Faking It

by Jennifer Crusie

  “Adults can be so blind,” Nadine said.

  “Adults can be?” Gwen said, looking at Ethan. “You’re a little nearsighted yourself.”

  Ethan wheeled around and went back into the gallery.

  “I see everything,” Nadine said.

  “Ethan’s crazy about you,” Gwen said.

  “I know,” Nadine said.

  “Not in the brotherly, best-friend way,” Gwen said.

  “I know,” Nadine said.

  “Well?” Gwen said.

  “I don’t know.” Nadine frowned. “It’s not like my heart goes kathump whenever he’s around. You know?”

  Gwen thought of Mason. “I know.”

  “And if I make the move to find out, and it turns out it isn’t there, then what am I going to do? He’s my best friend. I can’t lose him. And if I lie to him and try to fake it, he’ll know because he knows me better than anybody. We’ve been best friends for ten years.”

  “Oh,” Gwen said. “Actually, that makes sense.”

  “And you’re wrong about Tilda. Davy makes her laugh. I hadn’t heard her laugh for a long time, but he does it.”

  “You’re right,” Gwen said. “But Nadine, a long-term relationship is not about laughing.”

  “I bet it’s a good start,” Nadine said. “They don’t pretend with each other. They know each other.”

  “They don’t have a clue about each other,” Gwen said. “Your aunt Tilda has a lot to hide, and Davy’s no choirboy.”

  “I know what I know,” Nadine said. “And I don’t think you should kiss Mr. Phipps again.”

  “Hey, even grandmothers get to date.” Gwen went back into the office, annoyed.

  Nadine followed her. “It’s such a shame Mr. Ford turned out to be a hit man.”

  “Nadine, you do not know that Mr. Ford is a hit man.” Gwen felt exhausted, her headache back in full force. “I’m going to bed,” she said, heading for the hall door.

  “Maybe he only killed people who had it coming,” Nadine said, from behind her. “Like John Cusack in Grosse Pointe Blank. Maybe if he showed up at their doors, they deserved it.”

  “Good night, Nadine,” Gwen said, and opened the door and sucked in her breath.

  Ford was standing there, broad as the doorway. “Sorry. How’d the preview go?”

  “Oops.” Nadine faded back into the gallery.

  “Pretty good,” Gwen said, working on keeping her breathing even.

  “It looked good from the street,” he said. “When I left. Through the window.”

  “Oh.” Gwen nodded. “Thank you.”

  “The whole place looks good,” Ford said.

  “Thank you,” Gwen said again, still nodding like an idiot.

  “Good night,” Ford said.

  “Good night,” Gwen said. He went up the stairs, and Gwen thought, I’m going to pass out. Breathe, for heaven’s sake. She was such a fool. Mason kissed her and nothing happened, and Ford turned up behind a door and she hyperventilated.

  “Do you think he heard me?” Nadine said, coming back in a little breathless herself.

  “I think he hears everything,” Gwen said. “I’m going to bed now. If you change your mind about Ethan, don’t have sex on the office couch.”

  “Yeah, and I won’t put beans up my nose, either,” Nadine said, annoyed now, too.

  Gwen waved her away and went upstairs to bed to not think for a while.

  DOWNSTAIRS, TILDA kicked off her jeans and rolled naked against Davy, who’d lost his, too. “There’s more,” she said, feeling his heat as he touched her. She wanted to crawl into him, he felt so good.

  “God, yes,” Davy said, pulling her tighter against him.

  “I mean about me.” She closed her eyes, feeling her body slide on his, the bite of his hands on her hips, wanting all of him, hot inside her, as soon as possible. “More things to tell.”

  “Keep talking.” Davy bent his head.

  “My grandfather sold a Pissaro to the Metropolitan.” She gasped as he reached her breast and sucked hard, and she felt the pull everywhere. “It’s a contemporary.” She laced her fingers through his hair and arched against him to ease the prickle in her veins. “Oh, God. My great-grandfather painted it. It’s really good.”

