“You’re kidding.”
“Not in the least.”
“You don’t seriously think I’m going to go because you tell me to.”
“If you don’t, I assure you, you’ll regret it.”
“Are you demented?” Cassie asked. Those cold blue eyes did look a little strange. Maybe Claire and Jay should meet and they could stir their bubbling caldrons together.
“Perhaps you are if you think Bobby cares. Here’s a news flash for you. Bobby fucks everyone,” Claire calmly said. “He won’t remember your name a week from now.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do. I saw the way he touched you as you walked in. He does that, you know, makes women think he’s sweet and kind and normal. He’s not. He doesn’t live like you and—” she waved her hand in a dismissive gesture that took in the milling guests “—these Midwestern types.”
“He lives like you, I suppose.”
“Maybe he does,” she said, her WASP nose lifted faintly in disdain. “He lives a privileged life. Did you know he’s a French count? The Serres have been Comtes de Chastellux since the crusades; it’s one of his father’s lesser titles. Bobby has an estate in France along with his Montana land because some great, great something grandfather lived there at one time.”
“And you fit into this privileged life.”
“He married me, didn’t he?”
“And divorced you.” She couldn’t help it, but then again, good manners weren’t Claire’s strong point, either.
“A mistake I think he regrets.”
She’d seen Bobby in the car, his indecision and reluctance. Was it because he didn’t want to see Claire or because he wanted to see her too much? Did this woman understand him better than he understood himself?
“Look, whatever your motivation with Bobby, leave me out of the picture. I’m working with him on the Rubens theft. It has nothing to do with your plans. Feel free to reenter his life in any way you wish.” My God, she sounded mature and wise when she really felt like smacking the woman. “This isn’t a contest or competition. I have a job to do for Arthur and the museum—that’s all.” Her lies were getting world-class. She should go on the stage.
“I don’t believe you.”
“It doesn’t matter. If you’ll excuse me.” And rising to her feet, she walked away, holding her head high like Julia Roberts in that scene in Pretty Woman when she leaves Richard Gere at the hotel. Then she walked directly into the kitchen because she seriously needed a drink and if the waiters wouldn’t come to her, she’d go to them.
Bobby found her a half-hour later sitting on a bar stool at the kitchen counter, commiserating with one of the waitresses on the dearth of honesty in relationships. Maybe she’d had a glass too many of champagne or she wouldn’t have said with a faint sneer, “I suppose French counts have tons of women chasing them who want to be countesses.”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t use the title.”
“I understand you’re slumming here in town.”
“Claire?” he gently asked.
“She’s a real delight. I can see why you married her.”
“Do you mind,” he said to the waitress who was watching and listening with great curiosity.
“You don’t have to go,” Cassie said, feeling put upon and lied to, men in general back on her shit list.
“Please?” Bobby murmured, handing the waitress a hundred dollar bill.
A moment later they were alone, the sounds of the party faint, the festivities having moved out into the backyard where a pony ride was in progress.
“Counts certainly know how to throw around their money,” Cassie grumbled, the thought of wealthy counts even more galling when she was poor as a church mouse with no tiara in sight.
“Have you passed your two-drink limit?”
“What’s it to you?” she said like someone who’d passed their two-drink limit.
“I’d better drive.”
“Don’t bother. Claire tells me she’ll be taking over. I don’t know if that includes driving me home, but I doubt it. I’ll call a cab, and you two can plan to watch the sunset of life together.”
“No one’s planning anything.”
“That’s what you think. Claire has plans, believe me. I was told to get out of town or there’d be a shoot-out at the O.K. Corral.”
“Forget whatever she said. Okay? It has nothing to do with you and me.”
“There’s no you and me.” But even as she spoke—her resentment fueled by alcohol and Claire’s smug assurance—she felt like screaming DID YOU SAY YOU AND ME?
“You’ll feel better when you come down a little,” he calmly said, like he soothed distraught inebriated women who were angry with him every day. “Come on, let’s go. I’ll drive.”
“You can’t fit behind the wheel.”
“I’ll manage.”
“I don’t know where I left my purse.”
“It’s by the couch.”
“Claire practically threatened me. I’m not sure I dare be seen with you.”
“Give me a break,” he muttered.
“Easy for you to say. You didn’t look into her eyes.”
“I’ll protect you. Okay? Now are you going to come with me, or do you want me to carry you out of here?”
She almost said, “Carry me,” because it would have pissed the hell out of his bitchy ex-wife, but she was still sober enough not to make a complete spectacle of herself when there was a possibility she might have to see some of these people again. “I can walk.”
But he caught her as she slipped coming off the bar stool. “At least hold my hand. That way you won’t fall into anything expensive.”
“Except you.”
“I’m free, babe.”
The seductive warmth of his voice sent a megawatt glow clear down to her toes, and whatever resentment she might have harbored evaporated like water in the desert. “That remains to be seen,” she said, trying to walk like a sober person, not willing to let him off the hook completely after having to endure Claire’s unpleasantness. A drop or two of resentment may have resisted the sun’s rays.
