Faking It

Chapter 16

“OH, GOD,” TILDA SAID, and sat down on the floor. It couldn’t be. It was a coincidence. Maybe Gwennie had gotten the idea for the teeth from Homer. Except that Gwennie had been embroidering teeth long before Homer showed up. Now we’re going to have to steal back all the Homers, she thought and then realized the impossibility of it. Homer had painted dozens and dozens of paintings. No, Gwennie had painted dozens and dozens. Some were in museums. There was no way she could get them all back.

Gwennie was Homer. That was enough of a mind-bender right there, even without the museums. Tilda shoved herself up off the floor and rewrapped the painting to take it with her. One floor down, she found Davy waiting for her. “I couldn’t find-” she began and then she saw what he was holding, a package about twenty inches square.

“This it?” he whispered, handing it to her. “Believe it or not, it was actually in her closet this time.”

She pulled the painting out of the frame-store package by its cheap new frame and saw the Goodnight building. “This is it,” she said, sadness seeping into her bones. The first Scarlet, the start of the whole mess. Except not, because there was Gwennie.

“Are you okay?” Davy whispered.

She stuffed the painting back into the box before Davy noticed that Scarlet had painted the gallery building. “Boy, what a relief,” she whispered, trying to fake happiness. “I can’t thank you enough. And now you’ve got your money and you can go.” When he didn’t say anything, she said, “You did get your money, didn’t you?”

He looked down at her, his face hard to read in the dark hall. “No. I’ll have to think of something else.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it. “I’ll help you. Whatever it takes.”

“Good,” Davy said. “What’s in the other package?”

“A souvenir for Gwennie,” Tilda said. “Let’s go home.”

WHEN THEY got back to the gallery, Davy carried the wrapped Scarlet into the office behind Tilda. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with her, but something had happened, and it wasn’t good. It had to be the painting she was carrying, another wrapped square, so maybe she’d found a seventh Scarlet, maybe there were more to steal. Maybe it wasn’t time for him to go yet.

That was not as annoying as it should have been.

Tilda went out to Gwennie, and across the room, Nadine saw Davy and waved. He motioned her over.

“Did you get the painting?” she said when she came in. “Is that it?”

“Yes,” Davy said, watching Tilda. “I need your laptop.”

“Okay.” Nadine ran upstairs and came back with her computer.

“Get me online,” Davy said.

Nadine plugged in the phone line and tapped a few keys. “Anything else?”

“Nope,” Davy said, sitting down. “How’s it going out there?”

“Your dad is amazing,” Nadine said. “Mason is a horse’s ass.”

“I’ll help tomorrow night,” Davy said. “I lied, there is one more thing. Where does Gwennie keep the bankbooks?”

“What are you doing?”

“Embezzling your college fund.”

“Right,” Nadine said. “Like I have one. They’re in the top left-hand drawer.”

“Thank you. Go play.” When the door closed behind her, Davy logged on to his account and looked at the balance. Two point five million, a nice round number. There had been a little more in Clea’s account but he liked round numbers.

For some reason, this one wasn’t much fun. Not as much fun as being without had been. Some people aren’t meant to be rich, he thought. Some people need the edge.

And some people need college funds.

He grinned to himself and began to move money.

“HOW’S IT going?” Tilda said to Gwen when she’d finished selling a chair covered in ducks to a woman who seemed thrilled with it.

“Except for Mason, pretty well,” Gwen said. “We’re not mobbed but…” Her voice trailed off as she saw the painting Tilda held up. “Where’d you get that?”

“Mason’s storeroom,” Tilda said. “Look familiar?”

“Of course,” Gwen said. “It’s a Homer Hodge.”

“No, it’s a Gwen Goodnight,” Tilda said.

“No,” Gwen said. “I painted the kits. Homer painted those.”

“Gwennie, I know…” Tilda said and then stopped as light dawned. “Oh, hell, Homer was your Louise.”

“Not really, dear,” Gwen said. “Homer never had sex.”

“Davy was right,” Tilda said. “Group therapy. Now.”

“He was like the Double-Crostics,” Gwen said. “A different place to go, away from reality. And then I got tired of him, and I quit.”

“Dad must have been upset.”

“Yes,” Gwen said, smiling.

“You didn’t tell me,” Tilda said. “You let me move out thinking Homer was real.”

