Shadows At Sunset (6 page)

She turned on The Weather Channel, her constant companion, stripped off her clothes and lay down on the twin bed. Jilly had removed her old, king-size one when she was in treatment last time, which was a good thing. Too many memories in that bed, too many men. And too much blood.

She looked down at the scars on her wrists. Three different sets—you'd think she'd finally learn to get it right, she thought. Her father wanted her to have plastic surgery to cover the marks, but she'd stubbornly refused. A major victory, since she seldom refused Jackson Meyer anything. But she liked her scars. To her they weren't a sign of defeat, but of victory, a part of who and what she was and what she'd survived. She couldn't imagine wanting to get rid of them. She only hoped she wouldn't come to the point where she had to add to them.

The hurricane season was in full force, and The Weather Channel reporters were speaking in hushed, awe-filled tones about the devastating force of Hurricane Darla. Stupid name for a hurricane—it made her think of
The Little Rascals,
that old black and white serial with the precocious children.

She lay on the bed and watched, rapt. She had no cash, but her credit cards had been paid up. She could get a cash advance, take a plane and fly to the middle of the hurricane. She'd never experienced that kind of storm, wind and rain lashing all around, the sea climbing higher and higher, taking everything in its wake. She wanted to be there, naked, arms outstretched to the heavens, letting the storm howl around her.

But she was too tired to go anywhere.

Tired of meetings, where everyone talked in platitudes that made no sense. Let go and let God. What if there was no God? Or if God found you so unworthy He'd abandoned you years ago, and there was no way you could find your way back? The God of Rachel-Ann's childhood was Catholic, inflexible and unforgiving, and she had too many mortal sins on her soul to ever hope for comfort.

It didn't help that she'd seen Skye at the meeting tonight, looking disgustingly happy. She'd been in detox with her some five years ago, and she'd known immediately that Skye wouldn't make it. She'd overdose the next time, or the time after that.

But the Skye at the meeting had been clean and sober for five years—unless she'd lied, she'd never had a slip since that time in the hospital. And Rachel-Ann had been back in three times.

It wasn't that she was competitive. She was truly, deeply happy for Skye. Skye looked years older, but the lines around her eyes were from laughter and sunlight, not from squinting through the smoke in dark bars. If someone as strung out as Skye could make it, what the hell was Rachel-Ann still doing, bouncing from hospital to home to clubs and back again, on a never-ending cycle?

She glanced at the television screen, watching as the wind whipped pine trees and traffic lights in the torrential rain, and she closed her eyes, burying her face in the pillow. She could still taste the pizza, and she wondered whether she ought to go into her bathroom and make herself throw up. She hadn't been bulimic in ten years, but maybe that was a better problem to deal with than addiction.

No, the pizza was too good to waste. And what about the man who'd ordered it? Did she need a new man in her life, someone to distract her from her cravings? Someone to think about, dream about, be young and silly and giddy with as she hadn't been in what seemed like most of her life?

She'd started noticing the men at the meetings. Or at least one man in particular. The dark one, probably Mexican, with the rumpled clothes and the handsome, weary face. Not that it did her any good. As far as she could see, AA was full of rules. One of which was no major changes in your first year of sobriety. No new lover, no new job, no new life. If she had to have a year of sobriety before she had sex again then she might as well enter a convent.

At least Coltrane wouldn't know the rules. Somehow Rachel-Ann got the feeling that Jilly wouldn't be too happy about it if she went for Coltrane, which surprised her. Jilly was almost virginal when it came to men—and Alan Dunbar hadn't made things any better. Alan was a shit, a gorgeous, romantic, egotistical, uncaring shit. Much more Rachel-Ann's type than Jilly's. And while he was energetic enough in his lovemaking, it was performance art, devoid of any kind of caring or communication. Which had suited Rachel-Ann just fine, but left Jilly feeling empty and used.

Rachel-Ann had no idea whether Jilly knew at the time that she and Alan had been having an affair through most of her sister's short-lived marriage, though she knew now. Rachel-Ann had told her, repentant. If frenzied quickies, spiced with the thrill of almost getting caught, could be called an affair. And Jilly had forgiven her, because she loved her unconditionally. She was the one person who did.

