Color Blind (2 page)

H
old on a sec.” Kate unhooked her black lace bra, lay back onto the all-white bed, pillows, silk spread pushed aside.

“I was just getting to that.”

“The bedspread or my bra?”

“Who cares about the spread?” Richard smiled, crow’s-feet deepening at the corners of his dark blue eyes.

“I do. And I’d think you would know that after almost ten years of marriage.”

“Is this going to be a discussion?” Richard’s lips grazed one of Kate’s breasts.

Kate shivered, then sighed. “No discussion.” She slid her arms over his neck, thinking how much she loved him, perhaps even more so now than she did when they had first met and he’d courted her—Richard Rothstein the dashing bachelor lawyer, Kate McKinnon the Astoria cop. Talk about an odd couple. At least on the surface. Not so different once you stripped away Richard’s glossy facade to find the boy from Brooklyn; or added the polished veneer that Kate had worked so hard to acquire after she’d left the force, returned to her first love, art history, earned the Ph.D. that became the art book that became her very own PBS series,
Artists’ Lives
. All of it a surprise to her still.

If anyone had bothered to ask the young girl from Astoria where she’d be at forty she would never have predicted any kind of fame, certainly not riches. Exchange a row house for a penthouse? Sometimes even Kate had trouble believing it. She was lucky and she knew it. Perhaps that was why she devoted half her time to the educational foundation Let There Be a Future—the one that funded inner-city kids from grade school through college.

Saving kids. Hell, she didn’t need a psychiatrist to explain that one to her—the motherless girl from Queens. Though when she could finally afford to she’d spent some time on the couch trying to get past it, or at least understand it: her mother’s early death—a suicide—and all the guilt she’d felt, as if somehow she’d been the cause.

It was the shrink who got Kate to see that following in her father’s footsteps—becoming a cop—had more than a little to do with trying to please him and make up for his losing his wife, who, by the way, if anyone cared, happened to be
her
mother.

Just about every other man in her family—uncles, cousins—had been a cop. Kate was the first woman. And even with her making detective in two short years, getting her father’s attention and approval had proved elusive. But when they assigned her to runaways and she’d gotten the chance to save kids, it all became worth it. Back then, Detective McKinnon thought she could save everyone—but those missing teens had taken a toll.

How many times can I have my heart broken?

A question she’d put to herself, her shrink, her chief in Astoria, and later to Richard, who had promised to try and mend the many fissures and cracks when he proposed marriage and offered her a way out. And so far he’d done a pretty good job.

“Love you,” she whispered.

Richard smiled at his wife, took in her unconventional beauty—the long straight nose, expressive brows over piercing green eyes. He ran his hand through her thick dark hair that Kate had only recently begun to spend way too much money on—having the few gray strands spun into gold. A gift to herself for her forty-second birthday.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re gorgeous?”

“No. Not recently.” Kate leveled a stare at Richard.
“Get it?”

Richard painted a sheepish grin across his features. “Sorry.”

“Forgiven,” said Kate, moving her hand down Richard’s back and under the waistband of his pajamas—ones she’d bought in Florence when she was there to deliver a lecture on up-and-coming American artists at the Accademia only last month.

Richard rolled off her, pushed his pajamas down, kicked until they fell off.

Sometimes, thought Kate, observing her tall, athletic husband kicking away, he seemed like a little boy, even with his forty-fifth birthday only a week away. Maybe, she mused, as he maneuvered himself back on top of her, all men are boys, which, at the moment, was just fine with her. Kate kissed his mouth, then ran her lips lightly over his ear.

Richard moved to Kate’s neck, tongue skiing along her collarbone until reaching her breast.

Through half-closed eyes Kate took in Richard’s brown-gray curls, freckles on the tops of his shoulders. Was it only a year ago she’d come so close to losing him; to believing he had betrayed her?

The Death Artist.

An image flashed behind Kate’s eyes: Richard’s onyx-and-gold cuff link half-hidden under the edge of a Persian rug, catching a hint of light, but enough to be noticed—at the scene of a murder.

“Richard, you won’t ever lie to me again, will you?”

