by Anne Stuart
“We’re going to have to take your car,” he said to Jilly, still slung over his shoulder. She was right, she was no lightweight, and apart from Rachel-Ann’s escape, this night was going from bad to worse.
“My feet are cut,” she said from halfway down his back. “I can’t drive.”
He strode into the garage, opened the passenger door of her Corvette and dumped her in. “You’re not going to.”
He ignored her protests, moving around to the driver’s side. His left hand was hurting like hell, but it looked as if the bleeding had slowed. He’d managed to slice the hell out of it when he’d pushed off her, and he’d never been particularly fond of blood. He didn’t have the choice of getting light-headed, not with Jilly’s lacerated back and bleeding feet.
“I told you, you aren’t driving my car,” she said weakly as he got in beside her. “What’s wrong with your car?”
“Your sister stole it, and a good thing she did. Let’s just hope your father can’t catch up with her. Stop arguing and tell me where the keys are.”
“What if I told you they were back in the house?”
“I’d say you were a liar wasting important time.” He flipped down the visor and the keys dropped into his lap. “Put on your seat belt.”
He was having a hard time managing his with the dish towel wrapped around his hand, but it was too dark for her to see how bad it was. The engine of the Corvette purred to life, and he backed it out of the garage with total disregard for whoever might be wandering around in the dark. He would have just as soon run Jackson Meyer over—he was past the point of subtlety when it came to revenge. He wanted him dead.
Dean was pretty high on his shit list, as well. What the hell was he trying to pull tonight, with his obscure hints? What had he found on his goddamn computer that he thought could put the fear of God into Jackson Dean Meyer? For that matter, what had he found that could put a backbone in Dean himself?
He raced down the driveway, the lights spearing the darkness. Jilly was silent beside him, and he wondered whether she’d passed out. As far as he could tell his hand was bleeding more than the lacerations on her back and feet. Maybe he crushed her when they fell. Maybe she was in shock.
“If I didn’t know better I’d say you engineered this entire thing in order to drive my Corvette,” she said, and he laughed. Then again, maybe she was just fine.
“I’m not that manipulative,” he said, running a red light rather than shifting gears. He needed to keep his right hand on the steering wheel, giving his left a break. It was bleeding again, soaking through the dish towel, and Jilly wasn’t going to like having her precious vintage leather-covered steering wheel stained with his blood.
Though she was ruthless enough that she might enjoy it. “How are you feeling?” He glanced over at her. She was leaning back against the seat, safety belt fastened around her waist, her head back, eyes closed. She looked pale in the intermittent streetlights, and he pressed harder on the accelerator, torn between appreciation for the car’s responsiveness and worry about Jilly.
“Don’t push it,” she muttered without opening her eyes. “I’m fine. You don’t have to drive like a bat out of hell.”
“Are you ever going to let me drive this car again?”
“Over my dead body.”
“So I might as well enjoy it while I can.” He zipped around a corner, the tires taking it perfectly. He’d thought he’d get her in bed long before he got behind the wheel of this beauty. He’d been wrong, unless you counted that frustrating erotic partial they’d had last night.
And for some reason, being wrong about the car wasn’t particularly pleasing. He’d rather be inside her than her vintage Corvette, no matter how sleek it was or how beautifully the engine purred. He wanted to hear her purr again. The hell with the car.
He would have carried her into the emergency room, abandoning the car, but they were ready for them. Someone had called ahead, and it certainly wouldn’t have been Jackson. Dean must have been more alert than Coltrane realized. He left the engine running while he helped her out, and she reached for his hand when he started to turn away.
“Come with me.” It killed her to say it. He wanted to laugh, but somewhere his sense of humor had vanished.
“You want me to abandon your precious car here? It’s illegally parked. Chances are it’ll get towed or stolen. What’s more important, the car or having me with you?”
It was a no-brainer, but she didn’t let go of his hand. Thank God she hadn’t grabbed hold of his cut one—he was busy keeping it out of sight. “Screw the car,” she said.
