by Anne Stuart
Jilly perched on the wide stone railing, breathing in the scent of roses mixed with the acrid perfume of exhaust from the surrounding city. There was nothing she wanted more than to climb into her huge marble bathtub and stay there until her skin got wrinkled. She didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone, save anyone. Not tonight. She most particularly didn’t want to have to deal with Z. R. Coltrane.
At least she’d found out that much about him, even if she couldn’t fathom what Z. R. stood for. It seemed an apt enough name for a Hollywood cutthroat.
Not that she had any particular reason to consider him a cutthroat, apart from her instinctive dislike of all lawyers. She wasn’t particularly trustful of good-looking men, either—years in Los Angeles had taught her to be wary, and Alan had finished the lesson. Of course Coltrane didn’t look the slightest bit like her former husband. Alan was dramatically beautiful, with long, flowing dark hair, a poet’s face, an artist’s hands, a butcher’s soul.
Coltrane, on the other hand, was a shaggy-haired, bleached California blond, a lawyer, not an artist, a businessman, not a poet. Unlike Alan, he made no pretensions to being a gentle, noble soul. And yet he was a phony, a liar, just as much as her husband had been. What you saw was definitely not what you’d get, or so her instincts screamed at her.
Coltrane was the sort of man who could easily figure out what appealed to certain people and tailor his approach accordingly. If anything, he’d seemed determined to annoy her rather than seduce her into thinking he was harmless.
Bad word, seduce. Particularly in connection with him. They’d have a business meeting tonight, a calm, rational discussion of how Dean’s situation could be made more tenable at Meyer Enterprises, and then she’d bow out, gracefully, and never have to see Coltrane again. She never went to her father’s lavish holiday parties—for all she knew she hadn’t even been invited the last couple of years. There was no reason she should ever have to run into one of her father’s employees again.
It was all quite simple once you put it in perspective, she thought, sipping her tea and averting her gaze from the swimming pool. She’d let her imagination get out of hand, which was downright silly of her. She’d learned to change what she could and let go of what she couldn’t fix. There was a good chance she could at least help Dean. And if she couldn’t, she’d simply have to work on backing off and letting him deal with it on his own.
She heard the sound of tires on the overgrown driveway, and her stomach lurched unpleasantly. She didn’t recognize the sound of the car. It was just seven o’clock, and her unwanted date must be arriving.
Coltrane knew exactly where La Casa de Sombras stood behind its curtain of overgrown trees. He’d developed an odd sort of fascination for it, though in truth it probably wasn’t that odd. He knew from the photograph that his mother had spent time there in the sixties, though he had no idea how long or if his father had been there, as well. There’d been no dates on the newspaper photo, and no one to ask. His father had flatly refused to ever discuss his mother. But La Casa de Sombras was part of his family history, a place where some of the answers to his past lay buried, and it had taken a long time to finally get inside. Things were beginning to fall into place.
He’d considered breaking in at some point during his tenure. It would have been a piece of cake—during his hellion youth he’d learned all sorts of skills from the motley group of lowlifes he’d hung around with, and he knew how to break into a house without leaving any mark. He’d chosen not to risk it, relying on his patience. Sooner or later he’d walk in through the front door. He could wait.
But now that the time had come he found he was oddly tense. The last few years of his life, maybe his entire life, were coming down to this night, and all he could think about was Jilly Meyer.
He had to remember that she wasn’t the weak link. If anything, she was the strong one, and he wasn’t particularly interested in a challenge. He’d already been working on her brother, but it was her fragile older sister who was going to provide the key. He knew it by instinct, instinct bred in him by his Irish mother. Rachel-Ann Meyer was the way to Jackson’s heart, and to his destruction.
The ornate gates at the bottom of the overgrown driveway were stuck open, rusty even in a place where it never seemed to rain. He drove slowly up the winding drive, dodging an overhanging tree limb here, a raised hump of grass there. In Los Angeles, one of the most developed areas on earth, there were sport utility vehicles in almost every garage. This was one place where one might actually be needed. He wondered how Jilly managed to avoid the potholes in her gorgeous, low-slung Corvette.
He first caught sight of the huge garage. The slate roof was cracked and damaged—it was a good thing it seldom rained or the place would have been worthless. There were seven garage doors—three of them were closed, three were empty. The Corvette stood in pristine glory in the remaining bay.
He parked directly behind it, blocking her in. There was no sign of anyone around, so he immediately headed over to the red car, letting his hands brush the shining finish like a tender lover’s. He’d always thought his dream car was a Gull Wing Mercedes, or perhaps a classic Jaguar XKE. He’d never realized how deeply American he was, after all.
He reached for the door handle, unable to resist, when he realized he wasn’t alone. He didn’t even jump when he heard her caustic voice.
“I told you, you’re not driving my car.”
He kept his hand on the car, letting his fingertips caress it lightly, knowing Jilly was watching. And then he turned and peered at her from beneath his shaggy hair.
“I’m glad you didn’t put yourself to any trouble on my account,” he said. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and he let his gaze travel up her long legs. She obviously had no idea how very much her long legs turned him on, or she wouldn’t keep exposing them like that. It didn’t matter that the shorts were baggy cargo shorts—it was the legs beneath them that got him going.
