Shadows at Sunset

by Anne Stuart

  “Then stay out of the ER and you don’t have to see me at work.”

  Not good enough. “Shouldn’t a doctor have more sense than to sleep with a stranger who has a history of drug and alcohol abuse? Ever hear of AIDS? HIV?”

  “You brought condoms. And what makes you think I’m safe?”

  “Are you?” And would she leave if he said no?

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me?”

  “Stop arguing with me, chica,” he said softly. “If you’re sick I’ll take care of you. But I don’t think you are. You wouldn’t have come home with me. You like to think you’re so bad and cruel, but you wouldn’t go around picking up strange men and making them sick.”

  “I don’t know why you think you know me so well,” Rachel-Ann said bitterly.

  “Because I do. Come here.” She felt his hands on her, pulling her against him, his hand cupping her head, and without thinking she let him tuck it beneath his chin. He was naked, as she expected him to be, and he was hard. She waited for him to do more. To reach down and push the rest of her clothes off. To kiss her mouth, hard, to make her touch him.

  But he didn’t. He seemed perfectly content to hold her. “You may as well relax, Rachel-Ann,” he whispered in her ear. “We’re not going to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “And if I don’t want to do anything but lie here?”

  “Then that’s fine, too.”

  “That’s not what your body is saying.”

  “No,” he agreed. “But my body doesn’t rule me. Here.” He turned her around, so that she was cuddled against him, spoonlike, his arms hard and secure around her, holding her, demanding nothing. “Stop shivering. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She was so cold, he was so hot, and all she wanted to do was lie in his arms and weep. She wouldn’t do that. She stared sightlessly at the wall of books, trying to absorb the heat from his body, the strength, and slowly, imperceptibly, the tension began to drain from her body. “So many books,” she murmured sleepily.

  “So many books,” he agreed. “Go to sleep, angel.”

  “Not an angel,” she whispered. “Don’t want to sleep.”

  “Yes, you do. You’re tired of fighting. I’ll keep you safe.”

  “What makes you think you know what I want? What makes you think you know anything at all about me?” She could see the gilt outline of picture frames up on the bookcases, tipped facedown. Strange, she thought sleepily.

  “I know you. Trust me and sleep.”

  “No,” she said. And slept, safe in his arms.

  12

  Rachel-Ann hadn’t come home. Jilly lay facedown on her bed, wide-awake, listening. No sound of the omnipresent Weather Channel filtering through the walls, no footsteps racing up the front stairs in a panic. Rachel-Ann had been gone by the time Jilly got home, and she hadn’t returned.

  The fact that Coltrane was missing, as well, shouldn’t have been a problem. Any day spent without having to face him was a blessing, particularly after last night. Why in God’s name had she let him kiss her? Why in God’s name had he done it? He had to have some ulterior motive—there was no way he was simply swept away by passion. He’d backed her up against the wall and kissed her, and what was far, far worse was that she’d kissed him back. If Rachel-Ann hadn’t interrupted them she would have taken him into this bed, and then she’d have no haven left.

  No, if it hadn’t been Rachel-Ann then it would have been something else. She’d watched her sister and brother fill their lives with self-destructive mistakes. Alan was a big enough one to last her a lifetime—she wasn’t going to make a habit of sleeping with good-looking, heartless men who didn’t even want her. Who wanted her sister.

  She rolled over onto her back. She couldn’t remember being jealous before. Not that she was jealous now—there was certainly nothing to be jealous of. When she found out that Rachel-Ann had been sleeping with Alan it had filled her with both rage and relief. Rage that Alan would betray her. Relief that she didn’t have to pretend any longer.

  She’d never felt anger toward Rachel-Ann. Her sister harmed herself more than anyone else, and Alan had been a mistake from the very beginning, a delusion at best. Jilly should have known when the worry of leaving La Casa had been more overwhelming than her excitement of a marriage that it hadn’t been a match made in heaven. And Alan had never been that exciting.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about sex, and it was all Coltrane’s fault. She’d never been prey to her hormones—she used to think Rachel-Ann had been overloaded with sexuality and she’d been short-changed. She’d had her share of crushes as a girl, dates as a teenager. She’d slept with the ones she thought she’d loved, the ones she should have wanted to sleep with. And none of it had ever made much of a difference except in her self-esteem.

