“I don’t do parties,” she said, as politely as possible. The last party she had attended had been her own eighth birthday party. She had escaped to her room before the ice cream was served, leaving the little hooligans her mother had invited to scream and fight without her. The ice cream had been Neapolitan, anyway, which she hated, but which her mother always served on the theory that this was the easiest way to satisfy all the children’s ice cream preferences.
The truth was, Sweeney didn’t do well in crowds, period. Socializing wasn’t her strong point, and she was acutely aware of her shortcomings. She never relaxed, and she was always afraid of doing something totally stupid. Her mother, a great ego-builder, was fond of saying Sweeney had the social grace of a Tibetan goatherd.
“You should have done this one.” Kai moved closer to her, his fingertips once again touching the inside of her elbow. “The food was fantastic, the champagne never ran out, and so many people were there you couldn’t move. It was great.”
Kai’s idea of great differed considerably from hers. She was deeply grateful she hadn’t been invited, though she had to admit that she might have been and promptly forgotten about it. Parties were her idea of hell—and speaking of which, what the hell was Kai doing to her elbow?
Scowling, she lifted her arm away from his touch. She knew Kai was a lover-boy, but he’d never before turned his attentions to her, and she didn’t like it. She made a mental note to return the damn sweater to the back of the closet when she got home.
“Sorry.” He was astute enough to know his subtle attentions weren’t having the desired effect. He smiled down at her. “Like I said, you look hot. It was worth a try.”
“Thanks,” she growled. “I’ve always wanted to be worth a try.”
He laughed, his amusement genuine. “Sure. That’s why your ‘Don’t Touch Me’ sign is high, wide, and flashing bright neon. Ah, well, if you’re ever lonely, give me a call.” He shrugged. “So, what’ve you been up to? Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve seen you at all for a few months. How’s the work going?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m producing, but I’m not sure what I’m producing. I’m trying some techniques.” That wasn’t the truth, but she wasn’t about to cry on Kai’s shoulder. He didn’t need to know how deeply disturbed she was by the direction her painting had been taking or that she was helpless to stop it. She tried to do the same delicate, almost ethereal work she had done before, but she seemed to have lost the knack. Those damn vivid colors kept getting in her way, and even though she cursed them, she was losing herself in them. And not only were her colors changing, but it seemed as if her perspective was, too. She didn’t know what was going on, but the result was jarring, somehow discordant. She had always been confident about her talent, if nothing else, but now she was so paralyzed by insecurity about her new work that she hadn’t been able to show it to anyone.
“Oh, really.” He looked interested. Of course, he was paid to look interested, so she didn’t read a whole lot into his expression. “Do you have anything ready to hang? I’d like to see what you’re doing.”
“I have several canvases ready to hang, but I’m not sure I’m ready.”
“I think you have only one piece left on display; everything else has sold. You need to bring something in.”
“I will.” She had to, reluctant though she was. If her new work didn’t sell, she didn’t eat; it was that simple. And they couldn’t sell if she never allowed anyone else to see them.
Kai glanced at his watch. “The McMillans should be here soon. I hope Richard leaves before then. Candra doesn’t like him coming here at all; she prefers to meet him in the lawyer’s office, so she’ll be furious if he delays her. She’s furious anyway, because he keeps balking.”
“He doesn’t want the divorce?”
Kai gave another graceful shrug. “Who knows what Richard wants? All I know is, he isn’t being very conciliatory. Candra seems to have two moods these days: worried or infuriated.”
Infuriated sounded like normal behavior during a divorce; worried didn’t. “Maybe she’s changed her mind and wants to back out of the divorce, but doesn’t know how to smooth things over.”
“Oh, she didn’t want it at all.” His eyes sparkled with the glee of delivering juicy gossip. “From what I gather, Richard’s the one who filed. Candra’s putting a good face on things, acting as if the decision was mutual, but she isn’t at all happy with the split.”