“I wasn’t too proud of him,” Gwen said. “It was those damn paint-by-numbers. Once I started to mess with them, Tony decided I was a great primitive painter, but that wasn’t enough, he had to be Brigido Lara and create his own art dynasty. He kept saying it would be Grandpa Moses and he’d have exclusive rights.” She sighed. “He wouldn’t even let Homer be female, damn him.”

“What happened?” Tilda said. “He told me that he and Homer had a fight.”

“They did,” Gwen said. “He came up with the child-of-Homer idea, and I could see him roping you into the fraud, too, and he was already making your life miserable with that damn Goodnight legacy. I kept saying, ‘Why can’t we just tell people the truth?’ and he’d say, ‘Because the truth won’t make us rich, Gwennie.’ He was getting damn good money for those Homers, but it wasn’t enough. He had to have Scarlets, too.”

“So you stopped and I started,” Tilda said. “That’s why he told me not to tell you.”

“I didn’t know until you left,” Gwen said. “I didn’t know until I went downstairs and saw that last smeared painting. He signed that one for you, you know. He sold it anyway.”

“I can’t believe you never told me you were Homer. You sent me money so I didn’t have to come back home, but you never told me you were Homer.”

“I wasn’t,” Gwen said. “He was just a mask. Bad drag, as Andrew would say. He didn’t fit very well. I’m just not male.”

“Yeah, but that’s not why you didn’t tell me. You knew I’d stay if I knew. I’d have gone on painting the Scarlets if I’d known you’d painted the Homers.”

“Don’t give me more credit than I deserve,” Gwen said. “I didn’t protect you. You painted those beautiful paintings and he made you put somebody else’s name on them and I didn’t see it, I didn’t stop him. Just another part of the Goodnight nightmare.”

“It’s not all a nightmare,” Tilda said.

Gwen lifted her chin. “Are you going to teach your children to paint?”

“Yes,” Tilda said. “But I’m not going to teach them to forge. That’s done. That ended with me.”

“So you’re leaving again,” Gwen said.

“No,” Tilda said. “I’m staying. That’s one of the many things Davy has done for me. He gave me back the gallery. We can do some good things here. And I want to start painting again, my paintings. I’m going to try to get more mural commissions close to home. I want to stay home.”

“I don’t,” Gwen said. “I want to leave.”

“Oh,” Tilda said. “Okay.”

“I’ve been here for thirty-five years,” Gwen said.

“Definitely time to leave.”

“I’ll come back.”

“It’s okay, Mama,” Tilda said. “It really is.”

“I don’t know where I’m going, of course,” Gwen said.

“I think it’s someplace with a boat.”

“The boat’s like Homer,” Gwen said, turning away. “Not real. This is real.” She smiled at a woman who was approaching with a painting, and Tilda widened her eyes, when she saw what it was.

“We’re selling Finsters?” she said to Gwen.

“Michael’s selling Finsters,” Gwen said. “I’m just taking the money. Those Dempseys can sell anything.”

“Right,” Tilda said. Davy had her Scarlet somewhere. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

“Oh, let’s not,” Gwen said, and rang up the Finster.

DAVY CROSSED the wide, white echoing space of the half empty storeroom, feeling pretty damn good about the world in general. He flipped back the quilt on the Temptation Bed. Five paintings, the sixth one in his hand, finally together again. He took the one he had out of the box and leaned it against the wall, and propped the other five up beside it, one long row of Scarlet Hodges. Then he stepped back.

Cows, flowers, butterflies, mermaids, dancers, and the new one, the apartment building in the city. He looked again and realized that the paintings fit together in sequence, the cows flowing into the flowers that blew into the butterflies. The only one out of place was the city, that belonged at the beginning, and when he picked it up to move it, he looked at it closer.

It was the Goodnight building. All the furniture that he’d been hauling for the past week came back to him, and all the joy and light in them now before him in the Scarlet paintings.

“You are kidding me,” he said and put it down at the beginning of the sequence, watching the progression from city to country to sea to night sky, and wondering how in hell he had missed it before that Tilda had painted them.

He sat down on the bed and thought, She’s a crook and a liar and she’s played me for two solid weeks. Jesus.

He’d never wanted her more.

He heard her step on the stair and sat back on the bed waiting for her, and when she came through the doorway, wearing that beat-up Chinese jacket, her eyes pale behind her bug glasses, her curls standing up like little horns, she took his breath away.

Then she caught sight of the paintings, all lined up in a row.

“Hello, Scarlet,” he said.

UPSTAIRS, CLEA was having a miserable time.

