Now You See Her (11 page)

A low rumble sounded in Kai's throat. He turned his head, pretending to cough.

VanDern gave him a furious look, then turned his attention back to Sweeney. “How childish,” he sneered.

“Afraid to take the bet, huh?” she said.

“Of course not!”

“Then do it. I tell you what: I won't limit you to just my work. Pick a classic; duplicate a Whistler, a Monet, a van Gogh. I'm sure they would be worthy of your great talent.”

His cheeks turned a dull red. He glared at her, unable to win the argument and equally unable to think of a graceful way of getting out of the bet. He glanced at Candra. “I'll come back later,” he said stiffly, “when you have more time.”

“Do that,” she said, her tone clipped. Her annoyance was obvious. When the doors closed behind him, she turned to Sweeney. “I'm sorry. He can be an arrogant jerk sometimes.”

“Without straining,” Sweeney agreed.

Candra smiled. “You more than held your own. He'll think twice before he challenges you again. He's hot right now, but fads pass, and I'm sure he knows his day in the sun won't last very long.”

In Sweeney's opinion, VanDern thought he was
the center of the universe, but she shrugged and let the subject drop.

Candra returned her attention to the paintings, tapping one elegant nail on her bottom lip as she considered them. Sweeney's stomach knotted again.

“They're almost surreal,” Candra murmured, talking to herself. “Your use of color is striking. Several shades seem to glow, like light coming through stained glass. A river, a mountain, flowers, but not like any you've done before.”

Sweeney was silent. She had spent hours, days, staring worriedly at those canvases; she knew every brushstroke on them. But she looked at them again, wondering what she had missed, and saw that nothing had changed. The colors still looked strangely intense, the composition was a little off in some way she couldn't explain, the brushstrokes were a touch blurred. She couldn't tell if it was surreal, as Candra said, or exuberant. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

“I want more,” Candra said. “If this is an example of what you've been doing, I want every canvas you've completed. I'm doubling your prices. I may have to come down in price, but I think I'm judging it right.”

Kai nodded in agreement. “There's energy here, a lot more than I've ever seen in your work. People will go nuts over these.”

Sweeney dismissed the bit about energy; that was just a buzzword. His last statement was more honest, an assessment of their marketability. Relief swamped her. Maybe she hadn't lost her talent, just her ability to judge it.

“What's that?” Candra said, indicating the folder holding the sketch of the hot dog vendor.

“A sketch I made of a street vendor,” Sweeney said. “I want to give it to him.” She shivered suddenly, a chill roughening her skin. Damn it, she had been enjoying feeling warm, but the warmth hadn't lasted long.

“I'll have these framed immediately,” Candra said, turning back to the paintings. “And bring the others. I'd like to make a full display of them, place them close to the front so the light is better and they're the first thing clients see when they come in. I promise, these are going to fly out the door.”

*   *   *

Walking back home, Sweeney hugged herself against the cold. She was relieved at Candra's reaction to the paintings, but for some reason she couldn't enjoy her relief. The uneasy feeling was growing stronger.

She reached the corner where the old vendor had always been, but it was still empty. She stopped, a great sadness welling in her as she wondered if she would ever see him again. She wanted to give him the sketch, wanted to know if she had accurately deduced his childhood features from the facial structure of an old man. She wanted to see that sweet smile.

“Hi, Sweeney,” said a soft voice at her elbow.

She looked around, and delight speared through her. “There you are,” she said joyfully. “I thought you must be sick—” She halted, shock replacing delight. He was faintly translucent, oddly two-dimensional.

He shook his head. “I'm all right. Don't be worryin' about me.” The sweet smile bloomed in his dark face. “You got it right, Sweeney. That's just how I used to look.”

She didn't say anything else. She couldn't. She wanted to weep, she wanted to say she was sorry she hadn't gotten it right sooner, so she could have given him the sketch.

