Jennifer Crusie - Faking It

“Anything,” Ronald said, his breath coming quicker. “ Anything . We should talk about it. Let me see you. If we could-”

“You have to prove you love me first.” Clea craned her neck to make sure Gwen hadn’t crawled into Mason’s lap. God, you just could not trust men.

“I’ll meet you,” Ronald said breathlessly. “We’ll-”

“I can’t possibly meet you while Davy is around.”

“Clea, please-”

“Get rid of Davy and then we’ll talk,” Clea said. “I have to go-”

“Wait, wait, I have a plan for that,” Ronald said. “I think I can get him to agree to leave you the million he stole from you and only take the money he made with it. The first million is rightfully your-”

“It’s all mine,” Clea said, outrage making her louder. Honestly, where was this man’s mind? How long did he think a million would last her in this economy? Well, in any economy. She dropped her voice again, this time to the purr that had made stronger men than Ronald twitch. “You know that, Ronald darling, you know that’s true.”

“Of course,” Ronald said automatically. “But if he’ll leave-”

“He won’t leave,” Clea said. “I know him, he’s impossible. Get rid of him, and then you and I can be together forever. I only have a few more paintings to buy, Ronald. Another month at the most and then we’ll be together again. With a beautiful art collection.”

“A month?” Ronald took a deep breath. “I don’t-”

“But only if you get rid of Davy,” Clea said. “As long as he’s around, we’ll never be together.”

There was a silence on the other end of the line, and Clea stretched to see what was going on in the dining room now. Gwen was laughing at something Mason said. The woman was practically a hyena. And her jawline was definitely going. Clea put her fingers under her chin and pushed. Still firm, but for how long? There was a limit to plastic surgery, after all. Too much and you started to look like-

“What exactly,” Ronald said slowly, “do you mean by ‘get rid of?”

In the dining room, Gwen put her hand on Mason’s arm, and Clea said, “Get him out of the picture .”

“You mean, kill him ?”

Clea stopped glaring at Gwen and Mason to think about it. Death was a little more drastic than she’d intended, but it would get Davy out of the way permanently. Maybe Ronald could pin his murder on Gwen. That would solve all her problems.

On the other hand, it was Davy. He’d been good to her a long time ago.

Oh, hell, let Ronald figure it out. “Ronald, either you love me or you don’t.”

“He has family” Ronald was saying. “Real family, he calls his sister every week. I don’t think I can-”

“Then you don’t get me,” Clea said. “If you won’t take care of a little thing like this, I can’t trust you to take care of me, which means I can’t spend the rest of my life with you. You betrayed me, Ronald, you sent that horrible man here and now you won’t save me. I’m so upset, I can’t even talk to you anymore.”

“Clea-”

“Good-bye forever, Ronald,” Clea said and hung up in the middle of his pleading, hearing the crack of desperation that meant she had him.

Now all she had to do was wait for Ronald to push Davy under a bus or deport him or something. Ronald loved her, he’d do it. Not a problem. As long as Davy wasn’t already in the house. He couldn’t be in the house already, could he? She should have asked Ronald for more details.

Clea took one more look in the dining room and went upstairs to her bedroom to make sure Davy wasn’t ripping her off. That’s the kind of world it was: a woman had to do damn near everything for herself.

OKAY, OKAY, Tilda thought as she stood as still as she possibly could. There’s a way out of this. I just have to slow down and think She drew in a deep breath. Oxygen was important, especially if you were asthmatic. Lack of it made you unconscious and vulnerable. She breathed in again, and the kissing bandit beside her put his arm around her.

That was sweet. He must think she was a complete idiot. Or a complete slut. She’d kissed him. She’d sunk into the dark anonymity of the closet and thought, Oh, thank God, he’s going to help me , and kissed him back. She was an idiot slut. Of course, he was a thief, so it wasn’t as though he was in a position of superiority there. I have to get out more , she thought. Six months of celibacy and she was swapping tongues with burglars in the middle of felonies.

Outside, Clea Lewis slammed a drawer shut, and Tilda froze. The bandit pressed her shoulder, and she tried not to feel comforted. He was a crook, for heaven’s sake, which strangely enough did not lessen his appeal. Goodnight blood , Tilda thought. Like calling to like.

He shoved at her gently and she realized he was trying to get her to move down into the other part of the closet, away from the first set of doors.

Right. She stepped sideways, and he eased down the wall with her, his hand now warm on her back as the closet door opened.

She heard Clea shove the clothes aside where they’d been standing, and her entire life passed before her eyes: faked paintings and forged murals interspersed with glimpses of family. She moved her head a fraction of an inch toward the man standing between her and ruin, just enough that her forehead touched his shoulder in the dark. She was always the one who rescued, but tonight, he could do it. He was as bad as she was, probably worse, he needed the good karma points, he could get them out.

Clea stopped pawing through her clothes and shut the closet door, and Tilda inhaled in shuddery relief, smelled soap and cotton, and tried not to shake. When she heard the door close outside, he said, “Here,” and opened the closet door. But it’s so safe in here , she thought, and followed him out.

“Well,” she whispered when they were out in Clea’s bedroom again, “I really apprec-”

“ Fuck ,” he said, and she followed his eyes to the desk. The laptop was gone. “Sorry,” he said to her, keeping his voice low this time.

“Are you kidding?” Tilda said. “I’ve been wanting to scream that for the past eight hours.” She drew a deep breath. He was wearing her black baseball cap, the one she’d borrowed from Andrew, the one embroidered with bitch on the front in white. That was okay, he could have it to remember her by. “Well, it’s been great, but-”

“There’s a diner three blocks east of here,” he said. “I’ll meet you there.”

“What?” Tilda whispered. “Why? Listen, if this is about the kiss, I apologize, I-”

“The painting,” he whispered back, trying to push her toward the door.

“You know,” Tilda said, resisting the push, “I was wrong. This is not your problem. I’ll-”

He leaned closer, large in the dim light, and she stopped. “Vilma, I don’t know what you do for a living, but it’s not theft. Go wait in the diner.”

“No, really.”

“You want to stay and search the place?”

The darkness closed in around her, and she felt her lungs start to tighten. She was such a geek. “No.”

“Then go away.” He steered her toward the door. “And if you get caught? You never met me.”

“I wish,” Tilda said, and slipped out the door, feeling like a fool and a failure.

WHEN GWEN got back to the gallery, she went straight to the cabinet above the counter and pulled out the vodka bottle. It was empty.

“Damn,” she said and dropped it in the trash, prepared to savage whoever had finished it. It wouldn’t be Andrew or Jeff; they kept their booze in their apartment. Eve wouldn’t have finished off the bottle. And Nadine knew better.