Sleeping Beauty (26 page)
"It's a city ordinance," Anne said, feeling some of the nervous fear subside. Maybe whatever he had to say wouldn't be so terrible after all. Could he look at her like that—like he wanted to devour her on the spot—if he was about to tell her goodbye?
"Well, I wouldn't want to break any laws," he said, easing the first button loose and starting on the next.
Anne's breath caught in her throat as he slid his hand inside the open shirt to cup her breast.
"How do you think we should spend the rest of the weekend?" he whispered, rubbing his thumb over her nipple.
"I'm sure you'll...think of something," she got out, just before she forgot how to talk.
***
Anne was measuring coffee into the filter when the doorbell rang the next morning. Startled, she spilled the second scoop of coffee onto the counter. Or was it the third? And what difference did it make, since the only person likely to be ringing her doorbell at this hour of the morning was her mother, who had undoubtedly seen Neill's car parked out front and had probably drawn some fairly accurate conclusions from its presence there at seven o'clock in the morning?
You're a grown woman,
she reminded herself as she abandoned the coffee and went to answer the door. But her fingers were shaking as she tightened the belt on her robe and she wished she'd taken time to get dressed before coming downstairs. If only she'd gotten up a little earlier or had put a little effort into resisting Neill when he'd shut off the alarm and then rolled her on top of him.
But she hadn't wanted to resist him, and she wasn't sorry he was here, and she had nothing to feel guilty about With that reminder, she pulled open the door and immediately flushed beneath the accusation in her mother's eyes.
"You're up and about early," she said, with a fair imitation of relaxed welcome. "I was just making coffee. Would you like some?"
"No, thank you." Olivia's cool blue eyes swept over her daughter, from her tousled hair to the bare feet beneath the hem of her pink cotton robe, and missing nothing in between.
Anne was immediately conscious of her rumpled state. She'd planned to run back upstairs and take a shower as soon as she got the coffee going. Even at the best of times, her mother's effortless elegance made her feel like an unmade bed. How on earth did she manage to look so polished at this hour of the morning? Ivory slacks, taupe shirt, her hair perfectly combed, her makeup perfectly applied, tasteful gold accessories. She looked like she'd just stepped out of the pages of a catalog.
"Whose car is that parked outside?" Olivia asked icily. "Or shouldn't I bother to ask?"
Before Anne could say anything, she heard Neill at the head of the stairs. It was obvious he hadn't heard the doorbell, because he was talking as he came down, raising his voice to be sure she could hear him.
"Hey, why don't you call in sick today?" he was saying as he swung around the curve in the stairway. "I'll make us some breakfast and then we can go back to—" He broke off when he saw Olivia, but the word "bed" hung in the air, as if painted in blood-red neon.
Both women had turned at the sound of his voice, and Neill stopped at the bottom of the stairs, feeling pinned by the weight of their separate gazes. Anne looked nervous, apologetic, faintly guilty. Her mother looked furiously angry.
"Mrs. Moore." He inclined his head in polite greeting and leaned one hip against the wall, the picture of indolent masculine ease. "Anne didn't mention that she was expecting you this morning."
It was a deliberate provocation. If Olivia was going to unleash her anger, he would rather it was aimed at him than at her daughter. For a moment he thought it had worked. Certainly the emotion that flashed in her eyes was blade sharp and just as lethal. But she had it under control almost immediately.
"I wasn't expecting to see you, either, Mr. Devlin but perhaps it's just as well that you're here, since what I have to say concerns you, in a way."
"Mom." Anne moved over to stand in front of Neill. She pushed her hands in her pockets to conceal their trembling, but her voice was steady. "This is really none of your business." She felt Neill's hand drop to her shoulder in silent support "I know you're concemed about me, but I'm not a child anymore, and I don't need you to—"
"Has he told you why he's here?" Olivia interrupted.
"Here in Loving?" Anne looked surprised by the question. "His bike broke down."
"Convenient, wasn't it, Mr. Devlin?"
"Not particularly." But Neill had already see the book in her hand, and he guessed what was coming next. It was his own damned fault, he thought. He should have told Anne, but he'd kept putting it off. And now her mother was going to tell her, and put it in the worst possible light. He drew his hand away from Anne's shoulder, aware of the older woman's look of sharp triumph.
"Did he tell you that he came here to do research?" Olivia asked Anne.
"I did not," Neill said sharply. "My bike broke down. End of story."
"An amazing coincidence," Olivia all but purred.
"What are you talking about?" Anne turned to look between them. She'd never seen her mother look so bitterly triumphant, had never seen Neill look so uncomfortable, almost guilty, and she didn't know which frightened her more.
"Apparently Mr. Devlin is a bit more successful than he led you to believe," Olivia said, holding out the book. Anne took it automatically and stared down at the stark red-and-black cover. The Killer Next Door by N. C. Devlin. Turning it over, she saw Neill's face staring up at her from the back cover. He was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans, standing against a background of autumn leaves and clear blue sky.
It was a wonderful photo
, she thought numbly.
"I thought you wrote articles," she said, lifting her head to give Neill a bewildered look.
"I did. I do.'' He shoved his hands in his pockets as insurance against the urge to wring her mother's neck—or maybe his own—for putting that hurt look in Anne's eyes. "I started out doing freelance work. I still do an occasional article."
"But this says that you've been on the New York Times list. So you're not...I mean, you must be very successful."
He jerked his shoulder in dismissal. "I've done okay."
"You're much too modest," Olivia said. "According to the inside cover, all four of your books have been bestsellers. But what I think is most interesting is the subject matter."
