by Anne Stuart
Jilly didn’t move, a helpless voyeur at an accident site. Coltrane had a beer in one hand, paying only scant attention to Dean’s lazy anecdote, and his eyes went directly to Jilly, meeting her gaze. And then they swerved over to Rachel-Ann as she positively radiated heat.
It was even worse than Jilly had imagined. It seemed as if Dean broke off his chatter and a sudden silence filled the room, though Jilly supposed it could have been her imagination.
But she didn’t imagine the sudden tension between Rachel-Ann and Coltrane, so intense that she could practically see sparks fly. Even Roofus felt it. He lumbered to his feet, a low growl in his throat, just as Coltrane’s beer bottle smashed on the old slate floor.
Rachel-Ann was used to having that kind of effect on men. Usually she simply turned up the wattage to blistering levels, but this was different. As Jilly watched, Rachel-Ann closed in on herself, going from a peacock to a wren. She slid back on the table, ran a taming hand through her red-gold hair, and muttered, “Hi.”
Roofus was growling, Dean was petulant and Coltrane looked as if he’d been hit in the face with a shovel. Rachel-Ann often had that effect on men. What was surprising was that he didn’t have the same effect on Rachel-Ann.
Jilly forced herself to break the awkward silence. “Hush,” she said to Roofus, and the dog collapsed back beneath the table, a glowering expression on his face. “Dean, introduce Coltrane to Rachel-Ann while I go find something to clean up the broken glass.” And a moment later she escaped, no longer willing to witness the odd, charged dynamics between her family and the snake.
By the time she returned with dustpan and broom the awkward moment had passed. Rachel-Ann was laughing at something Dean had said, Coltrane had taken her seat, and most astonishing of all, he was rubbing Roofus’s huge head. Jilly paused, frozen, watching his long, clever fingers rub Roofus’s shaggy nape, and then gave herself a little mental shake.
So Roofus liked him. It was unusual but not unprecedented. Roofus occasionally liked the male of the species, though not very often. He despised both her ex-husband and her father, which seemed to indicate a fairly good judgment of character.
But not if he was lapping up Coltrane’s attentions. She started toward the broken glass, then stopped, disconcerted. It was already cleaned up, and neither of her siblings had ever lifted a finger to clean up a mess in Jilly’s memory.
Rachel-Ann looked edgy, frenetic, almost manic. “I’m going out,” she said abruptly. “Anyone want to come with me?”
Jilly assumed the invitation was for Coltrane alone, but for a moment she contemplated disrupting everything by saying yes. Except that Rachel-Ann didn’t want her sister tagging along, watching her out of anxious eyes while she sipped club soda at some of her dangerous old haunts.
Fortunately Dean forestalled her. “Coltrane and I have a long day tomorrow,” he announced. “And you look like you’ve been burning the candle at both ends, precious. Why don’t you be wise and make an early night of it yourself?”
Rachel-Ann’s smile was forced. She was positively vibrating with tension. “I thought I was looking rather good. What do you think, Coltrane?” Her voice was a sexual purr, but it sounded odd, almost forced to Jilly’s ears.
His face was completely unreadable as he looked at her, and Jilly had to admit he was good. There was nothing that egged Rachel-Ann on more than indifference. “Gorgeous,” he said lightly, his long fingers still kneading Roofus’s head.
It was the final straw for Jilly. “I’m the one who’s feeling haggard. Come on, Roofus. Bedtime.” She snapped her fingers, and for one shocking moment Roofus didn’t move. And then he lumbered to his feet, coming toward her, then glancing back at Coltrane to see if he was coming, too.
Fat chance, Jilly thought. He was still sitting at the table, seemingly relaxed, watching Rachel-Ann from beneath hooded eyes. While Dean chatted on, supremely unaware of the tension surrounding him.
And Jilly made her escape.
7
It was very late by the time Coltrane finally retired to the waterlogged room at the back of the house. He walked past Jilly’s silent room, picturing her lying in that swan bed. Most likely not wearing a diaphanous negligee like the original movie stars who’d once lived here. She probably slept in sweats. She’d be curled up in a tight little ball, her arms wrapped around her body to ward off all dangers.