  Davy moved up to her neck, kissing her there. “My grandpa sold the Brooklyn Bridge for scrap iron,” he said in her ear. “Three times.” He bit her earlobe and she moaned. “To the same guy.”

  Tilda ran her tongue along the beautiful line of his collarbone. “My great-grandpa scammed the Louvre,” she said, letting her hand stray south as he shivered. “We have a Goodnight in there.” She found him, hard against her, and stroked him until he caught her hand.

  “Stop that,” he said, breathless, “or this’ll be over before the end of my rap sheet.”

  “Your rap sheet’s that long?” She kissed him, stealing his mouth, scamming his tongue.

  “No. Your hand’s that hot.” He slid his hand between her thighs. “I remember this. I’ve been here before.”

  “Not like this.” Tilda shuddered as he touched her. “Don’t wait. Don’t—”

  He slipped his finger inside her and she cried out.

  “My great-grandpa conned a Vanderbilt out of a railroad,” he said in her ear. “Christ, Tilda.”

  “I know. I know.” She closed her eyes and bit her lip and lost herself in the heat he was stroking into her. “Listen to me.” She drew her breath in rhythm with his hand, rocking against him. “Listen to me. Listen to me. My family ... have been forgers ... for—Oh, God, fuck me”

  He rolled between her legs, and she arched up to meet him, and he slid inside her solidly, making her cry out and clench around him, biting his shoulder while he held her down and rocked into her. The heat rolled over her and she shuddered with it, frantically catching his rhythm as he moved inside her. “Oh, God, that’s good. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

  She moved with him, feeling the pressure build, rolling in his heat. “I’m a forger,” she whispered in his ear, and he held her tighter and pulsed deeper. “My family ... has been bent... for four centuries.” He bit her neck and she shuddered under him. “We’ve been wrong ... forever.”

  He raised himself up over her, pressing harder and making her gasp, and then he smiled down at her, his eyes hot and his face flushed. “Matilda,” he said, moving against her. “My grandmother was a Gypsy. We stole nails at the Crucifixion. Beat that.”

  She rolled her hips to bring him closer, putting him on his back, rising up to straddle him, feeling him deep inside her as his fingers bit into her again.

  “I painted the Scarlets,” she said, rocking them both toward mindlessness, feeling him everywhere as her body flushed and swelled. “My mother painted Homers. My grandmother painted Cassatts. My great-grandmother—”

  “Thank God there were a lot of you,” Davy said, gripping her tighter.

  “My great-grandmother,” Tilda said again as her muscles tightened inside. She stopped, savoring the tension, knowing the screaming would start soon. Oh, this is going to be good, she thought, and looked down at Davy, strong and hot and holding on to her as if he was never going to let go.

  “Don’t tell me Great-grandma was straight,” Davy said, his breath coming hard. “I was hoping for centuries here.”

  She leaned down slowly, feeling her blood thicken in her veins, and she kissed him, long and deep. “My great-grandmother Matilda,” she whispered against his mouth as she began to move against him again, “sold a fake van Gogh... to Mussolini.”

  “Good for her,” he whispered, watching her.

  “It was a bad fake,” she said, the edge sharpening inside her.

  He arched against her, and she choked as she felt him deep inside.

  “It was a terrible fake.” She breathed in again, her skin damp with anticipation, her eyes on his. “Anybody could have told it was fake.” There, she thought as he moved, there. “He must have been insane.”

  He moved aga
inst her, intent on her mouth. “Did she look like you?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes half-closed. Almost, almost. There. There.

  He curled up against her, making her cry out as he wrapped his arms around her. “Was she naked when she sold it to him?”

  “Yes,” Tilda said, choking on the heat. “Yes.”

  “I’d have bought it, too.” He rolled to trap her underneath, and she felt herself against him, digging her nails into him and biting his shoulder as the spasm started, clutching at him as he held her down, trying to consume him, devour him, possess him, taking him for everything he had while he took her and she lost it all, over and over and over again.

  When she could think again, she felt him shaking on top of her and realized he’d come, too, that part of the shaking was her, that he was holding on to her like death, and that she didn’t care about anything except having him again.

  “Christ,” Davy said finally, still trying to breathe.