Abruptly Sweeney felt ashamed of herself, and irritated, too. Candra had supported her professionally, promoted her, steered clients her way. It went against her grain to gossip like this. If only gossip weren’t so titillating. Sweeney tried to control an avid desire to know more, to dig for all the dirty details.
The temptation was great. Dirt was like fat; it made life more delicious.
She was saved from herself by the opening of Candra’s office door. She turned and for a brief moment found herself looking directly into Richard Worth’s eyes. It was like being touched with a cattle prod, an unwanted but electric connection. Then Candra appeared, her face pale with fury, gripping his arm and pulling him around as the door slammed shut again, closing out the sight and sound of marital disintegration.
“Uh-oh,” Kai said with malicious satisfaction. “There’s gonna be murder.”
CHAPTER
TWO
Sweeney was numb with shock. She wasn’t certain what had just happened, but she knew something had. For a moment, just a split second, it had been as if she and Richard Worth were linked. She didn’t like the sensation, didn’t want that uncomfortable intimacy. She had always enjoyed her sense of being alone, envisioning herself as a ball that rolled through life, bumping into other lives but not stopping. For a moment, just for a moment, the roll had been halted, and she didn’t know why. He was only an acquaintance, little more than a stranger. There was no reason for him to look at her as if he knew her. There was no reason for her to feel that funny jolt in her stomach, akin to the pleasure she had gotten from the Diet Coke commercial.
If this was another one of the weird changes that had been going on in her life for the past year, she didn’t like this one any more than she did all the others. Damn it, she wanted things back the way they had been!
Before she could gather herself, the front doors opened behind her. Kai’s face lit with the smile he reserved for buyers. To her surprise, he didn’t seem to have noticed anything unusual. “Senator and Mrs. McMillan,” he exclaimed, strolling toward them. “How nice to see you. May I get you anything? Tea, coffee? Something stronger?”
Sweeney swung around as a tall, thin, impossibly stylish woman said, “Tea,” in a languid tone that was almost drowned by her husband’s stronger voice as he said, “Coffee, black.” His tone was as forceful as hers had been die-away.
To her surprise, Sweeney recognized him. She was notoriously oblivious to current events, but even so, this face had been on television often enough that she knew who he was. If Kai had said “Senator McMillan” before, instead of “the McMillans,” she would have known. Senator Carson McMillan had a charisma that had carried him from city government to the state house, and from there to Washington, where he was in his second term. He had money, charm, intelligence, and ambition—in short, the qualities expected to eventually carry him to the presidency.
She disliked him on sight.
Maybe it was the career politician’s practiced suavity that put her off. It wasn’t the ruthlessness she read in him; she understood ruthlessness, having her share of it when it came to clearing out the space and time for her painting. It could have been the hint of disdain that seeped through his charm like the occasional whiff of sewer gas coming from a drainage grate. He was the type of politician who secretly thought his constituents were either dimwitted or hayseeds, or both.
On the other hand, he was undeniably striking in looks: about six feet tall, with a certain beefiness through the chest and shoulders that nevertheless stru
ck her as muscular rather than fat, and gave him the impression of power. His brown hair was still thick, and attractively grayed at the temples. His hair stylist did a good job with that. His eyes were a clear hazel, his facial structure strong and almost classical, though his jaw and chin were too pugnacious for true classic beauty.
She immediately knew she didn’t want to paint his portrait. She didn’t want to spend another minute in his presence. But still . . . what a challenge. Could she portray the essential good looks and still catch that expression of condescending superiority, like a transparent overlay? The expression was everything. Senator McMillan had learned, for the most part, to put on a congenial face for the benefit of the public. In this situation, with only Kai and herself as witnesses and with both of them in what he would consider a subservient position, the public face slipped a bit. Sweeney didn’t doubt that if she had been dressed in designer clothes and expensive jewelry, rather than a simple skirt and sweater, the reaction she had gotten from him would have been something other than the glance that was both dismissive and insulting, lingering on her breasts as it did.