Richard’s shoulders sagged. “What? No. Why…now?”

“Nothing. Sorry. Never mind.”

Richard expelled a loud breath, sat up. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I—I was just…remembering,”

“We’ve been through it, haven’t we, Kate? A dozen times. I thought it was ancient history.”

“It is. Forgive me.” Kate was sorry she’d spoken, wanted to take it all back, have Richard’s hand on her thigh, tongue on her breast. “Tell you what,” she said, laying her hand on his cheek, “I promise to shut up completely if you just go back to where you left off, okay?” Her fingers flitted over the hair on his chest, then down, lightly skimming his half-erect cock, back and forth, feeling it get hard again.

“Deal,” said Richard, burying his head in her neck, adding a playful bite.

“Ow!”

“You’re not allowed to say anything, remember?”

Kate lay back, closed her eyes. But a second later another image flashed: a body on a kitchen floor—and blood everywhere.
Shit.
No way she wanted to see that. Certainly not now. She’d worked so hard to forget. But how could she? The death of a young woman who had been as close to her as any daughter she was ever going to have.

She opened her eyes, stared at the architectural detail in the ceiling, anything to banish that horrendous image. She would not see it. It was over. Finished. The Death Artist was history. She and Richard were fine. No, they were great. She clasped Richard to her.

“Honey, you’re strangling me.”

“Oh.” Kate loosened her grip. “Sorry.”

“You sure it wasn’t intentional?”

Kate laughed, lightly slapped Richard’s back. She was okay. She would not think about any of it—Richard lying to her, Elena dying—it
was
ancient history.

She let out a long breath.

“Hey, you sure you’re with me?”

“Absolutely.” Kate slipped her hand between Richard’s legs.

“Ummm…Very nice.” Richard reciprocated, one hand between Kate’s legs, the other under her ass, fingers teasing.

Kate’s turn to moan. Richard still had the touch. How could she ever have suspected him of anything?

Richard skimmed his lips across Kate’s belly, head coming to rest between her thighs, tongue beginning a slow dance.

Kate took a deep breath, all those bad images totally erased from her mind.

T
he feel of her skin, the scent, the taste of salt and oysters on his tongue, Kate’s slowly writhing body—all of it was working its voodoo on Richard.

More than a decade and there was still no woman he’d rather make love to than his wife; no fantasy needed to stay interested either. Kate was more than enough for him. His lover. His partner. His friend. Kate, the one who had helped him become not only one of the best criminal lawyers in New York, but one of the most respected.

Nowadays, Richard Rothstein had more money than he knew what to do with. So why’d he still want more? Was he making up for those humble Brooklyn origins, the feeling that no matter how well he did or how much he acquired, it could all disappear? No way he was going to let that happen. He’d do almost anything to protect his Central Park penthouse, his home in the Hamptons, his silver Mercedes coupe, his enviable collection of modern and contemporary art. Just thinking about them made him hotter, his tongue move faster.

“You’d better stop doing that,” Kate whispered. “Or it will all be over before we begin.”

Richard drew his body up along Kate’s, kissed her mouth.

Kate could taste herself in his kiss. She gasped ever so slightly as Richard slid inside her.

K
ate’s breathing was deep, regular. Richard could see she was asleep. So why wasn’t he? After sex he usually fell into a coma. He stared at slivers of moonlight winking in between the heavy bedroom curtains.

He should have had it out with Andy this afternoon. At least have discussed it, figured out what was to be done. Now it was going to keep him awake, play over and over like a song stuck on repeat.
Damn.

He glanced over at Kate, a thick lock of wavy hair falling across her cheek. He lifted it off her face with his fingertips, gently let it drop back into place.

Should he have told her? But what, exactly? No, no point in that. And really, why worry her? It wasn’t Richard’s way of doing things. Dissect the problem. Come up with a solution. Right.

A siren was wailing in the distance.

Richard pushed the blanket aside, quietly got out of bed.

In the bathroom medicine cabinet he found the vial he was looking for, shook an Ambien into his palm, broke the sleeping pill in half. Enough to give him a few hours of sleep and still make it into the office in the morning without feeling drowsy. He washed down the tiny nugget of promised dreams with a handful of water.