  “I want to do that again,” Tilda said, around her own gasps.

  “Yeah,” Davy said, gasping into her neck. “Me, too. Maybe next week.”

  “That was so good,” Tilda said, stretching under him. “Oh, God, that was really good.”

  “Have I mentioned,” Davy said, still trying to breathe, “how pleased I am... to meet your family? God, I hope there are thousands of them.” He kissed her hard. “You’re good at this, Scarlet.”

  “Not lousy,” Tilda said.

  “World class.” He dropped his head back into the hollow of her neck. “I think you left marks.”

  Tilda held him tighter as her breathing slowed. “I think you did, too.”

  “That’s so I can find the way back. Damn, you’re good.”

  “Oh, stop.” Tilda tilted her hips so he rolled off her, and then followed him to keep his heat. “You’d think you’d never had sex before.” She licked into his ear, so besotted with his body that she wanted to start at the top and keep going.

  “Not like this,” he said, and she lifted her head to look at him. “There was a real quality of insanity there, Scarlet.” He took a deep breath. “I usually don’t fear for my life during sex but...”

  “Oh.” Tilda grinned at him, exhausted and exhilarated. “Thank you. That’s so sweet.”

  He laughed and pulled her back to him, holding her close. “Maybe we could pace ourselves. There were so many things we could have done that we didn’t get to.”

  “Really?” Tilda said, brightening at the thought. For the first time the unknown seemed interesting and inviting instead of dangerous. “Give me some examples. I’m suddenly feeling very open-minded.” When he didn’t say anything, she propped herself up on one arm and saw him frown. “What?”

  “That was it, wasn’t it?” he said, and she tensed again. “That’s what’s been wrong all along. You’ve been scared this whole time, haven’t you? Of me finding out.” He waved his hand to take in the basement. “About this.”

  “Yes,” Tilda said. “God, this is such a relief. But you can’t tell anybody. Not even Simon. Promise.”

  “I promise,” he said. “Why?”

  She thought of the Scarlets and the shame and the disaster of being found out, and the glow slipped away.

  Davy held her tighter. “Never mind, forget I asked, don’t look like that, Jesus.”

  He pulled her back down and kissed her hard, and she said, “Just don’t tell,” and he said, “Never,” and kissed her again and again until she relaxed beside him.

  “It’s okay.” She pushed herself up again. “I’m okay.”

  “You’re better than okay,” he said, following her up, not letting go. “You’re ...”

  “What?” she said, and realized he was looking past her, at the Scarlets lined up along the wall. “What?”

  “They’re you,” he told her, still holding on to her as he stared at them. “All that color and light and anger and sex. They’re all you.”

  She looked at the paintings, trying to see them the way he did, without guilt and pain, and they were beautiful, full of laughter and passion and joy.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” he said, still looking at the paintings.

  “Oh,” Tilda said and felt something give way inside.

  He turned back to her and smiled into her eyes. “Scarlet,” he said, savoring her name as if he were tasting it. He bent close to her. “Matilda Scarlet Goodnight. Her work.” He kissed her gently.

  I love you, she thought and kissed him back, naked and unashamed.

  Chapter 17

  THE NEXT MORNING, Tilda met eve over muffins in the office.

  “My God,” Eve said when Tilda smiled at her, practically bouncing on her heels. “What happened to you?”

  “Me?” Tilda tried to tone down her beam. “Davy got the last Scarlet back. I’m free.”

  “And what did he do after that?” Eve said.

  Tilda got the juice out and poured. “Oh, we talked some. He figured out I’m Scarlet.”

  “Really.” Eve’s smile faded. “Was he upset?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice,” Tilda said. “It turned him on.”

  “Everything about you turns Davy on,” Eve said. “This is not news.”

  Tilda choked on her juice, surprised. “Davy? No.”

  “Yes,” Eve said. “He’s blind with it, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.”

  “Well, last night he figured it out,” Tilda said, grinning again in spite of herself.

  “Really,” Eve said. “That good?”

