At the Midnight Hour (25 page)

“The money!” Liz cried ingenuously. Jillian whirled sharply back, only to be caught off guard by Richard’s crashing form. They went down with a soft thud on the stone floor, a gun skittering across the uneven surface. Not waiting, Liz scrambled over to collect the pistol.

She saw Richard’s arm come back, then move forward with remarkable fury. Jillian went limp on the floor. With an almost casual gesture, Richard reached down and examined her face. He rose, and looked at the woman one last time with unconcealed fury and disgust.

“We’d better call the police,” he said darkly. “She won’t stay out forever.”

Dimly, Liz nodded, aware that now it was over, her arms were shaking, her knees were shaking. She wanted to wilt down to the floor. She wanted to bury her head against Richard’s shoulder and thank God he hadn’t been harmed.

But the look he gave her was so remote, his jaw still clenched from the tension, his eyes unreadable, that she knew she couldn’t do any of that.

A tiny spark of hope within her died at that moment. She assumed that he must have rigged the diary with the ink, and maybe she wanted to believe it had been to keep her safe after the two attempts on her life, but now she wasn’t so sure. Richard had said love was for fools. And maybe what she had taken as growing signs of his affection, had only been concern for her welfare. Now that the matter appeared to be solved, there wasn’t even any need for that much sentiment.

Slowly, she nodded her head, and got to her feet.

For one minute she swayed, the blood rushing too fast to her face. Something intense and dark moved in Richard’s gaze. He took a small step as if to go to her. Then abruptly, he checked himself and turned away, cold and harsh.

What did she expect? she reminded herself even as the pain knifed through her chest. She’d given him her body, and that was all he believed in. She’d never gotten him to understand that for her, her body followed her soul. She hadn’t given him a moment of passion, she’d given him her heart.

He picked up Jillian’s fallen form, and headed for the stairs. Wordlessly, Jillian’s gun dangling nervously from her fingertips, she followed.

* * *

Downstairs in the library Richard called the cops, sending Liz to get Blaine, Greg and Parris. He tied Jillian securely on the sofa, then stared at the low crackle of the fire while he tried to collect his thoughts.

He should be glad it was finally over, he thought. Glad to know that Blaine really hadn’t killed Alycia. But then, Blaine had still slept with Alycia, and Alycia had still been a cold woman who had kept her own secrets. Why hadn’t she ever told him about the abortion? Why hadn’t she allowed her husband at least that small measure of faith?

Once more he felt that sinking feeling deep within him. Alycia hadn’t trusted him with the truth, just as Liz hadn’t trusted his innocence. She’d kept her knowledge of the diary from him because she’d thought he might be a killer.

The worst, he realized suddenly, was the fact that the truth didn’t bring him any peace. After all these years, he didn’t want the finite knowledge.

He merely wanted for someone to believe in him.

He heard the sound of footsteps, and raised his head to see Liz, Blaine and the weaving Greg and Parris enter the room. For one moment, his gaze fell on Liz and her pale face. Her midnight eyes met his squarely, and even from here, he could see the pleading in their depths. He tore his gaze away, and hated the tearing pain he felt in his chest.

The doorbell rang. He went to answer.

The police questioned them until 5:00 a.m. Liz started at the beginning with the note she’d found on her bed, and the shots that had been fired at the picnic, then she described the damaged saddle. Richard threw in his part, the tampering of the diary to implicate the killer, while Blaine added the few details he knew of Jillian’s financial situation. She’d gotten a small inheritance from her grandparents, but had constantly worried about running through it. To a great extent, she had lived off the other members of the gang, though never overtly. Just lots of little trips and shopping excursions here and there. The still-unfound twenty thousand would have made a nice nest egg to sit on.

By the time Jillian regained consciousness, the officers were getting out the handcuffs. Blaine, looking tired and strained, couldn’t even meet her eye. Parris had sobered up enough to clench and unclench the fists at his sides with brutal intensity. Greg just kept shaking his head.

Liz didn’t pay them much attention, however. Mostly, she kept her eyes on Richard.

