True Bliss (16 page)

Kitten was too engrossed in her current topic to notice any impending intrusion. "Chester mentioned you to Morris just the other day. Asked how you are and what you're doing."

Bliss could imagine how that conversation went. No doubt she had been elevated to the status of Mother Theresa with sex appeal.

"Bliss—"

Female crying drowned out Kitten Winters. Not Sebastian, but Vic Taylor—resident painter—came into the kitchen. He grasped Liberty Lovejoy's wrist firmly in a tanned hand.

Bliss didn't dare look at her mother.

"H—h—he doesn't love me!" Liberty's pale green eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. "All I am to him is a—a—a thing. I'm an object."

"She threatened me with the Hole again," Vic said, referring to the source of the estate's name. A precipitous hole through treacherous rock dropped to an inaccessible space that filled with lake water. Vic stuffed Liberty onto a chair, but kept his hold on her. "I can't let the silly bitch out of my sight."

Of all the mornings for this to happen, it had to happen on the one when her mother was present. "You know I don't like it when you use that sort of language, Vic."

"Oh, fuck the bloody language, Bliss. I'm in trouble here. I need this ... I need her, but I need her without swollen eyes and a snotty nose. You know I can't work in the presence of ugliness."

Liberty howled afresh.

From the corner of her vision, Bliss saw Kitten rise carefully from her chair and withdraw into the computer alcove.

Naked to the waist, shirts were out of the question—they hampered his creativity, Vic spread his legs inside tight, black

leather pants with long fringes at the side seams. His black, lizard cowboy boots had tooled silver toe caps.

"You heard him," Liberty said. "He needs me, but only for his own selfish purposes."

"My purposes usually suit you very well, my little love nymph," Vic said. "You adore seeing your spectacular pair of... You like the way I paint you. You like everything about the way I paint you."

Bliss sent out a silent plea for Vic to stop right there. If he went into the more exotic aspects of his painting techniques in front of Mother they'd better hope a Medic 1 unit was already parked outside.

"Listen up, children," Bliss said, lapsing into Vic's preferred mode of dialogue. "We've got to put the art first. Liberty's art, too. You have your pottery, Liberty. It's important. And so is Vic's painting."

Vic beamed and nodded knowingly at Liberty. Of average height and muscular, he had an all-over tan and made sure as many people as possible saw its entirety.

Liberty tossed back the luxurious dark brown waves that reached her waist, and cried afresh. At least she was fully clothed, a rare occurrence.

"Liberty," Bliss said. "Please try to be calm." They must all get out of here before Sebastian decided to put in an appearance.

He wouldn't do that.

"She thinks I'm in love with someone else," Vic said to Bliss. A black bow restrained his long gray hair at his nape. His eyes were a shade lighter than his hair. "She can't seem to grasp the very simple fact that my art is everything. I don't have time to love a woman, not in the way she wants my love—although I do understand, of course."

Kitten made a small, strangled sound and Vic turned around to stare. He said, "Good morning. What's this, Bliss? Avon calling?"

"This is Kitten Winters," Bliss said firmly. "My mother." Enough was enough.

"You don't say? I didn't know anyone still had one. Tell this... Tell our friend here that if she kills herself, she'll be replaced."

Liberty popped up and slapped him.

"Oh!" Kitten slumped against the refrigerator. "Bliss, who are these dreadful people?"

His feet bare, as was his chest—all the way to his still un-snapped, and partially unzipped jeans, Sebastian was already inside the kitchen before Bliss was aware of his approach.

Liberty was the second to see him. Her mouth made a luscious O and she whistled. "Will you look what Bliss has got, Victor? My, my, they do say still waters run deep."

Bliss wrapped her robe very firmly about her and yanked the belt tight—and caught her mother's eye. If Kitten's amazed stare wasn't funny, it would definitely be insulting. Her mother, Bliss realized, had never made the jump from being parent to a child, to being parent to an adult—especially an adult who might be of interest to the kind of man who presently surveyed this assembly with glittering green eyes.

She tried to flash him silent warnings to say nothing.

Sebastian stared at her, his eyes narrowing in concentration.

Bliss shook her head.

