Looking for You (14 page)

"No."

Nodding, she punched a button. There
was a pause and then Olivia said, "Hey, Eve, it's me. Have you seen or
heard from Gwen?"

Rick resisted the urge to grab the
phone as he listened to Olivia's uninformative hums.

"Okay, let me know if you hear
from her." Olivia hung up, her brow furrowed. "No sign of her, and
Gwen is religious about her croissants."

The unease he was feeling persisted.
He rapped the counter with his knuckles. "I'm going to try her apartment
again."

"Okay." Olivia followed him
to the door. "She probably just has a cold or something."

"Does she get sick often?"

"No." Olivia squeezed his
arm. "And when you call me later to let me know that she's fine, you can
also tell me how you know where she lives, because she and I have been friends
for a couple years now and I still haven 't seen her place."

"You're going to give me a hard
time about this, aren't you?"

"Definitely." She grinned.
"Go find your woman."

It was a testament to his state of
mind that he didn't argue about Gwendolyn not being his.

He made it to her Narnia in record
time and found a parking spot right in front. Locking his car, he strode to the
front door and buzzed the front door. When there was no answer, he buzzed it
again.

And again.

And again.

He was surveying the fence to jump
over it when the speaker crackled and he heard her say, "Yes?"

Her voice was
listless—lackluster—completely unlike her. "Gwendolyn? Open
the door."

There was a pause before she said.
"Now's not a good time, Rick."

The pause told him she'd considered
letting him in, and that affected him more than he'd have guessed. "Now's
the perfect time. Open up and tell me what's going on."

"Go away."

"No, and if you don't cooperate,
I'll get in on my own. You're the one who pointed out the futility of
fences."

There was a long moment of silence,
and then the door buzzed open.

She was standing in the doorway of
her apartment, waiting for him with a glare. She wore a ratty sweatshirt
hanging off her shoulder à la
Flashdance
with boxers that peeked from the bottom. Socks pooled at the bottom of her lean
legs, and her curls looked bed-rumpled.

If it hadn't been for the dark
circles under her eyes, he'd have been all over her. Instead he walked up and
stood before her, wanting to touch her but instinctively knowing to wait.
"What happened?"

Her eyes glistened. Tears? His chest
tightened at the thought of her in distress. She looked like she'd lost her
best friend.

The hopelessness on her face panicked
him—he'd never imagined seeing her with anything other than that
Pollyanna grin. So he did the only thing he knew how to do: he goaded her into
anger.

Sniffing, he asked, "When was
the last time you showered? Are you sick?"

"Sick of you." Her glare
reassured him, but then it lost some of its potency with the tears that pooled
in her eyes. "I told you to go away."

He shook his head, walking slowly
toward her. "No chance, Princess. Not until you tell me what's
wrong."

"I told you not to call me that,
and the only thing wrong is that you won't leave me alone." A tear slipped
down her cheek.

He knew at that moment she needed a
fight more than she needed sympathy, so he crowded her in the doorway. "By
the way, this hairstyle is really working for you."

She whacked his arm. "Don't
touch my hair."

"Why? Do you have birds living
in there?" Actually, he kind of liked her hair like that. It was the way
she looked after they'd made love, tousled and rumpled by his hands.

A few more tears leaked down her
face, but her gaze sparked a little with a shadow of her usual spirit. She hit
him again. "You're a jerk."

If calling him a jerk was all it took
to cheer her up, he'd give her synonyms. He pressed up against her and smirked.
"Is that all you've got?"

She hit him again. "Only an
idiot would persist where he wasn't welcome."

"Am I really not welcome,
Princess?" He ran a hand over her chest, feeling the tautness of her
nipple through the worn cotton. "That's not the message I'm getting."

She looked up at him, her eyes full
of sadness, and said, "Fu—"

He pressed his mouth to hers and
stole her words.

She didn't struggle, instead
channeling her aggression into their embrace. She yanked him closer by the
collar of his leather jacket and wrapped her legs around his waist. He anchored
her to him with his hands under her, moving them inside and kicking the door
closed.