Rachel-Ann, he reminded himself. She is the key. Meyer wouldn’t give a damn what happened to this daughter.
“Sorry, I’ve changed my mind. There’s no reason to go out—we can discuss the situation here as well as anywhere. Guess you’ll have to rethink your plans,” she said breezily.
“How about McDonald’s? I wouldn’t have thought fast food was the best arena for negotiations, but I’m game if you are. Especially if we get to eat in the car. That way no one will notice if I accidentally grope you.” He wasn’t quite sure why he’d added that—mainly to get a reaction from her, he supposed.
“Yeah, right,” she said, foolishly unconvinced. There was nothing he’d like better than to grope her, if the time and place were different. But for right now she was simply the means to an end. “Negotiations?”
“Isn’t that what this is about? You convince me to help your baby brother win Daddy’s love and approval? I’m going to be fascinated to hear what I have to gain by doing it, but I’m always open-minded.”
She didn’t bother denying it. “Maybe out of the goodness of your heart?”
“I don’t think there’s much goodness in me. Much less a heart,” he said, giving her his most dulcet smile.
She blinked, a good reaction. He believed in warning people. They seldom believed him—people always tended to downplay his honesty. It was only later when they looked back, battered and bruised, that they realized he’d simply told them the truth.
“You’re not going to convince me with that diffidence crap,” she said.
“Convince you of what? I’m telling you the truth.”
“I’m not sure you’d know the truth if it bit you on the ass.”
“I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He stepped back from the Corvette, hiding his reluctance. “So, are you going to give me a tour of this place? And don’t tell me I can take a bus tour. I want an owner’s perspective. Or at least the temporary owner. Your father’s the one who’ll end up with this place when you finally give it up.”
&nbs
p; “That’s not about to happen. You’re awfully conversant with the legal ownership of this place,” she added suspiciously.
“I’m head of legal services, remember? It’s my job to know.” Hell, he didn’t usually make slips like that one. He had to be careful with Jilly—she was a lot more observant than her brother. “Anyway, I like old Hollywood legends,” he said. “I also like old houses. I studied to be an architect before I switched to law.”
Her disbelief should have been scathing, but he wasn’t easily scathed. “I got my degree in architecture from Princeton,” she said, warning him.
“I know.” He smiled at her. “Want to cross-examine me about architectural detail? You seem convinced I’ve got something to hide. What you see is what you get.” He held his arms out.
“Not if I can help it,” she muttered. “I don’t suppose you’ll be willing to leave until I show you the place.”
“As always, you’re very astute. And I’m looking forward to meeting your sister.” He liked how casual it sounded.
“Why?”
“I’m curious. As your father’s lawyer I’ve dealt with everything, including your divorce, Dean’s traffic accidents, and Rachel-Ann’s various…issues.”
“You’ll have to stay curious. She’s not home tonight. Neither is Dean, for that matter.”
“So we’re here alone? Maybe I don’t mind not taking you out, after all.”
She looked completely unflustered. “Depends on how you define alone, and whether you believe in the ghosts. I never see them, but a lot of other people have. I wouldn’t want to irritate them if I were you. Ghosts are notoriously unstable.”
“Fortunately I’m not very irritating,” he said, deliberately setting himself up for her hoot of disbelief. “Tell me about the place. Give me your best tour guide impersonation, and then we’ll talk.”
She wanted to get rid of him, she made that perfectly clear, and he still wasn’t quite sure why. He’d been his charming, unsettling best with her, and most women were reluctantly fascinated by him. She was fascinated, as well, but more along the lines of someone caught in the gaze of a snake. Maybe she was more intuitive than she gave herself credit for, despite her inability to see ghosts.
Coltrane didn’t believe in ghosts. When he was younger he used to try to see his mother, floating over him like some sort of guardian angel. But his mother was no restless spirit—he would have known by now if she were. His mother was at peace, no matter how she’d died. He was the one with the restless spirit, seeking answers, seeking resolution.
“All right,” she said finally. “Follow me.”
It took an effort to keep his eyes off her sexy butt and on the overgrown path leading up to the main house. She was rattling off details in a monotone, and he let them filter into the back of his efficient memory, to dredge up later if and when he needed them. Built by the Greene brothers, site of Hollywood parties, witness to the infamous Hughes-de Lorillard suicide pact, home to a roaming band of dopers in the sixties and seventies. Nothing he hadn’t heard before, though she didn’t seem to realize her father had been part of that pack. He listened with half an ear for any inconsistencies as they turned the corner and reached the edge of the extensive terrace, the house looming over them in the shadows.
He stopped dead, her words no more than a meaningless hum in the back of his head, like an annoying insect.
The stone railing was crumbling. Weeds grew up beneath the flagstones, the stucco on the house was cracked and streaked with water marks. The slate roof was missing several tiles, and the furniture on the terrace was rusting, broken, derelict. The house looked like a grand duchess turned hooker, out on the streets, her finery faded and torn. A magic castle for a lost princess. But suddenly he knew with a certainty his mother wasn’t the only Coltrane who’d lived there, decades ago.