"You are a secretive one, Bliss," Liberty said, studying Sebastian from various angles. "We ought to ask him over, Victor. Don't you think he'd make a perfect Adam?"

Bliss didn't even want to consider what Liberty might mean. "Mother, I'm sorry this isn't a good time for us to talk. Why don't we have lunch one day next week?" She pried Kitty from her ineffectual hiding place. "I'll call you later when things aren't so busy around here."

Kitty drove the elegant heels of her little pink shoes into the worn linoleum. She pointed at Sebastian. "Was that man upstairs, Bliss?"

Vic motioned for Liberty to be silent and stepped between Sebastian and Kitten. "He came with us," he said, casting Bliss a conspiratorial look.

"He did not," Kitten declared. "You've been here. You and

that woman came together. I know that man just came downstairs. And the only room up there is yours, Bliss."

Sebastian crossed his arms and raised his brows at Bliss.

"That's right," she said, taking a firm hold of Kitten's elbow. "I'll tell you all about it later. Don't worry, Mother. I'm a big girl."

Kitten wouldn't budge. "If you're, well, involved with someone, we want to know. Your father will want to make inquiries. For your own good, Bliss, you know that. You're well—simplistic in some ways. You forget you're a woman of means."

"Thank you for caring," Bliss said, desperate now. "Tell Father I'll be over this afternoon."

"Hah! Now I know you're trying to get rid of me."

What was the first clue? "Never, Mother. It's just that—"

"Who are you? How long have you known my daughter."

Bliss gave up. She picked up her coffee and drained the mug.

"Come along," Kitten said. "Answer me."

"I've known your daughter since she was seventeen—that's fifteen years, Mrs. Winters. The name's Plato. Sebastian Plato."

Ten

Hard to tell with Willy boy, Ron decided, lounging in the anteroom to Sebastian's office and watching William Namsuck, official watchdog.

Ron supported an elbow on one arm of a putty-colored leather loveseat and rested his head. If William was picking up any vibes, he hid it well.

"He must have called in," Ron said when he couldn't stand the uninterrupted sound of William's keyboard a moment longer.

"No."

Little shit. An hour alone with him and the tune would change. Since he'd had the money and the trappings, Ron hadn't met one of his own kind who couldn't somehow be persuaded he was in love for a night—or five minutes.

But he liked to be desired. He liked to be the pursued rather than the pursuer. "Did Mr. Plato come back here last night?"

William glanced at him.

Ron inclined his head, parted his lips and curled his tongue over his top teeth.

"I haven't seen Mr. Plato since he left for his appointment yesterday," William said, and went back to pounding his keyboard.

Not a hint of pink showed on his slim face. No flicker to show he'd recognized a signal. Bored and peeved, Ron pushed to his feet. More to the point, he was goddamn angry.

"When does Zoya get in?"

"I'm sure she is in," William said without looking up this time. "Her office is on the floor below this. The photographic studios are there, and that's where prospective clients are interviewed."

Ron considered his options. One option he didn't have was to cool his heels while Sebastian played around with some woman Maryan believed could ruin everything. "I'll go down and see Zoya. Let me know the instant Sebastian arrives."

William didn't answer.

Blood pumped too hard at Ron's temples. He strode to the desk and leaned over until William raised his face. "Listen, friend," Ron said. "If you want to keep this job, you'll jump when I ask for something. Got that?"

"I'm not at all sure I have."

Ron bent closer. "Ms. Plato is Mr. Plato's partner."

"I'm aware of that."

"And Ms. Plato is my partner. Am I making more sense now?"

Putting distance between them, William pushed his chair back from his desk. "When Mr. Plato arrives, I'll tell him you'd like to see him and that you're with Zoya. Will that be all?"

"For now." Fucker. "Yes, for now." But don't turn your cute little ass on me if it's not for sale.

He took the stairs rather than the elevator. Trips with Maryan had a way of interfering with his exercise schedule.

The next floor down seethed quietly. Men and women came and went along a corridor where thick gray carpet swallowed their footsteps. Most of the faces and bodies in sight were a testimony to careful selection, selection for maximum impact.

Ron eyed the talent. Impressive. He pushed through glass doors into a large reception area where obvious seekers after fame and fortune struck arrogant poses, or shrank self-consciously in chairs around the room.

