What a Woman Gets (4 page)

But the guy was making an honest living, so Liam couldn't fault him. Instead, he tucked a few bills into the breast pocket of Marco's uniform as the doors opened into the lobby.

“Thanks.” Liam patted the pocket. “For the info and for not mentioning this to anyone.” He might not have many friends in this part of town, but if word somehow got back that he'd walked a froufrou piece of fluff for some spoiled socialite—on a pink sparkly leash no less—he'd never hear the end of it. Bad enough he was going to take ribbing for being a cleaning lady.

Thankfully, Titania took care of business quickly and bobbled back to the building as quickly as her stubby little legs could take her, while Liam could only imagine the laughs the guys monitoring the security cameras must be having over this scenario. Hopefully, the management had a restriction about posting security videos online.

He put Titania back in her pen, hung the leash back in the closet, then resumed his job of cleaning Cassidy Davenport's bedroom.

The woman was a piece of work. He always straightened up before Sharon came to clean his place. Funny that he was taking over for her here, since she also cleaned his house. Clean
ed
. Mac was going to have to send someone new over now that Sharon's leave had come earlier than expected because there was no way Liam was going to play maid here then go home and do the same.

He swept the dust rag over what he'd guess was a high-priced piece of artwork on the table beside her bed and—shit! A pewter sphere rolled off and under the bed.

Liam got on his hands and knees and looked for it. He could just hear the woman now, complaining that he'd broken it, and it'd probably cost more than he'd made all year.

There it was, smack under the middle of the bed. He flattened himself on the floor and inched toward it. With his head, shoulders, and practically his entire back under the bed, he finally reached it. Jesus. What size bed was this? It certainly was bigger than his king. What came after king? Monarch? Sovereign? Dictator?

Whatever. Liam grabbed the ball and backed out.

Except his shoulder snagged on the bed frame. He stopped, not wanting to rip Mac's uniform, then tried to reach back and free the shirt, but there wasn't enough space to maneuver and he wasn't a contortionist who could get his fingers back there.

He wiggled a little, shimmying like a snake. Tried rotating his shoulder to see if that would free it.

Nope.

Christ. Liam lay on the floor, those black, ankle-strapped stilettos directly across from him. Perfect line of sight. He did
not
need the visual.

He headed back toward the middle of the bed and felt his shirt come loose.

Shimmying down and over, Liam managed to extricate himself from Cassidy Davenport's bed. He wondered how many men would think him stupid for wanting to.

He stood up and something dropped at his feet.

A photo and something else.

Liam picked them up. The photo was of a woman with a dark-haired little girl on her lap sitting on a beach somewhere, palm trees and a grass hut behind them, buckets and shovels and sandcastles all around.

Cassidy Davenport, no doubt. The child had the same smile, and the same brilliant green eyes. He flipped it over.

Mother. Martinique. The last vacation.

That
last
bothered him.

Obviously Cassidy Davenport had had a mother, but as far as Liam knew, Mitchell Davenport wasn't married. Divorced? Widowed? Was his daughter the result of a love affair?

Liam picked up the other thing that had fallen out. A bracelet made of seashells. Cracked, the cord fraying, it was a match to the ones the two in the photo were wearing.

Why hide these under the bed? Or had she lost them? Would she be glad that he'd found them? Or upset?

He had no idea and he didn't want to give Cassidy any reason to complain to Mac about the service, so he knelt down and felt around for where they'd come from. Out of sight, out of mind.

But that word wasn't out of his mind.
Last
. And the four other words with it: concise, stark. Practically devoid of emotion.

Liam tucked them away and stood up. Those words—that picture—were too real. Too raw. Too honest. He didn't want to see Cassidy Davenport like that.

It would make her too human.

C
ASSIDY
'
S
father's pitiful grab for youth had only gotten worse since he'd turned the dreaded six-oh. It was as if he knew the date of his impending death and was determined to do everything on his Bucket List. Three times. Including any bimbo he could entice into the back of his Rolls. It was utterly sad how many of those women there were.

Case in point: the one leaving his office now, trying desperately to cover up the fact that her blouse was mis-buttoned.

Cassidy just rolled her eyes at the chick who couldn't be older than she was. Why these supposedly smart women with great degrees and good jobs opted for sleeping their way up the corporate ladder was beyond her. Didn't they have any self-respect?

“Thank you, Mr. Davenport, for your time.” The poor thing was actually trying to make it look as if the sales call had gone as planned.

Or maybe a quickie on his desk had been her objective all along.

Cassidy could tell her it was futile. That the blondes came and went—she coughed to cover the inappropriateness of
that
thought—at regular intervals. Her father was a dog, which made the media's moniker of Hound From Hell for him so very apt. He was tenacious, and once he'd set his sights on a project, watch out anyone who got in his way.

