Faking It Read online

  His face darkened. “I knew you wouldn’t understand. Gwen’s the real thing.”

  “And what am I?” Clea said. “I’m real, damn it. I’m a human being, I’m somebody you’ve talked to, made love to, made plans with, and now I’m just supposed to be understanding!”

  “We didn’t make plans,” Mason said firmly. “We never—”

  “We were going to build an art collection together,” Clea said, her throat closing at the unfairness of it all. “We talked about it, we went to museums, we bought paintings—”

  “I did all of that,” Mason said. “You were just along for the ride.”

  Clea put her napkin on the table. “Funny you didn’t mention that in the beginning.”

  “I thought you knew,” Mason said, looking surprised.

  “Knew what? That you were just using me?” Clea felt the tears start. “This is so unfair of you.”

  “Clea,” Mason said, sounding stricken, and Clea let the tears flow. They were real ones. He deserved them.

  “I love you,” she said on a sob and ran for the stairs. Crying was hell on a woman’s complexion, and she needed a tissue.

  A ball bat to smack Mason with would be good, too.

  AT ABOUT the same time Clea was thinking of bashing Mason, Davy came downstairs to find Tilda and found Nadine instead.

  “Hey, Lucy,” he said to her. “Nice job last night.”

  “I know,” Nadine said. “I think it’s going to be my career.”

  “Good choice,” Davy said. “So where’s your aunt? I’ve misplaced her.”

  “I think she went somewhere with Mom,” Nadine said.

  “Okay,” Davy said, and then remembered he hadn’t seen Michael since the night before, either. “Have you seen my dad?”

  “Yeah,” Nadine said. “He and Dorcas went to visit your sister.”

  Davy went still. “He doesn’t know where she is.”

  “He got Ethan to look her up on the computer. You can find anybody on the Net. She’s in some little town with a weird name.”

  “Temptation,” Davy said.

  “That was it,” Nadine said. “They took off in Dorcas’s car about half an hour ago.”

  “Oh, hell,” Davy said, exasperated, and grabbed the phone.

  Dillie picked it up on the first ring.

  “Get me your dad,” Davy said.

  “I was sort of hoping you’d be Jordan,” she said. “Listen, the stuff you told me—”

  “Your dad,” Davy said. “Now.”

  He heard Dillie drop the phone, and a minute later, Phin picked up.

  “What’s wrong?” he said. “Dillie says it’s an emergency.”

  “It is,” Davy said. “Dad figured out where you are. He’s heading your way. Hold the fort until I can get there and remove him. Do not let him alone with Sophie and do not give him money.”

  “I’m not stupid,” Phin said.

  “Neither is he,” Davy said. “I like to think of him as washed up, but the man can talk anybody into anything.”

  “You know, he’s starting to sound interesting,” Phin said.

  “Famous last words,” Davy said. “Head for high ground.”

  UP IN HER BEDROOM, Clea dabbed the last of her tears away and faced the unavoidable truth: Mason was leaving her for a fifty-four-year-old woman who didn’t moisturize. It was a slap in the face of her entire worldview. She’d spent forty-five years taking excellent care of herself, only to lose to a nobody who was going to have jowls at any minute. God knew how long it had been since Gwen had done a sit-up. One hundred. That was how many Clea did every morning and every night, one hundred damn sit-ups, and what had it gotten her? Dumped for a grandmother, for God’s sake. The woman had given birth, she had stretch marks, she had a stomach —Clea put her hand on her own supernaturally flat abdomen— and still she was winning. That was so wrong.

  Well, Gwen had messed with the wrong woman this time. “This is not over,” she said out loud. “This is not over.”

  She dumped her purse out on the bed until she found Ford Brown’s number. When he answered, she said, “We had a deal.”

  “What?” he said.

  “You were to keep Gwen away from Mason.”

  “Look, you brought him to the gallery,” Ford said. “She hasn’t come to the house, has she?”

  “No,” Clea said. “And I did not bring him. He went on his own.”

  “I can’t stop him,” Ford said. “That’s up to you.”

  “And Davy’s still there,” Clea said.

  “Is he bothering you?” Ford said.

  “Yes,” Clea said. “His existence bothers me.”

  “I can take care of that if you want,” Ford said. “Just say the word.”

  Clea swallowed. “Gwen is the bigger problem.” She looked around to make sure no one was listening.

  “Gwen?” He sounded taken aback. “You want me to hit a woman?”

  “No, I don’t want you to hit her,” Clea said, exasperated. “I want you to—” Her eye fell on the open closet door, the place where she’d hidden the painting. She stretched the phone cord over and looked inside.

  The Scarlet was gone.

  “What?” Ford said.

  “Wait a minute,” Clea said, her heart in her throat. She put down the phone and went to the closet and then over to her laptop. Three minutes later, she picked up the phone, her heart hammering, and said, “Do not do anything to Davy Dempsey. I need him alive.”

  Oh, God, Davy had her money. She sat down on the bed, trying not to shake. He’d taken it all. Mason was slipping away and she had no money and she was forty-five.

  “Are you okay?” Ford said.

  “No,” Clea said, her voice shaking. “I’m not okay. And you did not keep Davy Dempsey out of this house. He stole a painting from me and he took my money. And if you kill him, I’ll never get it back. Just watch him.” She bent and put her head between her knees, trying to keep from fainting. She had no money. And you couldn’t find men with money unless you had money. Or youth. Oh, God.

  “For how long?” Ford said.

  “What?” Clea said, trying to keep the tears out of her voice.

  “For how long do I watch him?”

  “Until I get the money back,” Clea said, swallowing. No need to panic. She still had time. She could still bring this off. She deserved to bring this off, damn it. Zane had left her with nothing, Cyril had left her with nothing, it was her turn. “Watch him until I get the money back and then you can finish the job.” She straightened and caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and tried to smooth out her face. Terror made her look old. She couldn’t be old. Oh, God—

  “All right,” Ford said. “Exactly what does ‘finish the job’ mean?”

  “What?” Clea said, still trying to cope with the mirror. “I have to go. Just watch him, damn it, and do a better job than you did last night. I can’t believe—”

  “He never left the gallery last night,” Ford said. “I watched him the entire time. When the gallery closed, he went downstairs with Tilda.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t last night then,” Clea said. “But it was him.” She thought about Davy, impossibly young with her all those years ago, just impossible with Tilda now, and she wished she’d never met him, in spite of all the good times and good sex. It hadn’t been that good, not good enough for the price she was paying now. “I wish he was dead.”

  “Is that an order?” Ford said.

  “No,” Clea said. “For Christ’s sake, pay attention. He’s got my money. He has to stay alive until I get it back. If you kill him, his sisters will inherit everything, and I’ll never get it back.” She thought about Sophie, implacably efficient and not a little obsessive about her baby brother. “Do no? kill him.”

  “Just checking,” Ford said and hung up.

  Clea hung up the phone and sat, thinking fast. She didn’t have the know-how to embezzle the money out of Davy’s accounts, Ronald had done that, so maybe—