Divine Evil

guess I didn't see much of anything last night. I just got the impression of this house on a hill.”
    Then he'd tossed her over his shoulder, making her laugh as he hauled her inside, upstairs, and into his bed.
    “When I came back, I decided I wanted a place where I could get away from town. I think part of Parker's problem was that he lived in that apartment over the liquor store and never got away from it.”
    “A badge hangs heavy on a man,” Clare said somberly and earned a twisted ear. “You said something about food.”
    “I usually eat at Martha's on Saturday mornings.” He checked his watch. “And I'm running behind. We could probably scare up something here.”
    It sounded much better to Clare. The gossip mills would start turning-there was no way to stop them. But for a morning, at least, they could be held at bay.
    “Do I get a tour?”
    So far all she'd seen had been the bedroom with his big platform bed, the random-width wooden floor, and ceiling. And the bathroom, she thought. The deep tiled bath with jets, the roomy glass-and-tile shower. She'd been pleased with his taste so far, the fact that he wasn't afraid to use color, but she wanted to see the rest.
    Despite the events of the last twelve hours, she knew that man did not live by bed alone.
    He took her hand and led her out.
    “There are a couple of other bedrooms up here.”
    “Three bedrooms?” She cocked a brow. “Planning ahead?”
    “You could say that.”
    He let her poke through the second floor, watching her nod and comment. She approved the skylights and the hardwood floors, the big windows and atrium doors that led to the wraparound deck.
    “You're awfully neat,” she said as they started down.
    “One person doesn't make very much mess.”
    She could only laugh and kiss him.
    At the base of the steps, she stopped to take in the living area with its lofty ceilings, beams of sunlight, and Indian rugs. One wall was fashioned from river rock with a generous fireplace carved into it. The sofa was low and cushy, perfect for napping.
    “Well, this is-” She stepped off the stairs, turned, and saw the sculpture. He had it set beside the open stairwell, positioned so that the sun would stream through the skylight above and pour onto it. So that anyone walking in the front door or standing in the living room would see it.
    It was almost four feet high, a curving twist of brass and copper. It was an unmistakably sensual piece-a woman's form, tall, slender, naked. Her arms were lifted high, her copper hair streaming back. Clare had called it
Womanhood
and had sought to reproduce all the power, the wonder, and the magic.
    At first she was flustered at finding one of her pieces in his home. Her hands fumbled into her pockets.
    “I, ah-you said you thought I painted.”
    “I lied.” He smiled at her. “It was fun getting you riled up and insulted.”
    She only frowned at that. “I guess you've had it for some time.”
    “A couple of years.” He tucked her hair behind her ear.
    “I went into this gallery in D.C. They had some of your work, and I ended up walking out with this.”
    “Why?”
    She was uncomfortable, he noted. Embarrassed. He slid his hand from her hair to cup her chin. “I didn't intend to buy it and could hardly afford to at that point. But I looked at it and knew it was mine. Just the way I walked into your garage last night and looked at you.”
    She moved back a little too quickly. “I'm not a piece of sculpture, Cam.”
    “No, you're not.” Narrowing his eyes, he studied her. “You're upset because I saw this and recognized you. Because I understood you. You'd rather I didn't.”
    “I have a psychiatrist on call if I want analysis, thanks.”
    “You can get pissed off, Clare. It doesn't change anything.”
    “I'm not pissed off,” she said between her teeth.
    “Sure you are. We can stand here and yell at each other, I can haul your ass back upstairs to bed, or we can go in the kitchen and have coffee. I'll leave it to you.”
    It was a moment before she could close her mouth and speak. “Why, you arrogant sonofabitch.”
    “Looks like we yell.”
    “I'm not yelling,” she shouted at him. “But I will make a point. You don't haul my ass anywhere. Understood, Rafferty? If I go to bed with you, it's my own choice. Maybe it's bypassed your snug little world, but we're into the nineties here. I don't need to be seduced, cajoled, or forced. Between responsible, unencumbered adults, sex is a matter