He simply stood at the fireplace through it all, his face so remote it hurt her to see it. At times, he would prowl the library like a caged beast, seeking escape from the demons that plagued him even in the light of truth. A dozen times, she’d almost gotten up to go to him. A dozen times, she’d held back.

Finally, Jillian was led away, and everyone dissolved to their own rooms for badly needed rest. The old stone house grew quiet, the dark halls finally settling down. But Liz still couldn’t find any peace. She changed into her T-shirt and robe, attempting to lie down on the bed. But it didn’t do any good. Her mind just kept reeling with its own painful thoughts.

She’d hurt him, she knew that and it hurt her. Richard thought she didn’t believe in him. He thought she’d kept the diary from him because she’d doubted his innocence. The fact that he was half-right made it all the more horrible for her. Because looking inside her heart, knowing how she loved him, she also had to see how she’d failed him.

Then again, maybe she was simply the romantic he’d always accused her of being. Maybe he didn’t even care. He’d always said he believed only in lust. Perhaps she wanted to believe she’d failed him only because it implied she had the ability to affect him at all.

Quite possibly, he was so remote now because he simply didn’t want anything to do with her anymore.

Her hand rested on her bedroom door and the confusion swirled in her mind once more. Finally, she just couldn’t take it. Maybe he didn’t have any feelings for her, but she knew she loved him. And right now, she didn’t want to stand here alone torturing herself.

She turned the knob, and ventured once more into the house.

She wasn’t sure where his bedroom was. Sometimes she had been convinced that he didn’t have one. He seemed to live more in the left-hand tower than anywhere else. But Andy had mentioned something about the east wing—the original servants’ quarters—so she crept over there.

The first door she came to was closed, and there was no light beneath. Somehow, she couldn’t picture Richard already being asleep, so she ventured on. At the end of the long hallway, she found the most likely candidate—two thick wooden doors were closed, but she could see the light burning beneath.

Raising a tentative hand, she took a deep breath and knocked.

Nothing happened. Deciding she’d been too quiet, she knocked firmer this time, sending the rapping notes pulsing down the hall. Her only reward was bruised knuckles. But she wasn’t quite ready to give up, not yet.

“Richard,” she called firmly, trying not to be too loud in the long dark hallway. “Richard, open up. I’m not going away until you do.”

Another couple of long seconds dragged by, then abruptly, the right half of the double doors swung open.

“What do you want?” Richard demanded at once, the scowl dark and deep in his face.

He looked haggard, Liz thought immediately. The strain of the night showed in the deep grooves in his forehead and the restless burning of his blue eyes. His cheeks were shadowed by a twenty-four-hour beard, and his black hair lay in tufts from the countless times he’d run his hand through it. His clothing matched the rest of him, his dress shirt disheveled with the top two buttons undone, his tie and jacket long since discarded.

She wanted to go to him so bad, it hurt.

Instead, she forced herself to stand patiently in the doorway. “May I come in?” she asked at last.

His scowl deepened, but he didn’t say no. Finally, with a curt nod, he stood aside so that she could pass. The bedroom surprised her, she realized as she glanced around with curious eyes. It was huge, as she would have expected, but other than that, there was nothing in here that spoke of Richard. The king-size bed with its adjoining nightstands looked like a hotel relic, and the bed cover was so smooth and nondescript, she wondered if he even slept there at all. But then her eyes turned to the right-hand side of the room. It was built on a raised platform, and was easily twice the size of the bedroom area. In the middle stood the dominating form of an enormous desk, where yet another computer and various piles of paper waited. A fire burned low in the fireplace behind the desk, while a deep leather chair and stool, permanently dented by use, sat not too far from the flames.

This was Richard, Liz thought with some satisfaction. And she wouldn’t be surprised at all if he regularly fell asleep at the desk or chair, versus the sterile bed. Without being asked, she walked into the den area, running one hand along the fine oak wood of the desk.

“It’s beautiful,” she said softly.

Richard didn’t bother with a reply. Then, realizing she wasn’t going to simply leave, he also walked into the den area, picking up his brandy glass as he passed on his way to the fire. There, he leaned back against the stone chimney, folding his arms in front of him as he contemplated her with cold and relentless eyes.