So maybe Rachel-Ann would keep her hands off Coltrane, even if he was as cold-bloodedly gorgeous as Dean said he was. Jilly would have enough sense not to want him, but for some reason Rachel-Ann got the very strong impression that her sister didn't want anyone else to have him, either.

So be it. Small enough penance for the crime of sleeping with Jilly's husband.

Besides, it was probably moot. Jilly had said if she had her way Coltrane wouldn't be coming back to La Casa. And Jilly was notoriously stubborn.

It would be a cold day in hell before Jackson's pet lawyer set foot on La Casa property again.

B
y the time Jilly arrived home from work the next afternoon Coltrane had already moved into La Casa de Sombras. She'd kicked off her shoes, shaken her long hair free and grabbed an iced tea from the refrigerator, pausing a moment to stare into the suddenly replenished depths. And with sudden dread she knew what had happened, even before she went out on the terrace to find Dean, immaculate in white linen, laughing uproariously at something Coltrane had said.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded abruptly, not even bothering with a greeting.

Dean frowned at her, his blandly handsome face creased with disapproval. His thinning blond hair was swept back off his high forehead, and he looked like the clever dilettante that he was. “Where are your manners, darling? Coltrane's living here.”

The pit of her stomach felt like ice. Dean was fairly cavalier about his relationships, equally involved with both women and men, and she'd known he'd found Coltrane attractive, but she'd assumed Coltrane wasn't interested. It shouldn't matter, but it did. Desperately.

She sat down in a chair, abruptly, hoping they wouldn't notice how shaken she was. Coltrane was watching her, an enigmatic expression on his face. “I didn't realize you two were a couple,” she said finally in what she hoped was a breezy voice.

Dean looked amused rather than offended, fully past his sulks. “We're not, darling. Coltrane's town house had a fire and Jackson suggested we had more than enough room to put him up for a few weeks until his place gets repaired. Surely you couldn't have any objections.”

Surely she could. Ignoring the wash of relief that spread through her, she met Dean's eyes, ignoring Coltrane. “We may have room, Dean, but this place is falling to pieces. I don't think any of the empty rooms are habitable.”

“He's already moved into the room at the far end of the hallway. The one that looks like it's underwater.”

“The Sea-moss Room,” Jilly said flatly. “There's a reason for it looking like that—the roof leaks in three places.”

“It never rains in L.A., Jilly. If it does he can always come down and bunk with me.” Dean cast a lazy glance in Coltrane's direction.

“I don't think it's a good idea. Jackson must pay him enough that he can rent a place on his own….”

“Jackson does pay him enough,” Coltrane said in his deep voice. “But since Dean and I are going to be working closely on several important legal projects this seemed like a reasonable solution.”

“And it's just as much my house as it is yours, Jilly,” Dean added in a languid voice. “I don't see why you should get to say who stays here. You're the one who's always complaining about money. Coltrane can help. And I expect Rachel-Ann would agree with me. I was telling Coltrane all about her, and he's completely fascinated.”

Rachel-Ann again. That sense of unease built once more, and Jilly sat very still, considering it. Why did the thought of Rachel-Ann and Coltrane bother her, as much as the thought of Coltrane and Dean? Was she jealous? Was she self-destructive enough to actually be attracted to a man like him? She'd learned to keep her distance from charming sharks like Coltrane—surely she wasn't going to lose her self-control now. Hadn't she learned her lesson with Alan?

Except that Coltrane was no Alan Dunbar. He was far more dangerous. “Rachel-Ann doesn't need to get involved with anyone right now,” she said in a cool voice.

“Don't you think that's up to her, darling? And what is it to you?”

Typical of Dean to draw her into such an awkward conversation, while Coltrane watched and listened. She turned to him, a bland, polite expression on her face. “Wouldn't you be more comfortable in some place a little more…modern?” she asked, grasping at straws.

“I like it here. It has character. And, of course, I plan to contribute financially.”

“I don't need your money.”

“I thought the roof leaked.”