First, Mason was not paying any attention to her. He was wearing that ridiculous blue brocade vest that she’d hunted all over Columbus to find for him, and he was acting like a circus ringmaster. He’d even bought her an ugly chair painted with sunflowers and birds, and what the hell was she supposed to do with that? She was ready to put up with a lot from the men who married her, but she did expect some dignity. Cyril had had dignity, she thought now with regret. If only he’d had money, too, he would have been the perfect husband.

Plus Thomas the Caterer was acting strangely. He kept glaring at her across the canapé‘s. He’d never been friendly, but that was okay, he was the help. Maybe he had indigestion; the buffet was a little greasy. Maybe he had a headache; those bruises didn’t look good. Maybe she didn’t care, she just really wished he’d stop giving her the evil eye. It was distracting.

And then Ronald had shown up and tried to take her arm. Honest to God, men. She’d whispered, “Not here,” to him and shot a glance at Mason, but fortunately he’d been all caught up in his own circus and wasn’t paying any attention to her.

“I found out something about the gallery,” Ronald whispered to her, and she let him steer her toward the canapés.

“There’s something funny about the Scarlet Hodge paintings,” Ronald told her when he had a plate full of finger food. “It isn’t just that somebody’s buying them, it’s that there’s no information on them at all. One newspaper article and then nothing. Tony Goodnight sold them off and never mentioned her again.”

“She died,” Clea said, exasperated with him.

“No death certificate,” Ronald said, and bit into a shrimp.

“So?” Clea caught Thomas glaring at her again and said, “Stop that,” to him. When he’d smoothed his face out again, she turned back to Ronald. “That’s it?”

“If there’s no death certificate,” Ronald said, “she didn’t die.”

“Maybe she died someplace else,” Clea said. “Maybe-”

“I don’t think she exists,” Ronald said. “These shrimp things are really-”

“What do you mean,” Clea said, “she doesn’t exist?”

“No birth certificate, either. Not for Homer or Scarlet.”

“Who’s Homer?” Clea said, losing patience.

“Scarlet’s father,” Ronald said. “The Goodnight Gallery made a killing with Homer, but then they stopped and switched to Scarlet and then they stopped that. And the gallery pretty much went downhill from there. You were right, there’s something going on here.”

“There is?” Clea looked at him with complete approval for the first time since he’d stolen her money back. “Ronald, you are wonderful.” Ronald flushed and forgot the shrimp. “Clea, I-”

She pressed his arm. “Find out what you can and come see me tomorrow morning at ten.” She looked up at him under her lashes. “In my bedroom.”

“Right,” Ronald said, almost dropping his plate. “I’ll get right on it. I-”

He kept talking but Clea looked past him and saw Mason with Gwen again.

“I have to go talk to people, Ronald,” she said, patting him on the arm. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Clea,” he said, sounding angry, but that was his problem. She drifted toward Mason, a smile plastered on her face. He was going to propose by the weekend, or she was going to take steps. And if this damn gallery got in her way, well, she’d take it down with whatever Ronald was digging up.

And she’d take Gwen Goodnight down with it.

DAVY WATCHED as Tilda stayed frozen in the doorway, staring at him.

“Figured it out, did you?” she said finally, sounding grim.

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier,” Davy said, hoping to make her smile. “I was really thick. It was obvious.”

“It is now,” Tilda said. “It’s like Louise. Once you know the truth, it’s always obvious.” She sounded miserable, which was a lousy aphrodisiac.

He patted the bed beside him. “Stop looking like death and come here.”

Tilda sighed and crossed the room to sit beside him. She held up her wrists. “Okay. Put me in jail.”

Davy stared at her wrists, distracted. “If that’s for handcuffs, thank you, I’ll run right out and get some, but jail is not where I’ll be taking you.”

Tilda shook her head. “I know you have some. Your cover’s blown, too. Simon told Louise you work for the FBI.”

Davy closed his eyes and thought about strangling Simon.

She let her hands drop. “And I brought you here. That’s how good I am. I brought the Feds to my own crime scene.”

Davy took a deep breath. “Could that possibly have been the reason you’ve been saying no to me for the past two weeks?”

“Well, it didn’t help,” Tilda said. “I kept thinking I’d say something and you’d-”

“Do what? Arrest you on the spot? Coitus apprehendus? I’m going to kill Simon.”

“You don’t know how long I’ve been carrying this secret,” Tilda said, looking at the Scarlets.

