What a Woman Gets (5 page)

“Last I looked, my name is on your birth certificate. Therefore, it
is
my concern.” He popped the snail into his mouth as if that was the end of the conversation.

Cassidy almost gave in. She'd had too many dealings with him in the past to think he'd ever go along with it now.

But if she didn't fight now, for herself and what she wanted out of life, when would she? She had proof that this wasn't some fly-by-night career choice. She had talent and there was a market for it. If she dropped the ball now, she'd have an even harder time getting the chance to pick it up again because her name would be sullied by Dad's little clean-up act.

She leaned forward, gripping her fork as if it were a lifeline. “Dad, look. I didn't use Davenport on purpose. I didn't want it to affect you if things didn't go well.” She crossed the fingers on her other hand resting in her lap. That
wasn't
why she hadn't used her last name, but she'd let him think so to show him she was still on his “team.” Dad had a thing about loyalty and her going out on her own would challenge it. “But things have gone well. And I don't
have
to use my last name. That's the beauty of this. I did it on my own. Jean-Pierre thought enough of my talent to take on my pieces, and someone else thought enough of it to buy it. I can have a career at this, I know I can.”

“You already have a career, Cassidy. You don't have time for both.”

She bit back her retort that wearing designer gowns and schmoozing his business associates only constituted a career if she worked for a call girl service. Because honestly, that's pretty much what she'd felt like ever since she'd met Franklin. Her life had been so shallow compared to what she'd learned in the short time she'd known him. It was the connections, the honesty, the relationships between people, that gave life meaning. Mitchell Davenport used people for his own gain. And that was fine for him; his dream had been to make it big in his industry and he'd accomplished that. But it wasn't her dream and now that she finally had one, he
couldn't
pooh-pooh her for it.

“But I do have time for both, Dad. I managed to finish the piece and more,
and
find a gallery all while working for your company.”

“Then why are we having this discussion? Why bother telling me at all?”

“Because . . .” She took a deep breath, going for broke—and she hoped she didn't mean that literally.

Nah, that wouldn't happen. Dad wouldn't cut her off simply because she wanted this. At the very least, she was his daughter and he'd never do anything scandalous to sully his reputation.

She tapped her fork on the linen tablecloth. “Because I
do
want to focus on my art full-time. I can train someone to take over for me in the office for the daily stuff—” not that she had much to do since she'd been “promoted”
off
the design team; her new job and new title were shams and everyone knew it—“and I can still be there for the evening functions.”

She had it all planned out. Once her father accepted her chosen path and she'd trained her replacement—probably one of those Harvards or Yales—then she could wean herself from the events. Dad wouldn't even notice as long as the woman who replaced her looked just as good in the gowns and smiled at all the right places, which was pretty much the job description anyway.

He speared another snail and contemplated it again. “That's a nice plan, but you forgot the most important part, Cassidy.”

“What?” She'd wracked her brain to cover all her bases because she'd known he would fight her; she hadn't missed anything.

“I don't agree to this plan of yours.” He pulled the snail from the shell and popped it into his mouth. “Now, about this evening. Did I mention that I have Corcoran by the balls and when he shows up tonight he's going to see . . .”

Cassidy nodded at all the right places, making the appropriate “mmhmmm” when required, but her mind was far away. He'd dismissed her dream. She hadn't
really
thought he would. Sure, he wasn't going to be happy with it; she'd expected that. But she was his daughter for Pete's sake. His child. Surely he wanted her to have the same chance to make her dreams come true as he'd had? It wasn't as if she was irreplaceable at the firm.

This was supposed to have been her
out
. Her declaration of independence. Granted, the commission on the bombe chest wasn't enough to live on, but it was a start. And once C. Marie's name started getting around, she wouldn't have to rely on the Davenport Properties paycheck and dress up like a toy poodle to prance about on gala nights.

God, she was sick of this life.

And now, once the gallery owner had been tracked down and convinced to buy back the bombe chest—a feat Cassidy had no doubt her father's secretary would be able to accomplish given the almost bottomless coffers of her father's company—there was no way she'd sell any more. Matter of fact, she should probably pick up the rest of the pieces first thing in the morning because no one was going to want to touch a piece they were going to have to return sooner rather than later. Though if Mitchell kept buying them back at a premium, the buyers might not be upset about it.

