What a Woman Gets (27 page)

A
T
the studio again. I'll be back late. Don't wait up. ~C.

This was getting ridiculous. Liam put the note down that Cassidy had left on the kitchen counter
again
. Five days in a row now. It was as if they weren't living together, hadn't started something together.

She'd slept in his bed; that much he knew because her scent lingered on the pillow, and he might have imagined a kiss or two, but that was it. She even took Titania with her when she left.

She'd overheard Mac's problem and was working as much as possible to remove herself from her father's bargaining table as leverage.

He liked that she was getting her life in order. Moving forward. Working for her future. He got that, but the quick conversations—“Working.” “Paint's drying.” “Gotta run.”—weren't cutting it for him.

He crumpled the note and laughed at himself. He certainly couldn't say she was using him.

Still, he brought up her number on his phone just to hear her voice and was about to hit
CALL
when another call came through. “Liam Manley.”

“Manley, Mitchell Davenport. I have two prospective buyers coming by this afternoon and there is a layer of dust all over this condo. Be here in ten minutes.”

The call ended before Liam had the chance to respond.

Which was a good thing because what Liam wanted to say to the man would have killed Mac's contract in two not-so-nice words.

*   *   *

C
ASSIDY
heard the phone but couldn't pick it up. She was in the middle of linking the vines from one door to the other and needed a steady hand to complete the stroke, and talking to Liam made her less than steady. It'd been torture to have to fall asleep next to him each night and not wake him up. But two
A.M.
was a rotten time to rouse someone, especially when she got up three hours later anyway. She didn't know how much longer she could keep up this pace, but at least she'd finished a few of the pieces.

Not enough of them, however.

She'd finally mustered the courage—or rather, desperation—to call Jean-Pierre and, thankfully, he was willing to give her another shot—
if
she could get the pieces to him by Tuesday.

Since he'd had an artist back out of a show—that guy would never work in this town again—she'd figured Jean-Pierre was desperate, too. So even though it was an insane turnaround time, she wasn't going to blow the opportunity. Liam would still be there once the show was over.

She smiled. Yes, he would. She knew that as surely as she knew that she wanted him to be.

So she was working fifteen, eighteen, twenty-hour days to get it all done. Drying time was a pain because it was the one thing she couldn't control. She'd found a fan in someone's garbage—wouldn't her father just love to hear
that
—to help with the drying process, but it was a poor imitation of an industrial one. Still, beggars couldn't be choosers. And a beggar was what she could be if this didn't go well.

It
had
to go well. Not just for her, but for Liam, too. And Mac. Cassidy had to make it on her own so she could get out of their lives to protect their businesses from her father.

Titania growled as the back door opened.

“Titania, hush!” Cassidy wiped up the smudge her brush made when she'd been jarred by the noise, then brushed off her hands, and stood. “Hello?”

“
Bonjour, ma chèrie
.” Jean-Pierre walked into the studio, the look on his face speaking volumes as he glanced around.

It wasn't the nicest place, but at least it wasn't messy. She'd gotten more organized now that she was on her own—now that her father wasn't looking over her shoulder. Sure, it'd been childish to mess up the inside of her cabinets and drawers, but it'd made her feel good. Had given her some semblance of control. Now she really had control and could live her life the way she wanted. “I know these aren't the best digs, Jean-Pierre, but the light is good and so is the space.” Not to mention the price.

“This is the piece you told me about?” Jean-Pierre cocked his head and walked around the hutch, tapping the side of his mouth. “I like the composition. The design is eclectic enough to appeal to a broad audience, and the skill is impeccable.” He kissed both of her cheeks. “You have talent,
ma belle
. Pity your father can't pull his head out of his ass long enough to realize it.”

Say what? Cassidy did a double take. Jean-Pierre felt like that about her father? There weren't many people who'd vocalize their dislike for Mitchell Davenport. If she'd known he felt like that, she would've called him weeks ago.

“So where is the rest? I still have the ones from before, but they aren't nearly enough for a show. You do have more,
oui
?”