A middle-aged brunette held court here. She didn't reciprocate when Ron wished her a good day. "Sign in over there and take a seat," she told him. "Got a portfolio?"

"No," Ron told her deliberately. "You're new."

She did look straight at him then. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said you must be new to Raptor Vision. I'm Ron York— from the New York offices. Is Zoya inside?" He indicated double doors behind her desk.

Suspicion clung to her expression. "Who did you say you were?"

"Ron York," he said clearly. "I'll show myself in."

"You can't—"

"Watch me," he said, marching to the doors and entering without knocking. He shut himself inside and flipped the lock.

Outfitted in a shiny black exercise halter and briefs, Zoya stood at a bar that ran the length of one mirrored wall. She spared him a glance that radiated dislike and turned her back on him. Effortlessly raising one leg, she straightened it on top of the bar, bent sideways to grasp her toe and layered her upper body on the leg.

No one knew exactly how old she was. Ron had tried the math and mid to late thirties was the closest he could come. But she could be ten years older. Grudgingly, he was forced to admit she was fabulous.

He walked behind her and stood so close she wouldn't be able to lower her leg without bumping into him. "Where's Sebastian?"

She swiveled her torso to bring her face to her ankle. "Where's Mary an?"

"It's only nine-thirty in the morning."

"Hangover?"

He ran his forefinger along the underside of her raised leg. "We all have our weaknesses."

She didn't miss a beat. "Don't we, though?"

"Maryan thinks this Northwest venture is important to you."

"Does she?"

"She thinks you've got to make a go of it here."

Zoya gripped her ankle with both hands. "I want to make a go of Vision wherever we open."

Ron slipped a hand under her arm and inside the halter to cup her breast.

She gripped her toe and pulled.

"Maybe Swiss Spas won't renew your contract," Ron suggested. Zoya was the famous face behind the preferred skin products of the rich-and-afraid-of-aging. There was talk that she might be dropped from the next campaign.

"Your concern is touching, Ron," she said, as if he hadn't pushed his other hand inside her pants.

He pinched her pointed nipple between two of his fingers. She was hard all over. If he had to be with a woman, at least the hard kind didn't disgust him. Mary an was thin, but her tits were big and they needed a lift.

When Zoya turned on him, she was so fast Ron tripped and fell. She stood over him, her legs spread at the level of his hips. "Make your point."

He rose to his elbows and got up with as much dignity as he could manage. Zoya was instantly in his face, backing him across her huge teak and navy-blue leather office.

"We've all got too much to lose here," he said, smoothing his hair. "You can't afford to have Sebastian do anything stupid. Neither can Maryan or I."

"Translation?"

"After our little gathering last night—after you'd gone—he left. I got up early to look for him. I don't think he came home. Where would he go unless it was to see this woman Maryan's scared shitless about?"

Zoya rested a long fingernail on his mouth. She narrowed her eyes. "Which woman would that be?"

He hesitated. If Zoya really didn't know, he couldn't risk enlightening her without Maryan's say-so. "Don't play dumb with me."

"Dumb?" She arched her long, high eyebrows. "Ronny boy, if you want to share information with me, you've got to have something to share. You don't give. I don't give."

"Look"—he wetted his lips—"we could agree to keep each other informed of anything that might be important."

"You and Maryan are afraid of something here in Seattle. Maybe I'm afraid of something, too, but I haven't realized it. Why don't you tell me what you're afraid of and I'll decide if I think it's anything we ought to worry about."

"I asked you," he said. She wasn't afraid of him. She felt she had the upper hand. Ron didn't like that. "You tell me. I can be trusted not to speak out of turn."

"Can you?" She backed him all the way to her desk. "I think we'll have to prove how cooperative you can be." In a fluid motion, she stripped the halter over her head and dropped it on a chair.

Ron looked at her high, sharp breasts. She laughed deep in her throat, put her hands on her hips and swayed just enough to make her flesh bounce. "Suck me, Ron."

He swallowed.

Zoya reached between his legs and squeezed. "You need help here, baby. Suck what I'm offering. Should do the job."

"Why are you doing this?"