“Sure I do. Seventeen years.” Davy shook his head. “Look, you can relax. Louise got it wrong. We are not Feds. They wouldn’t have us as a gift. Every now and then they call and ask for some input, but we are not agents. We don’t arrest people. Your secret is safe.”

She swallowed. “Oh. So, to review here, just to make this perfectly clear, you’re not going to bust me?”

“First of all, I couldn’t,” Davy said. “I told you, I’m not an agent. Second, nobody’s filed a complaint, so you’re not wanted for anything.” He looked at her jacket. “Well, you’re not wanted by the law. Third, I’m not even sure you broke the law because I’m not sure that painting the Scarlets was a scam. Unless you know something I don’t.”

Tilda sighed.

“And even if you do,” he added hastily, “I don’t care. Fourth, I want you naked. And I figure I’ve got a fighting chance if you’re relieved and grateful, and your vibrator is four flights up.”

“You want me?” Tilda said.

“Hell, yes,” Davy said. “I crave your crooked mouth.”

She looked at him, dumbfounded. “I thought you’d never speak to me again.”

Davy snorted. “Not a possibility. Take off your clothes, and I’ll recite limericks if you want.”

She put her hand on his arm and looked at him, immorality flickering in her weird blue eyes, and then she smiled that bent smile at him, the one that made him dizzy, and he lost his breath.

“You don’t care that I’m a forger,” she said, looking like crime made flesh.

“Honey, for the first thirty years of my life, I scammed everything that moved. Where do you think the FBI found me? Church?”

“You’re twisted, too.”

“Like a pretzel.”

“So I can confess to anything and you won’t-”

“Matilda,” Davy said as her nefarious little art-forging hand warmed his shirtsleeve and his blood. “Tell me you have the Hope diamond stashed behind the jukebox, and I will fuck your brains out.”

“Oh,” Tilda said. “The Hope diamond is not behind the jukebox.”

“That’s what I figured.” Davy sighed and took her hand, separating her slender cool fingers with his. “I can’t believe you thought I’d bust you, Scarlet.”

“It would have been fair,” Tilda said. “I lied to you.”

“No,” Davy said. “It wouldn’t have been. That’s not us.” She was quiet after that for so long that he ducked his head to look into her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Us,” she said, sounding a little breathless. “Oh. Well, there is one other thing.”

Davy closed his eyes and laughed. “Of course there is. Let me have it, Scarlet. Then we’ll go fix it.”

“The Hope diamond.”

Davy turned and saw her smile widen.

“It’s behind the vodka.”

He blinked at her, not sure he’d heard her right.

“It’s hard to see because it’s the same color as the vodka, and of course it’s dark in the cupboard, but-” Her smile quirked a little. “It’s there. Kiss me.”

Davy’s brain shorted out, and he lunged for her mouth, shuddering when her tongue touched his. She wrapped her arms around him and fell back on the bed, taking him with her, laughing against his mouth.

“I can’t believe this!” She stretched her arms over her head. “You know. I’m free?”

“Oh, good.” He slid a shaking hand under her jacket. “Anything I can do to help? Please?”

She wrapped her arms around him again, smiling at him. “You already did, Ralph, you hero, you. God, I feel wonderful. No more secrets.” She looked around the half empty white basement. “At least no more secrets from you.” She kissed him hard, her body sliding against his, and he held on as she began to unbutton his shirt. “I can tell you anything. Anything.”

“God, yes,” he said, trying not to lose his mind as her fingers moved against his chest. Every cell in his body screamed, Take her, but he held back, wanting to make sure, wanting this time to be the time he got it right.

“I forged my first painting at twelve,” she said, still trying to unbutton his shirt. “What is wrong with this shirt?”

He pulled it over his head and then sucked in his breath as she licked his chest. “Keep talking,” he said as he started on the slippery knots of her jacket. This time they’d both get it right.

“My dad sold a Monet I faked when I was fifteen.” She yanked her jacket over her head before he could start the next knot. “Your turn.”

“I played three-card monte in Bible School.” He stripped her T-shirt off, leaving her in her black bra, looking rounder than he’d remembered and hotter than he could believe.

“More,” she said.

“When the teacher caught me, I told her I was doing it for the Lord and she gave me a gold star.” He stared at her as she rose up to meet him, all black lace and round flesh, but she caught his hand as he reached for her.

“Con me,” she said.

“I’ll respect you in the morning.”

