River's End (25 page)

His grin flashed. “You know your wine.”

“Must be the Italian from my grandmother’s side.”

“And can the MacBride half build a Guinness?”

“I imagine.” It was just a little too comfortable, being here, being with him. It smacked of old patterns. “Well, if you’d call—”

“Let’s go out on the deck.” He took her hand, pulled her to the sliding door. He wasn’t about to let her shake him off that quickly. “Too early for sunset,” he continued, releasing her long enough to slide the door open. “You’ll have to come back. They can be pretty spectacular.”

“I’ve seen sunsets before.”

“Not from this spot.”

The breeze fluttered in off the ocean, whispered warm over her face. The water was bold and blue, chopping in against the shore, then rearing back for the next pass. The scent was of salt and heat, and the light undertone of sunscreen from the people sprinkled along the beach.

“Some backyard.”

“I thought the same thing about yours when I saw your forest.” He leaned against the rail, his back to the view, his eyes on her. “Wanna come play in my backyard, Liv?”

“No, thanks. You’ve got a nice hand with flowers.” She flicked a finger over the soapwort, johnny-jump-ups and artesisa sharing space artistically in a stone tub.

“It shows my sensitive side.”

“It shows you know what looks good and how to keep it that way.”

“Actually, I learned out of compassion and annoyance. My mother was always planting something, then killing it. She’d go to the nursery, and the plants would scream and tremble. Once, I swear, I heard this coreopsis shrieking, ‘No, no, not me! Take the Shasta daisies.’ I couldn’t stand it,” he continued when she laughed. “I started having nightmares where all the plants she killed came back to life, brown, withered, broken, trailing dry dirt that crumbled from their roots as they formed an army of revenge.”

“Zombie zinnias.”

“Exactly.” He beamed, delighted with her, fascinated by the way her face warmed when she was amused and relaxed. “Vampire violas, monster marigolds and gardenia ghouls. Let me tell you, it was pretty terrifying. In fact, I’m scaring myself just thinking about it.”

“As a naturalist, I can certify you’re safe. As long as you keep them alive.”

“That’s comforting.” He trailed a finger down her arm, from elbow to wrist, in the absentminded gesture of a man used to touching. She stepped back, the deliberate gesture of a woman who wasn’t.

“I really have to go. I called Uncle David from Santa Barbara, so they’re expecting me by now.”

“How long are you staying?”

“Just a few days.”

“Have dinner with me before you go.”

“I’m going to be busy.”

“Have dinner with me before you go.” As he repeated it, he touched her again, just an easy slide of fingertips along her jaw. “I like seeing you. You wanted to start with a fresh slate. Give me a chance, Olivia.”

She could see it clearly, standing there with him while the sky exploded with sunset, music drifting out, something quiet with a throb to the bass. And while the sun turned red, while it melted into the sea, he would touch her as he had before. Cupping his hand on her face. He would kiss her as he had before. Slow and skilled and sexy.

And she’d forget why he was doing it. She’d forget to care why.

“You want a story.” She shifted away from his hand. “I haven’t decided if I’m giving it to you.”

“I want a story.” Temper simmered in his eyes, but his voice was cool. “That’s one level. I said I liked seeing you, and I meant it. That’s another level entirely. I’ve thought about you, Olivia.”

He made a small move, a reangling of his body, and caged her between him and the rail. “I’ve thought about you for years. Maybe I wish I hadn’t, and you’ve made it clear you’d rather I didn’t think of you at all.”

“It doesn’t really matter what I’d rather.” He was crowding her, and along with the irritation from that was a sly lick of excitement.

“We can agree on that.” He set his wineglass on the rail. “Do you know what went through my mind when I got home and saw you out front? This. Just this.”

It wasn’t slow this time. She could taste the bite of temper as his mouth crushed down on hers, the snaps of frustration as his hand fisted on the back of her shirt. Just as she could feel the
hot surge of need that pumped from his body to slam against hers.