She led him behind the Japanese folding screen someone had put out on the curb. So many people discarded quality pieces when all they'd need to do was replace a dovetail joint or hardware or hinges and do some touch-up work. But Cassidy wasn't about to share that secret with the world; it gave her the inexpensive—free—“canvases.”

“
Excellent!
This mirror,
c'est merveilleux
.” Jean-Pierre ran his fingers a millimeter above the “magic mirror” she'd created. “This will sell. I know someone to call already. She has been looking for a special piece for her daughter's room.
C'est parfait
.” He made the quintessential French move of kissing his fingertips. Cassidy thought Jean-Pierre sometimes overplayed his nationality just for the drama.

“And this armoire. I like it. I have a few people in mind for it. As I did for that bombe chest your father insisted on buying back.” The word that followed was one of the foulest in the French language.

But then he exhaled, grabbed her by her arms, and air-kissed both cheeks. “The exhibit, she will be
magnifique
, Cassidy. I shall have everything set just so for Tuesday night. We will sell each piece you make, and perhaps . . .” He looked around the studio and found a few pieces she had yet to work on. “
Oui
. You shall bring these as they are. Unfinished. We shall have a silent auction for the highest bidder's personalization. You will be a sensation.”

And she'd have her walk-away money.

“Sounds good, Jean-Pierre. I'll prep two pieces for the auction.”

“
Magnifique
!” He air-kissed her cheeks again. “Then I shall leave you to your painting. As many as possible by Tuesday morning. That will barely give me time to stage them, but, at the last minute, we shall do the best we can. Thank goodness you were available. It has worked out well.”

“Yes, it has.” Almost
too
well, but maybe Franklin had put in a good word for her with St. Peter or something.

This was going to be it for her. Her big break. She'd show her father.

Not that he'd show. He never attended these events; they were her responsibility. Tuesday night, that would work to her advantage. Her art would sell on its merits, not her name, and there was nothing her father would be able to do about it without it coming back—very publicly—to bite him in the ass.

It was about time something did.

*   *   *

J
EAN-PIERRE
brushed some lingering abandoned-building dust off his one-hundred-percent silk sleeve, and suppressed a shudder as he walked back to his Aston Martin. Mitchell Davenport could cry all the way to the tabloids about Tuesday's event, but
no one
bought back a piece Jean-Pierre had sold, it didn't matter for
how
much money. Jean-Pierre had slaved and sacrificed to build his name and his gallery on this side of the Atlantic, and a crass new-money man like Davenport was
not
going to sully it. Let him publicly cause a problem for his daughter and he'd be the one who came out looking like a fool. The girl had talent, as the world was about to find out.

He smiled at the hum of his prized car. A car paid for by the hard work of the artists he'd helped launch. Mitchell Davenport had no idea who he'd messed with, but he was going to find out.

Jean-Pierre picked up his cell and dialed a number he knew by heart. C. Marie was going to have a bigger name in her art world than her father had in his. Jean-Pierre would see to it.

S
OMEONE
was licking his toes.

Liam squirmed in that half-sleep/half-wake moment, the tongue on his skin registering instantaneously.

As did the hard-on under his covers.

Then little teeth gnawed on his toe and he shot up in his bed, yanked his toe away, and was glad as hell that his erection shriveled up when he saw it was
Titania
who'd been licking his toes.

“What are you doing here, mutt?”

“Titania?”

The dog dove under his pillow when Cassidy's hoarse whisper echoed in from the hallway.

“She's in here.” Liam arranged the covers over his lap, then wondered why. Cassidy had already seen it. Though much too long ago.

She poked her head around the doorframe, soft brown waves cascading over her shoulder, and he wanted to scoop her up in his arms and reacquaint her with what was beneath the covers.

Except he had to go to work.

For her father.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean for her to wake you.”

He grabbed his cell and checked the time. “It's seven and you're still here? Are you taking the day off?”

“I wish, but no. Jean-Pierre's counting on me.”

“He's selling your work again?”

“Better than that.” She plopped her butt on his bed beside him and oh what he'd like to do with her if they had the time. “I'm having a show tomorrow night.”

“A show! That's fantastic! I'm happy for you.”