Rachel-Ann’s room was next to Jilly’s, and it, too, was silent. Hers was unoccupied—she’d taken off soon after Jilly had gone to bed, and it was clear that despite her edgy flirtatiousness she didn’t want anyone going with her.
He wondered if she knew the truth that had hit him so hard.
He didn’t think so. She wouldn’t have any reason to guess, any knowledge to make that inevitable leap. She’d only known her gut instinct and run.
He shut the door behind him, turning on the dim lights. The room filled the end of the hallway, and there were windows on two sides, with a set of French doors leading out onto the balcony that ran along the back of the house. The wallpaper was a murky green, peeling in places, and the brown water streaks from the leaking roof added to the sense of being trapped underwater. He’d never been particularly fond of algae.
The bed was a mess, the box spring half collapsed. He simply pulled the mattress off and set it on the floor, shoved the old frame and box spring up against the wall, and opened the windows to the balmy night air in a vain attempt to rid the place of the musty smell. There was a private bathroom off to the left, and the toilet worked, but the sink and bathtub were supposedly beyond repair. He could share with the girls, Dean suggested. Or come down and use his palatial bathroom. And anything else he might feel like using.
Not bloody likely, Coltrane thought. So one plan was shot—he couldn’t get to Meyer through Rachel-Ann. That didn’t mean he couldn’t come up with an alternative that was equally pleasing and didn’t involve cozying up to Dean. If he couldn’t sleep with Rachel-Ann and bring her father down that way, then there was another sister in the house, one who was already clearly susceptible to him, whether she wanted to admit it or not. He wasn’t about to waste his time trying to develop a conscience.
He leaned against the wall, looking at the room. The carpeting had been torn up, and the floors were marble, cracked and stained, but marble nonetheless. Cold as hell in the morning, but at least the mattress would have good support. Most of his clothes had suffered smoke damage, but it hadn’t been difficult to arrange for replacements, and by the time they’d arrived he’d at least managed to fumigate the closet. He wasn’t crazy about the smell of mildew, either.
It had been a simple matter, setting his apartment on fire. But then, he had a talent for a number of unusual things. He’d long ago scoped out where the fire hazards were, who the secretive smokers were. In L.A. it was more socially acceptable to beat your wife than to smoke cigarettes, and even in the privacy of their own apartments his neighbors went out of the way to hide their secret vice, making accidental fires almost inevitable. It had been arranged easily enough, and as far as anyone knew he’d been at work when the flames broke out. There was no way it could ever be traced to him. Then it had been only a matter of a carefully orchestrated suggestion and he’d ended up ensconced in La Casa.
With a different victim, he reminded himself. Rachel-Ann Meyer was off-limits. He only hoped she’d listen to her instincts and keep away from him. He really didn’t want her coming on to him. This situation had suddenly gotten very tricky, and that was one complication he wasn’t going to deal with.
No sheets, no towels, and he hadn’t thought to bring any. He was in shirtsleeves, and he pulled his shirt free, unbuttoning it to hang loose, kicking off his shoes so he could move silently through the house. He should leave Jilly alone, but he was restless, ready to move, and Jilly had become his obvious target. She wouldn’t want him showing up at her door shirtless, but this was the next best thing. She was reluctantly fascinated by him, and he had every intention of exploiti
ng that fascination right into her bed. Maybe even tonight. He was in that kind of mood.
Not that he really had any particular reason to seduce her. Getting to Rachel-Ann had made sense, since she was the only one Jackson Meyer cared about. He didn’t need to sleep with Jilly Meyer to gain entrance into the house—he was already safely ensconced. Her father wouldn’t give a damn whether he was screwing her or not—Jackson had already given him his blessing—and he was reasonably certain she didn’t know a thing about her father’s business affairs or the dark secrets of his past. She’d taken a step away from the old bastard, unlike her siblings, and there was very little to gain from sleeping with her.