She laughed, and he leaned in, but she pulled back. “Con me.”

Right. The con. First the smile, then the “yes.”

He kissed her on the neck and then bit her softly where he’d kissed her, and she caught her breath. “More?” he whispered, and she said, “Yes.”

He bit harder, and she trembled under him, digging her fingers into his shoulders. I want you now, he thought, but she wanted conned. What was next? Think. Right, make her feel superior. He looked down at her beautiful crooked face and thought, God knows, you are. “I can’t believe the way you played me,” he said. “You’re incredible.”

She melted against him, breathing deeper, and he curved his hand around the firm heat of her breast and felt her tighten as she gasped. “Asthma?” he said, not sure, and she said, “Tom,” and stretched against him. Lust rolled over him and blanked out everything but her.

“That’s it?” Tilda said, her voice soft in his ear as he pulled her close. “That’s the con?”

He smelled the cinnamon in her hair as he kissed her shoulder. Her fingers trailed down his chest, and he shook his head to clear it. Come on, he told himself. Smile, yes, superior… “I can’t remember the rest,” he told her. “You’re ruining me, Scarlet.”

She glowed with heat under him. “Ask me for what you want, but make me think you’re doing me a favor.”

“Right,” Davy said. “Thank God you listen at doors.”

She ran her hand down his stomach, and he lost his place in the conversation again.

“So what are you going to do for me, Ralph?” she whispered.

“Celeste,” he said, searching desperately for something good, anything good.

“Yes, Ralph?” She kissed him, and he was lost in her heat again, and then she slid her hand lower and inspiration hit Davy everywhere.

He pulled back a little and looked down at her sternly. “Celeste, for your own good…”

She smiled that crooked grin at him, and the room grew hazy.

“Out of the kindness of my heart-”

She pressed closer, that lush mouth just millimeters from his.

“-I’m going to cure you of your vibrator addiction.”

“Save me,” Tilda said, and Davy moved to take her mouth and everything else she had.

UPSTAIRS, GWEN watched Clea try to collect Mason. The preview still had some time to run, but things were winding down. Nadine looked tired but happy, which wasn’t surprising since she’d worked nonstop all night. Even Steve looked fairly content, stretched out on the snake armchair, waiting for another stranger to come by and pet him. Louise was safely back at the club, singing with Andrew. Tilda had her last Scarlet back.

Everybody’s safe, she thought. It’s a good night.

So why did she feel like smacking somebody with a blue armadillo footstool?

“This was so cool,” Nadine said, coming up to her, Steve now in her arms. “I’d be bummed it’s over, but we get to do it again tomorrow night.”

“Yeah, lucky us,” Gwen said. “How’s Steve?”

“He loved it,” Nadine said. “People kept coming up and petting him and calling him ‘Steve Goodnight’ and telling him he was a good dog and the Dispatch took his picture. He was born to be a gallery dog, weren’t you, puppy?”

Steve looked up at her, patient as ever.

“And he didn’t bite anybody,” Nadine said. “He didn’t even try to hump Ariadne when Dorcas brought her down. They sat in that armchair together and looked so cute. Except when Ariadne would swat him. And even then he just sat there.”

“Good boy, Steve,” Gwen said, and Steve sighed.

“I’m going to take him out before I put him upstairs. Do you know where Aunt Tilda is?”

“She’s back,” Gwen said. “She must be in bed by now.”

The gallery door opened and Mason came back in, looking a little flustered. “Could I talk to you, Gwennie?”

“Of course,” Gwen said, and thought, Please let me get out of here soon.

Nadine rolled her eyes behind Mason’s back and took Steve out through the office.

Mason nodded at her. “She’s a good girl. She was a little pushy tonight, I thought.”

She made tonight, Gwen thought, and said, “She’s a Goodnight. They don’t hold back.”

“I had a wonderful time,” Mason said.

“Good,” Gwen said, trying to be nice. Mason was sweet.

“I’d like to have a lot more wonderful times,” Mason said, clumsily taking Gwen’s hand across the counter.

“Oh,” Gwen said.

“I love this place,” Mason said. “And tonight I knew this is where I belong. Let me take Tony’s place and take care of you.”

“Oh,” Gwen said again. “Well, I’m all right. I have family.”

“That’s not the same.” Mason leaned closer. “Let me into your life, Gwennie. You’ll never have to worry about money again, I swear.”

“Uh,” Gwen said, looking around. “Where’s Clea?”

