No, abortion had been the only answer. The bloom had long since been off their marriage, had been ever since Richard discovered that little fling with . . . what was his name? He hadn’t been important, just a moment’s entertainment. It had taken all her persuasiveness to keep their marriage together then, and she had been extremely cautious about her affairs after that; they weren’t serious to her, but she had known Richard wouldn’t see it that way. Still, she had no doubt they would have made the best of things and continued to rock along if she hadn’t had too much to drink, if they hadn’t been arguing, if she hadn’t gotten so angry she had thrown the words at him like rocks, just for the satisfaction of hurting him. If, if, if. The mistake had been final. Their marriage, in all but the legal sense of the word, had ended on the spot.
She accepted the blame. That didn’t mean she would meekly accept whatever Richard deigned to give her. She had hoped he would become involved with Sweeney, because Sweeney, for all her quirkiness, had a soft heart. Moreover, Candra genuinely liked Sweeney and thought the regard was returned. Richard would do a lot to please a woman he wanted, as she had reason to know. If he wanted Sweeney, and she thought he did, and Sweeney urged him to generosity, there was a good chance he would do as she asked.
After speaking with Sweeney, though, Candra thought that scenario was shot. Her thoughts jumped to the other plan she had formulated. She didn’t like it, it wasn’t without risk, but at this point it looked as if her best bet was Carson McMillan.
When you danced with the devil, or slept with him, it was a good idea to find out all you could about him and take steps to protect yourself. She knew a lot about Carson, things he wouldn’t want known, though maybe she wouldn’t have to use them. Perhaps she could get him to believe the child had been his; the timing made it roughly possible, though of course she had no doubt Richard was the father. Yes, that might work. Tell him about the abortion, that it had been his, but when Richard found out about the child, he had assumed it was his and that was why they were being divorced. That would obligate Carson to cover some of her financial obligations. Yes, she would prefer doing it that way.
If he balked, then she would bring out the big guns.
CHAPTER FIVE
The chill was worse. Sweeney sat huddled in the blanket, shivering continually. She felt as if she might die from the cold and had some fun imagining the medical examiner’s perplexity at someone’s dying of hypothermia in an eighty-degree apartment on a warm September day. She thought of going back to bed and getting under the electric blanket, but if she did that, she would have to admit she was sick, and she didn’t want to do that. When the doorbell rang, she ignored it, because by staying huddled she could conserve what little heat she generated, and moving around made her even colder.
But it rang again, and again, and at last she struggled to her feet. “What!” she snapped as she neared the door.
There was a curiously muffled sound, and she stopped in her tracks, sufficiently city-smart not to go any closer. “Who is it?”
“Richard.”
Stunned, she stared at the wood panels. “Richard?”
“Richard Worth,” he added helpfully. She thought she could hear laughter in his voice.
She thought of not opening the door. She thought of simply walking away and pretending she hadn’t said anything. The thing was, he owned the building, and even though it wasn’t the ritziest place in the world, she suspected he could get a lot more in rent than what she had been paying. And right now, she couldn’t afford to pay more, so it behooved her to be polite to the landlord. That was the excuse she gave herself as she fumbled with the locks, and of course it was the cold that made her fingers tremble.
He stood in the hallway with its dingy, worn carpeting. He would have looked totally out of place, in his expensive Italian suit, if it hadn’t been for those stevedore shoulders and that hard, almost-craggy face. Her artist’s eye noted every detail, almost hungrily drinking them in; if she had hoped yesterday had been an aberration, the sight of him disillusioned her. Her stomach fluttered, her mouth watered just as it did when she saw cheesecake. This couldn’t be a good sign.
He was smiling, but the smile quickly faded at the sight of her standing there swaddled in a blanket. His dark gaze went swiftly down her, then returned to her face. “Are you sick?” he asked in a brusque tone, stepping forward so that he crowded her back, and that easily he was inside her apartment. He closed the door and reset the locks.
“No, just cold.” She moved away from the dangerously close proximity to him, scowling. “What are you doing here?” She felt terribly off-balance; she wasn’t prepared to see Richard at all, much less be alone with him in her apartment. This was her sanctuary, where she could let down the guard she always kept between herself and the rest of the world, where she could relax and paint and be herself. Closing the door behind her often felt as if she had left a ton of chains in the hallway. Here she was free, but she could be free only if she was alone.
“I came to take you to lunch.”
“I told you no yesterday afternoon.” She hugged the blanket around her, suddenly self-conscious about how she must look. She was still wearing sweats, and she hadn’t brushed her hair, so she knew it was bushed around her head in a wild tangle. A long curl hung in her eyes; she pushed it back and blushed, then scowled. She didn’t like the feeling of embarrassment. She couldn’t remember the last time she had cared what someone thought of how she looked, but . . . but Richard was different. She didn’t want him to be, but he was.