Shadows At Sunset (9 page)

At least, until she passed the hedgerow of tangled roses and reached the top of the path leading to the pool. There was only a sliver of moon that night, and right then it hid behind a cloud, making the path barely visible. The water looked thick and black, even though common sense told Jilly it was fine. She could no longer smell the chemicals they'd dumped in that very afternoon. No stench of chlorine—instead there was the smell of rotting vegetation.

When she reached the edge of the pool she paused, suddenly unnerved. Even up close the water was dark, threatening and impenetrable. But the air surrounding her was like a cocoon of humid heat, and if she chickened out she'd be even hotter, sweatier, more miserable.

She took a step forward, ready to dive into the water, cotton pj's and all, when the moon slid out from behind a cloud. Suddenly it was another time, another night, long ago before she'd ever been born. Just as Jilly dived, a face appeared in the water beneath her, a face from a dream. It was the face of her sister.

She screamed, but it was too late. She twisted in the air, hitting the water with a belly flop, and the water was warm, thick, fetid around her. She went under, swallowing some of the dank stuff, and then pushed herself to the surface again, swimming toward the edge with a panicked strength. It felt as if the water were full of weeds, clinging to her, wrapping around her wrists and ankles, tangling in her hair, trying to pull her under with the woman who lay beneath the water. The woman who was Rachel-Ann, and yet who wasn't. With a final burst of terror Jilly reached the side of the pool, vaulting out of it with a strength she never knew she had.

She didn't dare look back. She simply ran, screaming, up to the house, no longer caring whom she frightened, who was torn out of a deep sleep. Her sister was dead in the pool, someone had tried to kill her, and a stranger was in the house.

The lights were flooding the wide stone terrace as Jilly stumbled toward the house, and Grandmère was already standing in the doorway, with a rumpled Consuelo and Jaime beside her. Jaime had a gun, and for a brief, hysterical moment Jilly thought he looked like something out of
Viva Zapata!
with his bristly mustache and his pajamas.

“It's Rachel-Ann,” she sobbed, stumbling into the house. “She's in the pool. She's dead….”

“I don't know what you've been smoking, Jilly, but I'm right here.” Rachel-Ann moved from behind Grandmère's disapproving figure. “And you're the one who looks like a drowned rat.”

With a cry of relief Jilly threw her arms around her sister, who immediately shrieked and shoved her away. “You're alive!” Jilly cried.

“And you're cold and wet!” Rachel-Ann said.

“You saw someone in the pool, Jilly?” Grandmère demanded. “Jaime, you'd better go down and check. I can't imagine who could have gotten on the grounds—you locked the gates, didn't you? But stranger things have been known to happen. I hope to God we don't have a corpse floating in the swimming pool. This house has seen enough scandal.”

Her grandmother's prosaic tone had its usual bracing effect, but Jilly discovered she was still shivering, whether from the damp cold of her soaked clothes or the memory of that face. “She wasn't floating, Grandmère. She was lying on the bottom of the pool, trapped in the weeds.”

“There are no weeds in the swimming pool, Jilly,” Grandmère said patiently. “No bodies, either, I expect. It's simply not possible. You must have been dreaming. I want you to go upstairs, take a hot shower and get into dry clothes. I'll bring you a sleeping pill to help you calm down.”

“I don't need a pill.”

“It's that or a glass of brandy. I don't fancy having my sleep disturbed by another of my impressionable granddaughter's nightmares.”

“It wasn't a nightmare,” she said. No longer trusting her own memories. It hadn't even felt real at the time, no matter how horrifying. And yet she'd been there, in the pool. Her clothes were still wet.

“Take her upstairs, Rachel-Ann, while I check with Jaime.”

Rachel-Ann had said nothing as she took her sister's arm and half dragged her up the winding marble staircase. It wasn't until she'd shoved Jilly into the bathroom that she'd spoken. “You tell Grandmère about me and Richard and I'll never forgive you. She'd fire Consuelo, for one thing, and she'd probably kick me out of the house, as well. And I don't want to go and live with Daddy.”

“I didn't think we had that choice,” Jilly said, her teeth chattering.

Rachel-Ann looked at her strangely. “I don't know if you do,” she said, oblique as ever. “All I know is the only person who was in the pool tonight was you. Don't you think we would have noticed if anything was wrong? As far as you're concerned, you're the only person who left the house at all. Understood?”

Jilly nodded, shivering.

There was no body in the pool. Jilly made herself walk down there the next morning in the blistering heat, knowing that if she didn't go on her own her grandmother would force her. The water was crystal clear, the smell of chlorine was strong in the air. No weeds, no drowned faces, no fetid odor. If anyone had ever drowned in that pool it had happened in another lifetime, another reality.

