Nightfall

by Anne Stuart

  “It’s for the children.”

  He said nothing.

  “That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? You’ve done this all for the children.” She reached out for the mug of milk, then pulled her hand back again, not surprised to see it was trembling. “Is that why you killed your wife?”

  “Drink your milk, Cassie,” he said gently.

  She stared down at it once more. She knew too much, far too much for his safety. She’d abandoned him, ruined his plan for his children, and now, instead of staying in England, he’d come back, and in all likelihood he’d come after her. To silence her.

  Would he poison her? He was already under sentence of death, and he seemed to have no interest in having that sentence commuted. They could only execute him once. If she were dead, there would be no one to tell about the children. Mark had a professional vow of silence, Sally was risking her health and her very life to take care of them.

  She was the only wild card. He’d killed for them before, she no longer had any doubt. Would he kill for them again?

  “What’s going to happen now?” she asked, delaying.

  “It all depends. Sean will live or die. If he lives, you’ll be so caught up in being the perfect daughter, trying to prove your love for him, that you won’t have any time to waste worrying about me and mine. Sally’s health seems to have stabilized for now, and in the meantime Mark will be on the lookout for someone to take her place. Someone trustworthy. Someone willing to put the lives of my children ahead of anything else.”

  It shouldn’t have hurt. But he was so adept at twisting her around, even his lightly spoken words were like a knife, stabbing at her.

  “And if Sean doesn’t regain consciousness? If he dies?”

  “Then I think you’ll be very dangerous, indeed. You’ll be torn apart by grief and unfinished business, and you’ll probably say the wrong thing to the wrong person. I can’t let that happen.”

  “How are you going to stop me?”

  “I’m not certain. Drink your milk, Cassie.”

  Old movies danced through her head, a poisoned drink taken from the hands of a lover. She could accidentally knock it over. She could flat-out refuse—he wouldn’t hold her down and force it down her throat.

  She reached out for the mug, and he watched her. It had cooled considerably, and she could smell the tang of whiskey. Did she smell something else as well, something lethal?

  “What did you put in here?” she asked, stalling for time.

  “Milk. Low-fat, I’m afraid, that’s all that was here. A shot of whiskey. Almond extract.”

  “Almond?” Wasn’t there a poison that smelled like bitter almonds? Something immediately lethal.

  “Almond,” he said. “Oh, and of course, there’s the rat poison Bridget left behind. I hope it won’t taste too terrible. I was hoping the almond and whiskey would cover the taste. Maybe I should have added some sugar as well.”

  Cassie swallowed nervously. “I’m glad to know you find this all so amusing.”

  “I find you amusing,” he said, darkness in his eyes. “Particularly your definition of love and trust, right before you run away. Drink the fucking milk, Cassie, and see whether you drop dead or not.”

  “Why don’t you have the first sip?”

  He shook his head. “Not on your life. Suicide was never my thing.”

  She looked at him. At his dark, defiant eyes, the bitter cruelty of his mouth. His elegant hands, the bleakness of his soul. She took the mug of milk and drank.

  She almost drained it. She set the mug down again, and met his eyes defiantly. “How long does it take to work?”

  “I don’t know. You’re my first poisoning. I usually stab my victims.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” She sat there, waiting for the first cramp to hit. “Do you always punish people who are crazy enough to fall in love with you?”

  “Falling in love with me isn’t your crime, dear heart,” he said lightly. “You can’t convince me you even committed it in the first place. Love isn’t great sex, and jumping to conclusions, and believing the worst, and running away when things get nasty.”

  He leaned closer, close enough to kiss her, and she could taste the whiskey on his breath, the fury in his soul. “Your crime was making me love you. Trust you. Believe, for a few, crazy hours, that there was something to fight for, after all.” His lips brushed hers, heartbreakingly gentle. “Your crime was giving me hope, and then taking it away again.”