Well, maybe he wasn’t going to do it for gain. Maybe he’d do it simply because he wanted to. Because she looked at him with those huge eyes of hers, curled her lip in anxious contempt, and kept as far away from him as she could. He found that wariness oddly irresistible.
Besides, if he was sleeping with Jilly, maybe her brother and sister would consider him off-limits. It was probably a vain hope—Alan Dunbar had been getting payoffs from Meyer for months to cover up some of Rachel-Ann’s more extreme behavior, and a lot of it stemmed from back when he was still married to Jilly. Apparently Rachel-Ann wasn’t too conversant with the aspects of monogamy and loyalty, at least when she was drinking.
Still, it might slow her down a little. And it would give him an excuse to keep his distance from both Dean and his older sister, one that wouldn’t offend their pride. Though if history had it right and Rachel-Ann started drinking again she’d probably suggest a threesome. And not have any problem with his real objections.
Most of the hall lights were either burned out or broken. He knocked on Jilly’s door in the shadowed hallway, grinning to himself as he heard the muffled growl of her huge dog. Of everyone in this motley household, he’d decided he liked Roofus the best. Roofus accepted things at face value, and he accepted the snake in their midst. Coltrane heard the clicking of his nails on the floor, and the growl turned into a kind of whine once he realized who was on the other side of the door. All it had taken was knowing the right place to scratch and Roofus had been his.
He wondered if Jilly was going to be as easy to manipulate. If she’d let him get close enough to find the place that itched.
He knocked again, and Roofus whined miserably, scratching at the door. He heard the rustle of bedclothes, and he could picture her, rumpled and grumpy, staggering toward the door, ready to blister him with a few well-chosen words.
She opened the door a crack, peering out at him, and her thick brown hair hung down around her face, making her look surprisingly childish. She wasn’t wearing sweats. In the shadows behind the narrow crack of the door he could see her long legs and not much else, but they weren’t covered with sweatpants.
“Go away, Coltrane,” she mumbled in a sleepy voice.
He knew the sentiment came from the heart, but he wasn’t giving up that easily. “You don’t have any extra sheets and towels hanging around this place, do you? That old mattress has seen better days.”
“Fastidious, aren’t you?” She was waking up, against her will, he suspected. “I warned you this wasn’t the Beverly Hilton. Stay there and I’ll find you something.” She started to close the door in his face, but Roofus proved the invaluable friend Coltrane had known he’d be. He pushed through the door to greet Coltrane with slobbery affection, leaving Jilly standing there in a tank top and boxers and nothing else.
He squatted down, busying himself with Roofus, with the express purpose of staring at Jilly’s endless legs. “I don’t know why he likes you,” Jilly said irritably. “He’s usually an excellent judge of character.”
He looked up, past her long, long legs, and laughed. “Maybe he’s a better judge of character than you are, darlin’,” he said lazily. “I’d trust a dog over most humans.”
Bingo. She looked startled, as if considering an unexpected possibility. “So would I,” she said, staring at him. And then she shook her head. “But even dogs can make mistakes.”
“So can stubborn young women.” He was astonished at how long her hair was. It reached her elbows, a thick mane of chestnut waves. He wondered what it would feel like, flowing around him. He intended to find out. Soon.
“Sheets?” he reminded her. Not that he wasn’t enjoying himself thoroughly, watching her, but there was no way in hell she was going to let him get any closer. Not so fast.
“Yeah,” she said in a tone of resignation. She glanced back into her shadowed room, hesitating.
“Did I come at a bad time?” He rose, keeping one hand on Roofus’s head, scratching absently. “I didn’t realize you weren’t alone.”
“I’m alone, damn it,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Well, you don’t need to be so irritable about it. I’m more than willing to keep you company.”
“When there’s snow in L.A.,” she said grimly. “I was wondering if I had a bathrobe.”
“I’ll control myself and not leap on you. You’re wearing more than you wear on the beach. Just find me a sheet and I won’t bother you again.”