But Jilly never went near the swimming pool again.

It came to her, though. In her dreams, she'd see her sister's drowned face, the eyes wide and staring, the mouth open in a silent cry for help. Slime-covered branches would reach out of its murky depths for her, trying to pull her in. And she'd wake up screaming, as she did this night, the sound muffled in her pillow, as she was suddenly, blindingly awake in the pitch darkness of her bedroom.

Roofus lay on the floor, whimpering in sympathetic distress, and she reached down a hand to pat him automatically, rubbing behind his ears. Coltrane had known just where to rub him, as well. She'd always thought you could trust a man who liked dogs. Obviously she'd been mistaken in that basic belief.

Alan had hated Barkus, Jilly's previous dog, and the feeling had been mutual. When Barkus had been found poisoned Jilly's husband had said all the right things, but she couldn't rid herself of the notion that Alan was secretly relieved. And once she'd accepted that fact, she knew there wasn't any way she could stay with him.

But Roofus liked Coltrane. Maybe Roofus simply didn't have any taste. Or maybe Coltrane wasn't as bad as she thought.

Two days he'd been living at La Casa de Sombras. Two nights, sleeping just down the hall from her. He'd had a bed delivered sometime today, and she'd had every intention of confronting him and demanding what right he had to start buying furniture. In the end he hadn't shown up at the house by late evening, and she'd gone to bed, deprived of her confrontation, both relieved and disappointed.

She climbed out of bed, piling her sweat-damp hair on top of her head. She wouldn't be sleeping again that night, she thought wearily. It was 2:33 in the morning, and she knew from bitter experience that the rest of the night was shot. She pushed open the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony, into the cool night air, and stared down at the grounds.

The pool was hidden by the overgrown tangle of roses. She really should do something about it, she thought again. As long as it lay there, a veritable algae farm, then it had the power to haunt her dreams. If she just had it filled in then maybe the dreams would stop. She should have gotten over it by now.

She shook her hair free, feeling it settle down around her back like a curtain. She ought to go and have it all cut off, but for some reason her father hated it. Told her she looked like a hippie chick from the sixties. And Jilly merely smiled and let her hair grow longer. She'd always told herself her father's approval or disapproval had no effect on her any longer. But she still didn't cut her hair.

She leaned on the railing, staring down across the lawn, the Spanish tiles cool beneath her bare feet. The second-floor balcony ran along the front of the house, but Rachel-Ann, with her pale, freckled complexion, eschewed sunlight, and it had always been solely Jilly's own.

She glanced down to the darkness at the end of the balcony. At least Coltrane was asleep—he wouldn't trouble her during her bouts of insomnia. And if he intruded on her privacy she'd kick him out, no matter what Dean or Rachel-Ann said.

“Can't sleep?” Coltrane murmured, far too close for comfort.

“Y
ou frightened me!” she snapped.

Coltrane moved closer. He'd heard her moving around on the balcony, known instinctively that it was Jilly and not her sister. Not
his
sister. After more than twenty-four hours the knowledge still made his head spin.

“No, I didn't frighten you,” he drawled. “Not this time. You already knew I was there. That doesn't mean I don't frighten you in general, of course. But you weren't shocked to see me.”

She didn't bother denying it. “It's two-thirty in the morning. Why should I expect to run into you?”

“Kindred spirits? I have trouble sleeping on nights like this. Maybe I'll go for a swim. I presume like all L.A. houses you have a pool….”

“Don't!” There was a ragged edge of panic in her voice, one that surprised him. Maybe he'd scared her, after all. “The pool isn't usable,” she continued in a shaky voice. “It seemed like low priority when the roof was leaking and the electricity was dangerous.”

“I could pay for a pool service.”

“No!” she said, sounding as if he'd suggested having sex with a goat. “I don't like having a pool. Besides, there's something wrong with the ground there. Some kind of toxic seepage. It would cost a fortune to have it repaired.”

He would have dropped it, except that she was so unexpectedly vehement. “Your father pays me a fortune,” he said. “I could afford it.”

“You could afford to live somewhere else.”

“But then I wouldn't be able to help you, would I? And you want my help, don't you? Much as it galls you to admit it.”

“I want your help,” she said. “With my brother. But I want you to leave my sister alone.”

Now she'd managed to surprise him. “What makes you think I'm interested in your sister?”

“Most men are. And you've been asking about her, talking about her since you first showed up here. I don't know why you're so interested, and I don't care. Leave her alone. She's fragile, and she doesn't need her life complicated right now.”