“In the car,” Mason said. “That’s over, there really wasn’t ever much there. After her husband died, I took her out a couple of times just to be kind. I didn’t mean for it to-”

“Mason,” Gwen said, taking a step back. “You don’t have to tell me this.”

“Yes I do,” Mason said. “I want you to understand, it was just that somehow we ended up together.”

“Look, Mason,” Gwen said.

“But she’s not you,” Mason said. “In fact, I’m beginning to think she’s not even what I thought she was. I think she may have killed Cyril.”

“Really,” Gwen said, thinking Clea needed to do some PR fast.

“Look, I know Clea doesn’t make me look good,” Mason said. “I know I’m not Tony.”

Gwen sighed. “Actually, that’s not a drawback.”

He leaned closer and kissed her.

It was a perfectly good kiss, and she was so surprised, she kissed him back because she hadn’t done it in a while.

It was nice, and she thought, It’s been too long since I did this.

He leaned back and smiled at her, sweet as ever, and said, “I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks,” and she thought, He’s not Tony, but Tony had been a doughnut and look where that had gotten her, and Ford was a hit man -no more doughnuts, no more doughnuts- and she said, “Well, do it again,” and kissed him back.

Muffins, she thought. Better than passion. Really.

When he left reluctantly, promising to see her tomorrow, Nadine came back in. “That man kissed you,” she said.

“Yes, he did,” Gwen said. “He wants to help us run the gallery.” And some other things, too.

“No,” Nadine said, with great conviction, as Ethan came to stand in the office doorway.

“What?” Gwen said.

“No. We run the gallery. No outsiders. This is family.”

Gwen blinked at her, amazed by her fierceness. “You let Ethan help.”

“Ethan is family,” Nadine said, and Ethan looked as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with that. “He’s like Davy.”

“Davy?” Gwen shook her head. “Honey, Davy’s leaving any day now.”

“Nope,” Nadine said. “He’s going to stay and marry Aunt Tilda, and they’re going to run the gallery until I get out of college. Then they’re going to retire and I’m going to run it. I’ve decided that’s my career.”

Gwen sat down on the edge of the desk. “Nadine, honey, sweetie, your aunt hates the gallery. And she loves her murals, which means she has to travel. And Davy is a doughnut. I don’t think they’re even, uh, dating anymore.”

“Adults can be so blind,” Nadine said.

“Adults can be?” Gwen said, looking at Ethan. “You’re a little nearsighted yourself.”

Ethan wheeled around and went back into the gallery.

“I see everything,” Nadine said.

“Ethan’s crazy about you,” Gwen said.

“I know,” Nadine said.

“Not in the brotherly, best-friend way,” Gwen said.

“I know,” Nadine said.

“Well?” Gwen said.

“I don’t know.” Nadine frowned. “It’s not like my heart goes kathump whenever he’s around. You know?”

Gwen thought of Mason. “I know.”

“And if I make the move to find out, and it turns out it isn’t there, then what am I going to do? He’s my best friend. I can’t lose him. And if I lie to him and try to fake it, he’ll know because he knows me better than anybody. We’ve been best friends for ten years.”

“Oh,” Gwen said. “Actually, that makes sense.”

“And you’re wrong about Tilda. Davy makes her laugh. I hadn’t heard her laugh for a long time, but he does it.”

“You’re right,” Gwen said. “But Nadine, a long-term relationship is not about laughing.”

“I bet it’s a good start,” Nadine said. “They don’t pretend with each other. They know each other.”

“They don’t have a clue about each other,” Gwen said. “Your aunt Tilda has a lot to hide, and Davy’s no choirboy.”

“I know what I know,” Nadine said. “And I don’t think you should kiss Mr. Phipps again.”

“Hey, even grandmothers get to date.” Gwen went back into the office, annoyed.

Nadine followed her. “It’s such a shame Mr. Ford turned out to be a hit man.”

“Nadine, you do not know that Mr. Ford is a hit man.” Gwen felt exhausted, her headache back in full force. “I’m going to bed,” she said, heading for the hall door.

“Maybe he only killed people who had it coming,” Nadine said, from behind her. “Like John Cusack in Grosse Pointe Blank. Maybe if he showed up at their doors, they deserved it.”

“Good night, Nadine,” Gwen said, and opened the door and sucked in her breath.

Ford was standing there, broad as the doorway. “Sorry. How’d the preview go?”

“Oops.” Nadine faded back into the gallery.