“I doubt you're willing to front me that much.”

“You never know. I can be very generous.”

He had such green eyes, such very dangerous green eyes. Those eyes were oddly familiar, and yet she'd never been involved with a green-eyed man before.

And wasn't now, she reminded herself sharply.

“Besides,” he added, “I told you, I've had to turn over some important clients to Dean, and it would be good if I was available if he had questions. I don't think you'd have a problem with that, would you?”

He knew he'd gotten her, and there was nothing she could do. He'd given her what she wanted—a chance for Dean to win Jackson's love and approval. Well, perhaps that was going too far—Jackson wasn't ever going to shower affection and approval on any of his children but Rachel-Ann. Nevertheless, Dean could earn Jackson's attention and respect, instead of being shuffled aside for a golden protégé like Coltrane.

“I don't know why you're being so crabby, Jilly,” Dean added. “It's not like we haven't had all sorts of people staying here over the years. The place is huge, even if it's an eyesore.”

“It's beautiful!” Jilly protested.

“It ought to be bulldozed and you know it. But then, if it were up to you you'd save every tumbledown shack that had ever been built in the San Fernando Valley. I don't know where you get your sentimental streak—it certainly isn't from our father. Maybe you take after Edith, after all.”

“There's nothing wrong with that.” She rose to the bait. “Our mother was a good woman. You just don't remember her very well….”

“How could I? She died when I was eight, and before that she was never around. She never could stand up to Jackson, but then, who could? It's past history, Jilly.”

“Let's not do this, Dean,” she said wearily. “Not in front of company.”

“Oh, just consider me part of the family,” Coltrane offered.

“I'm going to get another drink,” Dean said, rising abruptly. “You want one, Zack?”

“No, thanks.” Coltrane watched as Dean disappeared into the house, leaving the two of them together, alone on the terrace. Then he turned to look at her. “So don't mince words. What have you got against my living here? I promise, I'm relatively harmless.”

She allowed herself a hoot of laughter. “I don't know if you manage to convince other people of that, but you're not going to convince me. I grew up with Jackson as my father—I know a snake when I see one.”

“You think I'm like Jackson?” He didn't like that—she could see it quite plainly.

“Ruthless, ambitious, capable of cold-blooded charm when you need it. Yup, I'd say you're exactly like Jackson Meyer. It's no wonder he's chosen you as his protégé over his own son. After all, most men want someone in their own image to carry on. I'm afraid he failed with me and Dean and Rachel-Ann, so now he's gone on to looking outside his little family for validation. But you're smart enough to know that, aren't you? I wouldn't ever make the mistake of underestimating you.” She stopped, half shocked at herself. She'd been taught to shield herself with a veneer of politeness, but somehow Coltrane had managed to shatter it without making an effort.

“I really get under your skin, don't I?” he said after a long moment, seemingly unaffected by her hostility. “Why do you suppose that is?”

“You threaten everything I care about. You threaten my brother, you're far too interested in my sister when what she needs is peace and quiet, and you—you bother me. Now you've invaded my house, as well, so there's no escaping you.”

“My house?” he echoed. “I thought it belonged to all three of you. At least for now.”

“It does,” she said, ignoring the stab of guilt. Just because she was the only one who loved it, the only one who took care of it, didn't make her the only one who owned it. As Dean had just reminded her. And in the end, if they ever left it, it would revert to Meyer, who'd have it razed in the blink of an eye.

“So, how do we work out a truce, Jilly?” Coltrane asked lazily. “This is a big house—you might not even know I'm here.”

“I'd know.”

“Why? Why do I bother you? Or is it more like ‘hot and bothered'?”

“Don't flatter yourself, Coltrane,” she snapped. “You're not my type.”

“True enough. I'm not a long-haired pretentious son of a bitch like Alan Dunbar, now am I?”

“No, you're a bleached blond rapacious son of a bitch,” she shot back. “And you shouldn't take my father's opinion of my ex-husband as gospel.”

“I don't. I've dealt with your ex on any number of occasions. Every time he tries to get more money out of Meyer.”

