“I—” Her throat closed. She knew he was right. Given the time she had gone to bed and the length of time it would have taken her to finish the face, Candra had already been dead. The artist in her knew that. The woman, the human being, felt as if there should have been something, anything, that she could have done.
She could feel the tension in him, thrumming through his muscles and communicating itself to her through his hands. “God, I was so worried about you,” he said in a tone of stifled violence, crushing her against him.
“I’m okay.” She kissed his collarbone and thought how wonderful it was to be safe and warm, and so thoroughly satisfied. Love for him filled her, making her heart swell. She wrenched her thoughts back to the subject. “I won’t lie to you; it was pretty rough, but I managed. You don’t have to worry; this proves I can handle it on my own.”
His dark eyes glittered. “You shouldn’t have to do it on your own. I should have been there.”
“You couldn’t. You had to—You had to take care of Candra.” Her throat tightened again. “She was your wife for ten years. I know you must be upset—”
He made a harsh sound in his throat and released her, rolling over onto his back. He stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t mourn her, if that’s what you’re asking. I can’t be a hypocrite and fake grief. Maybe people think I should, but I’m not going to put on a show for them.”
Sweeney felt the power and frustrated rage in him and gave him the same comfort he had given her, putting her arms around him and gently stroking his face, his chest. “Of course not. It wouldn’t be honest.”
He glanced down at her. “You didn’t do any work on the man’s face?”
She shook her head. She tried to be nonchalant, but her eyes filled with dread for what was coming, and he knew that yesterday morning’s episode had been the roughest yet.
It was his turn to stroke. “I wanted to call you,” he whispered. “I spent all day with the police.”
“I know. I knew you had to make arrangements—”
“Not to mention being the prime suspect.”
Her pupils flared. “What?” She would have bolted up in bed, but he controlled the surge of her body, keeping her clamped to him.
“I was the most logical person. When a woman is murdered, it’s usually the husband or boyfriend who did it. We were getting divorced. They had to eliminate me as a suspect.”
“Are you? Eliminated, I mean.”
“Yeah, I’m eliminated.” His smile was crooked. “I didn’t have a motive, and I could prove I was here.”
“How?”
“The computer. I was on-line, and my server had a record of the time.”
Sweeney closed her eyes in relief. She tilted her head a little, rubbing her cheek against his chest. “I need to go,” she murmured. “I know you have a million things to do today And . . . shouldn’t I take the painting to the police?”
“No,” he said forcefully. “Promise me you won’t do that.”
“Why?” she asked, bewildered.
“Do you really think they’ll believe you painted it in your sleep? Honey, you’ll become their prime suspect, at least for a while. I don’t want you to have to go through that; plus if they’re concentrating on you, they’re wasting time when they could be looking for the real killer. When you finish the painting, and we see who you paint, then I’ll think of some way to point the cops in the right direction.” He rubbed his thumbs under her chin. “Promise me.”
“Okay.” Her smile was wobbly. “I guess the whole thing is a little out there, isn’t it?”
“No more so than your average Twilight Zone episode.”
Her smile widened, became more genuine. “That bad, huh?”
“That bad. When you paint the killer’s face, then I’ll think of some way to point the cops in the right direction, but other than that, I don’t want you involved at all.”
* * *
Outside in his car, Detective Aquino yawned and stretched, battling the need for sleep. He really, really needed to take a leak, and he really, really needed some coffee. Staying awake today was gonna be hell. He should have gone home, and he knew it. It didn’t mean a damn thing that Worth had a girlfriend.
But curiosity was his besetting sin, and he wanted to know more about the woman. He wanted to know who she was and where she lived, and why she had arrived on foot, apparently unexpected, then stayed all night.
Maybe it was nothing, but then again, his hunches had worked out before. He intended to see what happened with this one.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Richard sent her home in a taxi. Sweeney had been prepared to walk home, since she hadn’t carried her purse with her the evening before when she set out for a stroll. All she had in her jeans pocket was a couple of crumpled ones and some change, but that was enough for a bus if she got tired of walking. He glared at her as he called a cab, and that was that. He paid the driver, kissed her, and handed her into the cab as if she were royalty.
It was nice not to have to walk home, she admitted as she let herself into her apartment. Her knees felt dangerously wobbly and all her muscles were weak. She thought about taking a nap, but dread kept her awake. She couldn’t face another episode of sleep-painting and the awful cold that came afterward, not now. Both physically and emotionally, she wasn’t up to the strain. She thought about the painting, with the big blank space where the killer’s head would be, and her head began to hurt, sharp pains stabbing through her temples. She didn’t even want to go into the studio to work on other paintings, where she would see the murder scene. She didn’t want to think about Candra being dead or imagine the terror she must have felt in those last horrible minutes of her life. She wanted to be at peace for a little while, to gather strength for the finish. She wanted to think about Richard, remember his lovemaking and the incredible night she had just spent with him.