Now You See Her Linda Howard(87)

"I need the painting," Sweeney said as Richard began steering her toward the door.

"Sweetheart, there's no need—"

"I need the painting," she repeated, digging in her heels and dragging him to a halt. She couldn't think straight; she was swaying on her feet, but she knew she couldn't leave the painting behind.

"There are reporters outside—"

"I'll wrap it in a cloth." Tugging free, she trudged into the studio and took the painting down from the easel. She always kept lengths of cheesecloth for cleaning up and for covering the paintings, and she wrapped the painting in that. Richard was right beside her every step she took, watching her worriedly, but she was too tired to reassure him. She had just enough strength to do what was necessary, and getting the painting was necessary.

A policeman escorted them through the crowd of onlookers and reporters who clogged the hall.

Flashbulbs went off in her face and a tangle of questions were hurled at them, but she made no effort to sort out individual words, nor did Richard answer. He was recognized; someone called him by name.

He didn't respond, keeping all his attention on her and on getting out of there. He did swear under his breath, but she was the only one who heard him.



The policeman managed to evade the couple of reporters who tried to follow them and dropped Richard and Sweeney off at Richard's town house without incident. She clutched the painting and stared at the steps, wondering if she would be able to make it up them, much less the full flight of stairs inside.

"Come on, sweetie." Richard's voice was gentle, cajoling.

"I'm not a baby," she said, scowling at him. "I'm all right."

"Of course you are."

Now he was soothing her. She hated being soothed. And she was pretty certain she could have made it up the steps without his help. She didn't want to seem ungrateful, however, so she leaned against him as they climbed the steps.

He unlocked the door and let them in, then reset the alarm system. "Just leave the painting here."

"No, I want it upstairs."

Evidently he decided that trying to argue with her would take a lot more time than going along with her. He dropped the bag at the foot of the stairs and lifted her in his arms, painting and all.

"Your shoulder!" she protested, trying to wiggle out of his arms.

"Be still, before you hurt me."

She froze, blinking up at him with big owl eyes and not moving a muscle as he climbed the stairs. If she hadn't looked so utterly exhausted, he would have laughed.

He put her on the bed, and she was asleep before he got her shoes off.

He peeled her out of the jeans but left her in his T-shirt. By the time he'd removed his own clothes and got her under the covers, he was ready to collapse beside her. Getting in on the other side of the bed, he cradled her against his right side and determinedly shut out the ache in his left shoulder, concentrating instead on the joy of having her alive, in his arms and in his bed.

The sun was up and shining brightly when Sweeney woke him with her restless movements. He opened one eye and looked at the clock. Seven-thirty. "Go back to sleep," he muttered. She didn't reply, just kept rolling her head and pushing at the covers. A chill went through him as he realized she was asleep.

She slipped out of bed, moving so smoothly she was out of his grasp before he could react. She stood beside the bed, her eyes open but strangely blank. She seemed bewildered, as if she wanted to go somewhere but didn't know how to get there.

Richard got out of bed and put his arms around her, shaking her gently to wake her. "Sweetie. Wake up, honey. You don't need to paint today. Come back to bed."



It was a long time before she responded, blinking and looking up at him with bleary eyes. "What?" she mumbled.

"You were sleepwalking." He kept his tone calm and got her back into bed. She immediately dropped into a deep sleep again, lying still in his arms. He allowed himself to doze, but didn't relax his guard.

She was in an unfamiliar place and might fall down the stairs if she began wandering around in her sleep. He woke every time she turned over, bringing her back into his arms and keeping her safe.

Because he didn't want to leave her alone in bed, he woke her at ten-thirty. She managed to glare at him through only one eye, but to his relief she was fully alert. "You had better be waking me to have sex, because otherwise there's no excuse," she growled.

His eyes glinted, giving her maybe half a second of warning before he turned her on her back and mounted her. "I was only kid—" she began, then gasped as he pushed into her with a hard thrust that took him to the hilt. She half-screamed, and her nipples pinched into tight little buds. Her swift arousal turned him on even more, his erection hardening to the point of pain.

"Jesus," he ground out, his voice hoarse almost beyond sound. He thrust a few more times and began coming; his body arching and shuddering as he spurted into her. She cried out again and her inner muscles clamped convulsively around his cock, milking him with her orgasm.

He felt like a human wreck afterward, lying sprawled on his back, incapable of moving. He couldn't remember ever before coming that fast or that hard, not even as a teenager, when he had still thought of sex as a race to the finish line. She stirred before he did, pushing a tangled curl out of her eyes and sitting up.