He realized Jilly had stopped talking, and he tore his gaze away from the house to find her staring at him, a curious expression on her face.
“Not what you were expecting?” she said. “There’s been barely enough money to keep it from falling to pieces entirely. I don’t know how much longer I can keep it together.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who admits defeat.” He was amazed at how calm his voice sounded.
“I’m a realist, Mr. Coltrane. Not a fool.”
“Just Coltrane.” And if she was a realist then he was an altar boy. She was as idealistic and starry-eyed as anyone he’d ever met, at least when it came to what she loved. Which was old houses in general, and this old house in particular. “Let’s go inside.”
He was half expecting her to refuse, but after a moment she nodded, leading the way in. It was just as well—he wasn’t about to leave without finally going through the place. Not since that cold wave of shock had washed over him when he first looked up at the house.
He’d lived here. No one had ever told him—as far as he’d known he’d spent the first thirteen years of his life in Indiana. He’d simply assumed that picture had been taken before he was born, before she’d met his father.
Wrong. He’d lived here, and he had no conscious memory of it. Just a weird, certain knowledge that this place had once, long, long ago, been his home.
The smell of the place was so damned familiar, another blow. He was glad Jilly’s back was to him—he wasn’t certain he could manage to keep his expression imperturbable. He knew the hallway, knew the long, curving staircase, and he followed her wordlessly as she cataloged the details of the house in a rapid, bored voice that slowly, reluctantly turned to warmth and fascination. She loved this house, he thought, loved it with a lover’s passion. She would be an easy woman to use—her heart was on her sleeve. She loved the house, her brother and her sister, and all he’d have to do would be to apply a little pressure on one of those three things to get her to do what he wanted.
They wandered through drawing rooms, dining rooms, salons and breakfast nooks. Whoever had built this place had spared no expense, and the thing rambled for what seemed like acres. It was sparsely furnished, the few shabby pieces looking like lost remnants of a once grander time. “Brenda de Lorillard hired a set designer to decorate this place,” Jilly was saying, “and unfortunately she picked someone who’d done a lot of work for Cecil B. DeMille. Some of it looks more like an opera set than a house.”
She was right—it was gloriously tawdry, from the Italianate wallpaper to the gilt-covered furniture. The huge kitchen was a monument to impracticability, with not even a dishwasher in sight. There seemed to be no air-conditioning in the house, but the place was comfortably cool, anyway. He wondered if that was because of the supposed ghosts.
“What about upstairs?” he said, when her chatter had finally wound down.
“Bedrooms,” she said.
“That’s logical. Is that where it happened?”
She looked startled. “Where what happened?”
“The murder-suicide? Or does this place hold other scandals, as well?” He knew the answer to that, but he wasn’t sure whether she did.
“The master bedroom. Trust me, there’s nothing to see. All the blood was cleaned up.”
“Show me, anyway.”
“No. It’s my bedroom now and I don’t like strange men traipsing through it.”
“Why?”
“I like my privacy.”
“And you don’t have any problem sleeping in a murder scene? A haunted one?”
“I told you, I don’t believe in ghosts,” she said.
“Don’t believe in them? Or just don’t see them?”
She glowered at him. She had a very impressive glower. “I’m getting tired of this.”
“And I’m getting hungry. Show me the murder scene and then I’ll ply you with fast food. Unless you’ve changed your mind and want to go someplace better.”
“I told you I don’t want to go anywhere with you,” she snapped.
“But then your brother’s left to sink or swim on his own.”
She didn’t
say a word; her expression was withering enough. But Coltrane wasn’t easily cowed—he was getting more reaction out of Jilly Meyer than most people usually got, he was certain of it. And he knew just how much to push, and when to back off.
“All right,” she said. “You can ogle the murder scene, and then we talk.” She turned and headed out into the hallway, and he followed after her, taking the steps two at a time until he caught up with her, walking beside her. Now that he’d regained his equilibrium he was more curious to see her reaction. Did she really sleep in a room where a murder occurred and not mind it? Would he recognize the room himself?
He almost laughed when he saw it. It was absurd, the ultimate in faded kitsch, from the swan-shaped bed with its filmy draperies to the voluptuous, oversize furniture that littered the room. There was a dressing table that looked as if it had seen no use at all. He stepped past her, walking into the room, looking out the French doors, across the wide balcony that ran the length of the house to the overgrown lawn below. He could see the dark rectangle of a lichen-covered swimming pool halfway down the row of trees, and an odd, stray shudder passed over his body.
He turned to glance at Jilly, who still stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, a stubborn expression on her face.
“Are you certain they died here? In that bed?”
“It’s common knowledge. Hollywood loves its scandals, and this was one of the best ones.”
“So Brenda de Lorillard killed her married lover and then herself, right? Any reason ever surface?”
Jilly shrugged. “Maybe he was growing tired of her. Men have a habit of doing that, you know.”
“Do they?” He kept the grin from his face, but just barely. Someone needed to teach Jilly Meyer a few more effective defenses. She was as vulnerable as a kitten, spitting and scratching and pathetically easy to manipulate.
“How many other bedrooms?” he asked curiously, changing the subject.