“Do me a favor,” he said. “Send it to my boys. David and Jacob Stokes. They're lawyers, my boys, both of them. Fine men. Send it to them.”

“I will,” she whispered, and he nodded.

“Go on now,” he said. “I'll be fine. I just had some loose ends needed takin' care of.”

“I'll miss you,” she managed to say. She was aware of people giving her a wide berth, but they were New Yorkers; no one stopped, or even slowed.

“I'll miss you, too. You always brought the sunshine with you. Smile now, and let me see how pretty you are. My, my, your eyes are as blue as heaven. That's a mighty nice sight...”

His voice became gradually fainter, as if he were walking away from her. Sweeney watched him fade, becoming more and more transparent until there was nothing left except a faint glow where he had stood.

The chill was gone. She felt warm again, but frightened and sad. She wanted to be held the way Richard had held her that morning, but he wasn't here, and he wasn't hers. She didn't have him. She was alone, and for the first time in her life she didn't like it.

C
HAPTER
    S
IX

C
andra took the early shuttle from New York to D.C. the next morning. The capital suited her purposes better, so she didn't mind the inconvenience. For one, seeing him in D.C. was easier than seeing him in New York, where he was seldom in his office. She would have had to either go to his house or call him there for an outside meeting, and she preferred not to.

Perhaps Margo knew about her affair with the senator, but perhaps not. Despite her own stupidity in telling Richard about the abortion when she should have kept her mouth shut, Candra didn't believe in unnecessarily hurting or humiliating anyone. Margo might not care how many women Carson banged, but she definitely wouldn't want him banging them in her house. Knowing what she knew about him, Candra wouldn't be surprised if he insisted on having
sex right there in the office, before he even knew why she was there. She smiled thinly, humorlessly. First he would fuck her, then she would fuck him; she thought that was fair.

She had taken extra pains with her appearance that morning, not to attract attention but to avoid it. On went the black business suit, the staid black pumps with one-and-a-half-inch heels. Her earrings were plain gold hoops; she left off all rings and exchanged her wafer-thin, impossibly elegant Piaget wristwatch for an old Rolex, one her father had given her when she was sixteen. She doubted it had cost more than a couple of thousand. A Rolex wouldn't stand out in the capital, where status was everything and Rolexes were as common as embassy plates.

She brushed her hair more severely and toned down her makeup. She wouldn't stand out; she would look like thousands of businesswomen or lobbyists. She didn't want to be memorable, should anyone see her. It was, perhaps, a foolish precaution on her part, but then she had never before blackmailed anyone and she thought some discretion was needed.

Today was Margo's regular day at Elizabeth Arden; since the trip to Rome had been postponed, she would go about her normal routine, and Margo was a fanatic about pampering her looks. With Margo safely in New York, Candra didn't worry that Carson had told her to come to his town house in the capital. Doing so actually suited her better, because she wouldn't have enjoyed the crassness,
the utter distastefulness, of being screwed on an office desk with a troop of aides just outside the door.

At the airport, she hailed a taxi and sat quietly in the backseat, not encouraging the driver's occasional attempts at conversation. To her surprise, she felt the beginning flutters of excitement and anticipation she normally felt when she knew she was going to have sex. Until now her mind had been completely on what she would say afterward, but now she began to think about the act itself. Carson had little technique but a lot of vigor, and sometimes, when she was feeling a little nasty, that was just what she wanted.

He had to be in his office at ten-thirty. She would have an hour with him. That would be sufficient.

Carson met her at the door himself, smiling and saying all the inane social things in case anyone was listening. He had staff here, of course, at least a cook and a housekeeper. He was very good looking, Candra thought, smiling up into that almost classical face. How odd that she actually preferred Richard's more rugged looks. Richard was one of those men who was so overtly
male
a woman couldn't help looking at him. She gave herself a small mental shake; she had to stop thinking about him, because she had lost him. That part of her life was over, and she had to make a success of this new chapter or lose everything.