She almost sniffed her own disdain, but caught herself in time. Candra had put herself out for this, so the least Sweeney could do was be polite. She switched her gaze to Mrs. McMillan, already inclined to feel sorry for the woman.
Her inclination was wasted. Mrs. McMillan obviously considered herself so superior that sympathy from lesser beings was unthinkable. The senator had worked on his public persona; his wife hadn’t bothered. She was utterly secure in her position; there wouldn’t be any young trophy wife taking her place, unless her husband wanted to risk losing his career. Any divorce proceedings involving this woman, Sweeney thought, would be messy, bitter, and extremely public. Mrs. McMillan would personally see to it.
The senator’s wife was fashionably thin, stylish, bored. Her hair was champagne blond, at least this week, and cut in a classic bob that dipped just short of her shoulders and was swept back from her face to reveal ornate gold earrings studded with tiny diamonds. A good New Yorker, she wore a simple black sheath that made her seem thin to the point of emaciation, and which probably cost more than Sweeney’s entire wardrobe as well as part of her furniture.
Kai returned with a tray bearing tea and coffee, and noticed Sweeney standing there, joining the McMillans in silence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce you,” he exclaimed. “Senator, Mrs. McMillan, this is Sweeney, the portrait artist Candra wanted you to meet. Sweeney, Senator Carson McMillan and his wife, Margo.”
Sweeney held out her hand to Mrs. McMillan, feeling like a dog offering its paw, and from the look the senator’s wife gave her, she might as well have been. Mrs. McMillan offered only her fingertips, probably to lessen the risk of contagion. If the senator ever did run for the presidency, his handlers would have to do some heavy-duty work with his wife to make her constituent-friendly and keep her from being a hindrance to the campaign.
The senator’s handshake, on the other hand, was both brisk and firm without being crushing. He had a very nice handshake. It was probably one of the first things a career politician worked to achieve. She had a sudden vision of a classroom full of deadly earnest young politicians, with a sign on the door saying “Handshakes 101.” He ruined the effect, however, by eyeing her breasts again. She was beginning to think the scarlet sweater was more than just dangerous; the damn thing was cursed. Maybe she shouldn’t have combed her hair or put on lipstick, either, though the lipstick probably hadn’t survived the hot dog.
Candra’s office door opened once more, and Sweeney turned, glad of the interruption. Candra swept out, her face tight with fury, but the expression in her eyes, oddly, was almost frightened. The expression was fleeting; as soon as she saw the McMillans, her face changed into its usual warm, friendly lines.
Richard loomed in the doorway behind her. Sweeney didn’t want to look at him, in case that odd thing happened again, but curiosity and compulsion switched her gaze to him. To her relief, this time he didn’t return her gaze. His face was much more controlled, as if Candra’s upset in no way touched him. His eyes were hooded as he took in the small group with one glance, then leisurely walked toward them. He was a tall man, but he didn’t shamble; like an athlete, he was in control of his height and his body. Remembering the Diet Coke commercial, Sweeney wondered how Richard would look without his shirt.
That funny little jolt tightened her stomach again. She wasn’t in the least hungry, but her mouth began watering as if she hadn’t eaten at all that day and had just caught the scent of fresh-baked bread. A woman could feast all day on Richard. Don’t go there, she silently warned herself, both alarmed and embarrassed, but she had taken too many art classes not to be able to accurately picture him without his clothes. From the way his clothes fit, she could tell he was a muscular man who hadn’t let himself get soft. In her mind’s eye she saw him naked and flat on his back, and it was a fine sight indeed. The disturbing part was seeing herself crawling over him, intent on kissing him from head to toe and not missing an inch in between. He would have several very interesting inches that would require a lot of attention—
“Carson, Margo, how good of you to come.” Candra’s voice jerked Sweeney out of her lascivious little daydream. Hastily she looked away from Richard, aware that she had been staring at him. She felt her cheeks heat and hoped her entire face wasn’t red, to match the accursed sweater.
