Faking It

by Jennifer Crusie

  He sat down on the bed and thought, She’s a crook and a liar and she’s played me for two solid weeks. Jesus.

  He’d never wanted her more.

  He heard her step on the stair and sat back on the bed waiting for her, and when she came through the doorway, wearing that beat-up Chinese jacket, her eyes pale behind her bug glasses, her curls standing up like little horns, she took his breath away.

  Then she caught sight of the paintings, all lined up in a row.

  “Hello, Scarlet,” he said.

  UPSTAIRS, CLEA was having a miserable time.

  First, Mason was not paying any attention to her. He was wearing that ridiculous blue brocade vest that she’d hunted all over Columbus to find for him, and he was acting like a circus ringmaster. He’d even bought her an ugly chair painted with sunflowers and birds, and what the hell was she supposed to do with that? She was ready to put up with a lot from the men who married her, but she did expect some dignity. Cyril had had dignity, she thought now with regret. If only he’d had money, too, he would have been the perfect husband.

  Plus Thomas the Caterer was acting strangely. He kept glaring at her across the canapé‘s. He’d never been friendly, but that was okay, he was the help. Maybe he had indigestion; the buffet was a little greasy. Maybe he had a headache; those bruises didn’t look good. Maybe she didn’t care, she just really wished he’d stop giving her the evil eye. It was distracting.

  And then Ronald had shown up and tried to take her arm. Honest to God, men. She’d whispered, “Not here,” to him and shot a glance at Mason, but fortunately he’d been all caught up in his own circus and wasn’t paying any attention to her.

  “I found out something about the gallery,” Ronald whispered to her, and she let him steer her toward the canapés.

  “There’s something funny about the Scarlet Hodge paintings,” Ronald told her when he had a plate full of finger food. “It isn’t just that somebody’s buying them, it’s that there’s no information on them at all. One newspaper article and then nothing. Tony Goodnight sold them off and never mentioned her again.”

  “She died,” Clea said, exasperated with him.

  “No death certificate,” Ronald said, and bit into a shrimp.

  “So?” Clea caught Thomas glaring at her again and said, “Stop that,” to him. When he’d smoothed his face out again, she turned back to Ronald. “That’s it?”

  “If there’s no death certificate,” Ronald said, “she didn’t die.”

  “Maybe she died someplace else,” Clea said. “Maybe—”

  “I don’t think she exists,” Ronald said. “These shrimp things are really—”

  “What do you mean,” Clea said, “she doesn’t exist?”

  “No birth certificate, either. Not for Homer or Scarlet.”

  “Who’s Homer?” Clea said, losing patience.

  “Scarlet’s father,” Ronald said. “The Goodnight Gallery made a killing with Homer, but then they stopped and switched to Scarlet and then they stopped that. And the gallery pretty much went downhill from there. You were right, there’s something going on here.”

  “There is?” Clea looked at him with complete approval for the first time since he’d stolen her money back. “Ronald, you are wonderful.” Ronald flushed and forgot the shrimp. “Clea, I—”

  She pressed his arm. “Find out what you can and come see me tomorrow morning at ten.” She looked up at him under her lashes. “In my bedroom.”

  “Right,” Ronald said, almost dropping his plate. “I’ll get right on it. I—”

  He kept talking but Clea looked past him and saw Mason with Gwen again.

  “I have to go talk to people, Ronald,” she said, patting him on the arm. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Clea,” he said, sounding angry, but that was his problem. She drifted toward Mason, a smile plastered on her face. He was going to propose by the weekend, or she was going to take steps. And if this damn gallery got in her way, well, she’d take it down with whatever Ronald was digging up.

  And she’d take Gwen Goodnight down with it.

  DAVY WATCHED as Tilda stayed frozen in the doorway, staring at him.

  “Figured it out, did you?” she said finally, sounding grim.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier,” Davy said, hoping to make her smile. “I was really thick. It was obvious.”

  “It is now,” Tilda said. “It’s like Louise. Once you know the truth, it’s always obvious.” She sounded miserable, which was a lousy aphrodisiac.

  He patted the bed beside him. “Stop looking like death and come here.”

