Faking It

by Jennifer Crusie

  “You shouldn’t do this,” Eve said. “This is wrong.”

  “Maybe not,” Tilda said. “Maybe this is right. Maybe I was just supposed to get them back so I could sign them.”

  “No,” Eve said, but Tilda hugged her good-bye, drove to Clea’s in Jeff’s car, and parked outside.

  I don’t want to give these up, she thought as she looked at the case she’d packed the paintings in. I don’t want to stop painting like that.

  And I don’t want to do any more murals.

  She sat there for a moment, and then dug in her purse for her cell phone and her day planner and turned to her work list: six more murals scheduled with the contact numbers written beside them.

  She dialed the first one and said, “Mrs. Magnusson? This is Matilda Veronica. I’m going to have to cancel your mural. Something has come up and ...” She went on, soothing her wounded clients, offering them paintings or furniture, feeling the tightness between her shoulder blades ease. It took her over an hour, and when she was done, she looked at the case and thought, If I have to give these up, I should get more for them.

  And even though she was late, she shifted deeper in her seat and began to plan.

  “WHERE’S TILDA?” Davy said, when he came through the office door.

  “Where have you been?” Gwen said, annoyed with him. “All hell’s been breaking loose here and—”

  “The police,” Davy said. “They’re still talking to Dad. Where’s Tilda?”

  “At Clea’s,” Gwen said miserably. “She’s taking her the Scarlets.”

  “Why?” Davy said, exasperated.

  “Somebody told Clea she was Scarlet,” Gwen said. “It’s blackmail, but there’s not much—”

  “Fuck,” Davy said. “I leave for one day and you people fall apart.” He went out again before Gwen could think of something cutting to say.

  “Well, the hell with you,” she finally said to the empty doorway and went upstairs to get her puzzle book.

  Ford met her in the hall. “What now? I heard you yelling.”

  “Davy,” she said.

  “He’s back?” Ford said. “Good, I need him. Where is he?”

  “He left again,” Gwen said. “He’s going to Clea’s to save Tilda.” She felt waspish about that.

  “Clea’s.” Ford went back inside his apartment and Gwen followed him.

  “What are you doing?” she said, and saw him pick up a shoulder holster. “No, I can’t let you do this.” She stepped in front of the door.

  “Do what?” Ford said. “I’m running late here—”

  “Look, I know that the people you’ve ... well, I know if you showed up at their door, they were probably asking for it—”

  “Grosse Pointe Blank” Ford said.

  Gwen deflated.

  “All hit men know that movie,” Ford said. “It’s our Casablanca.”

  “It’s not funny,” Gwen said. “That’s what Tony always used to say, ‘If they’re going to buy art they don’t like just to show off, they’re asking for it.’ But it’s wrong, and I...” She shook her head at him. “Can’t you just move to Aruba and open an orphanage?”

  “Why the hell would I want to open an orphanage?” Ford said, clearly mystified.

  “To atone,” Gwen said. “If you stop now, maybe—”

  “Gwen.”

  “Because Tilda really loves Davy and we don’t want him...” Gwen stumbled over the word again. “Like Thomas.”

  “Catering is no life for a man,” Ford agreed.

  “Damn it, Ford.” She slammed the door behind her. “I have had enough of you goddamn men not taking me seriously. First Tony patted me on the head for thirty years, and then Mason wants to marry me for my gallery, and now you’re making jokes before you kill my future son-in-law, and I’m sick of it. I am somebody to pay attention to, damn it, and I am not putting up with any more goddamn patronizing and mediocre sex and ...” She stopped as she saw his face change. “If you make fun of me,” she warned him, “you’re a dead man.”

  He walked toward her until he had her trapped against the door.

  “Mediocre sex, huh?”

  Gwen sighed. “I’m not going to marry him.”

  “That I already knew,” Ford said. “And I am not patronizing you. But you have to get out of my way so I can finish this one last job.”

  “No,” Gwen said, sticking her chin out. “You’ll have to go through me to get to him. He’s my daughter’s future and nobody messes with my daughters’ happiness.”

  He stared down at her, his face inscrutable. “Gwen, how much do you want to save Davy Dempsey’s worthless life?”

  Gwen swallowed. “Quite a bit.”

  He bent his head until his lips almost touched hers. “How much of a sacrifice are you willing to make?”

  Gwen bit her lip to keep from kissing him. “Damn near anything,” she said nobly.

  He moved around to her ear, and she closed her eyes. “What if you didn’t have to sacrifice anything?” he whispered.

  Gwen took a deep breath. “I’d insist,” she said.

  “Davy Dempsey owes you,” Ford said, and dropped his holster.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  DOWNSTAIRS, Simon caught Davy on his way out. “You’re back. Good. We can leave.”

  “I’m staying,” Davy said. “Gotta go. Talk to you later.”

  “I’m not staying,” Simon said. “I had a chat with Eve yesterday.”

  Davy stopped. “Right. Meant to tell you, Louise is Eve.”

  “I know,” Simon said, looking grim. “Do you have any idea of the things I did to Nadine’s mother?”

  “Roughly, yes,” Davy said.

  “I’ll never be able to face that child again,” Simon said.

  “Get over it,” Davy said. “I have to go. Come back for the wedding.”

  “Wait a minute,” Simon said, but Davy was already heading for the van.

  CLEA WAS sitting at her dressing table, waiting for Tilda and making plans to give Mason six paintings and the best sex of his life, when Ronald walked into her bedroom and closed the door behind him. “I have to see you,” he said, looking as firm as somebody like Ronald could.

  “Not now, Ronald,” Clea said. “I have an appointment.”

  “It’s time for you to choose, Clea,” Ronald said, sticking out what little chin he had. “It’s him or me.”

  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 d
idn’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.

  Chapter 21

  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 you
r 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.

  “Certainly,” he said to Eve, and pushed the door open for her.

  TILDA PUSHED her way to the back of the closet, still coping with the realization that Davy had stayed when he hadn’t had to. Maybe—

  A hand pressed over her mouth and made her jerk. “I need you to be very quiet,” Davy said in her ear, and her body melted into relief as she turned to face him.

  “I thought you’d left,” she whispered back, trying to keep her voice steady. “I thought you were on your way to Australia.”

  “We have to work on your concept of me.” Davy bent and kissed her, all that heat on her mouth, in her mouth, everything she was afraid she’d never have again, and she grabbed onto his shirt and said, “Don’t leave me.”

  “I’m not going to.” He bent to kiss her again, and she gripped his shirt tighter.

  “I mean ever, don’t ever leave me.” She tried to swallow some of her desperation. “I’m sorry, I know this is a huge turnoff—”

  “Yeah,” Davy said, close to her mouth. “I hate it when women want me.”

  “—but I really need you forever, the whole thing, for always—”

  “You got me,” Davy said and kissed her again, and she breathed him in and felt lust and relief and gratitude, all at once, and wrapped herself around him.

  “Maybe I’ll just take short trips,” Davy whispered, coming up for air, “so we can do this again.”

  “We can do it without the trips.” Tilda went up on her toes to reach his face. “Anytime.”

  “How about half an hour from now, your place?” Davy slid his hand down her back.