“You said there was something urgent you needed to discuss with me,” Carson said for the benefit of anyone listening, smiling smugly as he escorted her
into his office and shut the door, locking it behind him. He thought he was being smooth about it, but Candra was listening for that small click. She was glad he was taking care they wouldn't be interrupted, and if he hadn't locked the door, she would have done it herself.

He grabbed her breasts the moment he turned around, and maneuvered her toward the large sofa. She barely had time to place her bag on the floor before he bore her down on the expensively upholstered cushions, already tugging her skirt up and his zipper down. “We have to hurry,” he panted, shoving into her and immediately moving into a fast, pounding rhythm. “Before Margo comes down.”

“What?”
Candra gasped, instinctively pushing against his shoulders. All her initial excitement was gone. Ugly scenes didn't appeal to her, and she had no doubt Margo could enact the ugliest of ugly scenes.

The senator pulled her hands away from his shoulders and pinned them to the sofa, his face set. He didn't intend to let a little thing like his wife's presence in the house keep him from doing what he wanted. Candra held herself still and silent, not wanting to either slow him down or draw attention to the office. Mentally she urged him to hurry God, the stupid arrogance of the man! Regardless of how much Margo enjoyed the status of being a senator's wife, or how much she looked forward to the White House, there was a limit to what she would turn a blind eye to. Knowing about Carson's indiscretions was one thing; seeing them for herself was very different.

Clinically she watched as his face turned red from effort, and the veins in his neck stood out. He hadn't even loosened his tie. His thrusts moved her back and forth on the sofa.

If he noticed her lack of response, he didn't care. Within two minutes he stiffened, his pelvis jerking and his face twisting into a carnal parody of pain. Odd, she thought, how something that was exciting when she was turned on was distasteful when she wasn't.

He pulled out of her, panting, and took out a handkerchief to wipe himself clean. “Do you have another of those?” she murmured, and seeing his blank look, added, “The handkerchief.”

“No, this is the only one.” He started to fold it and return it to his pocket—disgusting—but Candra took it from him and folded it herself, touching it as little as possible, and tucked it between her legs.

He looked uneasy. “It's monogrammed.”

“I'll give it back to you,” she said impatiently. “Or would you rather I destroy it?”

“Burn it,” he said, but he still looked unhappy about her having his handkerchief. Too bad he didn't apply that caution to the rest of his behavior, she thought.

She sat up and straightened her clothing, within moments looking as if nothing had happened. Nothing
had,
for her, she thought.

“Sit down,” she said. “I
do
have something to discuss with you.”

“Of course, anything I can do to help.” His own clothing restored to respectability, he sat down behind his desk, made of good old American oak. He
was always careful not to flaunt his wealth where his constituents might see, here in his D.C. home and in his office. His home in New York, however, was as luxurious as a palace, with imported everything.

He smiled at her now, the smooth, urbane smile of a man who knows he has power. In coming to him like this, he thought she was going to ask him for a favor. His hazel eyes glittered; during their sporadic relationship, Candra had firmly refused to do anything more than occasionally accommodate him. Carson was accustomed to calling the shots, accustomed to having women do his bidding, and her cool distance both annoyed and challenged him. Of course, she had further annoyed him by making their encounters as memorable as possible.

“Two years ago,” she said, “I had an abortion.”

“I trust you had good care. I've always supported legislation to—”

“I'm not interested in what you've supported,” she interrupted. “Carson, the child was yours. But when Richard found out I'd had the abortion, he thought it was his. That's the basis of the trouble between us.”

“Really.” He leaned back in his huge leather chair, steepling his fingertips together. “How interesting. But why are you telling me this?”

His expression hadn't even flickered at the news that she had supposedly aborted his child. That wasn't the reaction she had hoped for. “Richard is being difficult about the settlements, and without going into detail, he's in a position to win. I could use some financial help, just this one time.”

“To the tune of how much?” he asked mildly.