It was as primal as the world she lived in, as elemental as the sea that crashed behind them. As inevitable as the quest to mate. Want. Had she always wanted him? And had the wanting always been so savage?

She had to take. She had to feed.

She understood the feral, and threw herself into the edgy demand of the kiss. Her hands gripped fistfuls of all that thick sun-streaked hair, her tongue slashed against his. The vicious heat that burst in her blood told her she was alive and could seize whatever she wanted. As long as she wanted.

Power plunged into him, feeding off her reckless response. The taste of her was a rage through his system, shearing away everything else. He wanted to gorge himself on her in fast, greedy gulps until the frantic, clawing hunger was sated.

But the more he took, the more he craved.

He pulled back far enough to see her face, the wild wash of color, the sharp edge in her eyes. “If you want me to believe you’re pissed off about that, you’re going to have to stop cooperating.”

She thought anger was probably the only sensation she wasn’t feeling. “Back off, Brady.”

“Look—”

“Just . . .” She blew out a breath, lifted a hand to his chest. “Back off a minute.”

“Okay.” It was a surprise how much it cost him to step away, to break that contact of body to body. “That far enough?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’m not going to pretend I didn’t expect that or wasn’t looking for it on one of those levels you were talking about. I have some basic kind of attraction to you. I didn’t intend to act on it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not smart. But . . .” She picked up her glass again, or perhaps it was his, and sipped while she studied him. “If I decide to be stupid, then we’ll have sex. I’m not against sex, and I think you’d be pretty good at it.”

He opened his mouth, shut it again. Cleared his throat. “Excuse me while I restart my heart. Let me get this clear in my head. You’re considering being stupid and having sex with me.”

“That’s right.” Good, she decided and sipped again. Damn good. Finally she’d thrown his rhythm off. “Isn’t that where you were heading?”

“In my own bumbling way, yeah, I suppose so.”

“There was nothing bumbling about that kiss.”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Had he actually thought he was getting to know her all over again? “Why do I feel like I should thank you?”

She laughed, shrugged a shoulder. “Look, Noah, why clutter up healthy animal instincts with emotions and excuses? I don’t indulge in sex very often because, well, I’m busy and I’m picky. But when I do, I consider it a natural, sometimes entertaining act that shouldn’t be tied up with a bunch of sticky pretenses. In other words, I approach it like a man.”

“Yeah, well.
Hmmm.”

“If you’re not interested on that level, no hard feelings.” She finished the wine, set it aside. “And I do recall you mentioning a vow of chastity, so maybe this conversation is moot.”

“I wouldn’t call it a vow, exactly. More like a . . . concept.”

“Then we both have something to think about. Now I really have to go.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“A cab’s fine.”

“No, I’ll take you. A drive might clear my head. You’re fascinating, Olivia. No wonder you’ve been stuck in my mind for years.” He took her hand again, a habit she was almost getting used to. “Your stuff’s still in the car, right?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go, then. Keys?”

She dug them out of her pocket, handed them over as they walked through the house. “Aren’t you going to set the alarm?”

“Shit. Right.” Conversation, he thought, after he’d punched in the code and locked up. Fresh conversation because he didn’t think his system could handle any more on the subject they’d
just discussed. “So, did you have any trouble finding your way down here?”

“I had a map. I’m good at reading maps. And this is a great ride,” she added as she settled in the passenger seat. “Handles like a dream.”

“You open her up?”

She gave him a wisp of a smile. “Maybe.” Then she laughed, enjoying the rush of wind as the car picked up speed. “It’s a bullet. How many speeding tickets do you collect in the average year?”

He winced. “I’m a cop’s son. I have great respect for the law.”

“Okay, how many does your father have fixed for you during the average year?”

“Family doesn’t keep track of small acts of love. You know he’d like to see you while you’re here. My mother, too.”

“I don’t know what plans my aunt may have made, if there’ll be time.”

“I thought you didn’t like pretenses.”

