“I’d rather talk to him in person.” If she called, Kai wasn’t above listening in, and he would find out about the gallery.
“What makes you think he’ll see you?”
A couple of times Richard had refused to let her in, to Kai’s malicious amusement and Candra’s fury. “Oh, I think he’s expecting me this time.”
* * *
Richard’s gaze flickered immediately over the suit. “Trying out for a part on Broadway?” he asked, letting her know he saw through the little subterfuge. She controlled her irritation. She should have remembered how detail-oriented he was, noticing everything.
“I had a business appointment this morning,” she said, which wasn’t a lie.
Rather than take her upstairs to the living area, he led her to his bottom-floor office, telling her without words she no longer belonged here, if the notion needed to be reinforced. To him, she was nothing more than unfinished business—unpleasant business, at that.
She was always surprised at how small and spartan his office was, though of course he had been limited in space by the size of the town house. He could have done more with the furnishings or let her do more. Everything in the office was utilitarian, even his big, custom-made leather chair.
“I see your lawyer told you about my new terms,” he said coolly, taking a seat and leaning back, hooking his hands behind his head. His dark eyes were unreadable.
She took a seat across the desk from him and cut right to the chase. “Sweeney’s been having problems with her painting for quite a while now,” she said. “She finally brought some of her new work in yesterday, but she’s very uncertain about it. I told her it was wonderful, of course, but the truth is, I may have a difficult time selling any of it.”
His expression didn’t so much as flicker. “And you’re telling me this because . . . ?”
Damn him, could she have been wrong? No, she couldn’t have been, and she hated him for making her feel uncertain.
“I know you, darling. I saw how you were looking at her.” As if he wanted to fuck her right then, right in front of everyone, Candra thought with sudden viciousness. Jealousy seared her, and she pushed it away.
“With my eyes?” he suggested mildly.
“Don’t be witty, please. I can destroy her career. I wouldn’t enjoy doing it—I really like Sweeney—but if it’s necessary ...” She shrugged.
“And I can replace you at the gallery tomorrow, if necessary.” Eyes narrowed, he leaned forward. His expression wasn’t impassive now; it was so grim she found herself drawing back from him. “If you do the slightest thing to harm Sweeney’s career, hell will freeze over before you get a dime from me.”
“So I was right,” she managed to say, but inwardly she was alarmed. Somehow, she hadn’t expected him to counter her threats with more of his own.
“Are you?”
“Why else would you care?”
“I can think of several reasons why I wouldn’t give in to blackmail,” he said.
She wished he hadn’t used that word. She paled slightly. “I wouldn’t call it that.”
“What would you call it? If I pay up, you’ll refrain from ruining a career. That sounds remarkably like extortion to me.” He got up and seized her by the arm, forcing her up from the chair. “Get out.”
“Richard, wait!”
“I said get out.” He propelled her toward the door, past the astonished faces of his two assistants. Embarrassment turned her face dark red.
She jerked her arm free and whirled to face him. “I’ll make you regret treating me like this,” she said in a voice clogged with angry tears.
“Sign the papers,” he said, opening the door and ushering her out. “Or you’ll regret it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sweeney moved restlessly around her studio, studying canvases without really seeing them. What did it matter anyway? She seemed to have lost the ability to judge her own work, but Candra was enthusiastic, so all she could do at this point was take the completed pieces to the gallery and go from there.
She had looked up the address for David and Jacob Stokes, attorneys-at-law, and mailed the sketch of their father to them, along with a note of condolence. Then she had spent the rest of the day working, just working, automatically applying paint to canvas and not even thinking about what she was doing.
A lot of disturbing things had happened to her in the past year, and for the most part, she thought she had handled them with remarkable composure.
Though she hadn’t been able to find any logical explanation, such as having a near-death experience or being struck by lightning, for why she had suddenly become able to see ghosts, at least she had found references to countless other people who claimed the same ability. She had to believe them, because why would anyone claim to see spirits if they didn’t? It wasn’t exactly something you wanted on an application for employment.
But in all the books on paranormal subjects she had read, she hadn’t found anything to explain that death scene she had painted. She didn’t remember painting it, so she had to assume she had been sleepwalking and had done the painting in her sleep. When she had gone out to mail the sketch she had stopped by the library and checked out some books on sleepwalking, but she hadn’t had a chance to read them yet. She had flipped through one, though, and found the explanation that people who walked in their sleep were often under stress.
Well, duh. Like seeing ghosts was supposed to be relaxing. But she had been seeing ghosts for a year, and the night the old vendor died was the first time she had ever sleepwalked. The books didn’t even have chapters on sleep-painting.