Shadows at Sunset Page 11

  “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.”

  “Not likely,” Jilly said.

  “Likely,” Rachel-Ann corrected her. “Keep away from him, Jilly. I will if you will. Leave him for Dean.”

  “I don’t think he’s interested in Dean.”

  “Then let him figure out some other way to get what he wants. And he wants something, have no doubt about that. Don’t let him use you. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. It doesn’t feel good, and I don’t want it to happen to you. Promise me.”

  “Promise you what?”

  He heard Rachel-Ann’s deep sigh. “I won’t ask you to promise not to sleep with him. I know human nature, and I know you, sometimes better than you know yourself. That would just make him irresistible. Sleep with him if you want. As far as I know you haven’t had a man since Alan, and I can tell you from experience he wasn’t very good.”

  “Thanks for sharing,” Jilly said dryly.

  “Oh, no, dear, thank you for sharing.” Rachel-Ann said with a rough laugh. “God, I shouldn’t be making jokes about it. Have I told you how sorry—?”

  “We don’t need to talk about it, love. It’s past.”

  “I don’t want to see you get your heart broken.”

  “Alan didn’t break my heart.”

  “But Coltrane could. If you let him. Don’t.”

  Coltrane pushed the door shut silently, moving away. For some reason he didn’t want to hear any more. He’d found out enough. Jilly was as vulnerable as he thought she was. And if he was as big a bastard as he prided himself on being he could manipulate Rachel-Ann without sleeping with her.

  But he wasn’t quite sure if he really was that big of a bastard. Could he deliberately cause pain to his sister, someone who’d battled more than a few demons already, even if all he shared with her was bloodlines? Jilly Meyer was another matter—he owed her nothing, and if she provided him a way to get to Jackson then he’d take it, take her.

  Hell, maybe he’d just take her, anyway, whether he had a good reason or not. Maybe wanting her was reason enough.

  He had to remember why he was there. To bring Jackson Meyer down. But first he wanted answers. He wanted to know how he ended up with a sister he’d never known about. It didn’t take much to guess who her father was—Jackson Meyer’s adopted daughter was as much the old man’s blood as Jilly and Dean were.

  The question was, what was Coltrane going to do about it?

  Right now he was going to sleep. He was going to stretch out on his brand-new bed, all alone, and try not to think about anything. Particularly not about Jilly Meyer’s soft, sweet mouth. And what he could talk her into doing with it.

  “We’re going to have to get rid of him. I don’t like what he’s doing to our girls.”

  “Honeybunch, they’re not our girls,” Ted corrected her patiently.

  “We’ve watched them since they were children. They feel like my daughters, and since neither of us had any children there’s no reason why I can’t think of them as mine. After all, their mother is dead,” Brenda said in a cranky voice.

  “So are we, my sweet.”

  Brenda would have blushed, but she didn’t think she was capable of it. “I hate it when you talk about us like that,” she said. “I don’t like to think about it.”

  “Sorry,” Ted said, flicking the end of his cigarette over the railing into the trees below. For the first few years she’d cautioned him about the fire hazard, before she realized that, in fact, there was no flame, no cigarette. No them. “I just wish we had some answers. I want to know what happened.”

  Brenda squashed down the shiver of guilt. “We’re better off not knowing.”

  “Not knowing how we died? Don’t you think we have a right to know that?”

  “Most people don’t. They die, and they’re gone. For some reason we’ve been left behind, and I’m not about to argue. It means I can spend eternity with you, my love.” She leaned forward and kissed his mouth. His mustache tickled her delicate skin, and she nibbled at it lightly.

  “But why?” he said, putting his strong hands on her arms and holding her a few inches from him. “Why did their grandmother die and simply disappear? And what about the other woman? Why are we still here?”

  Brenda looked up at him. She was a much better actress than they’d ever given her credit for, and even a talented director like Ted couldn’t see through her performance. Not when he never suspected her of lying. “I have no idea,” she said. “And after all this time, I doubt that we’ll ever know.”

  “We could find out. People still talk about us. If we could get down to the tour buses we could find out what they’re saying.”

  “We can’t leave the grounds. Besides, I’m not even sure the buses still come here.”

  “Then we should listen. Every time someone starts talking about us you start feeling amorous. Just once I’d like to stay and listen to what people have to say.”

  “They don’t have the answers, either, darling. You’ve heard enough to know that. No one knows what happened that night. Including us.” The lie was so familiar it almost felt like the truth, and she looked up into his eyes with a clear conscience.

  He shut his eyes for a moment, his dear, beloved eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses. And then he opened them and smiled, a crooked, accepting smile. “You’re right, honeybunch,” he murmured. “Why argue with destiny? Particularly when it gave me you.”

  And Brenda’s answering smile was blindingly, falsely bright.

  10

  It was harder than Coltrane thought it would be, facing Jackson Dean Meyer. He drove Dean into work in his Range Rover—he really had no reason to object when Dean asked for a ride in to work, and Coltrane was adept at giving people the impression he was actually listening to what they had to say. People, particularly overbright computer nerds like Dean Meyer, tended to be so absorbed in their own interests that they seldom noticed when someone else was barely paying attention. The sound of their own voices was music enough.