“Promises, promises,” she muttered, pushing past him and starting down the hall in the direction of his bedroom. Roofus immediately bounded after her, and Coltrane allowed himself a fond moment of speculation. Maybe she’d make the bed and then lie down on it for him. It had been known to happen that easily.
But not with someone like Jilly Meyer. He was going to have to work for her, and he had nothing in particular to gain from it. If he had any sense he’d look for sex on the side, away from this decaying household. But he liked living dangerously. And God, he loved the thought of those long legs wrapped around him and all that hair beneath them.
She’d disappeared through a door he hadn’t noticed before, and a moment later came out with a pile of sheets and towels on her arms. “I only have one bed, Jilly,” he said in his most reasonable tone of voice when she thrust the load into his arms.
“Everything in this place is falling apart. Some of those bed linens date back to the forties and fifties—you’ll be lucky if they don’t shred in your hands.”
“What do you use on your bed?”
“Three hundred count Egyptian cotton, and I’m not sharing,” she snapped. “You can go buy your own if these won’t do. Not that I expect you’ll be staying very long, but you’ll probably need new sheets when you get back into your apartment.”
He simply smiled at her, not bothering to correct her. By the time he was ready to leave he’d be going far away, and he wasn’t going to bother with transporting bed linens.
“Come on, Roofus,” she said, snapping her fingers. The dog looked up at him longingly, then swung his huge head back toward Jilly, clearly torn.
“He’s having a hard time choosing between us,” Coltrane murmured, resisting the impulse to suggest the obvious solution.
“Traitor,” Jilly said darkly. “Roofus!”
In the end she won, and who could blame the dog? He suspected that all Jilly had to do was snap her fingers and he’d trot after her, as well, if it meant he could sleep with her.
He half expected her to slam the door behind her, but she closed it quietly, and there was no sound of locks clicking. Maybe the locks didn’t work. Or maybe she wasn’t sure she wanted to keep him out.
His room looked murkier than ever. He had a hell of a time wrapping a flat sheet around the thin mattress—Jilly was right. Most of them were so fragile they simply ripped in his hands. By the time he’d managed to cover the mattress he’d stripped to his shorts and stretched out on the thin, hard surface. No pillow, but he could do without. He’d slept in worse places in his life. Besides, he kind of liked the decaying grandeur of La Casa de Sombras. The House of Shadows.
He stretched out on his back, tucking his hands beneath his head. There was that faint, teasing scent on the air, overriding the mildew and mustiness. The warm breeze blowing through the French doors must have carried it i
n, though he’d been aware of it on a number of occasions. So few people smoked nowadays that the scent of tobacco was unmistakable. None of the Meyers smoked, at least not openly, and the odd scent of tobacco wasn’t the lingering odor that clung to clothes. It was fresh, quite pleasant, actually. Different from the cigarette tobacco people used nowadays. Not cigar smoke, certainly a far cry from the acrid sweetness of marijuana. It had to be something very old, still lingering from the house’s heyday in the thirties and forties, when everyone smoked.
Odd, but the smoke smelled fresh, as if someone were in the room.
“Ghosts,” he muttered out loud, just to hear the sound of his voice in the stillness. He waited, half expecting an answer from the darkness. He didn’t believe in ghosts, but he never ruled out any possibility.
“Well,” he said lazily into the darkness, “if you’re still haunting this place then you’re not doing a very good job of it. Why don’t you just move on to the next level or whatever it is you’re supposed to do?”
No answer, of course. He chuckled to himself. “I might be inclined to believe you if you’d do more than just smell like cigarettes. I’m in the mood for an apparition, if you feel like obliging.”
Nothing, of course. He rolled over onto his stomach, burying his face in the thin mattress. He would have taken any kind of distraction right then, anything to take his mind off Jackson Meyer’s two dissimilar daughters. Jilly, tall and luscious and truculent and desirable, with her wary brown eyes and her rich mouth.
And Rachel-Ann. Who looked at him with his mother’s green eyes, from his mother’s face. Rachel-Ann, the sister he never knew he had.