“Pretty good,” Gwen said, working on keeping her breathing even.

“It looked good from the street,” he said. “When I left. Through the window.”

“Oh.” Gwen nodded. “Thank you.”

“The whole place looks good,” Ford said.

“Thank you,” Gwen said again, still nodding like an idiot.

“Good night,” Ford said.

“Good night,” Gwen said. He went up the stairs, and Gwen thought, I’m going to pass out. Breathe, for heaven’s sake. She was such a fool. Mason kissed her and nothing happened, and Ford turned up behind a door and she hyperventilated.

“Do you think he heard me?” Nadine said, coming back in a little breathless herself.

“I think he hears everything,” Gwen said. “I’m going to bed now. If you change your mind about Ethan, don’t have sex on the office couch.”

“Yeah, and I won’t put beans up my nose, either,” Nadine said, annoyed now, too.

Gwen waved her away and went upstairs to bed to not think for a while.

DOWNSTAIRS, TILDA kicked off her jeans and rolled naked against Davy, who’d lost his, too. “There’s more,” she said, feeling his heat as he touched her. She wanted to crawl into him, he felt so good.

“God, yes,” Davy said, pulling her tighter against him.

“I mean about me.” She closed her eyes, feeling her body slide on his, the bite of his hands on her hips, wanting all of him, hot inside her, as soon as possible. “More things to tell.”

“Keep talking.” Davy bent his head.

“My grandfather sold a Pissaro to the Metropolitan.” She gasped as he reached her breast and sucked hard, and she felt the pull everywhere. “It’s a contemporary.” She laced her fingers through his hair and arched against him to ease the prickle in her veins. “Oh, God. My great-grandfather painted it. It’s really good.”

Davy moved up to her neck, kissing her there. “My grandpa sold the Brooklyn Bridge for scrap iron,” he said in her ear. “Three times.” He bit her earlobe and she moaned. “To the same guy.”

Tilda ran her tongue along the beautiful line of his collarbone. “My great-grandpa scammed the Louvre,” she said, letting her hand stray south as he shivered. “We have a Goodnight in there.” She found him, hard against her, and stroked him until he caught her hand.

“Stop that,” he said, breathless, “or this’ll be over before the end of my rap sheet.”

“Your rap sheet’s that long?” She kissed him, stealing his mouth, scamming his tongue.

“No. Your hand’s that hot.” He slid his hand between her thighs. “I remember this. I’ve been here before.”

“Not like this.” Tilda shuddered as he touched her. “Don’t wait. Don’t-”

He slipped his finger inside her and she cried out.

“My great-grandpa conned a Vanderbilt out of a railroad,” he said in her ear. “Christ, Tilda.”

“I know. I know.” She closed her eyes and bit her lip and lost herself in the heat he was stroking into her. “Listen to me.” She drew her breath in rhythm with his hand, rocking against him. “Listen to me. Listen to me. My family… have been forgers… for-Oh, God, fuck me”

He rolled between her legs, and she arched up to meet him, and he slid inside her solidly, making her cry out and clench around him, biting his shoulder while he held her down and rocked into her. The heat rolled over her and she shuddered with it, frantically catching his rhythm as he moved inside her. “Oh, God, that’s good. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

She moved with him, feeling the pressure build, rolling in his heat. “I’m a forger,” she whispered in his ear, and he held her tighter and pulsed deeper. “My family… has been bent… for four centuries.” He bit her neck and she shuddered under him. “We’ve been wrong… forever.”

He raised himself up over her, pressing harder and making her gasp, and then he smiled down at her, his eyes hot and his face flushed. “Matilda,” he said, moving against her. “My grandmother was a Gypsy. We stole nails at the Crucifixion. Beat that.”

She rolled her hips to bring him closer, putting him on his back, rising up to straddle him, feeling him deep inside her as his fingers bit into her again.

“I painted the Scarlets,” she said, rocking them both toward mindlessness, feeling him everywhere as her body flushed and swelled. “My mother painted Homers. My grandmother painted Cassatts. My great-grandmother-”

“Thank God there were a lot of you,” Davy said, gripping her tighter.

“My great-grandmother,” Tilda said again as her muscles tightened inside. She stopped, savoring the tension, knowing the screaming would start soon. Oh, this is going to be good, she thought, and looked down at Davy, strong and hot and holding on to her as if he was never going to let go.

“Don’t tell me Great-grandma was straight,” Davy said, his breath coming hard. “I was hoping for centuries here.”

