Kai paid his bill and left the waitress with both a good tip and a slow, wicked smile that did more for her self-esteem than a good haircut. Then he crossed the street and walked around the block until he could see the big corner windows of Sweeney’s studio. The lights came on in there, but the angle was too acute for him to see what she was doing. Then the lights went out again; she wasn’t working on the painting. That was good.
It was still too early for her to go to bed, but he decided to get back into the building while he could. He had to wait about twenty minutes before a young couple entered the building, and he caught the door before it could close. The super glanced around when he heard the buzzer, but saw the young couple, and turned back to his television without seeing Kai.
Everything went smooth as silk. He went up to the roof and sat patiently, watching the lights and the traffic, listening to the car horns honking and the sirens blaring, distant voices carrying up to him. The city was never silent, never still. He loved the energy of it. The longer he waited, the less likely he was to run into trouble. People would be sleeping in their beds, peaceful and secure, and if anyone happened to wake up when he lowered the sections of fire escape ladders between the floors, so he could work his way down to the street, they would get to the window too late to see him.
They would sure as hell be too late to help Sweeney.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sweeney was so tired she could barely think, but a hot shower revived her enough that she was able to concentrate on feeding herself. After hot soup and half a peanut butter sandwich, she felt almost human—almost. Only the fact that she was waiting for Richard to return kept her awake. She thought about relaxing on the couch until he arrived, but knew if she did she would be down for the count and might not even hear the doorbell.
She wandered into the studio, not bothering to turn on any lights. With the huge windows, enough light from streetlights, neon signs, and other buildings poured into the room to make it easy to negotiate the clutter. She strolled around the room, pausing before some canvases, touching others, like a mother putting her children to bed at night. She stopped in front of the painting of Candra, positioned on an easel, and stared at it for a long time. She tried to get a sense of the killer; what had he been thinking, standing over Candra like that? What kind of man was he, to gloat over a woman’s violent death?
She had intuitively known other things about the painting, such as how the shoes should look, but she felt as if she were hitting a brick wall when she tried to grasp the essence of the killer. Something was there, on the other side of the wall, but she couldn’t reach it.
Perhaps she would never finish the painting, she thought. Perhaps she could trance-paint only those people she knew, whose images were already in her memory bank. If the killer was a stranger, he might forever remain so.
Richard returned in little more than an hour. He dropped a small bag on the floor and turned to lock the door. Sweeney stood motionless, staring at him. He had changed from his suit into jeans and a black T-shirt, and Sweeney instantly forgot about being tired as she took in every detail. This was how she had always seen him in her mind’s eye, without the disguise of an expensive suit. The short tight sleeves clung to his muscled arms, his jaw was shadowed with beard stubble, and he was the toughest, sexiest-looking man she had ever seen.
“That’s it,” she muttered, a little distracted as she framed the sketch in her mind. “I need to paint you just like this.”
She looked around as if searching for her sketch pad. She had actually taken two steps toward the studio when he hooked an arm around her from behind and lifted her off her feet, drawing her back against him. “Not tonight, sweetie. It’s bedtime for you.” He began carrying her toward the bedroom.
Maybe it was because his mouth was so close to her ear. Maybe something finally clicked in her brain. She twisted her head to stare up at him. “You called me ‘sweetie,’” she accused.
He lifted his eyebrows. “Of course. What did you think I was calling you?”
“My name. Sweeney.”
He planted a quick kiss on her sulky mouth. “I told you, I refuse to call the woman I’m sleeping with by her last name. That goes double for the woman I love. If you don’t like ‘sweetie,’ we’ll think of something else.”
He said it so smoothly, and she was so tired, that it almost slipped by. “I guess ‘sweetie’ is okay,” she began to mumble, then went rigid in his arms. He almost dropped her. He stopped, set her down, then turned her so she was facing him and wrapped both arms around her, lifting her again.
She put her hands on his shoulders to brace herself. “Did you say you love me, or was that just something to throw into the conversation?”
“No, I definitely said it.”
This was a defining moment in her life. After thirty-one years of living she had finally fallen in love, and not with any ordinary guy. No, she had fallen head over heels for a tough, sexy rich guy, and he had just told her he loved her. No one else in her life had ever said those words to her. She felt as if they should be doing something romantic and dramatic, like drinking champagne and shooting off fireworks, to mark the moment.
“Oh,” she said, and blinked sleepily at him. “I love you, too.”
“I know,” he said, and gently kissed her. He set her on her feet beside the bed and undressed her as if she were a child. She wished she had a sexy nightgown to put on for him, but all she owned was flannel pajamas. With him in bed beside her, she wouldn’t need the pajamas to keep her warm.