“I’ll have to think of some suitable penance,” he said, smiling.
“You already owe me for coming here.”
“We’ll work something out.”
His voice was velvety and low, his strong hand engulfing hers, and even if she didn’t know how they were going to work things out, it sounded as though he did.
They’d almost made it to the front door when a familiar female voice said with cloying guile, “Don’t leave yet, darling. I wanted to give you your journal from the Thessalonika dig.”
Turning around, Bobby deliberately placed himself between Claire and Cassie. “Why don’t you send it to me? You have my address.”
“Why don’t we have lunch tomorrow instead, and I’ll give it to you then.”
I’ll bet she’ll give it to him, Cassie petulantly thought, various scenarios pertaining to Claire’s immediate removal racing through her mind in cartoonish film-clip fashion.
“Sorry,” Bobby said. “Arthur’s pressing us on this recovery.”
“But darling, I haven’t talked to you for so long.” Claire moved closer, her expensive perfume filling the air. “I was hoping we could have a chance to catch up while I was in town.”
“I wish I could, Claire, but my schedule’s tight. Jorge has that project waiting in the wings the minute I finish up here. It was nice seeing you again.”
His grip tightened on Cassie’s hand, and he turned to push the screen door open. “All the best on the Met job. Watch your step,” he said in a different tone, guiding Cassie out the door.
And that soft indulgence in his voice triggered a small personal jihad in Claire Dumont, who wasn’t familiar with losing. Particularly to a woman who probably didn’t even own a good string of pearls.
TWENTY-FIVE
“SHE WANTS YOU BACK.” THE TREES WERE rushin
g by slightly too fast for the suburban neighborhood. Cassie braced her feet on the floor.
“Too bad.”
“I know she said something to you.”
“Not really.” No way was he going to say what Claire had said to him. He didn’t want to be kicked out of her car while it was moving. Claire hadn’t beaten around the bush, but then she never had. Maybe she was at loose ends after her polo player or maybe she’d really meant it, but it hadn’t taken more than five minutes of conversation before he realized why he’d left her and never looked back. She still didn’t know the difference between asking and telling. She still thought the world revolved around her. And turning on a man was still simply a means to an end for her.
“I’m mad anyway.”
“That’s because you’re drunk.”
“Am not.”
“Whatever.”
“Don’t be condescending.”
“I’m not. I’m just sober and you’re not.”
“Didn’t you drink?”
“Pink champagne with cherries in it. I don’t think so.”
“I suppose counts only drink rare vintage champagne.”
“Don’t give me any grief. Claire never should have told you.”
“That’s not all she told me. She said you wouldn’t remember my name next week. She said you live like an aristocrat.”
“She’s full of it. And I haven’t seen her for five years. What the hell does she know about my life?”
“I think she’s hoping to catch up. Does that mean fuck standing up?”
His hands tightened on the wheel. “Could we talk about this when you’re sober?”
“I want to talk about it now.”
He really should have had some champagne, he thought, cherries or not, and he wouldn’t remember any of this tomorrow. As it was, the entire conversation was going to be a bloody waste of time, but she was making him hot just looking at her in that cropped jacket and tight jeans that showed off her big boobs and shapely ass. All he wanted to do was get her home and fuck the hell out of her. He didn’t question the reason for his unusual obsession; he only looked forward to the hopefully swift consummation. “Ask me anything,” he said, superpolite.
“Did she turn you on?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. She just didn’t.”
“She must have at one time.”
“I suppose she did, but that was years ago.”
“Try to remember.”
“Why?”
“Just because.” Even not exactly sober, Cassie understood how juvenile that sounded. “I mean—she must have some appealing qualities.”
He almost laughed at her sweet bitchiness, but sensible and sober as he was, he stayed with good manners and vagueness. “Claire liked to travel. I did, too. She can pack one small bag and go around the world. I found that appealing.”
Cassie had to turn and look at him, not sure his lack of sarcasm was for real. “So you married her?” she queried, suppressing her urge to snort. “Liar.” On both counts, she thought. It was impossible to pack one small bag and travel around the world.
“Look, it just happened. We’d been seeing each other for—I don’t know—quite a few years. She brought up the idea of marriage.”
“And you rolled over?”
“Hey.” He shot her a look. “No one rolled over.”
Now we’re getting somewhere, the little voice inside her head that hid below the alcohol line said. When his manly authority was at stake, the platitudes flew out the window. “Where were you married?”
“Florence.”
Damn. There went her fantasy. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Unlike you now, I was sober at the time.”
“I was sober at my wedding.”
Understanding there was a possibility of getting himself out of the mire of an inquisition about Claire, he quickly asked, “Where did you get married?”
“Hawaii.”
“Why?”
“It was warm in January.”
“Why did you get married in January?”
“My mother and Jay’s mother wanted to go to Hawaii in January.”