“Six o’clock in the morning is a little early for a social call,” he stated abruptly, challenging her with his gaze.

She merely nodded, not giving him any opportunity to attack her. The frustration merely fed the myriad other emotions racing through him. Unconsciously, he uncrossed his arms and began prowling the den once more.

It hurt to look at her, he thought suddenly. Her long hair was cascading down her back in wild abandon, fairly dancing with the red highlights of the fire’s low flames. Even her eyes, such a dark, haunting blue, looked large and luminous in the shadowed light. He wanted to pull her into his arms and run his hands down the curves of her graceful body. He wanted to plunder her mouth with his own, to lose himself in the sigh of her surrender. He wanted to take her, to fill his sense with every feel, sound and smell of her, until there was no more room for the doubts and memories that haunted him.

Until the ghosts of his mind left him at last and there was only her.

Yet, at the same time, he wanted to push her away harshly. He wanted to scream at her to leave this room, because it hurt him to see her, and it hurt him to want her and know he shouldn’t be wanting anything. He’d sworn off love, he’d sworn off the softer emotions, hadn’t he?

He hated the pain Alycia had caused him, and he hated the dull throb of knowing that Liz hadn’t believed in him, either. No one ever had.

Cursing quietly, he pivoted sharply and crossed to the other side of the room, putting as much distance between them as possible.

“It’s late,” he fairly growled, keeping his eyes pinned on the wall as he took another blazing sip of brandy. “Say your piece or leave.”

“I don’t know what it is I want to say,” Liz said finally, and it was true. She’d come here because she wanted to make things right. She wanted to ease this aching distance that seemed to gape between them. But looking at him now, prowling the room with all the dark heat of a panther, she no longer knew what to say. He radiated restless energy and consuming demons. To even stand here was like being at the edge of an electrical storm, feeling all the crackles and sparks of a tightly restrained power.

She suddenly wondered what it would be like if it was unleashed. And the thought alone made her shiver.

But it wasn’t from fear.

She licked her lips nervously, a low flush of color rising to her cheeks. Crossing her arms in front of her, she searched for her composure.

“So you know who did it now,” she said at last. One hand came down, and began to idly fidget with the various objects on his desk. She found it was easier not to look at him.

“Yes,” Richard said curtly, taking another sip and willing the brandy to burn all consciousness away. It didn’t work. The damn woman was too near, and he could feel it in every overwound nerve ending in his body.

“Doesn’t it help at all?” she inquired, feeling the restlessness gnaw at her stomach. She found herself chewing on her lower lip, seeking some respite from the relentless ache growing deep within her.

Richard simply shrugged, his face impassive.

“What about the money?” she pressed. “We never found the twenty thousand.”

“What about what happened with Andy in the tower? He said he’d heard someone, but no one was home.”

“Most likely Jillian didn’t close the door all the way and he heard the draft banging it around.”

“And the third nanny, Mrs. Louis?”

“Overactive imagination combined with dreary atmosphere,” he said flatly. He looked at her a moment with hard blue eyes. “Alycia’s dead, Liz. And I don’t believe in ghosts. It’s over.”

She brought up her chin a notch, forcing herself to meet his gaze squarely. “Is it, Richard?” she challenged softly. “What about you and Blaine?”

“We had a discussion.” Another sip. His hand was trembling slightly, and even as he swore at the weakness, he could not make it stop.

“A discussion?” She lifted a bronze paperweight and traced a long delicate finger around its smooth curves as if to disguise the intensity of her interest.

“We came to a basic understanding,” he admitted with a growl. “We’ll never be the best of friends, but I suppose we’ll muddle through.”

Liz nodded and found herself holding her breath. “And Andy?” she asked quietly.

“He’s mine,” Richard said flatly. “I don’t care if he is or isn’t my biological son. I don’t even want to know. He’s mine in name, and I’m going to raise him that way.” He looked away for a minute, and when he spoke next, his voice was thick even to his own ears. “I want my son back.”

Liz nodded, and felt her heart constrict in her chest. Her own eyes suddenly burned with suspicious moisture.