Faking It - Crusie Jennifer (читать книги бесплатно полностью .txt) 📗

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 didn’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-”