Divine Evil

of free choice.”
    “That's fine.” He took her by the shirtfront and yanked her against him. Temper glittered in his eyes. “But what happened between you and me was more than sex. You're going to have to admit that.”
    “I don't have to do anything.” She braced herself when he lowered his head. She was expecting a hard, angry kiss, one ripe with frustration and demand. Instead, his mouth was whisper soft. The sudden and surprising tenderness left her reeling.
    “Feel anything, Slim?”
    Her eyes were too heavy to open. “Yes.”
    He brushed her mouth with his again. “Scared?”
    She nodded, then sighed as he lowered his brow to hers.
    “That makes two of us. Are you finished yelling?”
    “I guess so.”
    He slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Let's get that coffee.”
    When he dropped her off an hour later, Clare's phone was ringing. She considered ignoring it and diving right back to work while her emotions were still heightened. But as it continued to shrill, she gave up and pulled the receiver from the kitchen hook.
    “Hello.”
    “Jesus Christ, Clare.” Angie's aggrieved voice stung Clare's ears. “Where have you been? I've been trying to get through to you since yesterday.”
    “I've been busy.” Clare reached into a bag of cookies. “Working, and things.”
    “Do you realize that if I hadn't gotten in touch with you by noon, I was going to start down there?”
    “Angie, I told you I'm fine. Nothing ever happens here.” She thought of Biff Stokey. “Hardly ever. You know I rarely answer the phone when I'm working.”
    “And you were working at three this morning?”
    She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “I was certainly busy at three this morning. What's going on?”
    “I've got news for you, girl. Big news.” Clare put down the cookie and reached for a cigarette. “How big?”
    “Major. The Betadyne Institute in Chicago is building a new wing to be dedicated to women in the arts. They want to acquire three of your pieces for permanent display. And,” she added as Clare let out a whistling breath, “there's more.”
    “More?”
    “They want to commission you to create a sculpture that will stand outside the building to celebrate women's contribution to art.”
    “I'm going to sit down now.”
    “They expect the new addition to be completed in twelve to eighteen months. They'd like some sketches from you before September, and naturally they want you at the opening for press and photo opportunities. Jean-Paul and I will fill you in on all the details when we get there.”
    “Get there?”
    “We're coming down.” Angie let out a quick sigh. “I'd hoped you would come back up here to work, but Jean-Paul feels we ought to wait until we see what you've been up to.”
    Clare put a hand to her head. “Angie, I'm trying to take all this in.”
    “Just chill some champagne, Clare. We'll be there Monday afternoon. Is there anything we should bring besides contracts and blueprints?”
    “Beds,” Clare said weakly.
    “What?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Good. Jean-Paul will call you for directions tomorrow. Congratulations, girl.”
    “Thanks.” Clare hung up, then scrubbed her hands over her face. This was the next step, she thought, the step she'd been working for, the step Angie had been pushing her toward. She only wished she could be sure she was ready.
    She worked through the morning and late into the afternoon. When her hands began to cramp, she stopped. It was just as well, she thought. She needed to go shopping, for beds, sheets, towels. All the little niceties guests might expect. She could swing through town, and with luck, Cam would be able to go with her.
    Wouldn't that prove she wasn't afraid of where their relationship was heading?
    Sure. And burying herself in work all day proved that she wasn't afraid of being offered the biggest commission of her career.
    She started upstairs to change and found herself climbing the attic steps again. The door was open, as she'd left it. She hadn't been able to lock it again, to lock the memories away again. Instead, she stood in the doorway and let herself go back. Back to when her father had kept his big ugly desk piled with papers and pictures and gardening books. There had been a cork bulletin board covered with photos of houses and newspaper listings, phone numbers of plumbers and roofers, carpenters and electricians. Jack Kimball had always tried to nudge work along to friends and townspeople.
    He'd had an