Jennifer Crusie - Faking It

Clea closed her eyes. Jesus, the men in her life. Maybe it wasn’t too late to become a lesbian. There must be rich older women somewhere. “Ronald, I told you, this is not a good time-”

“It’s the only time, Clea,” Ronald said, making another stab at firmness.

“Look, Ronald,” she began and then the doorknob rattled. “That could be Mason,” she told him, standing up. “You are screwing up my life, Ronald.”

Ronald looked around. “I can’t-”

Clea took his arm and dragged him to the closet again. “Stay far back,” she whispered as she shoved him in. “Get behind the clothes, and be quiet.” She shut him in and then opened the door again and whispered, “Stay to the right.” Then she went to deal with Mason, running her fingers through her hair to give it a little volume first.

But when she opened the door, she saw Davy Dempsey.

“Jesus,” she said and yanked him in. “What are you doing here?”

“Lotta good memories in this room,” he said, recovering his balance.

“We never had sex here,” Clea said.

“I wasn’t talking about you,” Davy said. “I have a proposition for you.”

He looked pretty good in the soft bedroom light, tall and broad and sure, but Clea had had enough propositions to last a lifetime. And besides, very shortly, she was going to have a proposition for him. “No. Get out-”

He took her chin in his hand and yanked it up, and Clea felt a thrill she hadn’t felt in a long time. Mason was a real gentleman in bed, and Lord knew Ronald was no firecracker. But Davy had been worth sleeping with even when he didn’t have money.

“I will give you one million dollars-” Davy said.

“Okay,” Clea whispered, glancing toward the closet. “But we have to be quiet.”

“-if you let Tilda keep her paintings and never go near the Goodnights or their gallery again,” Davy finished.

“Oh.” Clea pushed his hand away. “I need the paintings. I’m giving them to Mason. He’s been-”

“Proposing to other women,” Davy said. “Gwennie Goodnight to be specific. He asked her to marry him. I don’t see why you’re so fixated on him. Rabbit wants you.”

“Shhhh,” Clea said. “Who the hell is Rabbit?”

“Ronald Abbott, your partner in crime,” Davy said.

“He wants you. God knows why.” He looked down the neck of her robe and said, “Okay, God and I know why.”

“Ronald is broke,” Clea whispered. “And-”

“Rabbit has money,” Davy said. “And even better, he knows how to make money.”

“Keep your voice down.” Clea tried not to look at the closet. “And don’t try to con me. He told me. He said he wasn’t rich but he loved me. He said we could live on love.” Even the memory of it made her indignant. “Look at me. Do I look like somebody who could live on love?”

“No,”‘ Davy said. “But you have to learn to speak Rabbit’s language. He thinks ten million is rich and anything under that is just wanna-be.”

“He’s right,” Clea said. “Look, I’ll talk to you later, but right now-”

“Pay attention. Rabbit has enough to buy you dinner several times,” Davy said. “More than that, he wants to buy you dinner, which Mason doesn’t seem to. Even more than that” -he leaned closer, those crazy brown eyes on hers, and she thought, Maybe I should have held on to him- “he can take the million I’ll give you and make it ten. He knows the market, Clea. He’s your best bet.”

Clea considered it. It would be nice not to have to work so hard to keep a guy. Maybe-

“There you go,” Davy said. “Now all you have to do is promise me two things.”

“Two?” Clea said, regrouping.

“One is you let Tilda keep her paintings and leave her and everyone she loves alone,” Davy said. “You never darken her doorway again.”

“I do not see what you see in that woman,” Clea said. “She has no muscle tone.”

“You have no idea,” Davy said. “And the second thing is you have to stop killing people, Clea.”

Clea glared at him. “I do not kill people.”

“I watched you let Zane die,” Davy said grimly. “He was a son of a bitch-”

“I thought he was drank,” Clea said. “And then when I realized he wasn’t, I needed to get that bankbook. But I didn’t kill him. Not calling 911 is not murder.”

“Then there was your last husband,” Davy said.

“I didn’t kill Cyril, either,” Clea said, exasperated. “The only person I ever slept with that I wanted to kill was you.”

“And now there’s Thomas,” Davy said.

“Thomas?”

“I know he was blackmailing you,” Davy said. “But I can’t prove it, and I don’t want to prove it. I want you gone from here. Just swear you’ll let Rabbit live or I’ll come after you for all of them.”