He tasted her tears, steadily running
down her face, and felt a strange combination of sadness, helplessness, and
something else. He didn't know what to do to heal her obvious wound, so he did
the only thing he could—he kissed her harder.

She mewled and wiggled closer as she
felt his fingers slide into the leg of her boxer shorts. "Bedroom,"
she mumbled against his mouth.

Somehow he got them into her room,
naked, and on the bed without major bodily damage. She anchored her legs on his
and reached between them to grab him.

Damn it, he forgot the condom. Not
wanting to stop her, he scrabbled for his pants. She held him closer, as if she
thought he was trying to get away.

Never—and to assure her, he
speared his free hand into her hair and ravaged her mouth, her neck, and then
worked his way down to her breasts, licking the tips until she writhed under
him.

She yanked him up by the hair.
"Now."

"Okay." He lunged for his
pants, withdrew the condom, covered himself, and drove into her.

Incredible. It'd been good the first
time, but now he was beginning to know her, to know her body, and it was that
much better. He knew that she'd gasp when he thumbed her nipple. A swivel of
his hips and she'd arch up. And as she got closer to climax, her fingernails
would bite into his asscheeks.

Like they were now.

"Please," she pled against
his lips. "Please."

"Yes." He thrust, taking
her again and again, triumphant that desire had revived her light and banished
her sadness, at least temporarily. Then he was thoughtless as she rolled her
hips over and over—

Until they both cried out.

Wave after wave rode over him, and he
held her close until the only thing left to do was collapse on top of her. He
listened to her trying to catch her breath, felt the rapid beat of her heart
under his, and held her even closer.

She burrowed in to his shoulder.
"Thank you."

"Anytime." He smiled when
he felt her lips curve against his skin.

Rolling over, he gathered her to his
side and caressed her hair from her face so he could see her eyes. "You
want to tell me what's going on?"

She hesitated, and he didn't think
she was going to tell him. But then she said, "My grandmother died."

That feeling she always seemed to spark
in his chest flared, and he held her closer. "I'm sorry," he
murmured, kissing her temple.

She nodded with a little sniffle.

"I didn't know you had a
grandmother." She never talked about her family.

"I'm estranged." She
started to move away from him.

"Don't." Pissed that she
was shutting herself off from him, he pulled her closer. He wanted to pound
that wall of hers with his fists and get to her inner sanctum. He didn't delude
himself in thinking he could just walk away anymore. Fact of the matter: she
was a puzzle, and he'd never been able to set a puzzle aside until he'd solved
it.

Only he was beginning to think it's
take more than a lifetime with her, and even then he'd barely scratch the
surface.

He didn't mind.

"I'm sorry you were estranged
from your grandmother. You obviously love her." He paused, and then added,
"And I'm sorry for your grandmother. Not seeing you must have been sad for
her."

Gwen's eyes filled and she buried her
head in his neck.

He soothed her back. "Tell me
something about her."

Rick didn't think she was going to,
but softly she began. "When I three, I fell into the pool and almost
drowned. Consequently, I was scared of the water. It terrified me."

"But you're like a fish,"
he said.

"Because of my
grandmother." She smiled sadly. "My grandmother took me by the hand,
every day, and walked me to the edge of the pool. She told me stories of
magical creatures that lived under there and how wondrous it'd be to swim with
them. One day I managed to step a toe into the water, and then I went in up to
my knees and my waist, until I could hold my own. We swam every day after that."

"She sounded amazing."

"She was." Gwen looked up
at him. "She always told me I could do anything I set my mind to, and that
I shouldn't listen to naysayers."

"She'd be proud of you."

"You think so?"

"You're a successful
businesswoman and a talented artist. Your work is going to be featured in one
of the best museums in the world. You have friends who love you. You're kind
and caring." He wiped a trail of tears from her cheek. "She's
probably smiling down from heaven at you."

Gwen didn't say anything for a while,
as if she were letting his words sink in. Then she kissed his shoulder.
"Thank you."