  At one point she’d even pondered whether she was gay. It was an entirely acceptable life-style, and it probably would have made Dean happy to know his sister chose it. But for some reason she couldn’t summon up even stray lustful feelings for another woman. Even if she preferred women socially, they just didn’t appeal to her as sex objects.

  Neither did most men, leading her to the logical conclusion that maybe she was, if not frigid, perhaps a bit lukewarm. She and Alan certainly hadn’t caused any major conflagrations—she’d known all the right moves, made all the right noises, but what had started out as mildly pleasant soon turned into a chore.

  Which was why she hadn’t been involved with anyone in the three years since she and Alan had separated. Why she hadn’t even been tempted, until someone totally inappropriate had pushed his way into her life.

  She rolled onto her side, punching the soft feather pillow. She was too hot, even in boxers and a tank top. She’d started out wearing sweats—the night was cool, and she didn’t want to remember what her body had felt like, up against Coltrane’s through the thin layer of cotton.

  But she’d lain in the bed, twisting and turning, half awake, half dreaming, until she’d given in and stripped off the enveloping sweats. It wasn’t as if she had to worry that Coltrane would saunter into her bedroom uninvited. He wasn’t even home. And if he was, as long as she stayed in her room she’d be safe.

  Safe. A strange notion. Why in the world would she think Coltrane wasn’t safe? Granted, he had the delicious bad-boy streak that Rachel-Ann had always found irresistible and Jilly had always been too wise to succumb to, but he wasn’t a real danger to her. Was he?

  She rolled onto her stomach, punching the pillow again. And why couldn’t she just put him out of her mind? Maybe it was a sudden upsurge of hormones. She was almost thirty—maybe she was just a late bloomer, and she’d soon become as voracious as Rachel-Ann had been in her heyday.

  And there were other men, good-looking men who’d been attentive in the past. Sam Bailey and Mark Fulmer and that lawyer down at the Preservation Society…no, she didn’t want lawyers. And she couldn’t seem to summon up even a trickle of yearning for any of those strong bodies, handsome faces, pleasant souls.

  It was beginning to look like she had more in common with her sister than she’d ever realized. Including an irresistible attraction to exactly the wrong man.

  She sat up, kicking the tangled covers away from her feet. It was four in the morning—typical of her usual sleep patterns. Maybe she should follow her sister’s example even more closely. She had no idea whether Dean was home or not—his quarters were removed enough that sound didn’t carry, and he often spent the night away. Besides, his drink of choice was vodka, just as Rachel-Ann’s was tequila, and Jilly hated both.

  Alcohol would help her sleep, though. A nice glass of brandy would burn its way down her throat and warm the pit of her stomach, and she’d be able to snatch another few hours of sleep. Besides, it didn’t matter if she was late for work—there was nothing on the agenda.

  It probably wouldn’t matter if she never went to work again. The historic preservation of Los Angeles was a joke. S
he couldn’t even keep her own house from falling in, much less save any other place. The salary she was paid was pitiful—surely there was something else she could do that would bring in enough money to support La Casa. If not restore it, at least keep it from falling into complete ruin.

  Roofus slept soundly on the floor beside her bed, and she tiptoed past him out of the room. If he heard her and followed he’d be full of his usual bounding energy, leaping with joy, and there’d be no way she’d ever get back to sleep. If she could just manage to creep downstairs to the kitchen, find the brandy and pour herself a glass she might be able to make it back upstairs before dawn.

  The brandy snifters were long gone, of course. She ended up pouring a healthy dose of Calvados into a small juice glass with Wile E. Coyote on the side. She leaned against the iron sink as she took a tentative sip, letting it trickle a fiery path down her throat.