She picked up the sunglasses she’d left on his dash, slipped them on. “All right. I don’t know how I’ll handle seeing him. I don’t know how I’ll handle being back here, even for a few days. I decided to come to find out.”

She balled her fists in her lap, then deliberately relaxed them. “I don’t remember Los Angeles. All I really remember is . . . Do you know where my mother’s house is? Was?”

“Yeah.” He was working on the current owners to let him take a tour.

“Go there. I want to go there.”

“Liv, you can’t get in.”

“I don’t need to. I just need to see it.”

Panic was a whisper inside her head, an icy caress along her skin. But she made herself stand at the gate. The walls surrounding the estate were tall and thick and brilliantly white. Trees and distance screened the house, but she could catch
glimpses of it, brilliantly white as well, with the soft red tile of the roof.

“There are gardens, I’m not sure I knew how many. Elaborate, wonderful gardens. One was tucked away under big, shady trees and had a little pool with goldfish and water lilies. It had a bridge over it. A white bridge, that my mother said was for the fairies.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, hugging her biceps and hunching over as if to fight off sudden cold. “There was another with just roses. Dozens and dozens of rosebushes. He bought a white one when I was born and planted it himself. I remember him telling me that. He’d planted it himself because it was special, and when he had to go out of town, or whenever he came back, he’d leave a white rose on my pillow. I wonder if they kept the gardens the way they were.”

Noah said nothing, simply rubbed a hand over her back and listened.

“The house was so big. It seemed like a palace to me. Soaring ceilings and huge windows. Room after room after room, every one of them special somehow. I slept in a canopy bed.” She shuddered once, violently. “I can’t stand to have anything overhead while I sleep now. I hadn’t realized why. Someone would tell me a story every night. My mother or him, or if they were going out, Rosa. But Rosa didn’t tell the really good stories. Sometimes they’d have parties, and I could lie in bed and hear the music and people laughing. My mother loved having people around. They’d come all the time. Aunt Jamie, Uncle David. Her agent. Uncle Lou. He’d always bring me a peppermint stick. One of those thick, old-fashioned ones. I can’t imagine where he got them.

“Lucas Manning came over a lot. It must’ve been around the time my—he left.” She couldn’t say “my father.” Simply couldn’t bring herself to form the words. “I just remember Lucas being there, in the house, out by the pool. He made my mother laugh. He was nice to me in an absent sort of way. Kids know that it’s just show. I wanted to like him, because he made
Mama laugh, but I just kept wishing Lucas would stop coming over, because if he did maybe my . . . maybe he’d come home.”

She rested her head against the bars of the gate. “Then, of course, he came home. He came home and he killed her. And I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t.”

“It’s all right.” Noah gathered her to him, holding her tight even though she stood stiffly with her fisted hands pressed to his chest to separate them. “You don’t have to. You don’t need to be here now, Olivia.”

She made herself open her eyes again, stare over his shoulder at those flashes of white. “I’ve been running away from and running toward this all my life. It’s time I decided on a direction and stuck with it.”

Part of him wanted to scoop her up, cuddle her as he carried her back to the car and took her away. But someone had taken her away for most of her life. “When you run away it comes after you, Liv. And it always catches up.”

Afraid he was right, feeling the monster nipping at her heels, she turned and walked back to the car.

She had her color back by the time Noah swung up the drive toward the Melbourne mansion. It seemed to him she’d all but willed it back, just as she’d willed away that lost and grieving look from her eyes.

“Wow.” Her smile seemed natural, effortless as the house came into view. “We have pictures of it, even videos, but they don’t come up to the in-your-face.”

“One of those nice fixer-uppers priced for the young marrieds.”

She laughed, then swiveled in her seat as the dogs raced over the yard. “There they are! Oh, I wish I could’ve brought Shirley.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I thought you might object to dog hair and slobber all over your pretty-boy car. And my grandfather would be lost without her.” She pushed out as soon as he’d stopped and all but dived into the dogs.

The vulnerable woman with haunted eyes who’d stood outside the gate of her childhood home might not have existed. It certainly wasn’t the face she showed to her uncle as David Melbourne came out of the house.