His reflection in the mirror looked old. Circles under his blue eyes. Lines around his mouth deeper than usual. Worry, that’s what caused it. Richard frowned, looked away.

By the time he slid his legs back under the comforter, he thought he could feel the pill taking effect. He’d talk to Andy before he took off for the Boston depositions. Everything was solvable, always had been. In Richard’s world everything would always be fine.

K
ate stretched, opened her eyes, the all-white bedroom coming into focus—paintings on the walls, pottery on handcrafted shelves, the glowing incandescent numbers on her alarm clock: 8:22.

She blinked. Could it be? She almost never slept past seven. She hadn’t even heard Richard leave.

She glanced over at his side of the bed—rumpled pillows, pajama bottoms in a heap on the floor. She plucked the pajamas up as she headed toward the bathroom. Clearly there was no way she was ever going to domesticate that man.

The aroma of Kiehl’s tea tree oil filled the shower. Kate took her time, a quiet day ahead of her: lunch with her women friends, a manicure, a quick stop at Let There Be a Future, after that, dinner with Nola, since Richard would be away.

Nola Davis.

Kate’s second chance at a surrogate daughter.

Kate had been mentoring Nola since the ninth grade, when the girl from East New York first entered Let There Be a Future. Not always a smooth road. The sleepless nights that girl had put her through! And now, with only a year to go at Barnard to finish up her B.A. in art history, Nola had gone and gotten herself pregnant. Kate had just about wanted to kill her—at first. Of course once she’d gotten over the shock she’d started interviewing baby nurses and trying to convince Nola to move into the Rothsteins’ twelve-room apartment for a few months after the baby was born. She’d been fantasizing about the room she and Richard had originally planned as a nursery finally being occupied—hanging new wallpaper, maybe painting clouds on the ceiling. But Nola wasn’t sure. She was considering a temporary move to Mount Vernon to live with her Aunt Gennine, the one who had taken care of her after her mother’s death, which was okay with Kate, she would not push—though she had to admit that the thought of a baby here, in her apartment, was thrilling.

In the bathroom, she used a couple of tortoiseshell combs to hold her hair in place, brushed mascara onto her lashes, ran gloss over her lips. She put on a simple gray cashmere sweater, charcoal slacks, and stepped into flats. She was tall enough. Almost six feet. Why add the extra inches? There was no one she needed to intimidate these days—and that was the way she liked it.

Richard’s suit jacket was slumped over the back of a bedroom chair like a bad mood.

Kate hooked her thumb under the collar. She didn’t want to leave it for Lucille. Bad enough there was a stack of dirty dishes in the sink. Lucille was their housekeeper, not their slave. Kate still had trouble letting someone take care of her, let alone wait on her.

The dark stain on Richard’s jacket lapel made it clear why he hadn’t worn it. Red wine, Kate guessed. Something for the dry cleaner’s, or the Goodwill. She’d add it to the pile of cleaning. She made a quick check of the pockets. Richard was forever leaving things in them, then complaining when an important legal document was washed, dried, and pressed beyond recognition. A few coins in a front pocket, a folded bank statement jammed into the breast.

Kate dropped the change onto Richard’s night table along with the bank statement, which had a yellow Post-it on top with the word
Andy
scribbled in red ink in Richard’s unmistakable scrawl.

Kate took it in quickly—a list of deposits, withdrawals, check numbers, dates—and was about to turn away when she noticed the two entries circled with Richard’s red ink. One for $650,000. Another for almost a million.

Numbers like that still impressed her. Always would. More than a bit of the Astoria girl who wore her cousin’s hand-me-downs still lived inside the grown-up woman, no matter how chic or secure Kate might appear.

She studied the numbers again, but they didn’t mean much to her—a bank statement, that’s all.

Kate dabbed her throat and wrists with Bal à Versailles, her mother’s scent, now hers, though it had taken her years to be able to wear it.

A quick look in the full-length mirror confirmed to her that she looked okay.