  She might as well accept it—Rachel-Ann and Coltrane were off somewhere together. There was something between them, something powerful. Even the most unobservant person in the world would have to recognize it, and Rachel-Ann had never been shy in expressing her interest.

  Nor did Jilly have any delusions about Coltrane. He wanted something from the Meyer family, and he had no qualms about how he got it. He’d probably sleep with both of them if it served his purpose. She only wished she knew what the hell his purpose was. What he wanted from them.

  She drained the glass, then on impulse refilled it. Too much, when she wasn’t used to drinking, but who would it hurt? There was no one around, and she’d simply crawl back in bed and sleep as long as she could. It was the least she deserved.

  It was a relief, really, she thought, switching off the overhead light and plunging the kitchen back into darkness. She’d been more unsettled by that kiss than she wanted to admit. Unsettled enough to consider kissing him again. To consider just saying the hell with it and…and…

  And do what? Sleep with him? She wasn’t that crazy, was she? And now, of course, it was out of the question. He’d gone off with Rachel-Ann, and she wasn’t going to take her sister’s leftovers. Despite her best efforts, her self-esteem wasn’t that strong.

  The cognac was soothing her jangled nerve endings. She was finally relaxing, that bone-tightening tension draining from her. Who the hell cared who Rachel-Ann was sleeping with? The last man had been a physically abusive drug dealer—even Coltrane was a step up from that.

  As for Coltrane, well, he was clearly no good for Rachel-Ann, but she’d tried to warn him off. Obviously it had been a waste of time. So be it. She wouldn’t worry about it. About him. About them. Maybe they could live happily ever after and Jilly wouldn’t have to worry any more.

  And pigs could fly.

  There was a faint light coming from the living room, and Jilly halted at the foot of the stairs, momentarily startled. It wasn’t a room anyone used much—if the three siblings actually spent time together it was usually in the Tropicana Room, an art deco room sporting a huge curved bar, shag rugs and a big-screen television, a present from Jackson when he was in one of his more generous moods.

  As far as Jilly knew there were no lights in the living room, and yet the glow was palpable. The furniture was draped with Holland covers and pushed against a wall, the place was coated with dust. Who the hell would be in there?

  The ghosts. There could be no other explanation. The unearthly light, the eerie silence, the sense of some…presence, just beyond. Maybe she had to be half-loaded to finally see them. It didn’t matter. After eighteen years Jilly was finally going to see the famous ghosts of La Casa de Sombras, and nothing was going to make her go back to the dubious safety of her bed without making the most of the long-awaited opportunity.

  She peered inside the arched doorway, half-empty juice glass of brandy clutched in one hand. The place looked deserted, except for the glow of light in the far corner, behind the high-back sofa. The cover had been thrown off in a heap on the dusty floor, and Jilly felt a moment’s misgiving. Maybe she should go upstairs and get Roofus. Maybe she should go upstairs and stay put.

  She stood motionless, listening. She’d been told the ghosts of La Casa were particularly noisy ones—if they were there on the sofa she should hear something. Come to think of it, what would they be doing on the sofa? There were rumors that Brenda de Lorillard and her lover had been seen frolicking, nude, decades after they’d been found dead. While Jilly had a strong interest in finally seeing her purported ghosts, she didn’t fancy catching them in the act.

  Nothing. Not a sound. The light was a steady glow, creating a small pool of warmth, and she moved toward it, unable to resist the pull, like a moth.

  She was halfway across the room when she realized it was no unearthly ghost illuminating the corner. Someone had taken a table lamp from one of the unused rooms and plugged it in. The bare lightbulb was probably not more than a forty watt, making little dent in the cavernous shadows. But at least there was a perfectly logical explanation for the light.

  It wasn’t until she came around the other side of the high-back sofa that she realized logical explanations were not particularly what she wanted.

  Coltrane lay there stretched out on the sofa, shirtless, unshaven, barefoot and gorgeous. Alone. There was no sign of Rachel-Ann anywhere.

  She took an instinctive step backward, stumbling into another one of the sofas. His eyes opened, but she suspected he already knew she was there.