But she would be. And so would Jean-Pierre. It was bad business all the way around. And given that Jean-Pierre knew who she was—knew who her father was—he wasn't going to come near her with a ten-foot pole once Dad's displeasure was known. No one wanted to get on Mitchell's bad side. She was screwed. Stuck in this life she hated.

“Dessert?” her father asked, the first direct question since he'd shot down her dream.

“No. I'm not hungry.”

He looked her over. More along the lines of sizing up a prize thoroughbred instead of a caring father wondering if something was wrong. “Yes, you are getting a little round in the face. That won't photograph well. Try one of those diuretics my trainer gave me. It'll thin you out before tonight.”

She'd thought nothing could make her more dejected than her father dissing her career choice. She'd been wrong.

“Really? You want me to have an eating disorder?”

“Stop being dramatic, Cassidy. I've seen your room service charges. You'll never have an eating disorder. Which is why we're having this discussion.” He laid his napkin on the table again and tapped her hand. “Use the diuretic. And be sure to have your makeup gal hollow out your cheeks.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Can I drop you anywhere?”

Off a cliff. At an orphanage. How she wanted to tell him to shove it, but the reality was, without her custom furniture, she was still dependent on him for her income.

She shouldn't have taken that trip to the Riviera. And the one to Carnival. And the month in Fiji with her favorite designer's summer line she'd bought out had also been completely irresponsible. If only she'd saved the money, she'd be that much closer to financial independence. But it'd all been Mitchell's money and she hadn't yet had her wake-up call.

Then there was the huge chunk of change she'd dropped at the hospital—No. She wasn't going to wish she'd never done that. That was the best money she'd ever spent.

“Cassidy? Time's wasting and you know time is money.”

So was taste and breeding and early rising and a whole host of other things her father held dear. Which would be why she wasn't on that list. Her existence served one purpose and one purpose only for Mitchell: to serve as his hostess so he'd never have to marry again and give away half his fortune in alimony.

“No, I'll grab a cab.”

His eyebrow arched yet again as he stood. “Suit yourself.” He shuddered then straightened his tie and shook his head as he turned to leave the table. “A cab. I have a fleet of corporate cars and she wants a cab.”

That was
exactly
the reason she wanted a cab. It was something her father couldn't control and didn't have a hand in. One of the few things in this town that didn't bear the stink of Davenport money.

She laughed at herself.
She'd
borne that stink and had done so willingly. Proudly worn it, actually. All until that fateful dinner when she'd met Franklin.

She shook her head and stood as the waitress brought the bill. Typical. Mitchell had left her holding it. Luckily, she had an account at La Maison, so she charged it to that. Which Mitchell would end up paying anyway, so it was sort of poetic justice.

She exited the restaurant and checked her phone. Fifty-one minutes since they'd entered. Fifty-one minutes in which her carefully laid plans had gone up in flames. Mitchell could suck the air out of any sail. She shouldn't be surprised. She'd known he wouldn't be pleased. But she'd obviously placed too much importance on the father-daughter relationship and the mistaken assumption that he wanted her to be happy. She should have learned from her mother; the only person Mitchell wanted to be happy was Mitchell.

She just wanted to go home and curl up in a ball and forget this day had ever happened, and she was just about to hail a cab when she remembered: the hunky guy was at her place. She did
not
want to go home and lick her wounds with his derisive sneer following her around.

Sighing, she looked around. She didn't feel like grabbing a latte, and spending Mitchell's money was the last thing on her list of things she wanted to do. Okay, second to last. Hunky maid guy was last. Actually, he
could
be on her list of things to
do
, but her father would go into orbit if she canoodled with
the help
.

Hmmm . . . Actually, that'd be the perfect reason
to
do it.

Except she wasn't a user like Mitchell. Well, not anymore.

Sighing, Cassidy turned left and started to walk. Maybe some air would clear her head. The park was this way. At worst, she could spend a few hours tossing coins into the fountain. Mitchell's money would do more people good that way.

L
IAM
swiped his forearm across his forehead, but that was futile. His arm was just as sweaty as his forehead. Hell, as the entire rest of him. The AC was cranking in this place yet he was still sweating bullets. That was because of all the damn nooks and crannies that made the millwork something to be envied by everyone except the person charged with cleaning it. He was going to have to talk to Mac about Sharon's lack of cleaning. Though, to be fair, climbing twelve-foot ladders
did
pose certain health risks to pregnant women. Still, maybe Mac could add a specialty line to her services for items beyond the norm. And this place was definitely beyond the norm.