  She didn’t move from the table. He was long gone—she heard the door close behind him, but she sat there, unmoving, as the first gray light of dawn filtered into the kitchen. The doctored milk sat in her stomach, curdled there, and she wanted to get up and vomit in the sink. She wouldn’t let herself do it.

  She put her head down on the table, her hand clutching the empty mug of milk. Astonishingly enough, she slept.

  RICHARD LEANED against the door, his eyes closed in the darkness as he fought it. Fought his rage, his fury. Fought the murderous frenzy that he thought he’d finally quelled. Could he kill someone? Someone he thought he’d loved?

  Hadn’t he already done just that? His moral responsibility to his children put him on the wrong side of the law, but he wasn’t going to worry about it. He didn’t make excuses, or try to hide from what he knew was the truth. He had made an irretrievable decision, and Diana was dead. Excuses and justifications wouldn’t change that.

  If only he could scour his soul of the anger, the rage, the stupid, lingering hope that Cassidy Roarke brought out in him. He thought when he saw her again, he’d feel nothing but rage. He was wrong.

  She looked at him and the mug of milk he offered, and she thought him capable of murdering her. For that very brief moment, he wanted to kill her.

  But he saw the pain and the panic in her silvery green eyes. He felt the longing and despair in her soul. She was a coward and a fool, she’d run from him when he needed her to trust him. And yet he’d known that despite everything, despite believing the worst of him, she still loved him.

  It made life so much more complicated. It kept him tied to her. He couldn’t hate her. He couldn’t turn off his feelings, as he’d learned to do years ago. He was enmeshed in her, wrapped tight, and there was only one way to slash free.

  He waited until first light. When he walked back into the kitchen, he’d thought it was deserted, until he saw her at the table, sound asleep.

  Another mistake on his part. He remembered her lying curled in his arms, her pale skin with the faint dusting of golden freckles, the utter stillness of her. Vulnerable, sexual, and he wanted her with a sudden fierceness that threatened to wipe out everything.

  It took him a moment for sanity to rear its ugly head. By the time he put his hands on her he was calm. She didn’t wake when he lifted her up in his arms, her solid weight settling against him. Or if she did, she didn’t want to admit it. He carried her through the apartment, into the Gothic monstrosity of her bedroom, and lay her down on the neatly made bed. She reached for him, murmuring something unintelligible, but he carefully released her hands from behind his neck and set them beside her, pulling a cover up around her. She pouted for a moment, then with a sigh she curled up, one hand tucked beneath her face, flame red hair spread out around her.

  Her body trusted him, even when her mind couldn’t. He should take that as some kind of comfort, but he wasn’t in the business of looking for comfort. Or for justice. Lies were his only protection now.

  He stared down at her, imprinting her on his mind. For a moment he allowed himself to reach out, to push a tangled strand of hair away from her face, to caress her with a feather-light touch. He wouldn’t put his hands on her again, he knew it.

  And then he left, closing the door behind him.

  “GET UP. CASSIE.” She heard his v
oice through a fog, calling to her. She struggled to open her eyes, as she’d fought to do for the last few hours, but the mists of sleep and exhaustion were powerful foes.

  “Get up,” he said again, impatient. “Mabry needs you.”

  She stirred. She couldn’t remember where she was, what house, what state, what country even. Richard’s voice, cool and impatient, the bed beneath her, soft and smothering. Had he drugged her after all? Or had life finally caught up with her? She didn’t want to open her eyes—Mabry could cope by herself.

  “Your father is dying, Cass. Wake up.”

  She opened her eyes. It was late afternoon, raining, and she was lying in her bed at the Park Avenue apartment. She hadn’t the faintest idea how she got there. For the moment she didn’t care.

  “What did you say?” Her voice was raspy with sleep and denial.

  “Mabry’s going to the hospital. Sean’s in a coma, and they don’t think he’s going to pull through. Do you want to go with her?”

  She didn’t bother to answer him. She simply scrambled out of bed, kicking the covers away.

