She knew exactly what was missing from the high-heeled pumps.
Twenty minutes later she stepped back, blinking. The heels weren’t solid. A small gold ball formed the middle of each heel. The shoes were very distinctive, impossibly stylish. If she had ever seen a pair like them before, she would have remembered.
And the skirt. . . the skirt was fuller than she had sketched it last night. Flirty. Black The woman was wearing a black dress.
In some corner of her mind, she laughed. This was New York City; what else would the woman be wearing but black?
Hours later, the ringing of the phone jerked her out of her trance. She shuddered and stepped back, for a moment unsure of where she was or what that noise meant. Then she realized it was the phone and raced to answer it.
“Are you all right?” Richard demanded, and she realized she should have called him.
“I was,” she said, still more in a daze than out of it. “Nothing happened last night. But this morning—I was painting. I just knew how it should look. What time is it?”
“Nine-thirty.”
She had been working for almost four hours. She remembered very little of it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
She was wrapped in a blanket when Richard arrived, a freshly nuked cup of coffee in her hand. She was cold, but the cold wasn’t unbearable, at least not yet. He bent down for a quick kiss, then started to take her in his arms to battle the chill.
“Wait,” she said. “I want you to see the painting first.”
He went with her into the studio and in silence studied the canvas. The scene was graphic in its violence. The woman’s body was sprawled in a pool of blood, which had soaked into a pale carpet. Her chic black dress had been slashed to pieces, and one arm, the only one Sweeney had completed, was covered with wounds.
The man standing over her was relaxed, the knife he had used in his right hand, which was hanging at his side. Working from his shoes up, she had completed him to just above the waist. He wore black pants, perhaps jeans, though jeans were a bit incongruous with the wing tips. She had also painted the beginnings of a black shirt.
“A burglar, maybe,” Richard said with the cool distance in his voice that said he had switched into his analytical mode. “They’re both in black, but she looks as if she’s been to a party. The shoes are wrong, though; a burglar would wear track shoes, or something else with a soft sole.”
“I thought there was something strange about the shoes, too. They look awkward.” She didn’t like the way she had done the feet; they were vaguely out of proportion. But when she had begun studying how she could correct them, the mental image refused to form. Perhaps she was just exhausted and she would be able to think better after she had rested.
“I need to get this finished,” she said, and even though she heard the fretful tone, she couldn’t do anything about it. She was just about an inch short of whining. “I have to know who she is.”
“Honey—” He clasped her shoulders and turned her toward him. “You have to assume you won’t know until after the fact. That’s the way it was with Elijah Stokes—”
“But this thing, whatever it is, is getting stronger all the time. Or maybe I’m just getting better at it. What I’m painting now is in the future, so why shouldn’t the scope broaden and let me see her identity before it’s too late?”
“This might not be a burglary that went sour. This might be a planned murder.”
She didn’t follow him. “What difference would that make?”
“The plan could already be formed. If I were going to commit murder, I’d have it planned down to the ground. So what you’re picking up on could be a plan that exists now, not in the future.”
She gave him a sour look, or at least as sour as she could make it when she was shaking like a leaf. “Don’t be so analytical,” she said, even though she knew he was right.
“Being analytical is how I got rich. Come on; there’s nothing you can do about this right now. At least when the painting is complete, you’ll also have the murderer’s face. You probably can’t save her, but you can help in other ways.” With her firmly clamped against his side, he began easing her toward the door.
“You’re handling me, right? I hate being handled. I’m not one of those temperamental artistes who get hysterical if the least thing goes wrong.”
“I know,” he said soothingly, and smiled at the ferocious look she threw him.
He got her settled on the couch, in his lap, with the blanket wrapped around them. He wasn’t going to take his shirt off today, she thought, disappointed. Nor was he going to lie down with her. She understood; the temptation was just too great. The transfer of body heat wasn’t as efficient with their clothes on, but neither was the need as great.
He held her locked tight against him, absorbing the force of her shivering. “I didn’t think it would happen this time,” she said, with her face buried against his chest. “I was awake. I worked on the painting last night and felt fine, so why am I cold this morning?”
“Depth of involvement, maybe, or the length of time you worked.”
Trust Richard, she thought, to come up with a reasonable, logical explanation for what was innately illogical. At least he took her seriously and didn’t assume she was having panic attacks or was hysterical. He believed her, about something she herself had a difficult time believing.
She lay quietly for a time, letting his heat soak through her skin, and felt herself begin to grow drowsy as she warmed. With this to look forward to, she was beginning to think getting severe chills wasn’t such a bad thing. Remembering the time he had stripped them both down to their underwear made her breasts tighten and caused an ache deep inside. Maybe, she thought mischievously, if she put off calling him until she was really, really cold, he would do that again. Her entire body flushed as she remembered the explosion of pleasure she had experienced just rocking against him. She wanted to do that again. Often.