She let out a whoop of delight and bounded toward him, half leaping into his arms for a fierce hug.

He’d aged well, Noah thought, comparing the man who held Olivia with the photos that dated back to the murder. He’d kept the weight off, and had either discovered the fountain of youth or had an excellent cosmetic surgeon.

The lines on his face were dashing rather than aging, as were the streaks of silver in his hair. He was dressed casually in buff-colored trousers and a Henley shirt the color of kiwis.

“Welcome, traveler.” He laughed, cupped her face. “Let’s look at you. Pretty as ever.”

“Missed you.”

“Goes double.” He kissed her, then hugging a protective arm around her shoulders, turned to Noah. The cooling of voice and eyes was subtle but unmistakable. “It was nice of you to deliver my girl.”

“My pleasure.”

“Uncle David, this is Noah Brady.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I just need to get my things out of the trunk.”

“I’ll get them.” Noah unlocked the trunk, took out the single suitcase.

“That’s it?” David wanted to know.

“I’m only going to be here a couple of days.”

“How about giving Jamie some tips on packing light while you’re here?”

“You pack as much as she does. Clotheshorse.”

He winced, took the case from Noah. “Jamie got caught on the phone. She should be off by now. Why don’t you run in, Livvy? Rosa’s paced a rut in the foyer waiting for you to get here.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“Be right there.”

“All right. Thanks for the lift, Brady.”

“No problem, MacBride,” he said in the same tone. “I’ll be in touch.”

She said nothing to that, only jogged up the stairs and inside.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for not asking you in,” David began. “This reunion’s a family affair.”

“Understood. You can say what you have to say to me out here.”

David inclined his head. “You’re perceptive, Noah. I imagine that’s why you’re good at your work.” He set Olivia’s suitcase down, glanced toward the house. “You seem to have established some kind of rapport with Livvy.”

“We’re beginning to understand each other.” Again, he thought. Or maybe it was at last. “Is that a problem for you?”

“I have no idea.” In what might have been a gesture of peace, David spread his hands. “I don’t know you.”

“Mr. Melbourne, I was under the impression you were supportive of the book I’m writing.”

“I was.” David sighed out a breath. “I thought enough time had passed, enough healing had been done. And I believed that a writer of your caliber could do justice to the tragedy.”

“I appreciate that. What changed your mind?”

“I didn’t realize how much this would upset Val.” Concern clouded his eyes, and he slipped his hands into his pockets. “My mother-in-law. I feel partially responsible as I did support it, and that support certainly influenced Jamie into giving you her cooperation and then encouraged Livvy to do so. I lost my own mother when I was very young. Val’s one of the most important people in my life. I don’t want her hurt.”

Protection, Noah mused. The family was a puzzle made up of pieces of protection and defense. “I’ve already given Liv my word that I won’t contact her grandmother or ask her to talk to me. I’ll keep her out of it as far as I’m able to.”

“The book itself pulls her into it.” He held up a hand before Noah could speak. “I can’t expect you to turn your back on your work because the ripple effect of that work will hurt people I love. But I want you to be aware of it. And I want you to consider that a man who murders would hardly flinch at lying. Sam Tanner isn’t to be trusted, and my biggest regret is that he’ll have time to die outside of prison rather than in it.”

“If you’re worried he’ll lie to me, if your feelings are that strong, you’d be smart to put them on record.”

David laughed, shook his head. “Noah, personally, I’d love to sit down with you and tell you exactly what I feel, what I remember. I’m going to do my best to ease my mother-in-law’s feelings over it, then, if I can, I’ll talk to you. You’ll have to excuse me now.” He picked up the suitcase. “It’s the first time Livvy’s come to visit. I don’t want to miss any time with her.”

Olivia loved the house and everything they’d done with it. She loved it for them—it was so obviously perfect for them with its elegance and pastels and soaring ceilings. But she preferred the
rambling style and rooms soaked in colors of her grandparents’ home.