  Tilda sighed and crossed the room to sit beside him. She held up her wrists. “Okay. Put me in jail.”

  Davy stared at her wrists, distracted. “If that’s for handcuffs, thank you, I’ll run right out and get some, but jail is not where I’ll be taking you.”

  Tilda shook her head. “I know you have some. Your cover’s blown, too. Simon told Louise you work for the FBI.”

  Davy closed his eyes and thought about strangling Simon.

  She let her hands drop. “And I brought you here. That’s how good I am. I brought the Feds to my own crime scene.”

  Davy took a deep breath. “Could that possibly have been the reason you’ve been saying no to me for the past two weeks?”

  “Well, it didn’t help,” Tilda said. “I kept thinking I’d say something and you’d—”

  “Do what? Arrest you on the spot? Coitus apprehendus? I’m going to kill Simon.”

  “You don’t know how long I’ve been carrying this secret,” Tilda said, looking at the Scarlets.

  “Sure I do. Seventeen years.” Davy shook his head. “Look, you can relax. Louise got it wrong. We are not Feds. They wouldn’t have us as a gift. Every now and then they call and ask for some input, but we are not agents. We don’t arrest people. Your secret is safe.”

  She swallowed. “Oh. So, to review here, just to make this perfectly clear, you’re not going to bust me?”

  “First of all, I couldn’t,” Davy said. “I told you, I’m not an agent. Second, nobody’s filed a complaint, so you’re not wanted for anything.” He looked at her jacket. “Well, you’re not wanted by the law. Third, I’m not even sure you broke the law because I’m not sure that painting the Scarlets was a scam. Unless you know something I don’t.”

  Tilda sighed.

  “And even if you do,” he added hastily, “I don’t care. Fourth, I want you naked. And I figure I’ve got a fighting chance if you’re relieved and grateful, and your vibrator is four flights up.”

  “You want me?” Tilda said.

  “Hell, yes,” Davy said. “I crave your crooked mouth.”

  She looked at him, dumbfounded. “I thought you’d never speak to me again.”

  Davy snorted. “Not a possibility. Take off your clothes, and I’ll recite limericks if you want.”

  She put her hand on his arm and looked at him, immorality flickering in her weird blue eyes, and then she smiled that bent smile at him, the one that made him dizzy, and he lost his breath.

  “You don’t care that I’m a forger,” she said, looking like crime made flesh.

  “Honey, for the first thirty years of my life, I scammed everything that moved. Where do you think the FBI found me? Church?”

  “You’re twisted, too.”

  “Like a pretzel.”

  “So I can confess to anything and you won’t—”

  “Matilda,” Davy said as her nefarious little art-forging hand warmed his shirtsleeve and his blood. “Tell me you have the Hope diamond stashed behind the jukebox, and I will fuck your brains out.”

  “Oh,” Tilda said. “The Hope diamond is not behind the jukebox.”

  “That’s what I figured.” Davy sighed and took her hand, separating her slender cool fingers with his. “I can’t believe you thought I’d bust you, Scarlet.”

  “It would have been fair,” Tilda said. “I lied to you.”

 
“No,” Davy said. “It wouldn’t have been. That’s not us.” She was quiet after that for so long that he ducked his head to look into her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “Us,” she said, sounding a little breathless. “Oh. Well, there is one other thing.”

  Davy closed his eyes and laughed. “Of course there is. Let me have it, Scarlet. Then we’ll go fix it.”

  “The Hope diamond.”

  Davy turned and saw her smile widen.

  “It’s behind the vodka.”

  He blinked at her, not sure he’d heard her right.

  “It’s hard to see because it’s the same color as the vodka, and of course it’s dark in the cupboard, but—” Her smile quirked a little. “It’s there. Kiss me.”

  Davy’s brain shorted out, and he lunged for her mouth, shuddering when her tongue touched his. She wrapped her arms around him and fell back on the bed, taking him with her, laughing against his mouth.

  “I can’t believe this!” She stretched her arms over her head. “You know. I’m free?”

  “Oh, good.” He slid a shaking hand under her jacket. “Anything I can do to help? Please?”