  Very few people, including his own children, could approach Jackson without prior arrangement. Coltrane was one of the chosen few. He went directly to the thirty-first floor office, not even bothering to knock.

  Jackson Dean Meyer was accounted to be a good-looking man, and Coltrane had no doubt he’d been irresistible to women when he was young. Even now, with the carefully preserved patina of age upon him, he still managed to ensnare almost any female he took a passing fancy to. His young wife, Melba, had to be aware of it, but since he had as little real interest in his love affairs as he had in his marriage she was content with the status quo. And the money.

  Meyer was leaning back in his chair in front of the windows, the city spread out behind him like a panorama of his own personal possessions. Everything about him was polished and perfect, from his artificial tan to the creases at his eyes. He’d had the best plastic surgeon, a doctor clever enough to leave character in an older face that didn’t deserve it.

  “No one’s supposed to know I’m here,” Meyer greeted him in an irascible voice when Coltrane walked in on him. “Everyone thinks I’m in Mexico.”

  “I’m the one who’s been spreading that lie, boss,” he said in
a deceptively genial tone.

  “I thought you were going to keep Dean busy at home. I don’t need him wandering around asking questions. This is a very delicate time for me. The Justice Department is breathing down my neck, and as far as I can tell you’ve done squat to take care of things.”

  “You underestimate me,” Coltrane said smoothly, taking a chair without being asked. “I’ve got everything under control.”

  Jackson made a disbelieving noise, his eyes narrowing. “I couldn’t find the Sanderson records.”

  “Were you supposed to? I thought the whole point was that no one would be able to find them. They’re gone, boss, vanished without a trace, and no one will be able to find them without going through me.”

  “And why should I trust you?” he demanded in a fractious voice.

  “You’d be a damned fool not to, after putting this little matter in my hands,” Coltrane said lazily. “If the Justice Department catches wind of it, your entire house of cards is going to come tumbling down. I doubt it would have lasted this long without your knowing who you can and can’t trust.”

  Meyer was glaring at him, unconvinced. “I don’t trust anyone completely. Not even you.”

  Coltrane smiled at him. “Neither do I.”

  Meyer stared at him for a moment longer, then nodded. “How’s that damned mausoleum? Falling down yet?”

  “It has a certain gothic charm. It would really be quite spectacular if it were fixed up as it was in its prime.”

  “Can’t be done.” Meyer dismissed the notion. “Sooner or later that crazy daughter of mine will realize it’s a lost cause and abandon it. And then I’ll have the place razed.”

  “Why don’t you just kick them out now?”

  “I would if I could. My goddamn mother left it in trust to them. She knew I’d tear the place down, and she was as sentimental as Jilly is. They’ll cling to it as long as they can, but sooner or later they’re going to have to give in. I’ll even help them out financially when they get resettled, which I’m not obliged to do. But then, I’m a generous man where my children are concerned.” He didn’t even blink.

  “Why did your mother leave the place in trust to them rather than you?” Coltrane asked, taking advantage of Meyer’s uncharacteristically chatty mood.

  “You know mothers,” he said with a harsh laugh. “Bitches, all of them. We never got along. She thought I was a conscienceless son of a bitch. Which, of course, was exactly what I was.”

  Coltrane didn’t react, wondering what would happen if he threw Meyer through those heavy plate glass windows. He’d probably bounce rather than go crashing through. Patience, he reminded himself, as he looked at the man who’d stolen his mother.

  “You ever live there?” Coltrane asked.

  “At La Casa? No way in hell. That place was a ruin for as long as it was in the family. Mother bought it while I was in college, and by the time I got back I was engaged and setting up a place of my own.”

  Coltrane said nothing, letting Meyer continue with his lies.

  “I had no use for decaying grandeur. Jilly gets a kick out of it, for some twisted reason. Can’t imagine why. Her mother hated it, I hated it, and it’s been nothing but an albatross. If it were up to Dean he’d give the damned place to me, and so would Rachel-Ann.” His voice softened slightly, “Rachel-Ann would do anything I ask of her. But not Jilly. She’d see me in hell before she let me take that monstrosity off her hands.” He sat up, swiveling around to stare at the cityscape. “What did you think of her?”

  Coltrane didn’t move. He knew by the oddly caressing tone in his voice that Meyer wasn’t talking about Jilly, but he chose to deliberately misunderstand. “Quite the Amazon. Have you made up your mind whether you want me to sleep with her or have her killed?”

  “I was talking about Rachel-Ann.” Meyer’s voice was icy.

  “I thought you didn’t want me to sleep with her.”

  “Don’t be an asshole, Coltrane. What did you think of my daughter? Beautiful, isn’t she? Sweet and fragile and helpless.”

  Meyer sounded almost abstract as he described his eldest child, but Coltrane wasn’t fooled. He’d known all along that Rachel-Ann was the only child he cared about. He still wasn’t sure just how deep that attachment went. Or how healthy it was, for either of them.

  “Gorgeous,” he said briskly. “She doesn’t look much like you.”

  “She’s adopted,” Meyer said stiffly. “You knew that.”

