Faking It Read online

  “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