He'd tried not to be impressed, but it was hard not to, from the seamless piece of granite that'd been carved for the kitchen counter, to the see-through fireplace between the living room and dining room, to the architectural wonder that was the balcony. He'd almost taken a header over the railing trying to see the suspension. Mitchell Davenport was a leader in the industry for a reason, and as much as Liam hated that Cassidy was living off her father's spoils, he was thoroughly enjoying the opportunity to see one of the flagship properties up close and personal. The fact that he had to clean the other condo on this floor when he was finished in here so Davenport could put it up for sale just meant he'd have more inspiration for his own growing business.

Walking back into the living room, Liam closed the French doors. They, too, were an engineering marvel, swinging easily with the touch of a finger and latching without a sound. The glass was tempered yet crystal clear in a way he'd never seen. The doors probably cost about as much as he'd made last year, and there were three sets of them in this place.

The froufrou dog pranced on her hind legs when he walked back in
.
Put a tutu on it and Cassidy would have a circus act. “Sorry, nugget, but she put you in there for a reason and since I just cleaned this place, I'm not letting you out to mess it up. Still, I guess you could use a treat or something for not barking my ears off.”

He went into the kitchen to search for some treats and got a shock. The insides of the cabinets were a mess, a jumble of empty plastic containers, canned food, paper products, and dog food, a direct contrast to the rest of the place. Even the frothy negligee on the floor in her bedroom was neat compared to this. The woman had a lot of repressed messiness.

I wouldn't mind getting messy with her . . .

Okay, it was time to leave.

He dug a dog treat out of the mess, managed to close the cabinet door without any of the contents spilling out, and tossed the eraser-like treat to the dog.

Now
she started yipping. Of course.

Liam sighed and went around the place to make sure he hadn't left anything. That'd be a rookie mistake and Mac didn't hire rookies.

The muffin with four legs wouldn't stop yipping. It was so high-pitched Liam couldn't call it a bark, but it got on his nerves worse than any bark he'd ever heard. Their next-door neighbor growing up had had a beagle, and while that dog had had a spine-tingling howl, that dog had nothing on this thing. Liam couldn't get out of here fast enough.

Which meant, of course, that he was stuck there when he couldn't find the extension attachment for the vacuum. Shit. He retraced his steps, starting in her bathroom—yeah, yeah, that made no sense, since there was nothing to vacuum in there, but best to start at the beginning and work his way out.

He was on his hands and knees half under her bed again when she returned home.

This wasn't going to look good. Especially since the attachment was all the way by the wall, which meant he had to do that stupid snake-move to grab it and get back out without ripping his shirt or dislodging that bracelet and picture.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Fishing.” Ask a stupid question, get a smart-ass answer. He humped his way back out—and snagged his shirt again. “Dammit.”

“Catch something?”

He could hear the smile in her voice. She knew exactly what'd happened. “Everything's fine.”

“Uh huh.”

The bed creaked.

“What are
you
doing?”

“Taking my shoes off.”

Damn if she wasn't. He had a bird's eye—and ankle—view. And it was a hell of a nice ankle. So was the arch in her foot. And the bright blue nail polish on her toes . . .

Hmmm. She didn't look like the bright blue sort of woman. Not with that flesh-colored outfit. Muted, understated, but reeking of money—
that
was Cassidy Davenport. The blue nail polish was some hippie chick he wouldn't mind tumbling into bed with for an afternoon of hot, sweaty, amazing sex.

Oh hell. Now he had the image of tipping Cassidy Davenport back onto the bed and peeling the muted, understated things off her one inch at a time and kissing his way right behind them.

Good thing his groin was pressed against the carpet.

Then she knelt down beside him. “Here. Let me help.”

He didn't need her kind of help. And he was just about to tell her so when she put one hand on his lower back and the other one under the bed between his shoulder blades.

Holy hell, the woman's touch shot fire through him. Fire Liam didn't want or need. It
figured
she'd affect him like this. He'd thought he was immune. That he'd learned his lesson, but apparently his hormones hadn't gotten that memo.

“You're caught.”

