Light shone through the fantail window above the door. She stared at the window, wondering if he was at home or if the light was on to make people think someone was there.
This was a bad idea. If he was home, surely there were other people with him. Friends would be offering their condolences—or perhaps not, considering the circumstances. But they would definitely be trying to get all the gory details, hot gossip they could share over coffee with other friends the next day.
She wouldn’t have to go in. Just ring the doorbell, tell him . . . tell him something inane, such as she was thinking about him, or offer her sympathy, something like that. Maybe he had staff and didn’t answer the door himself. In that case, she would leave a message. He would know she had been there, and that was the important thing.
She climbed the steps and punched the doorbell, then stuffed her hands back in her pockets, standing with her head down and the night breeze ruffling her hair while she waited for the door to open.
It was jerked open so abruptly she jumped, startled.
Richard loomed over her, glaring. “Where in hell have you been?” he barked.
She blinked. “Walking.”
“Walking,” he repeated in disbelief. “From your apartment?”
“Yeah. I just took a walk and . . . ended up here.”
He stared down at her, his face expressionless but his dark eyes glittering with some unreadable emotion. “Come in,” he said, stepping back so she could pass by him, and after a slight hesitation, she did.
* * *
Sitting in his car thirty yards down the block, Detective Aquino raised his eyebrows, and made note of the woman’s time of arrival. No particular reason why, he thought, just a cop’s general nosiness.
They hadn’t touched, but there had been that indefinable air of connection between them. So Worth had himself a honey; there was no law against it. In fact, after being separated for a year, the man would have had to be a damn saint not to have a lady friend.
What puzzled Aquino was why, in answering all the questions they had asked that day, not once had another woman’s name been mentioned. Worth was a private man—Aquino had gathered that much—but when the issue came up, he had, reluctantly, told them about his wife’s abortion. Having a lady friend was a lot less sensitive than that information. In fact, being involved with another woman would have been another point in his favor, making him even less likely to care what his estranged wife did.
But Worth hadn’t mentioned his friend, and Aquino found that interesting.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The foyer floor was some kind of dark gray tile, covered by a thick rug in the richest colors Sweeney had ever seen. She would have paused there, but Richard held out his hand, indicating she should precede him, and uncomfortably she did so. His expression was at its most stony, as if he didn’t want her there but was too polite to say so. She jammed her hands deeper into her jacket pockets, feeling like an interloper.
She had felt like an interloper the other time she had been here, too. Of course, then she had been under the strain of trying to socialize—briefly—but she wasn’t any more comfortable this time. Luxury made her nervous. As a child, she had always been the one who spilled the Kool-Aid on the irreplaceable lace tablecloth, or inadvertently smeared paint on a silk blouse, or stepped on a dropped ink pen and cracked it so the ink ran all over a gazillion-dollar rug. Her mother had always put on that dramatic tone of voice and said the world would be safer if she could only keep Paris in a cage, and then she always profusely apologized for the child’s clumsiness. For a while Sweeney had been terrified her mother really would put her in a cage.
She had gotten over that fear, but the fact was she actually had been that accident prone. There was something about expensive stuff that brought out the klutz in her. She walked in the middle of the foyer, staying well away from that beautiful lamp.
The spacious living room was on the right. She went there, with Richard walking silently behind her. She had a vague sense of being herded. She shouldn’t be here; not only was she out of place, but now certainly wasn’t the time. She had presumed too much on their relationship, which was far too new and unformed for her to presume anything.
Despite her unease, Sweeney was, as always, aware of colors, and she immediately noticed that the room was different. Candra had liked a lot of neutral, light tones; everything now was more colorful, more substantial. Nothing looked any cheaper than what it had replaced.
She stood in the middle of the room, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. “Sit down,” Richard said.
“I can’t stay.” Damn, she hadn’t gotten any better at social lies. She could hear the bright falseness of her own tone. “I know I shouldn’t be here. This is a private time and I’m intruding—”
“Sit down,” he said again, only this time the words sounded as if he growled them.
She chose a big leather wing chair and perched on the edge of the cushion. There was some sort of statuette on the table next to the chair. She put both hands between her knees so she wouldn’t accidently knock the thing over.
She didn’t like feeling uncomfortable with Richard. She was totally at ease with him in her own apartment, or on neutral territory. Here, for the first time, she was painfully aware of the huge financial gap between them. She had never seen anything snobbish about him, so the distinction had to be within herself, and reverse snobbery was as irrational as the other.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I don’t like the expression on your face.” At least this time his tone was wry, instead of a growl. He was still standing, looking down at her with an unreadable expression.