It felt like a punch in the stomach. She'd been divorced from Alan for two and a half years, and Coltrane had only been in town half that time. It was a pain she thought she was over. No longer the pain of betrayal, it was now merely the pain of her own needy stupidity. “I hope you make sure he doesn't get any,” she said in a deceptively cool voice.

“Depends what kind of evidence he has. I can't say much for your taste in men. You might consider bleached blond rapacious sons of bitches for a change of pace.”

“I don't think so.”

“Don't think what?” Dean was back, handing a tall glass to Coltrane before he took his seat opposite. “What did I miss?”

“Jilly and me coming to a peaceful agreement,” Coltrane said. “As long as I keep out of her hair she'll let me stay.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Don't be ridiculous, Coltrane. This is a democracy, even if Jilly's the alpha wolf in our little pack. I say you can stay and so will Rachel-Ann. Even if she disagrees, Jilly's opinion should be immaterial.”

“If I were you, Dean, I wouldn't ever make the mistake of thinking Jilly's opinion didn't matter,” Coltrane said softly.

He made her absolutely crazy, Jilly thought with sudden despair. Maybe she'd throw herself on Jackson's mercy to get him out of there.

Except that Jackson didn't have any mercy; she'd learned that the hard way. It was all moot, anyway—Rachel-Ann would come home and Coltrane would be smitten, and apart from the occasional nauseating displays of affection followed by screaming fights, he'd no longer be her problem. Not until Rachel-Ann freaked out and started drinking and using again.

“Speaking of alpha wolves, you haven't heard from the vet, have you?” She changed the subject to one of more import.

“Oh, yeah,” Dean said. “You can pick Roofus up any time. Though I think the office is closed by now.”

Jilly resisted the impulse to throw her iced tea at him. “When did they call?”

“Yesterday. You should have asked.”

She glared at him. “Maybe someone's still there.” She rose, pushing the old iron chair away from her, making a shrieking noise on the old flagstones.

“Who's Roofus?” Coltrane asked idly.

“Her damned huge dog, that's who. You'll be as unobtrusive as a ghost compared to that great galumphing beast.”

“But then, I gather your ghosts aren't that unobtrusive, are they?” Coltrane said. “What was wrong with the dog? Getting him fixed?”

Dean snorted in brotherly amusement. “You know Jilly pretty well already, don't you?”

She let the ornate metal screen door slam behind her as she went in search of a telephone, cursing all men under her breath.

For once fate was on her side. Dr. Parker's office was still open, and when she got there, Roofus was gloriously happy to see her, slobbering over her with great affection before bounding into the front seat of the Corvette.

Dean's disdain was probably as much for Roofus's lineage as his size. A probable cross between an Old English sheepdog and a Saint Bernard, with perhaps some other errant canine strains mixed in, Roofus was huge, shaggy, cheerful and enthusiastic. He shed like mad, drooled and growled at Dean at regular intervals. Dean refused to allow him into his spartan quarters and Roofus refused to enter them. Unless he happened to have muddy paws.

Despite Dean's insistence, Roofus was a very intelligent dog.

The Range Rover was gone when she pulled back up to the house, and she breathed a sigh of relief. It was too much to hope Coltrane had taken the hint and left. It had been more than a hint, actually, she admitted to herself. It had been outright hostility. Something she was going to have to deal with if he was really going to stay with them for any length of time. She couldn't live in an armed camp.

Roofus leapt out of the car, happily marking everything in sight, paying particular attention to the tires of Dean's Lexus. And then he was off, making cheerful barking noises as he scouted the property, looking for rodent intruders.

By the time Jilly had fed him and herself the night had closed in around the old house like a velvet wrap. She sat at the scarred old kitchen table, which had once seen the makings of feasts for movie stars, and ate cold pizza and iced tea, while Roofus lay happily at her feet. The faint trickles of anxiety were still gnawing at her stomach, and she went back over the day in a vain effort to calm herself. It was an old trick, one she'd learned in school, where she'd lie in bed and look ahead to the next day and try to guess where disaster lurked. Which teacher would pounce, which would discover she hadn't done her homework, which friend would be angry with her.