They’d put her in a wheelchair and were busy wheeling her into the emergency room, and he had no choice but to go along with her since she wasn’t about to let go of his hand. Moments later she was in an examining room, up on the stretcher, still clinging to him.
He heard Jilly’s voice coming from a long ways away. She was talking to the nurse, explaining what happened, while they began to pick tiny shards of glass out of her bare feet. She was crushing his hand, or maybe it was his other hand that felt hot, heavy, crushed. He wasn’t quite sure. He lifted it to look at it. The red kitchen towel swam before his eyes, then he remembered the towel had been white when he’d wrapped it around his hand.
He was the one who’d passed out cold, even before he hit the floor.
There was only one benefit to having made such an utter fool of himself, he thought three hours later when they were finally released from the emergency room. It had managed to put Jilly Meyer into an uncharacteristically cheerful mood. Maybe she liked to see men humbled. Or the ridiculousness of it tickled her. He didn’t know and he didn’t care.
“You’ll need to stay off your feet for a day or two, as much as possible, Ms. Meyer,” the nurse said, giving final instructions. “The cuts aren’t deep but they’ll heal better if you give them a rest. They’re actually worse than the scrapes on your back, despite the amount of blood. The doctor sent along something for the pain, and it might make you feel a bit woozy, but that’s understandable.”
Coltrane didn’t even blink. Blood, he thought. He really didn’t like blood.
“As for you, Mr. Coltrane, once you drive home you should stay put. You’ve got seven stitches in your hand and quite a bump on your head from when you fainted in the emergency room. There’s no sign of a concussion, but you should have someone check on you periodically to make sure you aren’t developing any. It wasn’t much of a blow, but we can’t be too careful.”
He thought he heard Jilly snort faintly. “I’m fine,” he grumbled.
“Just keep an eye on each other. And next time, keep the sex play away from glass top tables.”
“We didn’t—!” Jilly gasped, but Coltrane simply took the wheelchair from the nurse and whisked her out the door. The car was still there, adorned with a parking ticket, but waiting for them. He breathed a sigh of relief and put the brake on the wheelchair.
“You stay here while I bring the car around.”
“What did you tell the nurse?”
“Hey, it’s L.A. I had to give her a believable excuse. Did you want me to tell her the ghosts scared your dog?”
“Is that what happened?” Her voice was hushed.
He paused, looking down at her in the wheelchair. She wasn’t in nearly as bad shape as he’d thought. No stitches, and while her feet hurt, it had been more a question of cleaning the dirt and glass out of the tiny cuts and protecting them from infection. “I don’t know,” he said. “All I know is I want to get you home and up to bed.”
“Don’t count on it,” she drawled.
“Still arguing? I’m talking therapeutic rest, not sex, sugar,” he said. As usual, he was lying to her. He had every intention of carrying her up to the swan-shaped bed, stripping off her clothes and doing everything he’d been fantasizing about doing for the last three days. She was better off not knowing. It would give her less time to come up with objections.
She didn’t want him to
pick her up and put her in the front seat of the Corvette, but she had no choice. She held herself stiffly, making it even more difficult, but he didn’t bother arguing with her. There’d be time enough for that when they got back to the house.
He had no idea what he’d find there. Jackson and Dean still storming around? Maybe the so-called ghosts had driven their sorry asses out of the place, which would be a relief. Unfortunately he didn’t believe in ghosts any more than Jilly did.
Rachel-Ann did. They’d scared her away, which in fact was a good thing. Coltrane had been about to crash across the table and grab Jackson Meyer by the throat. Rachel-Ann had sat there, frozen, as her father stroked her knee, and Coltrane had been equally frozen in disbelief.
It had to have been an earthquake. Just one of those random tremors he was getting used to after more than a year in California. Or maybe Roofus had been stuck under the table.
Or maybe La Casa de Sombras really was haunted. If so, it wasn’t by his mother, he knew that much.