“Listen to me,” Clea began, and then the doorknob turned and rattled. “That’s Mason,” she said to Davy, looking around for a way to get rid of him. Tilda was on her way over with the paintings, and with the paintings she still had a chance with Mason, and she definitely could get more than a million out of Davy-“The closet,” she said, shoving him toward it “It’s deep.”

“Really?” Davy said, as she opened the door. “Who knew?”

“And stay to the left,” she hissed as she closed the door on him. “I have stuff stored on the right.”

Clea straightened her robe and answered the door, her best I-forgive-you-Mason smile plastered on her face, but it faded when she saw Tilda standing there, her dark hair standing up on end as usual, this time around a black ball cap that said “Bitch,” her face half-hidden behind those ridiculous glasses, holding up a large package that looked to be about six paintings thick.

“You’re late.” Clea drew her into the room, locking the door behind her again. “You were supposed-”

“Did you know your front door was open?”

“The paintings,” Clea said, reaching for them.

Tilda held the package away from her. “There’s a condition.”

Clea frowned at her in disbelief. “You’re in no position to make conditions.”

“Yes I am.” Tilda walked past her and sat on the bed. “You can’t turn me in because if you do, these paintings are worthless and you lose Mason. Oh, and you might want to make sure he doesn’t get a good look at the signatures until after the wedding.”

Clea clenched her jaw. “Did Mason propose to your mother?”

“Yes,” Tilda said. “But it’s not going to happen. She was momentarily confused. You’re still in the game. If you have the paintings and if nobody knows they’re fakes. It’s in both of our interests that these stay out of sight.”

“Okay.” Clea realized she was frowning and smoothed out her forehead. Honest to God, these people and their conditions, it was enough to make a woman turn to Ronald. She held out her hand. “So I’ll take the paintings and never see you again.”

“I like that,” Tilda said, not handing over the paintings. “But there’s one more thing.”

Clea sighed. “What?”

“You have to give Davy his money back.”

“What?”

“The money you had Rabbit embezzle from him,” Tilda said patiently.

“Who?”

“Clea, don’t play dumb. If you want these paintings, you have to give Davy his money back.”

“He has it,” Clea said. “He took it Thursday night, the night of the gallery preview.” Tilda’s mouth dropped open, which was satisfying. “So there you go,” Clea said. “Give me the paintings.”

“I don’t believe you,” Tilda said. “He stayed so he could get the money. If he had the money, why did he stay?”

“You’re sleeping with him, right?”

“Uh,” Tilda said. “Yes.”

Clea nodded. “He puts up with a lot for sex. Give me the paintings.”

“Wait a minute,” Tilda said, but the door rattled again, and this time, Mason called out, “Clea?”

“Under the bed,” Clea said to Tilda, trying to get the paintings away from her.

“What?” Tilda said, holding on. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want him to know I got the paintings from you.” Clea yanked the case out of her hands. “I don’t want him to know there’s any connection to you and that damn gallery at all.”

“Hey,” Tilda said, but Mason called out “Clea?” again. “Okay, but I’m not going under your bed. I’ll go in the closet.”

“No,” Clea said, but Tilda had already opened the door and Mason was calling to her, so she gave up and went to let him in.

THE CAB HONKED out front, and Simon headed for the gallery door, grateful to be leaving a madhouse, but just as he reached the door and freedom, he heard Louise say, “Wait a minute, damn it.”

Only when he turned around, she was Eve.

“I have nothing to say to you,” he said.

“Well, I have something to say to you,” she said, and hearing Louise’s sharp, red-lipsticked voice coming from Eve’s soft pink lips was so disconcerting he stopped. “Listen, bucko,” she said as she came toward him, a spun-sugar angel channeling a dominatrix, “You owe me.”

“I’ll send you a check.” He pushed on the door, but she slid between him and the glass, and she was too short to be Louise, and too fresh-faced to be Louise, and too blonde to be anybody he’d spend carnal time with, but she definitely felt like Louise against him.

“My sister is giving away her paintings to your best friend’s ex-lover so she can get his money back for him,” she said, fixing him with pale blue eyes that made him dizzy. “And you are a thief.”

“I’m not seeing the connection,” Simon said, beginning to reconsider his position on mothers.

She leaned toward him, lovely as Eve, hot as Louise, lethal in combination, and fixed him with those weird eyes. “Steal them for us,” she whispered, and for a moment, Simon felt light-headed. Get on that plane, you fool, he told himself.