Shadows At Sunset (20 page)

She didn't wake up. She simply snuggled into the bed with a deep, peaceful sigh.

He pulled a sheet over her. And then, on impulse, he leaned down and kissed her, softly, on her mouth. For a moment her lips clung to his, and her hand lifted to touch him, then fell back to her side as she slept on.

He stepped back, staring down at her for a long, thoughtful moment. And then he turned and left her, closing the door behind him.

 

“Isn't that the sweetest thing you've ever seen?” Brenda said from her perch on Jilly's dresser.

“Adorable,” Ted grumbled. “The man's a fool.”

“Oh, don't be so…so manly about it. That's the most romantic thing I've ever seen. He'd rather deny himself and walk away than hurt her.”

“Don't start believing in your own movies, Brenda. You used to laugh at them yourself. He's a dope. She's crazy about him, he's in love with her, and yet he's being all noble and leaving her. He's a fathead.”

Brenda didn't bother to deny it. “You think he's in love with her? I wasn't quite sure about that. Oh, I know she loves him. Typical, when there have been any number of more respectable men available, that she'd fall for a con man, but I can't say I blame her. He is gorgeous.”

“Harrumph.”

“Don't be jealous, sweetie. I wouldn't want him even if I could have him. I'm just enjoying the movie. Here we've got the gorgeous, tormented hero, determined to do the right thing, and then we have the feisty, wounded heroine, who'd much rather he do the wrong thing and stay with her. I think it's more a romantic comedy than a weeper.”

“Most of those weepers were pretty funny,” Ted said wryly.

“Pig,” she said cheerfully. “So what are we going to do about these two? Let them screw up their lives? Walk away when they clearly belong together?”

“You're such a romantic, honeybunch. What makes you think people belong together? Maybe if these two don't hook up they'll find someone else in a month or so who'll be just as compatible.”

Brenda was silent for a long moment. “Don't you believe in soul mates?” she asked.

“For the rare, lucky ones, I do. For you and me. I'm not convinced these people are worthy of the kind of eternal love you and I have.”

“Eternal love,” she said in a hollow voice. “Are you sure you believe it for us?”

He lifted her down off the dresser. She was a small woman, and he was a big man, and he lifted her as lightly as if she weighed nothing. Which she supposed was, in fact, true.

“I wouldn't change a thing about us, darling,” he said. “We were meant to be.”

She wanted to believe him, oh, so desperately. But he didn't know everything, and that knowledge ate away at her. She wasn't ready to deal with it. “What about them?” she said. “What if they were meant to be?”

“Then they'd better get busy doing something about it. Come on, darling. It's almost dawn. We need to settle down for our Sunday siesta. Let these poor fools work out their own future. We've interfered enough for one day.”

Brenda took one last look at the woman sleeping alone in her huge bed. She'd never shared that bed with anyone but Roofus, and Brenda knew better than anyone the pleasure that could be had in that bed.

Jilly deserved to share it with someone she loved. But Brenda knew all too well, you don't always get what you deserve in this life.

Or the next.

“W
hat the hell are you doing here?” Jackson demanded, his voice tight with fury.

“I work here, remember,” Coltrane said with deceptive ease.

“Not at four-thirty in the morning you don't.” Jackson had his laptop open on his desk, and when Coltrane had strolled in he'd been so caught up in whatever he was doing that he hadn't even heard him.

“Looks like the place has been burglarized,” Coltrane said, glancing at the chaos around him. Files were strewn all over the room, a credenza had been toppled, and Meyer was still furiously tapping away at the keyboard of his computer.

“Get the hell out of here, Coltrane. I've got enough on my plate without putting up with your bullshit. You were supposed to protect me. You were supposed to make sure no one could get to me. I've spent thirty-five years doing business with no one interfering, and your job was to see that continued. Now the Justice Department has me under investigation, my wife's lawyers are getting ready to pounce, and someone's been tampering with my private files. What the fuck is going on here?”

“Maybe your luck has run out, boss,” Coltrane said, taking one of the leather chairs opposite him and sitting down without waiting to be asked. He had a hell of a headache, his hand was throbbing, and yet he felt almost unnaturally calm. It was all falling into place, just as he'd planned. So why wasn't he feeling more satisfied?

Meyer looked up from the computer screen. “What the hell happened to your head?” he said, frowning.

“I hit it when I passed out in the emergency room. The sight of blood tends to do that to me. Unmanly, I know, but we all have our weaknesses.”

Meyer's eyes narrowed. “Whose blood?”

“Your daughter's.” He said it deliberately, just to get a reaction. He got one.

Meyer turned pale. “Rachel-Ann?” he said hoarsely.

“No. No one's seen her since she took off. Jilly got cut by the glass from the broken coffee table.”

