She’d demanded opulent, and the decorator delivered with miles of fabric, acres of glittering crystals, including the seven-tiered chandelier imported from Italy.

Under its light she could—and did—lie in a bed draped in gold silk to admire the ceiling mural. Images of Charlotte as Eve, as Juliet, as Lady Godiva, as queens and goddesses gazed down to wish her pleasant dreams.

She had it all to herself now that Conrad occupied his own suite. The poor old thing had sleep apnea, required that awful mask at night. Poor ancient thing, she corrected.

Sleep apnea, two heart attacks, a bout of pneumonia over the winter, prostate issues, skin cancer that had required surgery and reconstruction of his left ear.

And he just kept ticking.

When would he just die, quietly, painlessly, of course, and free her to take a decent lover? The prenup—ironclad—left her nothing if she had even a tiny, little affair.

Which hadn’t been a problem, or not much of one, up until the last few years. No, ancient Conrad could barely get it up now, and sure as hell couldn’t keep it up.

She’d never expected him to live this long. Surely not long enough he had to use a cane to walk across the damn room, not so long his body went from robust to flabby, and she had to at least pretend to care about the pharmacy of drugs he needed to stay alive.

But at least she didn’t have to pretend to want sex with him anymore. And he was sweetly grateful she “understood” he wasn’t capable any longer—and remained his loving, devoted wife.

All the money in the world, and she couldn’t afford to get a decent lay.

That wasn’t the worst of it, oh, no, not nearly.

Having the cops come to her door—that trumped all. She hadn’t spoken to them, of course. And damn well wouldn’t. Her lawyers crafted a statement, her lawyers handled the idiotic police.

Imagine wanting to question her about murders and attacks that had nothing to do with her. About people she didn’t give one good damn about.

Good riddance to that asshole Denby. And so what about Scarpetti, who hadn’t been smart enough to keep her out of prison? Her only regret about that bastard hick cop? He hadn’t plunged to his death. She hoped whoever had arranged it tried again, and did a better job.

And Grant? She wished he’d died choking on his own blood!

She paused to draw a finger down the gold silk drapes her maid had already pulled for the night.

No, she didn’t. Not really. She still had a little, tiny soft spot for Grant Sparks.

She wondered if he’d kept that body in prison, if he’d kept his looks.

He’d be out in a couple of years, and if Conrad finally died, she might just have him brought to her. She’d even pay him to bang her brains out.

Just thinking about it, about the sex she’d had with him, made her hot and itchy.

She’d have the maid come back, draw her a bath, lots of oils. And she’d take care of the itch herself.

She paused to study herself in one of her dressing room mirrors. Thanks to implants, her hair remained lush and full. Regular tuneups kept her face taut, smooth.

Admiring herself, she undressed, turned naked this way and that. Breasts full and high, ass high and tight. Implants and tucks worked wonders. She smoothed a hand over her belly—flat thanks to her last tummy tuck.

Smooth thighs, no wagging under the arms. The wonders of modern medicine—and the money to afford it, she thought with a slow smile.

She wouldn’t have to pay Grant Sparks or anyone to get into her bed. To her eyes, she barely looked thirty-five, and with a perfect body. No one looking at her would believe she had a daughter over . . . how old was the bitch again? Who could remember? But no one would believe she had an adult daughter.

Maybe time to remind them, she considered as she reached for a white satin robe. Squeeze a little more juice out of that lemon. She’d get her publicist on that in the morning, but now, she wanted that bath, that self-release.

Then she’d take a pill, call it an early night.

She had a photo shoot the next day, had to look her best while she did the spread. Then a dinner party after where she could complain about exhausting herself for her art.

Really a perfect day, she decided as she rang for the maid.

The only thing that could make it better would be if poor old Conrad died in his sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Relationships, Cate discovered, could offer a steady, satisfying kind of routine. Because she barely surfaced, if at all, when Dillon left each morning, she woke alone, took her time clearing her brain with coffee and the view.

Depending on her workload, she might put in an hour in the studio before walking up to the main house to nag her grandfather into the gym.

Better, as June hinted at summer, she nagged him into the pool.

She’d researched water aerobics.

“Swimming’s supposed to be relaxing.”

“It will be, when you finish those squats and biceps curls.”

Standing in the shallow end, she did them with him.

“Whoever invented pool weights deserves to be shot.” Sunlight beamed off his sunglasses as he curled the bright blue weights up through the water. “Then run over by a train. Then shot again.”

“Consuela’s making a frittata for breakfast.” She squatted, curled, admitted a secret desire for that bullet and train. “But you have to earn it. Fagfaimid! Two more, Sullivan!”

“Now she throws Irish at me. I love my granddaughter, but my personal trainer’s a pain in the ass.”

“One more, and . . . done.”

She laughed when he sank, Ray-Bans, sun hat, and all, under the water.

“Let’s stretch it out,” she said when he surfaced. “You’re getting shredded there, Handsome Hugh.”

He gripped the side, did the calf stretches, the hamstring, the quads. “A man my age should be allowed to get creaky and flabby.”

“Not when he’s my grandpa.”

“Are you going to nag Lily into all this when she gets back next week?”

“That’s the plan.”

Hugh took off his hat, wrung it out, plopped it back on. “Might be worth it then.”

Smiling, she pushed off to do a lazy reward lap, to float, to bask.

“Since Dad’s due back from London soon, he’ll come up for a while, and I’ll get him in on this, too. We can work out a synchronized routine. Take that show on the road.”

“The Swimming Sullivans.”

On another laugh, she did a surface dive, skimmed along the bottom and to the ladder. Pulling herself out, she toweled off while watching boats ply the sea.

“Look.” She pointed. “It’s a blue whale. The first I’ve seen this season.”

He stepped beside her in time to see the tail flip up, disappear.

“I remember watching whales sound from here when I was younger than you. And still, it never fails to pull me in. When my mother decided to move to Ireland, she asked which I wanted. The house here or in Beverly Hills.

“It was always this one. Always. Even when weeks, even months passed until I could be here and hope to see a whale sound, it was always this one.”

“We’re lucky, Grandpa, in our ancestors.”

“That we are.”

She hooked the towel on before dragging her hair back with her hands. “One problem with the location? Stylist. When Lily gets back, we’re going to join forces and get Gino up here for hair. He’d come to Big Sur for Lily.”