  The floor swayed beneath her, and she felt herself falling. His hands were there, elegant, deadly, impersonal, catching her, holding her until she regained her equilibrium. A small, treacherous part of her wanted to sink against him, to close her eyes and take warmth and comfort and strength from him. He held her at a distance.

  “Too much rat poison, Cassie?” he murmured.

  She looked up at him. “Not enough,” she said, and pulled away.

  It was rush hour by the time they made it down to the lobby, but Bill had a taxi waiting, the meter running. Mabry looked pale and still and cold, and it took Cassie a moment to realize that Richard wasn’t just seeing them into the waiting car, he was coming with them.

  The backseat of the taxi was small. Richard’s long legs pressed up against hers, his thigh measured against her own, and she felt the heat and strength of him.

  It was just as well he was with them. For once, Cassie’s calm, maternal instincts failed her. She simply let Richard lead the way through the maze of bureaucracy that was Sloan-Kettering. She trailed along behind him, her arm around Mabry’s suddenly frail figure.

  It took her a moment to realize the looks they were getting, once they reached Sean’s floor. People weren’t staring at her and Mabry. They were looking at Richard Tiernan, the murderer, and there was fascination and horror in their faces.

  Mabry went first. Richard and Cass sat across from each other in the small, private waiting room. She wouldn’t look at him, afraid of what she might see. Her nerves were on the raw, screaming edge, and if she looked at him, saw the cool, murderous contempt in his eyes, she would shatter.

  When Mabry joined them, she was pale, tears streaming down her face. Cassie reached for her, but then Bridget was there, appearing out of nowhere, folding Mabry against her ample bosom, murmuring soft, soothing words as she drew her away. “You go on in, Cass,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll see to your stepmother.”

  She couldn’t help it. She allowed herself a brief, worried glance up at Richard.

  His face was entirely impassive. “Do you want me to go?”

  She hadn’t expected it. “Do you want to see him?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Then why are you waiting?”

  “For you.”

  It was that simple, that complicated. More than she could cope with. She simply nodded, then followed the nurse down the long, silent hallway.

  “Ten minutes,” the woman whispered, ushering her inside. “He probably won’t know you, but you never can tell.”

  The door shut silently behind her, closing her in. The noise was constant, jarring, machines beeping, ticking, wheezing, breathing for Sean, pumping blood through his veins, living for him.

  She walked over to the bed, steady, calm. “You always have to make a production out of everything, don’t you?” she said in a quiet voice. “Did you have to be so goddamn dramatic? Collapsing at your own party?”

  His eyes were closed, sunken in his paper-white face. He looked bruised, skeletal, already drained of the vibrant life that had washed through him. Cassie reached out and touched his hand, the one without the IV. “You aren’t finished yet. I don’t know why you think you can just give up, when there are so many things left undone. So you finished the book. So what? What if I told you it was all a bunch of lies? Would you care?

  “Probably not. You were always more interested in a good story than the truth. It’ll make a fortune. That’s why you did it, isn’t it? To make sure Mabry is taken care of.”

  There was a faint tremor behind one eyelid, but the monitoring machines kept their steady, relentless drone. “Of course, you wanted a masterpiece as well. I wouldn’t make the mistake of thinking you were capable of a selfless act,” she said wryly. “You’d be insulted if I did. You want to go out on a blaze of glory, don’t you? You want another Pulitzer, even if it’s posthumously. Or better yet, how about a Nobel? I could pick it up for you, make a touching speech about you and Richard. He’ll be dead as well, you know. Do you believe in hell? If you do, you’ll be there together.”

  She almost thought she saw a faint reaction on Sean’s face. She clutched his hand, leaning closer, angrier than she’d ever been in her life. She didn’t know why she was crying—probably just a leftover symptom of jet lag. “Don’t you dare die,” she said furiously. “You haven’t told me you love me. Damn it, you haven’t let me tell you I love you.”