Candra came toward them, her lovely legs show-cased by the short skirt of a tailored suit in a beautiful shade of coppery beige that made her complexion glow. Distracting herself, Sweeney studied the color, noting the richness of the material. She couldn’t tell one designer’s clothes from another’s, but she never forgot a color.
Candra and Margo exchanged air kisses, then Candra turned her megawatt charm on the senator. He took both her hands and leaned forward to kiss her cheek, and there was nothing airish about it. Standing where she was, Sweeney saw the senator’s hands tighten on Candra’s before she subtly freed herself and turned to Sweeney.
“I see Kai has already offered refreshments—”
“Richard,” the senator said heartily, his rounded, speech-therapist moderated tones completely overpowering Candra’s lighter voice, just as they had his wife’s. Sweeney wondered if he made a habit of interrupting women. He held out his hand; she saw the flicker of Richard’s eyes that said he was reluctant to stop and chat, but good manners compelled him to accept the senator’s hand.
Senator McMillan put everything he had into the handshake, even covering their clasped hands with his free one in a gesture his handlers had no doubt told him imparted a sense of empathy. It didn’t work with Richard. If anything, his face became even more impassive. “You’re looking great.”
“Senator.” The one-word greeting, if it could be called that, was terse. No great friendship there, Sweeney surmised. Watching them as closely as she was, she saw the senator’s knuckles whiten, and an instant later Richard’s knuckles did the same.
A pissing contest, she thought, fascinated. For whatever reason, dislike or competition or simple male aggression, the senator had tried to crush Richard’s hand. It wasn’t a smart move. He quickly became the crushee when Richard turned the tables.
“How’s business?” the senator asked, trying to keep his expression neutral as he continued to grip Richard’s hand, or maybe he simply couldn’t let go now even if he wanted. “It has to be good, with this economy. Amazing, isn’t it?”
“I don’t have any complaints.”
A bead of sweat appeared on the senator’s forehead. Tiring of the game, Richard abruptly ended the handshake. Senator McMillan gamely managed not to massage his aching hand, though the impulse must have been strong.
Well, Sweeney thought. She wouldn’t have been surprised if the senator had challenged Richard to an arm-wrestling contest. She wondered if the animosity existed because of what she had seen in the senator’s eyes when he kissed Candra, or if he just didn’t like it be
cause Richard could piss farther than he could. Richard, she thought, didn’t much give a damn one way or the other, which was very adult of him. In any contest between him and the senator, she was on his side; she might not like Richard, exactly—she didn’t know him well enough one way or the other—but she had detested the senator on sight.
“I hear you’re off to Rome.” Candra turned to Margo, her voice as easy as if it didn’t bother her at all that they had witnessed the discord between her and Richard, but Sweeney knew better. Her habit of studying faces made her alert to the most fleeting expression, and the tension around Candra’s eyes was as telling as a neon sign.
“No, that’s been delayed. Carson has an emergency meeting in the morning, with the president.” Top that, said the smugness of her tone. “We’ve postponed the trip—”
The senator began speaking to Richard again, his voice overriding his wife’s, so that Candra had to lean closer to Margo to hear her. Maybe the senator deliberately interrupted women as a way of showing his dominance, or perhaps he simply didn’t notice when they were talking, which was even more insulting.
Sweeney tuned out, hearing the four clashing voices but not the individual words. She wasn’t interested in the McMillans’ trip to Rome, or in stock options, whatever they were. She shifted restlessly, bored, ready to dispense with the business at hand and get back to her apartment and her painting. Why was Richard hanging around, anyway? He couldn’t give two hoots in hell about the senator’s opinions on the stock market. Surely he knew Candra would feel more relaxed if he left. And so would she, Sweeney admitted. She deliberately kept her gaze away from him, afraid of triggering that weird connection again.