Los Angeles streets were never empty, but at two o’clock in the morning things were relatively quiet. He drove at a leisurely pace, enjoying the feel of the Corvette, when Jilly’s quiet voice broke the silence.
“There’s nothing wrong…that is…” She stopped.
“Nothing wrong with what?” He knew what she was going to say. He just didn’t know how he was going to answer it.
“If people aren’t related by blood,” she said finally. “There’s nothing wrong with them having sex, is there?”
He was half tempted to make a joke, come on to her again, but for some reason he wasn’t in the mood. Oh, he was in the mood to take her upstairs to her bed at La Casa and fuck her senseless. He just wasn’t in the mood to joke.
“You mean your father and Rachel-Ann,” he said, not mincing words.
“It was that obvious?” she said in a lost little voice. “I’d never had any inkling. I mean, I knew he doted on her, but we all do. She needs looking after—she’s always been so fragile emotionally. But I assumed he just gave her all his paternal affection. I didn’t mind—I know it’s unnatural but I really hate him. Not so much for what he’s done to me but what he’s done to the others. And for what kind of man he is. But since Rachel-Ann isn’t related to him, it isn’t really incest, is it? Even if it feels…peculiar. And maybe I was just imagining it. Maybe I was jealous. Maybe I—”
“Hush, Jilly,” he said softly. He wanted to reach out and take her hand, hold it for some kind of comfort, but he didn’t trust his left hand with the wheel. “You didn’t imagine it. And whether or not it’s incest, it’s wrong. He’s the only father she’s ever known. Rachel-Ann knows it’s sick. I think Jackson knows it, too, and he doesn’t give a shit.”
“Oh, God,” she said in a quiet voice.
“He’s not going to get her, Jilly. He’s not going to put his hands on her again.”
He had no idea what she made of his steely voice. It didn’t matter. He’d wrap his hands around Jackson Meyer’s carefully tanned throat and squeeze the life out of him if he ever put his hands on his sister again.
Jilly was silent. “I trust you,” she said finally.
“Don’t. I’m not someone you should ever trust. Just because I won’t let your father touch Rachel-Ann doesn’t mean I’m not dangerous on my own. Don’t ever forget that.” He had no idea why he was warning her. Particularly when he had every intention to taking her to bed within the next hour.
“Big bad man,” she murmured sleepily.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I consider myself warned. You’re not nearly as evil as you’d like to think you are. I’m on to you. I should have realized when Roofus liked you so much. He has excellent instincts when it comes to people.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“It’s been a long night—cut me some slack,” she said sleepily. “Don’t worry, I’ll hate you tomorrow. In the meantime I like the novel sensation of someone taking care of me. Are you really going to carry me upstairs when we get home?”
“It’s either that or you crawl up on your hands and knees.”
“I think I prefer the Scarlett O’Hara scenario,” she said dreamily.
“Just don’t punch me when I’m carrying you.”
“I’ll try to resist the temptation,” she said.
It wouldn’t do her any good, but he didn’t bother to tell her that. She’d already had a hard time resisting him, and tonight she was far more vulnerable. He wasn’t going to leave her until he’d taken everything he wanted from her, wasn’t going to leave her until she was so bone weary she’d sleep for weeks.
And he’d just have to hope that Rachel-Ann was safe somewhere. Far away from her father.
When Rachel-Ann ran from the house she didn’t stop to think, to hesitate, to question. She ran blindly, down the path circling the terrace to the garage, only to find her car trapped by her father’s G-Wagen. On instinct she grabbed her useless keys, then turned to look for another avenue of escape. Coltrane’s Range Rover was parked beside it, and in a panic she tried the door. He hadn’t locked it, and the beeping noise signaled that he’d left the keys in the ignition. She didn’t bother to question her sheer good luck, she simply jumped in, started the car and took off down the long, winding driveway. She was shaking so badly she could barely keep the car on the road, and it slid into a side street, just barely missing an oncoming car.