  “Really that good,” Tilda said, looking out the door to the gallery. It was still full of her furniture, but it was also bright and clean and full of light, and she thought, I love this place. Thank you, Davy.

  “He wasn’t mad,” Eve said.

  Tilda put her glass down. “Tell Simon you’re Louise.”

  “No.” Eve got up and put her own glass in the sink so Tilda couldn’t see her face.

  “It was a real turn-on for me, too, Eve,” Tilda said. “I didn’t have to be afraid anymore once he knew it all.”

  “That’s when I’d start to be afraid,” Eve said.

  “No,” Tilda said, leaning closer. “That’s when you’re free. When there’s one person you can tell anything to, and it won’t matter because he understands you.”

  Eve took a step back and shook her head. “I think you may be overreacting here.”

  “I don’t think so,” Tilda said. “I think—”

  “That this is it?” Eve rolled her eyes. “You’ve known this guy two weeks and this is it? The real thing?”

  “I don’t know about that,” Tilda said, a little taken aback by how cold Eve was. “I don’t know if it’s true love forever. He’s definitely not a fairy-tale prince. But I trust him. I know him.”

  “No you don’t.” Eve turned away from her again. “You never know anybody. You just guess.”

  “All right,” Tilda said, more worried than insulted. “Are you coming to the opening tonight?”

  “I think Simon is expecting Louise,” Eve said, sounding a little tired. “She told him she was getting off early because she wanted to catch the last of the opening.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Louise.”

  “I want to catch the last of the opening,” Eve said.

  “Well, give Louise the night off, then,” Tilda said. “Come as you are.”

  Eve shook her head. “She’s got a really nice dress.”

  She straightened a little. “You know, she’s got a dress that would be good for you, too.”

  “Like I could get into Louise’s stuff,” Tilda said. “The only reason I can wear yours is that you buy everything two sizes too big.”

  “This one’s loose,” Eve said. “Sort of drapey.”

  “Drapey?”

  “Well, it doesn’t have a back.”

  Tilda thought of Clea Lewis. “What color?”

  “Blue,” Eve said. “Midnight-blue like the Scarlet ski
es.”

  “I’m in,” Tilda said and started to follow her out the door, only to stop when they met Gwennie, very pale, carrying the bank bag.

  “What’s wrong?” Tilda said.

  “The mortgage.” Gwen dropped the bank bag on the desk and sat down on the couch. “I tried to put the money from last night on the principal, and they wouldn’t let me.”

  “Why not?” Tilda said. “Nobody could buy that mortgage, we’ve been making the payments.”

  “It’s been paid off,” Gwen said, looking like death.

  “Paid off?” Tilda said.

  “Really?” Eve said, cautiously delighted. “Really, it’s gone?”

  Gwen looked at her and shook her head.

  “Who?” Tilda said.

  “Mason,” Gwen said. “It has to be Mason. He’s the only person we know with six hundred thousand dollars and a yen to run an art gallery. It has to be him. And I think he wants to marry me.”

  “Oh,” Eve said, sitting down beside her. “Well, we’ll just give the money back. Unless you like him.”

  “He’s nice,” Gwen said.

  “Nice.” Tilda sat on her other side. “Gwennie, you cannot marry for nice. Or for six hundred thousand dollars. Tell me you’re not thinking about doing this in some insane bid to save the plantation. Because it’s not necessary. We can give the money back. We’ll be out of debt in—”

  “About forty years,” Gwen said. “But no, that’s not why I’m thinking about doing it. Mason is sweet.”

  “Sweet is good,” Tilda said doubtfully. “I mean, definitely when I decide to settle down, I’m doing the muffin thing.” She thought about Davy. If she stretched the definition of “muffin”...

  “That’s Mason,” Gwen said. “All muffin.”

  “I’m just saying, maybe not this muffin.” Tilda took her hand. “He’s just a little ... bland for you. He’s bran, you’re orange-pineapple.”

  “Muffins are bland,” Gwen said. “If they’re not bland, they’re just doughnuts without holes.”

  “Well, take him for a trial run first,” Eve said. “Even for six hundred thousand dollars, you shouldn’t have to be bored in bed.”