"The subject matter?" Anne felt as if she'd fallen into a play where everyone knew their lines but her. Neill and her mother both knew what was going on, but she was stumbling around in a fog.
"Mr. Devlin writes books about murders," Olivia said brightly. "Nonfiction exposes, I guess you might call them, detailing a heinous crime and exploring its effect on the victim's family. Now do you see why he's here?" When Anne only stared at her blankly, Olivia's mouth twisted in an ugly smile. "And why he cultivated a relationship with you?"
"I'm here because my bike broke down, and I've 'cultivated' a relationship with your daughter because I'm falling in love with her!"
The declaration seemed to set the older woman back for a moment, but she recovered quickly. "Isn't that convenient? Do you make it a point to fall in love with someone in the victim's family on every book you research?"
Neill took a half step toward her, violence in every line of his body. Olivia stiffened, and he took savage pleasure in the quick fear that flickered in her eyes.
"That's enough." It was Anne's voice that broke the tension. ''Both of you. That's enough."
She stared down at the book for a moment, then set it carefully on the end table beside her, before linking her hands together in front of her. When she lifted her head, her expression was perfectly still, her eyes unreadable.
"I'd like you to go now," she told her mother.
"Me?" Olivia couldn't have looked more astonished if Anne had slapped her. "Why should I go? He's the one who—"
"I want to talk to Neill," Anne said levelly. "And I'd like you to go. Please." Though she added the last word, it was clear that she was giving an order, not making a request.
"I..if you're sure. But I don't think you should—" Shock had Olivia stammering.
"But I do." Anne's mouth curved in a cool smile. "I do think I should talk to him."
"Well, I...of course, if that's what you want" Without knowing quite how it was happening, Olivia found herself moving toward the door. "If you need anything..."
"I won't." Still smiling, implacable, Anne shut the door in her mother's face. She stayed there, listening to the sound of her mother's footsteps moving off the porch, and then, a few seconds later, the protesting squeal of the gate's hinge. Behind her, she could feel Neill watching her, waiting to see how she was going to react.
That made two of them, she thought, swallowing an hysterical little laugh. She didn't know what she thought. Didn't know what she felt. She didn't know which was worse—the idea that Neill might have used her, or the icy venom with which her mother had passed on her news.
Her mother was gone, but Neill was still here, and she had to deal with one before she could face the other. Drawing a deep breath, she turned to look at him.
"Do you believe that's what this has all been about?" Neill asked, breaking the silence that had fallen in the wake of Olivia's departure.
"I don't know." Anne pulled the edges of her robe closer together and wished again that she was wearing something more substantial. It seemed like it might be easier to think clearly if she was dressed. And she wished Neill would button his shirt.
"Do you think I somehow planned meeting you at the gas station that first day?" he demanded. "Do you think this was all some elaborate plot to get close to you and pry out secrets about your sister?"
When she only stared at him with those big gray eyes, Neill strode away from her, his gut churning with a mixture of anger and fear—anger that she thought he could use her like that, fear that he might be losing her. Damn her mother for throwing the truth at her like that, making it sound like he'd plotted and planned and used her. And damn him for putting off telling her himself.
"I don't sneak, Anne," he said, speaking more quietly "I don't go undercover and try to weasel information out of a victim's family. I never lie about what I'm doing. I can't. Not if I want to get to the heart of the story."
"The heart of it?" She stared at him without comprehension. ''What kind of heart is there when an eighteen-year-old girl is hacked to pieces and then scattered along the highway like she was so much t-trash?" When her voice cracked, Neill felt his heart crack, too. He moved toward her, but she held up her hand, warding him off. ''No! Don't. Just...don't." She pressed her fingers to her lips for a moment, breathing deeply as she fought for self-control.
"Dammit, Anne, I—" He broke off, jamming his hands in his pockets and turning away. He didn't know what to say to her, didn't know what to do. Her pain was tearing him apart, and knowing that he was the cause of it only made it worse. Her mother might have been the one to deliver the blow, but he'd given her the ammunition.
"I'm trying to understand," Anne said, her voice almost steady. "I want to understand, but I don't. I don't understand why you lied to me about who you are."
"I didn't lie," he said, hating himself for grasping at such a thin straw. "I just...oh hell," He turned to face her, his eyes sharply blue. "I let you believe that I was a struggling writer because it was easier. At first I thought it wouldn't matter, because I'd be gone in a couple of days. What difference did it make if you knew I'd had a couple of bestsellers? Fame is a funny thing. It doesn't just change the person who has it, it changes the people around them. When my first book hit the Times list, I had calls from people I'd gone to summer camp with when I was twelve years old, wanting to offer me a chance-of-a-lifetime investment or wanting donations to their favorite charity, which, more often than not, happened to be them. It was like winning the damned lottery."
He jerked one shoulder irritably, as if shrugging off the memory. "I can't say I was disillusioned.
God knows, you can't write the kind of books I write and maintain many illusions. But it was irritating as hell. And it wasn't just the requests for money. If I was at a party and someone asked me what I did and I told them I was a writer, it led to an endless series of questions. What do you write? Where do you get your ideas? How do you do your research? I ended up feeling like an exhibit at the zoo. And if they recognized my name, it was worse. Then they wanted to know what Oprah was really like and just how tall was Julia Roberts, like just because I was a successful writer, I knew every damned celebrity on the planet."
Shoving his fingers through his hair, he spun away from her and stared unseeingly at the delicate china figurines that stood on the mantel. "I'm not complaining. I like being a writer, but I like being a successful writer even more. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't like seeing my name in the paper or knowing that two studios are bidding to option my next book before it's even in print. And I like the money, though I never really felt as if I was doing without before I had it. But I hate the way it makes people look at you differently."