  She wrapped her arms around him again, smiling at him. “You already did, Ralph, you hero, you. God, I feel wonderful. No more secrets.” She looked around the half empty white basement. “At least no more secrets from you.” She kissed him hard, her body sliding against his, and he held on as she began to unbutton his shirt. “I can tell you anything. Anything.”

  “God, yes,” he said, trying not to lose his mind as her fingers moved against his chest. Every cell in his body screamed, Take her, but he held back, wanting to make sure, wanting this time to be the time he got it right.

  “I forged my first painting at twelve,” she said, still trying to unbutton his shirt. “What is wrong with this shirt?”

  He pulled it over his head and then sucked in his breath as she licked his chest. “Keep talking,” he said as he started on the slippery knots of her jacket. This time they’d both get it right.

  “My dad sold a Monet I faked when I was fifteen.” She yanked her jacket over her head before he could start the next knot. “Your turn.”

  “I played three-card monte in Bible School.” He stripped her T-shirt off, leaving her in her black bra, looking rounder than he’d remembered and hotter than he could believe.

  “More,” she said.

  “When the teacher caught me, I told her I was doing it for the Lord and she gave me a gold star.” He stared at her as she rose up to meet him, all black lace and round flesh, but she caught his hand as he reached for her.

  “Con me,” she said.

  “I’ll respect you in the morning.”

  She laughed, and he leaned in, but she pulled back. “Con me.”

  Right. The con. First the smile, then the “yes.”

  He kissed her on the neck and then bit her softly where he’d kissed her, and she caught her breath. “More?” he whispered, and she said, “Yes.”

  He bit harder, and she trembled under him, digging her fingers into his shoulders. I want you now, he thought, but she wanted conned. What was next? Think. Right, make her feel superior. He looked down at her beautiful crooked face and thought, God knows, you are. “I can’t believe the way you played me,” he said. “You’re incredible.”

  She melted against him, breathing deeper, and he curved his hand around the firm heat of her breast and felt her tighten as she gasped. “Asthma?” he said, not sure, and she said, “Tom,” and stretched against him. Lust rolled over him and blanked out everything but her.

  “That’s it?” Tilda said, her voice soft in his ear as he pulled her close. “That’s the con?”

  He smelled the cinnamon in her hair as he kissed her shoulder. Her fingers trailed down his chest, and he shook his head to clear it. Come on, he told himself. Smile, yes, superior... “I can’t remember the rest,” he told her. “You’re ruining me, Scarlet.”

  She glowed with heat under him. “Ask me for what you want, but make me think you’re doing me a favor.”

  “Right,” Davy said. “Thank God you listen at doors.”

  She ran her hand down his stomach, and he lost his place in the conversation again.

  “So what are you going to do for me, Ralph?” she whispered.

  “Celeste,” he said, searching desperately for something good, anything good.

  “Yes, Ralph?” She kissed him, and he was lost in her heat again, and then she slid her hand lower and inspiration hit Davy everywhere.

  He pulled back a little and looked down at her sternly. “Celeste, for your own good...”

  She smiled that crooked grin at him, and the room grew hazy.

  “Out of the kindness of my heart—”

  She pressed closer, that lush mouth just millimeters from his.

  “—I’m going to cure you of your vibrator addiction.”

  “Save me,” Tilda said, and Davy moved to take her mouth and everything else she had.

  UPSTAIRS, GWEN watched Clea try to collect Mason. The preview still had some time to run, but things were winding down. Nadine looked tired but happy, which wasn’t surprising since she’d worked nonstop all night. Even Steve looked fairly content, stretched out on the snake armchair, waiting for another stranger to come by and pet him. Louise was safely back at the club, singing with Andrew. Tilda had her last Scarlet back.

  Everybody’s safe, she thought. It’s a good night.

  So why did she feel like smacking somebody with a blue armadillo footstool?

  “This was so cool,” Nadine said, coming up to her, Steve now in her arms. “I’d be bummed it’s over, but we get to do it again tomorrow night.”

  “Yeah, lucky us,” Gwen said. “How’s Steve?”