“I see,” he politely said, when he was dying to say instead, “So you just rolled over?” But there was no reward for pissing her off. And it was still only three o’clock, which left plenty of time for fucking on this sunny afternoon. “I bet it was a nice wedding.”
“Don’t be so damned amenable. Is Claire staying here long?”
Shit. He’d overplayed his hand. “I doubt it. She hyperventilates when she’s away from major cities of the world.”
“Are you saying we’re not a major city?”
There was no way he was going to tell her the truth. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant more than ten million population.” The things I do for a piece of ass, he thought. On the other hand, she wasn’t exactly what you’d call a forgettable woman, and someday, when he had more time and she wasn’t jumping down his throat, he might think about what the hell she was. Because this wasn’t business as usual—that he knew. Particularly after the game of hide-and-seek with the birthday kids he and several parents had participated in to please Sarah and Paige. Particularly after stuffing himself into a small compartment under the back stairs and finding himself cheek-to-jowl with an unusual shopping bag hanging from a hook on the wall. His heart had damned near stopped. He’d unfolded himself out of the small cubby, carefully shut the door, and allowed his pulse rate to come back to normal before checking out the closets in the house, where he found what he thought he’d find. Only the pink beads were on the toes of tennis shoes. He wouldn’t have figured that. Little pink beaded hearts.
The truckload of information currently overloading his brain would have to be weighed against his obsession with the hot, sexy redhead currently grilling him about his ex-wife. Did he leave or did he stay? Did he end his investigation or let it drift along? How much did he want Miss Cassandra Hill? How consumed was he with the extraordinary sex they shared?
He slid a sideways glance at Cassie, and his libido made one of those instant decisions completely bereft of reason and logic. He’d better assuage Cassie’s temper and misgivings about Claire if he wanted to enjoy what he intended to enjoy—he glanced at the dash clock—in about twenty minutes. “To tell you the truth,” he said, perjuring himself for the sake of carnal harmony, “Claire made friends with my mother, and between the two of them, they decided I should be married. It seemed the right thing to do at the time. That’s it, and that’s why it didn’t last long.”
“How long?”
The real truth wouldn’t be useful here, either. Five years might freak her, and he didn’t want to go into a lengthy explanation about them being in different parts of the world for much of that time. He opted for a partial truth. “We were together maybe six months.”
“Six months,” she said, like he’d given her a really nice present—one you could pet and it purred back and made you feel all warm inside.
“That’s about it.” He was really hoping this conversation was over.
“What happened?”
He silently groaned. “She asked for a divorce.” Lies, lies, lies. They were piling up like cordwood.
“Why?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. Ask her.”
Cassie did snort that time. “Not likely.”
“Well, she did and I said, fine. End of story.” Please, God, have pity.
“And you haven’t seen her since?” Why did she feel she had the right to harangue him when she’d only just met him, when they were more or less strangers, when his past relationship with his wife didn’t have anything to do with the sexual pleasure he could give her? Those very practical assessments swam upstream through the alcohol and punched her between the eyes.
“Nope.”
Ohmygod, what was she doing? A small panic began to implode in all her brain cells. Was she trying to drive away the only r
eal architect of mind-blowing sex she’d ever met? Was she Insane??? “I’m really sorry for being such a bitch about Claire,” she softly said, trying to look contrite enough to erase all the stupid questions she’d just harassed him with. “It’s none of my business.” God, she wished she could cry on cue. “I so apologize.”
He almost ran off the road at her abrupt about-face but got a grip on his astonishment and said in the same gentle tone she’d used, “Don’t worry about it. Claire can be difficult.”
“Still, I shouldn’t have behaved so badly. Something came over me. I have no explanation.”
Other than the champagne, they both thought.
But then this wasn’t one of those occasions when honesty was likely, what with this pleasant new rapport in the air.
“Except for Claire,” he pleasantly observed, “I’m glad you came with me.”
“Me, too.” Now, she thought, that she’d regained her senses and could look at the situation from the perspective of gaining suitable compensation for her hideous encounter with his really nasty ex-wife. And honestly, wasn’t life about compromise and concession? Wasn’t a truly mature individual willing to navigate a compassionate midcourse through the shoals of life? She could overlook Claire, perhaps even forgive her if she lived long enough, and in that maturity be assured of reaping the reward of hours and hours and hours of unbridled sex with the very indulgent and talented Bobby Serre.
Less introspective, Bobby only knew it was going to be smooth sailing into her bed once again.
For perhaps the same reason, nuanced only by gender-defined sensibilities apropos speed and action, they were both smiling as he pulled into Cassie’s driveway.
TWENTY-SIX
THEY’D NO MORE THAN STEPPED OUT OF THE car when Liv drove up behind them in her black Navigator and hopped out, her blonde curls bobbing, her tennis sneakers sparkling white to go with her tennis outfit that obviously hadn’t been used yet because it was absolutely pristine.
“You weren’t answering your phone or returning my messages so I came over before my game to see what was keeping you so busy. Now that I’m here, I understand completely.” She smiled. “I’ll come back later.”
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