  “Wile E. Coyote?” he murmured. “What are you drinking?”

  “Brandy.”

  He scooted back on the sofa, sitting up, and leaned against the overstuffed armrest. In the dim light of the bare lamp the ripped damask looked ivory against his golden skin, golden hair. He held out his hand for the glass, and without thinking she handed it to him. She’d never seen someone so completely comfortable with his body. Alan had always preened, expecting admiration. Coltrane seemed oblivious, accepting his body for what it was, a tool.

  An incredibly beautiful tool, Jilly thought, sinking down on the sofa opposite him. The cover was still draping it, a small defense against the ravages of time. She’d forgotten just how comfortable the sofa was.

  “Where’s Rachel-Ann?” she asked.

  “I haven’t seen her all day. Is she missing? Should we be worried?”

  She ignored the we. It was a slip of the tongue. “She didn’t come home last night. I assumed she was with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you seemed so interested in her.”

  “I told you, I’m interested in you.” He slid down a little bit, eyeing her over the juice glass. “Any particular reason why you don’t want to believe that? Don’t try telling me you’re not used to men wanting you—I wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Not more than my sister.” Jilly couldn’t believe she’d actually said that out loud. She hated even thinking it, but to have spoken it was far, far worse. Especially to him. It must be the brandy. If she’d known she was going to run into him she would have stayed put. It was too high a price for sleep. “I thought you were the ghosts,” she said, quickly changing the subject.

  “I didn’t think you believed in them.” He was watching her, but she couldn’t see his expression. Maybe it was just as well.

  “I didn’t say I didn’t believe in them. I’ve just never seen them.”

  “And how long have you lived in this house?”

  “Seventeen years, off and on.”

  “You’d think you’d have run into them by now if they existed,” he said reasonably.

  “You’d think so. What are you doing down here when you’ve got that wonderful new bed?”

  “Thinking. And it’s not that wonderful.” He took a sip of the brandy, then offered the glass back to her. There was no way in hell she was going to put her mouth where his had been, so she shook her head.

  “I’ve had enough,” she said. “I’m not used to drinking much.”

  There was no missing his slow, wicked smile. “Don’t tell
me you’re wasted, Ms. Meyer?”

  “Only very slightly,” she said with great dignity. “What were you thinking about?”

  “That maybe I should leave here.”

  “Leave?” she repeated stupidly. It was everything she’d prayed for, the answer to her current problems. It was the last thing she wanted.

  “Leave,” he said. “You know, git, skedaddle, vamoose, take a hike, get the hell out of Dodge.”

  “You’ve been watching too many westerns.”

  “Maybe it’s the house that does it to me. Though Brenda de Lorillard wasn’t famous for westerns, was she? She was big in those weepy women’s movies of the forties.”

  “I don’t know,” Jilly said. “I don’t really care. Why are you leaving?” She centered in on what was important.

  His eyes narrowed, and his smile was wryly self-deprecating. “Does it matter?” he said. “Maybe I ought to get out of here before I become what I hate.”

  “And what do you hate?” She knew the answer with sudden, illogical certainty. He hated Jackson Dean Meyer, her father. His deep-pocketed mentor.

  He didn’t answer. She didn’t expect him to. He drank the rest of the brandy, then set the empty juice glass down on the parquet floor. He looked up at her, a lazy smile on his face. “Then again, maybe I don’t give a shit. So why don’t you want me to leave?”

  “I want you to leave,” she said immediately.

  “Then why don’t you come over here and say goodbye?”

  She didn’t say a word, leaning back in the sofa and stretching her long bare legs out in front of her. He liked her legs—she had absolutely no doubt about that. He really liked her legs.

  Fair enough—she liked them herself. They were her one true beauty. Not even Rachel-Ann had endless legs like she did.

  “You don’t know me nearly as well as you seem to think you do,” she said.

  “I don’t?”

  “You think I’m a shy, fragile little flower, don’t you? Terrified of big strong men like you, afraid of sex, afraid of life?” Her voice was mocking.