Faking It Read online

  “How about now?” Tilda shuddered because he felt so good. “How about here? Oh, God, I can’t believe you’re here, I want you now.”

  “Right, you and closets,” Davy whispered.

  “We should build a closet in the attic,” Tilda said and bit his ear.

  “Ouch,” Davy said, and tightened his arms around her.

  “You are moving in, right?” Tilda whispered, pulling away a little. “We are living in the attic? You’re okay staying with my family?”

  “Yes,” Davy said, but he seemed distracted. “I’m okay with the attic, the family, and you. Can you hear what they’re talking about out there?”

  Tilda moved back to him. “The hell with them. Take me now.”

  He leaned toward the closet door. “Believe me, I want to, but I think that’s Mason out there with Clea, so if you could—”

  “Do we care?” Tilda whispered, pressing closer.

  “I don’t, but there may be some stuff going on out there I’m not getting.”

  “I’ll give you some stuff.” She kissed his neck.

  “Yes, you will. But—”

  “Do me now, against this wall,” Tilda whispered, only half-kidding.

  “Do you mind?” somebody whispered, and Tilda jerked in surprise just as Davy tightened his grip on her.

  “Rabbit?” Davy said, turning around in the dark.

  “Your financial manager’s in this closet?” Tilda whispered.

  “It’s bad enough I have to listen to what’s going on out there,” Rabbit said, his voice bleak with betrayal. “I don’t need to listen to people talking dirty in here.”

  “You think that was dirty?” Davy said. “Rabbit, you have no idea—”

  “I heard everything you said to her,” Rabbit said.

  “I didn’t say anything dir—”

  “That woman is a gold digger,” Rabbit said.

  “Considering where her hand is, I don’t think my money is what she’s after.”

  “He’s talking about Clea,” Tilda said to Davy.

  “That’s all she ever wanted was the money,” Rabbit went on, pain in his voice.

  “Oh, Clea,” Davy said. “Hell, yes, she’s a gold digger. You’re just noticing that now?”

  “I loved her,” Rabbit said.

  “Well, then it doesn’t matter,” Davy said. “Now could you leave? Because—”

  “She just wanted the money,” Rabbit said sadly.

  “Rabbit, you only want sex,” Davy said. “And God knows, Clea can deliver.”

  “Hey,” Tilda said, “I can deliver.”

  “Yes, you can, but not to Rabbit,” Davy said, and the door opened.

  “What the hell is this?” Mason said.

  “Hi, Mason,” Davy said. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, you have good closets.”

  BY THE TIME they were all out of the closet, Mason was speechless, and Davy felt for him. It must have been like watching a clown car at the circus.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Mason said.

  “I think you had to be here,” Davy said.

  “I can explain,” Clea said, and then looked at the three of them standing in front of her closet. “No, I can’t. I have no idea what’s going on.”

  “Tilda,” Mason said. “Honey, what are you doing here?”

  “Delivering paintings,” Tilda said. “Clea bought paintings for you, and she wanted it to be a surprise so ... I hid.” She pointed to the case of paintings leaning against the bed. “See?”

  “Paintings?” Mason said, cheering up.

  Clea slipped her arm through his. “All six Scarlets, darling. They’re my wedding present to you.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Clea,” Mason said, patting her hand but still looking at the paintings. “I know Gwennie will appreciate it, too.”

  “Not your wedding to her,” Clea snarled. “Your wedding to me.”

  “I’m not marrying you,” Mason said. “What’s Davy Dempsey doing in your closet?”

  “He came with me,” Tilda said. “He’s very protective.”

  “What are you doing?” Davy said to Tilda. “Stop trying to save her. Let her rot.”

  “And who is he?” Mason said, pointing to Ronald.

  “I’m Clea’s lover,” Ronald said, looking betrayed. “But that’s all over. She’s only interested in money.”

  “You have a lover?” Mason said to Clea.

  “Not exactly,” Clea said, but then somebody banged on the door, and she brightened. “I’ll just get that.”

  When she opened the door, Gwen was there, looking mad as hell. “Did you know your front door is standing open?” she said to Clea. “That’s dangerous. Anybody could get in here. Like a hit man.” Clea stepped back, and Gwen caught sight of Davy and pushed past her.

  “Thank God, you’re alive,” she said to him.

  “Gwennie!” Mason said, but she ignored him to concentrate on Davy.

  “Listen, you have to get out of here,” she told him. “Clea sent Ford to kill you.”

  “No I didn’t,” Clea said.

  “He’s on his way,” Gwen said. “I delayed him for a little while, but then I fell asleep. He’s probably here already. You have to get out.”

  “Thank you,” Davy said, disentangling her fingers from his shirt. “But that won’t be necessary.”

  “You fell asleep?” Tilda said to Gwen. “Ford was coming to kill him and you fell asleep! What are you, narcoleptic?”

  “It was probably the sex,” Davy said.

  “Sex?” Mason said.

  “He’s just being funny,” Tilda said to Mason.

  “Ford’s going to kill you,” Gwen said to Davy, ignoring them both. “He has a gun. Clea has paid him to kill you and he’s not going to retire until he’s finished.”

  “I did not pay him,” Clea said.

  “Usually she just kills her husbands,” Davy said, “so I don’t—”

  Clea stood up, incandescent with rage. “For the last time, I did not kill my husband. Either one of them. They both died of heart attacks.”

  “Not according to the FBI, they didn’t,” Mason said. “At least Cyril didn’t. He was poisoned.”

  Clea blinked at him. “Somebody poisoned Cyril?”

  “That would be you,” Davy said to her and looked at Mason. “When did you talk to the FBI?”

  “They exhumed the body a couple of weeks ago, according to Thomas.” Mason shook his head. “He told me at the gallery opening Friday night. He said the FBI had evidence that Clea had killed Cyril and had stolen his collection. He seemed serious, but I just can’t stop thinking of him as the caterer.”

  “Why would anybody poison Cyril?” Clea said, outraged past the point of caring. “He was eighty-nine, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Well, there was all the money you inherited,” Davy said, watching her. “Patience has never been your strong suit.”

  “I did not kill—”

  “I believe you,” Tilda said to her. “Just ignore him.”

  “Hey,” Davy said.

  “Well, pay attention,” Tilda said. “Why would she kill him if he was eighty-nine and rich?”

  “He wasn‘t rich,” Clea said, evidently goaded beyond endurance. “He died broke, okay?”

  “Really?” Davy said. “What a disappointment for you. You suppose the warehouse fire you set had anything to do with that?”

  Clea glared at him. “Do I look like somebody who would set a warehouse fire?”

  “No,” Tilda said. “You don’t look like somebody who could light her own cigarette.”

  “It was just my lousy luck,” Clea said miserably. “He was supposed to have all this money and then it turned out he’d spent it on his art collection and then most of that burned—”

  Davy turned back to Mason with renewed interest. “So you talked to Thomas Friday.”

  Mason nodded. “He came to warn me about Clea.”

  “About me?” Clea sat down, almost in