Mother had been his first victim. Or, at least, the first one Cassidy was aware of. And that'd been over for twenty-five years.

“He'll see you now, Cassidy,” Deborah said after touching her earpiece.

Poor Deborah. Mitchell had her on an electronic leash, able to reach her at any time or anywhere by buzzing in her ear. Did she ever take it out? Like in the bathroom or when she went home to her husband?

Cassidy just hoped her father paid the woman what she was worth, but doubted it. He hadn't gotten where he was today by being generous. Everything had a price, according to him. Including his daughter's obedience.

She stood up and smoothed the linen pants. Funny that her father hated if she showed up wrinkled yet the woman who'd just left his office had looked like something someone had left in the washer a few days too long. Ah well. Not her problem. For much longer anyway.

She took a deep breath before pushing open the door to Dad's office. Thankfully the girl hadn't latched it; Cassidy was loathe to touch anything in the office for fear of what DNA might be lingering and from whom.

“Hello, Cassidy.” Dad did his usual throw-his-arms-open-wide, politician-style hug as he walked out of the full-sized bathroom he'd had custom-designed for his office. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The word
pleasure
coming from him made her shudder. “Lunch? Remember, we have a date?”

“Ah . . .” He looked at his desktop calendar and tapped it. “Yes. I see it right there. Lunch with my daughter.”

His smile was indulgent, but it set Cassidy's teeth on edge. He still thought of her as a malleable sixteen-year-old, kept in line by the promise of a cool car and credit card privileges. God, she'd been so shallow. So easy.

“So where would you like to go? Chinese? Thai? Indian? Italian?”

“It doesn't matter to me, Dad.” She wouldn't be able to eat anyway. She'd been psyching herself up for this conversation for almost a year. Now it was finally time to have it.

“All right, then. How about Padraic's? It's been a while since I was there.”

That's because, to her father, Padraic's was “slumming it.” Which showed her the importance he put on this luncheon.

One more reason for her to go through with it.

“Actually, you know what? I would like to go to La Maison. It's my favorite.” Until the words came out, she'd had no idea she was going to contradict him.

Dad was just as surprised that she was finally getting a backbone. At twenty-nine, it was about time.

No, she wasn't going to dwell on that. She wasn't exactly proud of herself for playing into his world order. Most people were sucked in; it was hard not to be when the charismatic Mitchell Davenport put his plans in action. It'd made him a good businessman but a shitty father. And she, who'd been starved for some sort of parental affection after Mom had walked out, had chosen to ignore the fact that she was living a sycophantic lifestyle. But no more.

He wasn't going to like what she had to say.

He also didn't like her lunch suggestion—his left eyebrow was arched almost into his hairline. As a kid, she'd dreaded that eyebrow. Disappointment, anger, disinterest . . . it was all there. And had been for way too long.

She had a feeling there was going to be a lot of eyebrow arching in the next hour.

He punched a button on his phone. “Deborah, have Paxton bring the Rolls around.” He smiled his business smile when he disconnected the call. “I'm guessing this is a special lunch today?” Hence the Rolls.

Cassidy would have preferred anything but the Rolls. He took his “meetings” in that car. But she'd give him this one; he was going to have a lot more to deal with than her unwillingness to ride in his love-mobile.

But he had to see, once she explained it, that this was what she was meant to do. She could only be an ornament for so long; she needed a purpose in her life. She needed to
do
something. Her artwork was good. Someone had paid real money for it—someone who hadn't known who she was.

The feeling of getting by on her talent, her efforts . . . It was heady. It opened the door to all sorts of possibilities, not the least of which was her own career and her own place. One she
would be able to afford on her
earnings instead of the monthly allowance Dad liked to call her salary. But she wasn't sixteen anymore; she knew exactly what that money was. It was a way to keep her in line and make his life easy. It was also the physical embodiment of her marking time.

Franklin's death had shown her how little time anyone could have. He'd left behind a legacy; what did she have to speak for her? The byline on the programs and agendas she put together for her father and the photos in the society pages weren't enough for her. Not anymore.

Dad had to understand it. He'd made a name for himself; was it so wrong that she'd want to do the same?

He was solicitous on the ride to the restaurant, holding the door for her, offering her a glass of wine in the car. Noon was a little too early for her to start drinking, though with what she was going to tell him, maybe she ought to get
him
liquored up.

The doorman opened the car door when Paxton pulled up to the restaurant's
porte
cochere
. “Good afternoon, Miss Davenport.”

“Hello, Dennings.” She'd grown up calling those in the service industry by their last name, but it'd never felt right or comfortable to her. But if she didn't, Dad would start in on an embarrassing cringe-worthy “lesson” of how to comport herself.

He was
really
not going to like what she had to tell him.

Fifteen minutes later, after the pleasantries had been discussed and their orders delivered, Cassidy took a fortifying sip of the wine she'd caved in and ordered, set it down, folded her hands in her lap—so he wouldn't see her wringing them—and took a deep breath. “Dad.”