  “I forgot. For that matter, Jilly doesn’t look like you, either, though Dean does. Are you sure Jilly’s mother wasn’t playing around on you?”

  “I couldn’t care less. I’m not the paternal type—I don’t really give a damn about my children.”

  “Except for Rachel-Ann,” Coltrane said.

  “Yes. Except for Rachel-Ann. Are you passing judgment on me, Coltrane?”

  “None of my business, boss,” he murmured. “So what is it you want me to do?”

  “Keep Dean occupied. You told me you were giving him the Wentworth project. That’s perfect busywork. Between that and his computers he’ll be so tied up he’ll have no time for snooping into what doesn’t concern him. As for you, I want you to concentrate on keeping Jilly out of my way. She’s far too nosy for her own good.”

  “What would she be nosy about?”

  Meyer frowned. “You don’t need to know everything, Coltrane, just enough to protect me. I’ve got some stuff in the works that I don’t want complicated. You do as you’re told. Keep Jilly occupied. Someone with an agenda could do a lot of damage, and Jilly’s someone with an agenda.”

  “Which is?”

  “The stupid house, for one thing. And her brother and sister. She thinks they need protecting from me.”

  “Do they?”

  Meyer shrugged. “Dean’s harmless. As long as he keeps out of my way he doesn’t bother me. And I wouldn’t let anything happen to Rachel-Ann. That’s a warning, Coltrane. You cross me and you won’t know what happened to you.”

  “Got it,” he said dryly. “Sleep with Jilly, distract Dean, keep away from Rachel-Ann, keep the Justice Department off your back. Anything else while I’m at it? Any seas to part, water that needs turning to wine?”

  “You can handle it. Jilly’s probably easier than she looks. She fell for a pretty boy like Alan Dunbar, she’ll fall for you if you put a little effort into it.”

  “And Rachel-Ann?”

  “Leave her to me. I’ll look out for her. I always have. In the meantime, why don’t you make yourself scarce around here? Take a few days off, enjoy the luxuries of La Casa de Sombras,” he murmured. “Make sure Jilly and Dean know I’ll be out of town.”

  “Will you?”

  “Maybe,” Meyer said. And he smiled his affable, charming smile. That had never fooled Coltrane for even a moment.

  Rachel-Ann left the house before nightfall. Her BMW wasn’t running smoothly, and if she’d gotten it together she would have dropped it off at Meyer’s mechanic to have it overhauled. She had almost no cash, but Jackson would pay the bills without complaint. He always did.

  She wanted a drink. Quite badly. It had been another in an endless line of endless days, and she wanted it over before it got any worse. The house was deserted when she woke up, early that afternoon, but the scent of perfume and tobacco followed her wherever she went, until she wanted to scream. She tried to call Jilly at her office, but she was out on a site, probably trying to save another lost cause, and she must have turned off her cell phone. Jilly had spent her life on lost causes, Rachel-Ann thought, including her older sister. Sooner or later she’d have to give up.

  The one thing Rachel-Ann didn’t want was to be home alone when Coltrane returned. He gave her the creeps, there was no other word for it. If she had to choose between the ghosts of La Casa and the tall, gorgeous, available Coltrane, she’d take the ghosts. There was something about the man that disturbed her, roiled her stomach and scratched at her veins, and she was afraid to look too clos
ely at why she found him so disturbing.

  It wasn’t lust. The very thought was unsettling, and if there was one thing Rachel-Ann was comfortable with, it was lust. She recognized it when she saw it, recognized it when she felt it. And it had nothing to do with whatever was going on between her and Coltrane.

  Not that anything was, she reminded herself shakily. He was after Jilly, which wasn’t much of an improvement. Maybe that damned, unwanted gift that enabled her to see the ghosts and know things that people shouldn’t know was telling her that Coltrane was trouble. Maybe her instincts were screaming at her to get Jilly away from him.

  But that was the trouble with instincts. You could never tell if you were just being paranoid, or if it really was some kind of message. And she’d look like a hell of a fool if she got between Coltrane and Jilly without offering herself as live bait.

  And she didn’t want him. Odd as it was for her to believe, she most definitely didn’t want him.

  Belatedly she realized she’d ended up near the Unitarian church on Sunset. She glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard—a meeting would be starting in another fifteen minutes. An hour and a half of platitudes and guilt. Just what she needed.

  She found a parking spot, pulled over and turned off the car. The church was just up ahead, it would only take her a moment to cross those few yards. All she had to do was open the door, get out and walk. And maybe this time she could say, “Hi, my name is Rachel-Ann and I’m an alcoholic.”

  Or maybe not. Maybe she should just turn the car back on, put it into Reverse and get the hell out of there. The Kit-Kat Klub would be in the full swing of Happy Hour, and no one would pay any attention to her if she sat in a corner and got quietly loaded. She’d end up with someone, anyone, it didn’t matter. Just so long as she didn’t have to be alone.

  She kept her hands on the leather-covered steering wheel, not moving. Three months and five days since she’d had a drink. Meetings every goddamned day. Ninety and ninety, they told, another of their endless rules. Ninety meetings in ninety days. If she walked into another meeting she’d go postal.