And for him. Cassidy was doing it; she was putting her money where her mouth was—or, more specifically, her actions where her money was going to be.

Cassidy was making it on her own.

Funny how when he found a woman who would, he didn't want her to have to. He wanted to share the burdens with her. And her triumphs. And a lot more, as well.

“Thanks. That's why I've been working nonstop. I need to get back now, too; I'm almost finished. But little Miss Houdini here”—she felt under the pillows for the mutt who was scooting backward toward his headboard—“managed to escape her collar and ran back to see you.”

Thank God for the mutt. “I don't mind if it gives us a few minutes to talk.” He ran his fingers along her arm. “I've missed you.”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder, and the look she gave him was a few degrees away from setting his sheets on fire. “I miss you, too.”

Awareness swirled around them and Liam was just about to lean in and say to hell with the day job when he could have Cassidy instead, when Titania stuck her cold nose out from under the pillow, right into the small of his back.

“Holy hell!” Liam wriggled to the edge of the bed so fast it was as if he'd been shocked with a live wire. “Jesus. That dog's nose is
cold
!”

Cassidy scooped the little terror up. “Well you know what they say about cold noses and warm hearts.”

“That's cold
hands
and warm hearts.”

Cassidy touched his hand. “Hmmm, I certainly hope that adage isn't true or I'm out of luck where you're concerned.”

He stroked her cheek. “No way, baby. You'll never be out of luck where that's concerned.”

“Good. Hang on to that thought. Once tomorrow night is over, we'll see how well my luck's holding out.”

That was the thing with luck; sometimes you could help it along.

*   *   *

L
IAM
set the bucket of cleaning supplies down to unlock the door to Cassidy's old condo. The place didn't need any more cleaning thanks to Davenport's little command performance phone call, but since he was doing the other one, he thought he'd make a pit stop and wanted to look legit.

While he took more of Cassidy's clothes.

She needed something to wear tomorrow night and he could tell from her work-focused brain this morning that she hadn't gotten that far. Her jerk of a father had created this mess; he could damn well pony up a dress and a pair of shoes for his daughter's big night.

Just as long as he didn't show up to ruin it.

The door opened and Liam grabbed the bucket. He took that first doozy of a step into the place when, suddenly, his day went straight to hell.

“My daughter is off limits and I want her out of your house by the end of the week.” Mitchell Davenport stood by the fireplace, an arm resting on the mantel as if he was Daddy Warbucks. “And don't think for a minute that you'll be getting your hands on any of my money.”

“Well happy Monday to you, too.” Liam hefted the bucket of supplies and headed to the right, glad he'd planned for this possibility, though he'd been thinking more along the lines of neighbors seeing him go into the place, not Davenport himself. “I'm just going to get started in the bathroom.” Since he was already dealing with crap.

“I'm not finished speaking to you.”

Liam cocked an eyebrow. “I'm contracted to clean, not listen. And since I'm on the clock, I better get to work.”

“Don't walk away from me. What I want, I get. And I want you out of Cassidy's life.”

Liam's grip tightened on the bucket handle. “What do you care?”

The asshole dropped his arm from the mantel and walked toward Liam, his eyes narrowed. “My daughter is my business, not yours, and if you don't want to see your sister's company go down in a hail of bad publicity, I suggest you follow my orders. I always get what I want. Remember that.”

Yeah, well after tomorrow night, he'd be getting what he deserved: Cassidy making it on her own with no help from this guy.

But he had to protect Mac as well as give Cassidy the time for all of it to come together.

“Okay. Fine. I get it. Cassidy out. Are we finished?”

Davenport smiled and Liam actually wanted to cringe. There was no warmth, no amusement, nothing but cold calculation in that smile.

“If she's not out by Friday,
you'll
be finished. Got it? And your sister, too. I want my daughter back where she belongs.”

It was on the tip of Liam's tongue to tell the guy to go to hell—where
he
belonged—but that would only satisfy him for a few seconds. Seeing Cassidy pull off tomorrow night and have fuck-you money to toss in her father's face? That satisfaction would last forever.

Because he planned to be a part of that forever.