“Yes, Princess.”

She tried to keep the cringe off her face. She'd hated that nickname when she'd heard every one of her friends called the same thing by their wealthy never-home-and-typically-divorced fathers. Just once, she'd wanted him to come up with a new one. One that meant something. But after twenty-nine years, she was finally reaching for her own happiness and her own self-esteem and not relying on him to come through for her. It'd been a lesson she'd learned the hard way.

“I did something that I'm very proud of.”

“Oh?” He signaled to the waiter to refill her wine.

She ground her teeth. He might as well just pat her on the head and give her a lollipop. Her nails bit into her palm. “I sold my first piece of art.”

Dad set his fork down and for the first time since she'd seen him today, he actually
looked
at her. “You did what?”

“I've been collecting old pieces of furniture, painting them, and selling them.”

“You sell furniture?”

“No, Dad. It's art. I refinish old furniture and turn them into collectibles.”

“Where?”

“Where do I paint them?”

“No. Where are you selling them?”

“At Marseault's Gallery. On commission.”

“What name are you using?”

Of course. He was worried about his reputation. “Don't worry. Not Davenport. I'm using C. Marie.”

There went that damn eyebrow again. “Your full name has been published often enough in the papers, Cassidy.”

“Which is why I didn't use it. No one's going to know that C. Marie is Cassidy Marie Davenport.”

“Does the gallery owner?”

“Well, yes, of course, but—”

“No buts, Cassidy. The owner knows. Do you think he's going to miss out on the opportunity to cash in on my name? That little immigrant came to this country to make his fortune and you handed him the perfect opportunity. My God, how short-sighted can you be? After all the years I've put into building my name, now you've gone and ruined it with some paint-by-numbers hobby.”

“It's not a hobby!”

The diners around them stopped talking and stared because of her raised voice—a bigger sin than her “hobby” if Dad's reaction was anything to go by, but Cassidy didn't care. A
hobby
? How
dare
he! She'd worked her heart out on the pieces she'd finished and had almost a dozen more in the works, squeezing in time between his “engagements” where she was supposed to show up looking elegant and glamorous, the perfect Davenport, all so he could say his properties were as beautiful as his daughter. She'd always found the pitch tacky, but now . . .

“Who bought the piece?” Mitchell dabbed at his mouth with the linen napkin, then tossed it onto the table and grabbed his phone. One punch and poor Deborah was again summoned. “I want you to find a piece of furniture. No Deborah, listen. It belongs to a—” The damn eyebrow went north as he glared at her.

“I don't know.” And she didn't. Jean-Pierre, the gallery owner, hadn't told her who'd bought the piece, just that it'd been sold.

“That's not helpful. Nor professional.” He shook his head. “No, Deborah, not you. I want you to track down the owner of the Marseault's Gallery and buy back a piece sold by C. Marie. Yes, that's right, you heard me. C. Marie,
not
Cassidy Davenport. And I don't care what the price is; you buy it back.” He turned off the phone, picked up his napkin and placed it back in his lap, picking up his fork and spearing one of his snails as if he hadn't just completely dismissed Cassidy's life dream.

“Now that that unpleasantness is out of the way, what did you want to talk to me about?”

She ought to throw her fork across the table and storm out, but Cassidy was so sick at heart at her father's callous disregard for her feelings and dreams she couldn't summon the energy. Plus, he and the headmistress of her boarding school had ingrained proper behavior into her so much that she wouldn't dare create a scene—

“Is it about this evening? I know Burton had to attend the ground-breaking ceremony in Charleston, but he has the helicopter. He'll make it in time to escort you. I guarantee it.”

The gala. Another one. Number forty-two for the year. She knew because she'd just donated forty-one dresses to a local auction to raise funds for underprivileged children. It's what she did with all her dresses. Dad had pitched a fit over her giving away designer clothing until the publicity had started rolling in, extolling her generosity and giving the Davenport name kudos left and right. Now it was a matter of pride for him that her wardrobe constituted the majority of the donations.

“I'm not worried about Burton not making it.” Because, God knew—and so did Mitchell—that
nothing
would keep Burton Carstairs from making it to one of her father's command performances with the boss's daughter on his arm. “But, Dad, about my art. You can't just buy it back. What'll that say about me? Jean-Pierre will never sell any of my pieces again if he thinks you're going to hunt down the buyer. It won't look good for his gallery—”

“You're assuming I care about this man's gallery. I don't, Cassidy.” He examined the snail he'd pulled from the shell as if it were more important than a conversation about her life. “He's a businessman and he should have thought things through. At the very least, a phone call to me as a professional courtesy would have been in order. But he didn't make that call, so this is the price of doing business his way. I protect my name at all costs.”

“But it's not your name; it's mine.”