She leaned down slowly, feeling her blood thicken in her veins, and she kissed him, long and deep. “My great-grandmother Matilda,” she whispered against his mouth as she began to move against him again, “sold a fake van Gogh… to Mussolini.”

“Good for her,” he whispered, watching her.

“It was a bad fake,” she said, the edge sharpening inside her.

He arched against her, and she choked as she felt him deep inside.

“It was a terrible fake.” She breathed in again, her skin damp with anticipation, her eyes on his. “Anybody could have told it was fake.” There, she thought as he moved, there. “He must have been insane.”

He moved against her, intent on her mouth. “Did she look like you?” he whispered.

“Yes,” she said, her eyes half-closed. Almost, almost. There. There.

He curled up against her, making her cry out as he wrapped his arms around her. “Was she naked when she sold it to him?”

“Yes,” Tilda said, choking on the heat. “Yes.”

“I’d have bought it, too.” He rolled to trap her underneath, and she felt herself against him, digging her nails into him and biting his shoulder as the spasm started, clutching at him as he held her down, trying to consume him, devour him, possess him, taking him for everything he had while he took her and she lost it all, over and over and over again.

When she could think again, she felt him shaking on top of her and realized he’d come, too, that part of the shaking was her, that he was holding on to her like death, and that she didn’t care about anything except having him again.

“Christ,” Davy said finally, still trying to breathe.

“I want to do that again,” Tilda said, around her own gasps.

“Yeah,” Davy said, gasping into her neck. “Me, too. Maybe next week.”

“That was so good,” Tilda said, stretching under him. “Oh, God, that was really good.”

“Have I mentioned,” Davy said, still trying to breathe, “how pleased I am… to meet your family? God, I hope there are thousands of them.” He kissed her hard. “You’re good at this, Scarlet.”

“Not lousy,” Tilda said.

“World class.” He dropped his head back into the hollow of her neck. “I think you left marks.”

Tilda held him tighter as her breathing slowed. “I think you did, too.”

“That’s so I can find the way back. Damn, you’re good.”

“Oh, stop.” Tilda tilted her hips so he rolled off her, and then followed him to keep his heat. “You’d think you’d never had sex before.” She licked into his ear, so besotted with his body that she wanted to start at the top and keep going.

“Not like this,” he said, and she lifted her head to look at him. “There was a real quality of insanity there, Scarlet.” He took a deep breath. “I usually don’t fear for my life during sex but…”

“Oh.” Tilda grinned at him, exhausted and exhilarated. “Thank you. That’s so sweet.”

He laughed and pulled her back to him, holding her close. “Maybe we could pace ourselves. There were so many things we could have done that we didn’t get to.”

“Really?” Tilda said, brightening at the thought. For the first time the unknown seemed interesting and inviting instead of dangerous. “Give me some examples. I’m suddenly feeling very open-minded.” When he didn’t say anything, she propped herself up on one arm and saw him frown. “What?”

“That was it, wasn’t it?” he said, and she tensed again. “That’s what’s been wrong all along. You’ve been scared this whole time, haven’t you? Of me finding out.” He waved his hand to take in the basement. “About this.”

“Yes,” Tilda said. “God, this is such a relief. But you can’t tell anybody. Not even Simon. Promise.”

“I promise,” he said. “Why?”

She thought of the Scarlets and the shame and the disaster of being found out, and the glow slipped away.

Davy held her tighter. “Never mind, forget I asked, don’t look like that, Jesus.”

He pulled her back down and kissed her hard, and she said, “Just don’t tell,” and he said, “Never,” and kissed her again and again until she relaxed beside him.

“It’s okay.” She pushed herself up again. “I’m okay.”

“You’re better than okay,” he said, following her up, not letting go. “You’re…”

“What?” she said, and realized he was looking past her, at the Scarlets lined up along the wall. “What?”

“They’re you,” he told her, still holding on to her as he stared at them. “All that color and light and anger and sex. They’re all you.”

She looked at the paintings, trying to see them the way he did, without guilt and pain, and they were beautiful, full of laughter and passion and joy.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he said, still looking at the paintings.

“Oh,” Tilda said and felt something give way inside.

He turned back to her and smiled into her eyes. “Scarlet,” he said, savoring her name as if he were tasting it. He bent close to her. “Matilda Scarlet Goodnight. Her work.” He kissed her gently.

I love you, she thought and kissed him back, naked and unashamed.