She was glad she’d finally made herself come.

By the time she crawled into bed, she was worn to the bone by the drive, the emotion, the elaborate dinner her aunt had arranged and the nonstop conversation as they’d caught up with one another.

Still, her last thought before sleep sucked her under. It was of Noah standing on the deck of his pretty house, with his back to the sea.

Olivia came to the conclusion very quickly that while southern California suited Jamie down to her pedicure, it wasn’t the town for Liv MacBride. She was sure of it halfway between the shopping expedition her aunt insisted on and the lunch at some trendy restaurant with a name she immediately forgot.

The lunch portions were stingy, the wait staff glossy enough to glow in the dark and the prices so remarkably outrageous she could do nothing but gasp.

“I had my stylist pencil in appointments later this afternoon,” Jamie began as she toyed with her field-green-and-wild-pepper salad. “Marco is a genius and an event in himself. We can squeeze in a manicure, maybe a paraffin treatment.”

“Aunt Jamie.” Olivia sampled what had been billed as the nouveau-club and was in reality two pieces of bark bread cut into tiny triangles and filled with mysterious vegetables. She wondered if anyone ate real food in L.A. “You’re trying to make a girl out of me.”

“No, I’m not.” Jamie pouted. “I’m just trying to give you a . . . well, just one girl day. You should have let me buy you that little black dress.”

“That little black dress was four thousand dollars and wouldn’t hold up through one hike.”

“Every self-respecting female needs at least one killer black dress. I say we go back for it, and the lizard sandals, the Pradas. You put those together on that fabulous body of yours, men will start diving out of windows to fall at your feet.”

Olivia shook her head, laughed. “I don’t want to be responsible for that. And I don’t need the dress, or the shoes, or the warehouse full of other things you tried to talk me into.”

“How can we be related?”

“Genetics are a tricky business.”

“I’m so glad you’re here. I’m so glad you’re not angry with me anymore.” Tears flooded her eyes, and she reached over and gripped Olivia’s hand.

“I wasn’t angry with you. Not you, not really. I’m sorry we argued.” She turned her hand over, gripped Jamie’s tight. “I was angry at Noah, which was just as useless. All those years ago, when you came up to visit and we went out into the forest that evening . . . you were honest with me. You let me be honest with you. Ever since, whenever I needed to talk about Mama, you listened. Whenever I had questions, you answered them.”

“Until you stopped asking,” Jamie murmured.

“I thought I should put it away. I thought I could. Someone who’s smarter than I gave him credit for told me that whenever you run away from something it chases after you and it always catches up. I think I’m ready to change directions.”

“It won’t be easy.”

“God, no. But I’ll be honest with you again. I want to hear what he says about that night. I want to hear Sam Tanner’s story.”

“So do I. We loved her,” Jamie said squeezing Olivia’s hand. “How could we not want to hear it for ourselves?”

“Grandma—”

“Has dealt with this in her own way, always. It doesn’t make your way wrong or your needs wrong.”

“No, it doesn’t. I guess I’m going to get in touch with Noah before I go back.”

“He’s a nice man.” Jamie’s smile changed texture, crept toward feline. “And a very attractive one.”

“I noticed. I’ve just about decided to sleep with him.”

The little sound that popped out of Jamie’s mouth was something between a grunt and a squeak. “Well. Well then. Ah . . . Listen, why don’t we blow this joint, go get a pizza and you can elaborate on that very interesting statement.”

“Great.” With relief, Olivia pushed her plate aside. “I’m starved.”

Frank was sitting in his kitchen, enjoying the single predinner light beer his wife allowed him. On a notepad, he drew circles, squiggles, exes as he toyed with a new play for the basketball team he coached.

He’d have enjoyed some potato chips or Fritos with his beer, but Celia had come across his secret stash a few days before. He still couldn’t figure out what the hell she’d been doing looking on the top shelf of the den closet, but he couldn’t ask as he’d denied knowing the sour cream and onion chips were there.