Meyer shrugged, turning his attention back to the computer. Deleting files, no doubt.

“Is she really your daughter?”

Meyer's reaction was even better this time. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You don't seem to give a damn about Jilly. I just wondered if maybe her mother played around on you or something. Most parents have at least a trace of paternal feeling.”

Jackson's chuckle was humorless. “Hell, yes, she's mine. Looks a lot like my grandmother when she was young. Edith didn't have the nerve to play around on me. It still surprises me that she thought she could leave and take my children.”

“And you care so much about your children?” Coltrane asked.

“Not particularly. Rachel-Ann was all I needed, but Edith wanted more. It didn't matter one way or the other to me, and it kept her off my back and occupied. I'm not a man to let sentiment get in my way. I thought you knew me better than that, Coltrane. Why would you think I'd give a damn about someone I happened to father? I wasn't around when they were growing up, they aren't the slightest bit like me.”

“Then why do you care about Rachel-Ann?” He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear the answer. Whether Meyer was fooling himself as he tried to fool everyone else.

Meyer shrugged. “Just goes to show that blood ties are bullshit. She's my perfect soul mate and always has been.”

“Soul mate?” Coltrane repeated in disbelief. “Have you been reading cheesy romance novels? I'm not even sure if you have a soul, much less a soul mate.”

“Watch it, Coltrane. Don't get in my way,” he growled. “I'll crush you. I've crushed stronger men than you in the past, and I don't have any qualms about doing it to you. I'll bury you.”

“How many people have you buried, Meyer?”

Meyer didn't even blink. “Don't call my bluff, Coltrane. You have no idea what I'm capable of.”

“I wouldn't be so sure of that. I've never underestimated you, boss.”

Meyer stared at him for a long, thoughtful moment. “That's why I chose you, Coltrane,” he said finally. “Deep down, you're just like me. Ruthless, cold, practical. You can get the job done, no matter what the price, and you don't let the petty laws of little men get in the way. Am I right?”

Was he? Was he just like Meyer, deep inside? Just as cold and ruthless, ready to sacrifice anyone for his quest? Anyone like Jilly Meyer or even his own sister? It was uncomfortably close to the truth.

“Right, boss,” he said easily, giving no hint at the disgust Meyer's words had engendered.

“And you can do one more thing for me, can't you? I'll make it worth your while, you know I will. At this point you're the only one I can trust. My son's a weakling, but at least he didn't use to be troubled with ridiculous scruples. God knows who he thinks he is to pass judgment on me, the little bastard. He seems to have developed a conscience of late, but I'm sure I can acquit you of providing a moral influence.”

“I think we can safely agree on that.”

“So I'm getting out. Not just out of my marriage. Out of the business, out of the country. This has been in the works for quite a while—a wise man always keeps an escape hatch ready. I've done all I can do here, accomplished what I wanted to. Now's the time to retire, while I'm still a young man.”

You're sixty-three, Meyer,
Coltrane thought.
I wouldn't call that particularly young.
But he didn't say a word.

“I don't trust many people,” Meyer continued. “But I trust you, Coltrane. Can I count on you?”

Meyer didn't trust anybody, including him, but he was adept at convincing people they mattered. If they had something to offer, that is. Coltrane wondered why he never bothered with Jilly, who had more to offer than all of them put together.

He had to stop thinking about her. After today he wasn't going to see her again. He just needed to put a few thousand miles between them, and he'd forget all about her.

“You can count on me, Jackson,” Coltrane said. “What do you want me to do?”

“You can bring me Rachel-Ann.”

 

It was dawn when he returned to La Casa. The sun was coming up over the lawn, fingers of pale lavender reaching out to touch the facade of the house. Neither Dean nor Rachel-Ann had returned home, and Jilly must still be completely zonked out, thank God.

He started up the steps to the terrace, then at the last minute changed his mind and turned around. He'd be gone from this place soon enough—he wanted to wander around one last time and see if anything jogged his memory. He had no idea how young he'd been when he first lived here—probably only two or three. He didn't remember his mother being pregnant, and Rachel-Ann was only a few years younger than he was. Maybe he just hadn't noticed his mother's rounded belly.

He walked down the gravel path, past the towering palm trees and tangled undergrowth. It really was odd to see vegetation grow wild like this in Los Angeles, where yard workers were plentiful and affordable. But then, Jilly paid the bills, and as far as he could tell she never ventured off the patio. There was something she didn't like about the grounds.

Then he remembered her reaction to his mention of the pool. Something about the pool bothered her, enough so that she let the landscaping grow up around it and practically obscure it, enough so that in the land where the climate cried out for a swimming pool, she kept it unusable. He wondered why.