  He didn’t move. “Listen, you son of a bitch,” she hissed, “I’m not going to let you die without some goddamn sign.”

  His eyes opened. Only for a brief moment, resting on hers. His nose and mouth were covered with a respirator, he couldn’t say a word. But she could see the gentle, bemused expression in his eyes. Feel the faintest pressure on her hand. And then his eyes closed once more, and his hand went slack beneath hers.

  She let him go. Backhanding the tears from her face, she walked from the room, back straight, shoulders squared, hoping to God she wouldn’t see anyone, hoping that Richard had abandoned her.

  He was alone, standing in the middle of the waiting room, watching her. She stopped in the doorway, disoriented. “The bastard,” she whispered beneath her breath. “He’s dead.”

  He watched her for no more than a heartbeat. And then he was across the room, pulling her into his arms, pressing her face against his shoulder, holding her so tightly her bones ached. It was no wonder she sobbed, she thought absently. She was only clutching him so tightly because she wanted him to release her. Only weeping against him because . . . because . . .

  It no longer mattered. She needed whatever comfort she could find. And the dangerous comfort of Richard Tiernan was the only thing she wanted.

  Chapter 18

  HE TOOK HER back to the apartment. She didn’t say another word, and neither did he. He didn’t know when she’d eaten last, he didn’t know when he had, either. What they both needed was a decent meal, some time alone, some sleep.

  He locked the door behind them and kissed her, sliding his arms around her waist, pulling her tight against him. She didn’t fight. She went to him, openly, willingly, trustingly, and he didn’t even want to consider the ramifications of that willingness, that trust.

  He wanted to make love to her, slowly, tenderly, kissing every hollow and pulse. He didn’t stop to consider that doing just that was the most dangerous thing in the world for him. He was past that point. All he could think of was Cassie, her need, her pain, her sorrow. He wanted to soothe her, heal her. Even if it meant destroying himself in the process.

  He didn’t pick her up, though he wanted to. He wanted to give her every chance to escape. He took her hand in his and drew her down the hallway, past the kitchen, the row of bedrooms, down to his own. He didn’t want t
o make love to her in her Victorian funeral parlor of a room. He wanted her in sunlight and warmth. Failing that, he wanted her in his bed, where he’d slept alone, thinking of her.

  She closed the door behind them. The apartment was dark, only the streetlights illuminating the room. A light rain was falling, but he paid no attention. She leaned back against the door and looked at him, quiet, vulnerable, waiting.

  He reached out and began to unfasten the row of tiny buttons that traveled down the front of her denim shirt. She’d dressed quickly before they left for the hospital, and she hadn’t bothered with a bra. There was a God, after all.

  He pulled the tails of the shirt out of her jeans and let them hang, as he began to undo her zipper. She didn’t stop him. Her eyes were wide, shocky, her mouth pale and resigned. Suddenly he couldn’t help it. He sank to his knees in front of her, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing his face against her belly.

  She never hesitated. She put her arms around his head, holding him close, and he could feel the despair and love pulse through her body.

  He was adept at undressing women—he had done more than his share, and he’d mastered the art of denim when he was still in his teens. For some reason his hands shook when he wanted to be so deft, and her jeans, loose on her hips, suddenly decided to cling, so that he had to tug, leaving her in no blissful doubt as to what he was doing.

  She didn’t stop him, didn’t help him. She simply leaned back against the door and let him strip her clothes off her.

  Her body was flushed pink, trembling, when he finally managed to get her naked. He stripped off his own clothes, quickly, and then he did pick her up, carefully, and set her down on the unmade bed. She looked up at him, and there was no doubt, no fight, in her beautiful green eyes. Only quiet acceptance.

  He kissed her then. He tasted her mouth, slowly, carefully, drawing her response with all the expertise at his command. He kissed her eyelids as they fluttered closed beneath his mouth, he kissed the side of her neck.