Now You See Her Linda Howard(22)

Then she kissed him back. The movement of her lips and tongue were tentative, almost shy at first, and then a low moan vibrated in her throat and her grip tightened on his wrists. He felt tension invade her body, felt her strain upward even though she never left her seat beside him. He deepened the kiss, his tongue slow and sure, both taking and inviting.

She tore away from him, launching herself to her feet and stomping several feet away. When she whirled to face him, her expression was tight with anger. "No," she said, voice clipped. "You're married."

He got to his feet, gaze locked on her face. "Not for much longer. "

She made an abrupt motion. "You're married now, and that's what counts. You're in the middle of an unfriendly divorce—"

"Is there any other kind?" he interrupted, tone as mild as if he were asking the time.

"You know what I mean. Candra's my business associate, and on top of that I like her."

"Most people do."



"Getting involved with you would be messy. It wouldn't be righ."

His dark eyes narrowed. "Okay."

Her eyebrows arched in surprise. "Okay?"

"For now. Until the divorce is final. Then… He shrugged, letting the word trail off, but from the way he still watched her, she could figure out what "then" entailed. "One question: What's your first name?"

She gaped at him. "What?"

"Your first name. What is it? I refuse to call a woman I've slept with by her last name."

"We didn't—" she began, then scowled, because sleeping together was exactly what they had done.

"You have to call me by my last name," she snapped. "Because it's the only name I'll answer to."

"Maybe. You might as well tell me," he said maddeningly. "You had to fill out an application when you moved into the apartment. I can find out from that."

Her scowl deepened. "Paris," she said abruptly.

He didn't follow. "What about it?"

"That's my name," she growled. "Paris. With one r. Like the city, Like the dead Greek guy. Paris Samille, if you want the whole enchilada. And if you ever—ever—call me either one, I'll hurt you."

Richard checked the time as he stood and picked up his jacket. He wasn't an idiot, so he didn't so much as smile. "All right," he agreed. "I promise I'll never call you anything you don't like." Before she could evade him, he bent and kissed her again.

"I'll lay off," he said softly. "For now. But when this divorce is final, I'll be back."

Sweeney didn't say anything, just watched silently as he let himself out of the apartment. Was that a promise, or a threat? The decision was up to her, and she had no idea which it would be. The only thing she knew for certain was that when he kissed her, she had left safety far behind.

Sweeney picked up first one canvas and then another, trying to decide which she should take to the gallery. She didn't like any of them, and the thought of anyone else seeing them embarrassed her. The bright colors looked childish to her, garish. Twice she started to call Candra and tell her she wouldn't be bringing anything over after all, but both times she stopped herself. If what she was doing was crap, she needed to find out for certain now before she wasted any more time. She didn't know what she would do if it was crap; therapy, maybe? If writers could have writer's block, the equivalent had to be possible for artists.

She could just hear it now; a therapist would solemnly tell her she was trying to resolve her childhood issues by becoming a child again, seeing things through a child's eyes. Uh-huh. She had resolved her childhood issues a long time ago. She had resolved never to be like her parents, never to use her talent as an excuse for selfish, juvenile behavior, never to have children and then shunt them aside while she pursued her art. Her mother advocated free love and went through a period of trying to "free" Sweeney from her inhibitions by openly making love with her various lovers in front of her young daughter.

These days, she would have been arrested. She should have been then, too.

The wonder, Sweeney thought grimly, was that she had had the courage to paint at all, that she hadn't gone into something like data processing or accounting, to get as far away from the art world as possible. But she had never considered not painting; it had been too much a part of her for as long as she could remember. As a little girl she had eschewed dolls, choosing colored pencils and sketch pads as her favorite toys. By the time she was six, she had been using oils, snitching the tubes from her mother whenever she could. She could lose herself in color for hours, stand enraptured staring not just at rainbows but at rain, seeing clouds as well as sky, individual blades of grass, the sheen of a ripe red apple.

No, there had never been any question about her talent, or her obsession. So she had tried to be the best artist she could, and at the same time to be normal. Okay, so she sometimes slipped and forgot to comb her hair, and sometimes when she was working, she forgot and shoved her hands through said hair, leaving bright streaks of paint behind. That was minor. She wasn't promiscuous; she paid her bills on time; she didn't do drugs even on a recreational basis; she didn't smoke; she didn't drink. There wasn't a swag of beads anywhere in her apartment, and she was a regular June Cleaver in her personal life.