In more ways than one. “You go to college to learn that?”

“Smart ass.” She flicked her fingers and his shirt was free.

Which meant he could come out, but only if his dick decided to cooperate.

Of course it didn't. Especially when she stumbled as she was getting up, and her hand landed square on his ass.

“You did that on purpose.” He got himself out of that position pronto, turning the verbal tables on her to cover up the fact that he was still hard under these stupid pants. Pants that left nothing to the imagination—both his hard dick and the feel of her fingers on his ass. Mac needed to get another uniform.

“Don't flatter yourself.” She managed to get herself back onto the bed—why???—and smoothed her blouse into place.

Her nipples were hard.

Liam smirked. Couldn't help himself. He affected her like she did him.

Which probably wasn't a good idea for him to know. Now it'd be harder to stay away from her.

“So are you finished?”

Sweetheart, I haven't even started yet . . .

“Why? Got a hot date?” Damn. Why'd he ask that? It was none of his business. And she probably did.

“As a matter of fact . . .” She stood up and unbuttoned the top button. Which was between her breasts to start with so that meant her breasts were on their way to being exposed.

He walked past her. “Then I'll be out of your way.”

“Um, you forgot your rod thingie.”

He slammed to a stop. His
rod thingie
? Last he checked, his
rod thingie
was still in his pants.

He looked over his shoulder to see her bend over to pick something up off the floor, which gave him unimpeded access down her shirt. God, her breasts were gorgeous. And real.

He licked his lips. “My . . . what?”

“This.” She held out the vacuum cleaner attachment. “Don't want to forget this or you'll have to come back tomorrow.”

And she thought that was a hardship? “Actually, I do have to come back tomorrow. I still have the windows to do.”

“Really?” She tossed her hair back as she held out the
rod thingie
that he was forced to take while trying to shove the image of her holding his real
rod thingie
out of his head. “Sharon can clean this place in a day.”

“No offense to Sharon, but this place needs a little more touch-up than she's capable of. A pregnant woman isn't able to do as much physical work as me.”

If he weren't mistaken—and he usually wasn't when it came to a woman's interest—she ran her eyes over him.

Shit. He didn't need that. Didn't want it. And if she'd only put a bag over her head, it'd be a non-issue.

Jesus, he had to remember the pain Rachel put him through. Remember what it was like to get figuratively kicked in the teeth to see her for what she was. And she was small potatoes compared to Cassidy. Rachel's father had done well for himself, but he wasn't in Mitchell Davenport's league, so Rachel's expectations had to be lower than Cassidy's. No, the man who ended up with Cassidy was going to have to make major bank or his life was going to be a living hell. Liam had no inclination to sign on for that sentence whatsoever.

No matter how sexy she was.

“I guess you're right about Sharon.”

“Yeah. So I'll be back tomorrow, then. Nine o'clock late enough for you?”

“Let's make it eight. I'm an early riser.” She crossed her arms and damn if that didn't bunch her breasts together, giving her way more cleavage than the average man could handle.

“Think you can handle that?”

“Princess, I've completed half a day's work by eight. No problem whatsoever.”

“Then I'll see you then.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

They stared at each other for a heartbeat or two longer than they should have and awkwardness set in. Cassidy raked her hair off her forehead and turned around while Liam shoved the
rod thingie
into his back pocket hard enough to tug the front of his pants tight enough against his dick to get
that
rod thingie to calm the fuck down.

“Well, uh, I have to get ready for—”

“Uh, yeah. I'll get out of your hair.” Shit. He wanted to get
in
her hair. Spread it out all over that monstrous bed and have her moaning in under a minute. He could, too.

So much for his resolve . . .

Run, Manley. This is not a safe place for you to be right now. Get the fuck away from temptation.

He took his own advice and got the hell out of there, only to come shin-to-snout with the nugget who decided to growl at him.

“You have got to be kidding me.” One well-placed kick and—

No. He didn't kick dogs. Or cats. Or small children.

Sexy brunettes who didn't have the sense God gave them (or then again, maybe not) to stay at least a hundred yards behind him, however, were another story.

“Titania! Stop that! He's been here all day. You know him!”

The fluff-ball uttered one last growl and made a beeline for her “Mommy.” Fine. Whatever. God save him from temptation-in-heels . . . and her little dog, too.

He couldn't get out of there fast enough.