~

Gwendolyn fell asleep in his arms,
but Rick was wide awake. His thoughts bugged him.

No, not his thoughts—his
feelings. Because it was entirely possible that he
liked
Gwendolyn Pierce. The kind of like that led to picket fences
and station wagons.

He never took himself for a picket
fence kind of guy.

He looked down at her, nestled on his
shoulder, sleeping like a princess, and something in him eased. It was okay—Gwendolyn
wasn't a picket fence kind of woman either.

Glancing at the time, he wondered if
he should go home. It was late and they'd never spent the night together.

He didn't really want to go. He was
perfectly happy right where he was.

But he knew he should, so he eased
himself from under her, pausing to soothe her back into sleep when she roused.
Silently he dressed and padded into the kitchen for a glass of water before
leaving.

Taking a glass from the cabinet, he
walked to the freezer. This was where he found out she was a serial killer,
because all serial killers kept their trophies in the freezer. He grinned as he
opened the door, picturing being faced with bulging eyes and plastic bags of
random body parts.

What he found was worse than a cut-up
body. It was stacks and stacks of hundred dollar bills.

Lola shoved open the door, the
usually delicate chimes agitating sharply. "Gwen, close up shop! We're
going to Eve's."

Gwen shut the notebook where she was
doodling her name entwined with Rick's to avoid the interrogation she'd expect.
"Why are we going to Eve's?"

"Chocolate croissants." Her
friend grinned. "Just out of the oven."

"You had me at croissant."
She hopped off the chair and slipped into the shoes she'd discarded earlier.
Anything to distract her from wondering why she hadn't seen Rick in almost a
week—not since that evening he'd comforted her after Mamie Yvette's
death.

Not wanting to dwell on either fact,
she grabbed her sweater because the fog had blown in that afternoon and
followed an energetic romance writer out of the store.

"Have you been eating cookies
again?" Gwen asked as she locked the door.

Lola laughed, bouncing on her toes.
"I went to Bikram today. I've still got the endorphin rush from being
baked into a living pretzel."

"I tried yoga once." It'd
been in India, where she'd traveled for several months.

"I can't see you doing
yoga," Lola said, slipping her arm through Gwen's as they walked down the
street. "You're always on the move. If you were a character in one of my
books, I'd write in a tragic past you were trying to run away from."

Since that was a little close to
home, she said, "How's your book coming along?"

Lola perked up. "Great,
actually. I wrote fifteen pages so far today. I had some trouble earlier this
week, but I firmed up my heroine's motivation and now the story's rolling. I
should be done way before my deadline."

"Bikram and fifteen pages. You
really deserve a chocolate croissant."

"I hear you've been busy
too."

Gwen glanced at her friend. Did she
mean Rick? Lola didn't really know Rick.

"With the de Young exhibit. Eve
told me."

"Oh. Yes." She tried to
smile. It felt more like a wince. She'd signed all the contracts in a moment of
rebellion. It'd been easier to do after her old picture had been all over the
Internet again. No one had come up to her and accused her of being the
erstwhile Grape Princess. She figured she was safe enough, as long as she took
some care.

Still, after having been so wary all
these years, it'd been a leap. The first few days after she signed the
releases, she kept looking over her shoulder, waiting for paparazzi to descend—or
worse: Gautier de la Roche. Who had a vested interest in keeping her lost.

"Here we are." Lola gave
her a sly look as she pushed open the door to Grounds for Thought.

Gwen shook her head at her friend.
"Why are you acting so—"

"
Congratulations!
"

She stopped short, shocked still by
the balloons and people standing toward the back. "What?"

Lola prodded her forward. "To
celebrate your commission to the de Young, silly."

"Oh." She walked into the
cheering crowd, accepting their well wishes. Eve held out glasses to her
partner Treat, who was filling them with champagne. Maggie, Eve's barista,
passed around a tray of mini pastries to other friends from the neighborhood.
Olivia stood smiling at her proudly.