’t thrown a fit, they wouldn’t have. That man was fascinated with-” She saw Davy and stopped. “Oh, good, you’re back. Tilda was so worried.”

“Were you?” Davy said, looking down at Tilda.

“Not at all.” Tilda toasted him with her glass and a weak smile. “I’d have felt no guilt at all if you’d been sent up the river for saving my butt. Again.” She sighed. “Oh, God, never again.”

“Did you get-” Gwen began, and Tilda gestured to the paper-wrapped square on the table.

“He got what we needed,” she said. “He didn’t get what he needed.”

“The night’s young yet,” Davy said, his eyes still on her.

“You’re not going back there,” Gwen told him. “We’ll help you get whatever it is you need, but you are not going back there tonight. They’ll be home any minute.”

Davy patted her shoulder. “Relax. I’m fine.”

“Oh, well, good for you!” Gwen picked up her puzzle book. “I’ve had a terrible evening. That man was absolutely rabid about this damn place and he wants to come back. I don’t think I can stand that again. I’m going to bed with a Double-Crostic and forget any of this happened.”

“Good plan,” Tilda said, keeping a wary eye on Davy, who was pretty chipper for somebody who was still broke. A little vodka and he was back to his old self. That couldn’t be good.

When the door had closed behind Gwen, Davy sat down on the couch beside Tilda and took her glass. “How much of this have you had?”

“I don’t remember,” Tilda said. “I think two. Why?”

“Are you drunk?”

“No,” Tilda said. “I know how-”

“Good.” Davy put the glass on the table.

“-to drink-”

“Bully for you.” Davy slid his arm around her.

“-and…” Tilda’s voice trailed off as he leaned closer. “Okay, if this is about the closet-”

And then he kissed her.

DAVY’S KISS TASTED LIKE VODKA and disaster, and even while she kissed him back, Tilda thought, I’m never going into a closet with this man again. He slipped his hand under her T-shirt, and she said, “You know,” as his hand slid up to her breast, but the only thing left to say was, I’m not that kind of girl, and of course she was.

She felt his thumb slide under her bra and thought, Louise would love this guy, and it occurred to her that maybe if she faked being Louise, she’d finally have the wild, screaming, carnal, criminal sex that Louise always had. Call me Scarlet.

He dropped his head, his mouth hot on her neck.

No, that wasn’t right. Call me Louise.

His hands slid around to her back and pulled her closer as he eased her T-shirt up and she nestled into his arms, feeling warm because somebody was holding her close.

And if she was pretending to be Louise, maybe she wouldn’t lose her mind and scream out, “I painted the Scarlets,” when she came.

He bit her neck gently, and she drew in a short, shuddery breath.

Because if she said anything, Davy was the kind of guy who’d notice. And remember.

He began to press her back against the arm of the couch.

Louise never screamed out, “I’m Eve.” It could work.

Steve jumped off the couch onto the rug and looked at them with what might have been contempt.

Yeah, I’m appalled, too, Tilda thought, and then Davy kissed her again, another deep, warm kiss, and she cuddled closer, but the wildness wasn’t there, she missed the closet, if they’d only done it in the closet…

He pressed her back against the arm of the couch and she shifted a little as he kissed her stomach, trying to fit her butt into the space between the cushions as she drifted back from the warmth, thinking, This isn‘t going to work.

Not unless he wanted to neck all night. Maybe he-

His hand slid between her thighs, and she thought, Nope, doesn‘t want to neck.

At least he hadn’t made it inside her bra yet. Maybe she could say yes just to keep him holding her but convince him to do it fully clothed-

He unsnapped her bra -one-handed, too, she gave him points for dexterity- and began to lick his way up her rib cage, clearly headed north to her breasts.

No, she thought, this isn’t working, and pulled her T-shirt down, connecting her fist smartly with the top of his head.

“Ouch?” he said.

“I was thinking,” she began.

“Well, stop,” he said and kissed her again, and she remembered how she’d ended up on the couch in the first place. The man had an excellent mouth.

Oh, just do it, Louise, she told herself. You could use this.

He moved his hand under her bra, and she considered a moan, which was better than heavy breathing because if she breathed too heavy, she’d end up in an asthma attack, and that would be the end: topless geekdom. She pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. Definitely moaning.

Then his mouth moved to her breast, gentle and hot, and she clutched at him and said, “Oh!” for real, a lot louder than she’d meant to.

He lifted his head and met her eyes. “Sorry,” she said, and felt a blush start.

Davy smiled at her, the smile of a man about to have sex. “Not a problem.” He stretched over her head and pounded at random on the buttons on the jukebox. The music started as he slid back down to her. “What is this, anyway?”

“What?” Tilda said, panicking that he’d realized something was wrong with her.

“This song,” he said, as the surf rolled on the jukebox.

Tilda listened. “ ‘Wonderful Summer,’” she said as Robin Ward started to sing. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“Never heard of it,” Davy said, and Tilda felt annoyed. Then his mouth was on hers again, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and tried to coax herself back into all that heat she’d felt in the closet. But no matter how she tried as the minutes passed, she couldn’t get beyond conflicted warmth. Then Davy’s hand was on her zipper, and that was dangerous. She had too much to lose to let somebody like Davy Dempsey in.

Robin belted out the last line about the most wonderful summer of her life, and the surf rolled, and the room was silent again, and the sound of her zipper reverberated everywhere.

“Hold that thought,” Davy said, as he moved back up to the jukebox, and Tilda thought, You don’t want me to hold my thought. You want me to hold the one you ‘re having.

He reached over her head and smacked half a dozen buttons at random. The Essex kicked in the opening bars of “Easier Said Than Done,” and Tilda said, “You know-”

“Later,” Davy said and slid his fingers into her jeans.

“Oh. Hey.” Tilda closed her eyes and decided to push him away in a couple of minutes. Or maybe not at all. If he kept doing that for about half an hour, she’d even take off some clothes.