“You really do take your family responsibilities seriously, don't you? I'm not interested in sleeping with your sister.”

“Good.”

“I'm interested in sleeping with you.”

Even in the dark he could sense her reaction. He'd never had a woman hit him, though he'd deserved it more than once. Jilly Meyer might be the one to do it.

“Yeah, sure,” she drawled after a moment. “If you think that's the way to my father's heart then you're not as smart as I thought you were. Jackson doesn't give a damn who I sleep with, any more than he cares about Dean. You'd be wasting your time.”

“I don't think having sex with you would be a waste of time. I think it would be quite…pleasant.” He chose the word deliberately, knowing it would enrage her.

“Pleasant?” she practically sputtered. “I don't do things because they're pleasant.”

“Then maybe you should,” he murmured. She couldn't know how close he was to her on the night-shrouded stone balcony, or if she did, she wasn't wise enough to realize he could reach out and touch her, quite easily. “What have you got against pleasure?”

“I don't trust it. And I don't trust you,” she said sharply.

“What do you think I'm going to do to you, Jilly?”

She didn't answer, but then, he didn't expect her to. He knew exactly what she was afraid of. Being vulnerable.

He took her hand. She jerked, obviously startled, but he held on, not letting her pull away. Her hand was strong, chilled beneath his.

“I'll tell you what, Jilly. You're so worried about your fragile older sister, so concerned about your family. Why don't you sleep with me to keep me away from Rachel-Ann? You can keep me so busy I won't even look at your sister. Maybe you can even distract me enough that I'll stop doing my job at Jackson Enterprises and Dean will have to fill in, winning your father's love and approval at last. It's a small enough sacrifice, isn't it? Your body for the well-being of your family.”

“You're disgusting.”

“Actually I'm quite good. Probably a hell of a lot better than you've ever had, if Alan Dunbar is anything to go by.”

“How would you know? Did you sleep with Alan?” she retorted. She'd stopped trying to pull her hand free, but she hadn't given up fighting.

“No, but your sister did.”

“Is that the best you've got for a trump card? I already knew that. Rachel-Ann doesn't keep secrets from me.”

“Maybe she should.”

“Maybe you should let go of me. I'm not interested in having sex with you, Coltrane, no matter how talented you are in bed. I don't want to end up some pathetic, needy love slave who's so desperate for affection that she'll do anything.”

“Hey, I'm good,” he said lightly, still holding on to her. “But I'm not that good. I haven't had a love slave in years.”

“Leave me the fuck alone,” she said bitterly.

“Now that's just what I'm not going to do.” He tightened his grip on her hand and pulled her toward him in the darkness. He knew exactly how she'd respond, her other hand coming up to push him away, her hand touching the bare, hot skin of his chest so that she drew back in surprise, long enough for him to wrap her tightly against his chest, trapping her hand between them. He knew she'd try to jerk her head away when he slid his hand into her hair and tilted her face back for his kiss. And he knew she'd open her mouth for him.

What he hadn't guessed was what it would feel like. She was almost as tall as he was, her strong, ripe body wrapped in his as they stood on the terrace. Her hair was like a curtain down her back, reaching almost to her hips, and her breasts were soft and full beneath the thin layer of cotton as they pressed against his naked chest.

He hadn't known a mouth could feel like that. That a woman, an argumentative, reluctant woman could feel so hot in his arms, so incredibly right that his monumental control could start to slip. In a moment he'd be on his knees in front of her, using his mouth, and she'd let him, he knew it, even as she hated herself for it.

She wanted him, which was no real surprise. All that hostility usually came from somewhere deep inside, and it was just as likely to be sparked by attraction as anything else. What shocked him was how much he wanted her. On a deep, growling primal level that made him want to howl at the moon.

He knew how to kiss; he was quite skilled at it because he knew women liked it. But he'd never realized until that moment how much he liked it, too. He could push her against the stucco wall and kiss her for hours, quite happily. Or he could unzip his jeans, pull off her skimpy nightclothes and fuck her in the moonlight. Just lose himself in her, body and soul, so that he didn't need to think about anything but the touch and taste and scent of her, her breath in her mouth, her heart pounding against his.

But he wasn't going to do it. The only thing he wanted more than Jilly Meyer was his self-control, and he set her away from him, carefully, holding her at arm's length, wondering if she was going to hit him.

“Go away,” she said, but her voice wasn't much more than a raw whisper.

He looked at her for a long moment in the moonlight, and then he nodded. “All right.”

“I mean it. Go away. Leave this house,” she said, her voice shaking. Maybe with fury, maybe with something else.

“I'm staying and you know it,” he said.

“Then keep away from me.”