It was simple enough to find. Even with the overgrown pathways the smell of rotting algae was easy to trace. He could see the roof of the pool house, half caved in, before he came to the actual pool itself.

It was surprisingly small, only about half full of dank, black water and some kind of plant life, and it looked as if it had been abandoned decades ago. The tile around the edges was cracked and discolored, and weeds grew up in the cracks. The diving board was long gone, the steps leading down into the pool were rusted, with a rung missing. It looked derelict and depressing. It was no wonder Jilly kept her distance. That the entire family kept their distance.

He walked forward, staring down into the murky depths. Even though there was only about three feet of water in the pool he couldn't see the bottom, which was probably a good thing. From the smell of the place there might very well be some decomposing wildlife in there, as well.

A shiver ran across his backbone. Maybe as a going-away present he'd pay for a bulldozer to come in and demolish this cesspit. It was the least he could do for Jilly—after destroying her family he could give her that much.

The wind had picked up, swirling dust into the air, and Coltrane grimaced. He'd be glad to be out of this town. There was usually nothing he liked more than a good storm, but the wind in L.A. made his hackles rise.

There were a few lights still on in the shadowy interior of La Casa, and he switched them off as he went, plunging the place into a predawn gloom. It suited his mood. He climbed the stairs slowly, silently. Jilly wouldn't be likely to wake up, but he didn't want to risk it. He'd walked away from her once. There was a limit to how goddamn noble he could be.

He didn't even glance at her door as he walked past, determined to put temptation out of his head. Now that he'd made up his mind not to touch her again, not to hurt her, he wanted her more than ever. Must be human nature. The more off-limits something was, the more you wanted it.

Which brought him back to Meyer, and his stomach knotted in disgust. Meyer wanted Rachel-Ann, his own daughter, and it wasn't to act as hostess for him while he lived the life of a wealthy fugitive.

And Coltrane, far too much like his nemesis, wanted Jilly, when to touch her would destroy her.

Meyer was right—they were too damned much alike. Ruthless, amoral, out for their own agenda. It didn't matter that Coltrane wanted truth and justice and Meyer wanted money and power. They still shared the same merciless approach to getting what they wanted. And an hour ago Coltrane had looked into Meyer's eyes and seen himself reflected.

He was getting the hell out of La Casa, out of Los Angeles, before he lost whatever trace of decency he had left in him. He had no idea where he was heading, only that he had to get out of there.

But he had to finish off Meyer before he went. Or Rachel-Ann would never be safe.

It was no longer justice, it was no longer revenge. It was much simpler than that. His arrival in L.A. had set too many things in motion. He needed to salvage what he could.

He packed, throwing his clothes in his suitcase with a total lack of respect for their price tags or labels. The sun was just coming up over the edge of the trees when he heard the noise. A soft, slightly shuffling sound, and his blood froze.

The ghosts, he thought, knowing that he didn't believe in them. Knowing they were coming, anyway. Moving slowly, almost silently, only the faint, whispery sound announcing their approach.

He was too damned tired to think straight. He could hear a clicking sound—
click click, click click
—and he moved toward the French doors instinctively. Rachel-Ann wasn't even there—she was safe from them. And Jilly couldn't even see them—they'd wish her no harm.

But he deserved any kind of punishment he could get, in this world or the next, and he waited as the door slowly opened into the room, ready to face the walking dead.

Roofus leapt toward him in canine delight, his paws clicking on the marble floor. Behind him came Jilly, moving gingerly on her bandaged feet. Coltrane looked at the two of them and almost wished they'd been ghosts.

Jilly halted just inside the room. The pain pills must have been weaker than he thought, because she looked wide-awake. She'd changed out of her bloodstained clothes into what she probably thought wasn't provocative. On most people a baggy T-shirt and jeans wouldn't have been arousing. Right now all Jilly had to do was breathe and he was aroused.

Her hair was hanging loose, down around her hips in a dark curtain, and her face was pale in the murky light of dawn. She looked at the suitcase on the bed, then glanced up at him. “You're leaving?” she said in an even voice.

“I told you I was.”

“Why? Don't you want to cause more trouble?”

“What I love most about you, Jillian Meyer, is your sweet nature,” he said wryly. “I'm getting out before I make things worse. I've got a couple of things to take care of and then you never have to see me again. Count your blessings.”

“I don't want you to go,” she said flatly. “I need your help.”

He looked at her, not bothering to hide his shock. “You need my help?” he echoed in disbelief. “Strong, powerful Jillian, ruler of the universe, protector of the weak, defender of the family, needs the help of a snake like me? I thought you could do everything.”

She limped across the room, over to the bed and sat down beside his suitcase. There wasn't any other place to sit in the derelict room, and her feet had to be hurting. But seeing her sitting on his bed unnerved him.