She pulled over to the side, fastening the seat belt with shaking hands. “You’ll be fine, Rachel-Ann,” she whispered. “Just drive carefully and you’ll be fine.” She pulled into the street once more, after carefully checking the traffic, and began to drive, putting all her concentration into the simple act of keeping the Range Rover moving in a straight, steady line. She didn’t want to think about them. About the voices, the hands that touched her.
“Run away,” the ghostly apparition had said. “Your brother will stop him. Get out of here, quickly!”
And Rachel-Ann, numb with terror, had said, “Yes, I will.”
She had no idea where she was driving, she simply drove, concentrating on the traffic, the lights, the simple mechanics of the car.
She should go to a hotel, book a room and hide there. No one could find her there, not ghosts, not her father. She’d be safe, alone.
She didn’t want to be alone. And she’d run out without her purse, even her wallet. If the police stopped her she’d be ticketed for driving without a license. Maybe worse, since she hadn’t stopped to ask Coltrane if she could borrow his car.
She picked up the keys she’d dropped on the seat. She had a change purse attached to the key ring—she usually kept a few dollars in there for parking. No credit cards, though, and not enough for even a fleabag motel.
She pulled up to a red light and unzipped the change purse. One lousy dollar bill—which would get her exactly nowhere. She was about to dump the key ring back on the leather seat beside her when she noticed the key.
It hadn’t been there yesterday. She knew those keys very well—the key to her car, a key to La Casa, one for the gates that no one had closed in years. But there was a new key, next to the old, familiar ones.
The light changed to green, and she turned left. There was no guarantee, but she had a pretty good idea who had put that key on her key chain. It was worth the risk.
She’d never been particularly good at finding her way through the city streets, and yet she found herself back in Rico’s neighborhood almost instinctively. It was Saturday night, and the street was jammed with people, lights and noise. She drove very slowly, past the rows of apartment buildings, looking for his. Looking in vain for a parking spot.
She found his building, but the cars were so thick she could barely drive, much less find a place to park. She was inching along, scarcely moving, when someone knocked loudly on her window.
It startled a little shriek out of her, but she pushed the button and lowered the window. It was the gang member fro
m that morning, looking not the slightest bit safer by the garish streetlight.
“Hey, lady, you came back. Doc’s at work, but he’ll be back soon. You need a parking spot?”
“I don’t—” But he was ignoring her, letting out a piercing whistle.
“Hey, compadre, move that rust bucket so the doc’s lady can park her car!” he ordered in a loud voice. A spate of angry Spanish answered him, but one of the ancient cars pulled into the street in front of her, leaving her with just enough room to park the Range Rover.
“There you are. Nice car, lady. I like it better than the BMW. Is it new?”
“I stole it.”
The boy grinned. “Way to go, lady! We’ll make sure no one touches it. Just go on up and the doc’ll be home soon. If you want I can let you into his apartment. I know how to jimmy his locks.”
“That’s okay. I think I have a key.”
The boy grinned. “You go on up, lady. Don’t you worry about the car. We take care of our own, and if you’re Doc’s that makes you one of us.”
And for the first time in hours Rachel-Ann’s panic began to fade.
19
It came as no surprise when the strange key fit Rico’s door. She had no idea when he’d put it on the key ring, she only thanked God he had.
The apartment was still relatively neat, though there were dishes in the sink. She washed them. She wasn’t quite sure why—it just seemed like the thing to do. She wandered into the living room, over to the wall of bookshelves.
She turned on the TV, but he only got three channels and they were grainy. No Weather Channel. She flicked it off again, then her eyes narrowed as she looked at the photographs on the shelf. There was Consuelo and Jaime, older than when she’d last seen them, looking happy and secure. One of Rico and a pretty young woman holding on to his arm. And one of Rachel-Ann, no more than sixteen years old, young and innocent and still hopeful.
She wasn’t sure which picture bothered her more—the unknown woman clinging so happily to Rico, or the image of a youthful Rachel-Ann.