  “He loved it,” Nadine said. “People kept coming up and petting him and calling him ‘Steve Goodnight’ and telling him he was a good dog and the Dispatch took his picture. He was born to be a gallery dog, weren’t you, puppy?”

  Steve looked up at her, patient as ever.

  “And he didn’t bite anybody,” Nadine said. “He didn’t even try to hump Ariadne when Dorcas brought her down. They sat in that armchair together and looked so cute. Except when Ariadne would swat him. And even then he just sat there.”

  “Good boy, Steve,” Gwen said, and Steve sighed.

  “I’m going to take him out before I put him upstairs. Do you know where Aunt Tilda is?”

  “She’s back,” Gwen said. “She must be in bed by now.”

  The gallery door opened and Mason came back in, looking a little flustered. “Could I talk to you, Gwennie?”

  “Of course,” Gwen said, and thought, Please let me get out of here soon.

  Nadine rolled her eyes behind Mason’s back and took Steve out through the office.

  Mason nodded at her. “She’s a good girl. She was a little pushy tonight, I thought.”

  She made tonight, Gwen thought, and said, “She’s a Goodnight. They don’t hold back.”

  “I had a wonderful time,” Mason said.

  “Good,” Gwen said, trying to be nice. Mason was sweet.

  “I’d like to have a lot more wonderful times,” Mason said, clumsily taking Gwen’s hand across the counter.

  “Oh,” Gwen said.

  “I love this place,” Mason said. “And tonight I knew this is where I belong. Let me take Tony’s place and take care of you.”

  “Oh,” Gwen said again. “Well, I’m all right. I have family.”

  “That’s not the same.” Mason leaned closer. “Let me into your life, Gwennie. You’ll never have to worry about money again, I swear.”

  “Uh,” Gwen said, looking around. “Where’s Clea?”

  “In the car,” Mason said. “That’s over, there really wasn’t ever much there. After her husband died, I took her out a couple of times just to be kind. I didn’t mean for it to—”

  “Mason,” Gwen said, taking a step back. “You don’t have to tell me this.”
<
br />   “Yes I do,” Mason said. “I want you to understand, it was just that somehow we ended up together.”

  “Look, Mason,” Gwen said.

  “But she’s not you,” Mason said. “In fact, I’m beginning to think she’s not even what I thought she was. I think she may have killed Cyril.”

  “Really,” Gwen said, thinking Clea needed to do some PR fast.

  “Look, I know Clea doesn’t make me look good,” Mason said. “I know I’m not Tony.”

  Gwen sighed. “Actually, that’s not a drawback.”

  He leaned closer and kissed her.

  It was a perfectly good kiss, and she was so surprised, she kissed him back because she hadn’t done it in a while.

  It was nice, and she thought, It’s been too long since I did this.

  He leaned back and smiled at her, sweet as ever, and said, “I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks,” and she thought, He’s not Tony, but Tony had been a doughnut and look where that had gotten her, and Ford was a hit man —no more doughnuts, no more doughnuts— and she said, “Well, do it again,” and kissed him back.

  Muffins, she thought. Better than passion. Really.

  When he left reluctantly, promising to see her tomorrow, Nadine came back in. “That man kissed you,” she said.

  “Yes, he did,” Gwen said. “He wants to help us run the gallery.” And some other things, too.

  “No,” Nadine said, with great conviction, as Ethan came to stand in the office doorway.

  “What?” Gwen said.

  “No. We run the gallery. No outsiders. This is family.”

  Gwen blinked at her, amazed by her fierceness. “You let Ethan help.”

  “Ethan is family,” Nadine said, and Ethan looked as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with that. “He’s like Davy.”

  “Davy?” Gwen shook her head. “Honey, Davy’s leaving any day now.”

  “Nope,” Nadine said. “He’s going to stay and marry Aunt Tilda, and they’re going to run the gallery until I get out of college. Then they’re going to retire and I’m going to run it. I’ve decided that’s my career.”

  Gwen sat down on the edge of the desk. “Nadine, honey, sweetie, your aunt hates the gallery. And she loves her murals, which means she has to travel. And Davy is a doughnut. I don’t think they’re even, uh, dating anymore.”