He hesitated. “We both know I won't. We both know we'll end up in bed together, sooner or later. Why fight it?”

“Because I don't want it.”

“You almost sound like you believe that.”

“You arrogant bastard, I—”

He moved swiftly, coming so close to her that she fell back against the wall. He didn't touch her this time. He didn't have to. “I'm not deluded enough to think everyone wants me. But you do.”

“I don't even like you.”

“What's that got to do with anything?”

She looked pale in the moonlight, and she closed her eyes for a moment, looking even more vulnerable. He should have felt remorse. He simply felt desire.

“Please,” she said in a weary voice.

“Open your eyes and tell me to go away, Jilly. Put your hand on my cock and then tell me to leave.”

Her eyes flew open in shock and there it was between them. Desire, lust, fierce and mutual. Too soon, he thought dazedly, but it didn't matter. She was looking at him with a wary intensity that was going to lead them straight to her swan-shaped bed, and he was going to screw her senseless at the scene of a murder, and none of it mattered. All that mattered was the creamy warmth of her skin, the sweet taste of her mouth, the fact that all he had to do was reach out and take her….

“Jilly?” The glass door behind him swung open, and Rachel-Ann stepped onto the terrace. “What's going on out here?”

He'd stepped back, automatically, and the moment between them had vanished. It wasn't going to be tonight, after all.

As if nothing had happened, Jilly laughed lightly. “Nothing, Rachel-Ann. Coltrane and I were just talking about…the pool.” The hesitation in her voice was almost imperceptible.

Rachel-Ann moved closer, glancing up at him with decidedly frank interest. “That goddamn pool. I don't know why you don't do something about it. You've never gotten over that time when you were fifteen—”

“I don't want to talk about it!” Jilly said quickly.

Fascinating, he thought. Something about the pool. The first free time he had he was going to have to go for a little stroll around the grounds, see what there was about an overgrown swimming pool to inspire such fear. “I'd better turn in,” he said with an extravagant yawn. “I've got a full day's work tomorrow. Thanks for keeping me company,” he said lightly.

Rachel-Ann moved past them to the railing, and Jilly glared at him behind her back. In response he mouthed a kiss at her, unable to resist the temptation.

“Good night, Coltrane,” Rachel-Ann said calmly, keeping her back to him.

“Night, ladies.”

He wasn't under any foolish impression that Rachel-Ann had just happened to wake up and come out onto the balcony. He went back into his bedroom, closing the French doors noisily behind him, then silently opening one just a crack so that he could hear the sisters talking.

“Are you out of your mind?” Rachel-Ann said flatly.

“Sssh. He'll hear you.”

“No, he won't. He's gone to bed, and trust me, you can't hear anything from that far room. God knows I've tried. What were you doing with him? In another minute I thought you were about to do the nasty.”

“Lovely way to put it.”

“Would you prefer ‘getting your brains fucked out'? He looks capable of it. Which would make him more my type than yours. You prefer them respectful and civilized, don't you? Coltrane's a little too
muy hombre,
if you know what I mean. I don't think you can handle him.”

“Keep away from him, Rachel-Ann.” Jilly's voice was different when he wasn't around, he thought, resting his forehead against the cool pane of glass. Softer, more vulnerable. “You know he'd be the worst thing in the world for you.”

“And when have I ever let that stop me?” Rachel-Ann's self-mockery was chilling. “I had a sudden ghastly thought. Please don't tell me you're throwing yourself at the man to save me. It won't do any good. You know I'll take him if I want him, and your sacrifice will be for nothing.”

“I'm not that noble,” Jilly said wryly.

“Aren't you?” Rachel-Ann mused. “He's very good-looking. Maybe you've just decided it might be fun to play with the bad boys for a change. I can't say I blame you, but I don't think you're quite up to the game. Someone like Coltrane would eat you whole.”

Just what he had in mind, Coltrane thought. Starting at her toes and moving up, slowly, lick by lick….

“Rachel-Ann, you're jumping to conclusions,” Jilly said wearily. “We were just out here talking. He's not really interested in me at all.”

“Not really? As in, he's pretending he's interested? This sounds worse and worse. You've got it backward, little sister. I'm the one who does self-destructive things, sleeps with the wrong men, makes a mess out of my life. Not you.”

“What do you consider my marriage to Alan?”

“An aberration,” she said flatly. “You're too smart to make that same mistake over again.”

Silence, and he strained closer to listen. “Would it be the same mistake?” Jilly asked in a very soft voice.

“Not the same. Far worse. Alan's a prick, and a not very adept one at that. Coltrane strikes me as a man who knows how to please women. He could break your heart.”