He claimed Noah had probably left them. That was his story, Frank thought as he made do with a handful of salt-free pretzels. And he was sticking to it.

When the doorbell rang, he left his beer and his doodling on the table, thinking it might be one of his players. He didn’t think it set the right tone for Coach to come to the door with a cold one in his hand.

It was a young woman, with the tall, rangy build he could have used on the court. A little too old to fit into his twelve-to-sixteen-year-old league, he thought; then images overlapped in his mind and had him grabbing for her hands.

“Liv. Livvy! My God, you’re all grown up.”

“I didn’t think you’d recognize me.” And the fact that he had, with such obvious delight, warmed her. “I’d have known you anywhere. You look just the same.”

“Never lie to a cop, even a retired one. Come in, come in.” He pulled her inside. “I wish Celia were here. She had a late-afternoon meeting. Sit down.” He fussed around the living room, picking up the newspaper, scooping a magazine off a chair. “Let me get you something to drink.”

“I’m all right. I’m fine.” There was a pressure in her chest, heavy, tight. “I told myself to call first. Then I didn’t. I just came.”

He saw the battle for composure on her face. “I’m glad you did. I knew you were grown-up, but every time I pictured you, even when I’d read your letters, I’d see a little girl.”

“I always see a hero.” She let herself go into his arms, let herself be held. And the jitters in her stomach quieted and eased. “I knew I’d feel better. I knew it would be all right, if I could see you.”

“What’s wrong, Livvy?”

“A lot of things. I’m figuring them out but—”

“Is this about Noah’s book?”

“Part of it. About that, about him. He’s your son.” She said it with a sigh and stepped back to stand on her own. “And as much as I didn’t want to, as much as I told myself I wouldn’t, I trust him to do it right. It’s going to be painful for me to talk to him, but I can do it. I will do it, in my own time. In my own way.”

“You can trust him. I don’t understand his work, but I understand Noah.”

Puzzled, she shook her head. “You don’t understand his work? How can you not understand his work? It’s brilliant.”

It was Frank’s turn for confusion. He sat on the arm of the sofa, staring at her. “I have to say, I’m surprised to hear you say that. How could you feel that, as a survivor of a murder victim?”

“And the daughter of a murderer,” she finished. “That’s exactly why. I read his first book as soon as it came out. How could I resist it with his name on the cover?” And she’d hidden it in her room like a sin. “I didn’t expect to like it.” Hadn’t wanted to, she thought. Had wanted to read it and condemn him. “I still don’t know if I can say I liked it, but I understood what he was doing. He takes the most wicked of crimes, the most horrid, the most unforgivable. And he keeps them that way.”

She waved a hand in annoyance at her own fumbling attempt to explain. “When you hear about a murder on the news, or read about it in the paper, you say, oh, how awful,
then you move on. He humanizes it, makes it real—so vividly real that you can’t say, ‘Oh, how awful,’ then slide down the pillows and go to sleep. Everyone who was involved—he strips them down to their most desperate and agonized emotions.”

That, she realized, was what she feared about him the most. That he would strip her to the soul.

“He makes them matter,” she continued. “So that what was done matters.”

She smiled a little, but her eyes were horribly sad. “So that what his father did, every day, year in and year out, matters. You’re his standard for everything that’s right and strong.”

Just, she thought, as her father was her standard for everything evil and weak.

“Livvy.” Words clogged in Frank’s throat. “You make me ashamed that I never looked close enough.”

“You just see Noah. I’m nervous about talking to him.” She pressed her hand to her stomach. “I don’t want him to know that. I want us to try to do this on equal ground. Well, not quite equal,” she corrected, and her smile steadied. “I’m going back home tomorrow, so he’ll have to deal with me on my turf. I wondered, one of the things I wanted to ask, was if you and Mrs. Brady would like to come up sometime this summer, have a couple of free weeks at the lodge on the MacBrides. We’ve made a number of improvements, and I’d love you to see my Center and . . . Oh God. I’m sorry. God.”