Mr. Upton, the butler, who’d come down from the Connecticut house, too, appeared at an inner doorway. “Miss Cassandra has arrived,” he said somberly, but his face was flushed. In a low, worried voice he added, “Sir, she’s with your neighbor. Mrs. Porter asks that you come to the front door and, well, ‘take care of your sister.’ ”
Artemas strode past him. “Take care of her?”
Mr. Upton whispered, “She appears to be intoxicated, sir.”
Lily held on to Cassandra’s arm to keep her from swaying and stared upward at the Tiffany skylight in the entrance hall. It glowed like a kaleidoscope. Her heart contracted with painful awe. Mama and Daddy had described that exquisite domed cap of multicolored glass so many times. The sound of hurried footsteps made her jerk her attention down.
Artemas entered the darkly elegant arena with a force of presence that sank into her to the core—a hard, rugged man made no less primitively masculine by soft gray loafers, soft gray trousers, and a gray shirt, fashionable, with no collar and tiny pearl buttons at the chest. If anything, the casual finesse of his clothing emphasized the contrast.
Cassandra teetered from foot to foot. “Shit, it’s Artemas,” she said sadly, and covered her face with one hand. Her Yorkie lay by her sandaled feet, bedraggled but devoted. Artemas halted in front of them, staring from his sister to Lily, who pushed Cass forward firmly. “She’s been at my house for the past hour. She drank an entire bottle of homemade peach wine Aunt Maude gave me.”
“Why?” His interest seemed torn between the sight of his sister in an old T-shirt, bikini bottom, and skewed sarong and Lily’s unexpected visit to the house.
She looked stoic but drawn, clownish in an oversized work shirt buttoned over something—overalls?—with baggy cutoff legs. Her legs were scratched and dirty above sagging white socks and blunt work shoes.
He wanted to find it all unappealing. Instead, her uncared-for appearance made him sorry, and angry on her behalf, ready to attack anyone who disparaged her. It had been inevitable that she and his siblings would encounter each other, but like this? What the hell had happened between her and Cass?
Lily explained about Lupa, watching his expression segue from dismay to an authoritative, intense concern that burned her skin, then finally to bewilderment. She didn’t explain how Cass had come to be drunk on peach wine. There was so much more to the story, hurtful and private, and she wouldn’t say it in the middle of this grand foyer with Cassandra wobbling beside her and the butler watching.
“I need to lie down,” Cassandra announced. “Or I’m going to—what is it they say on television? I’m going to hurl.”
Her blunt, drunken humor didn’t bring even a hint of a smile from Artemas. He gestured for the neatly suited little butler, who had been hovering in the background. “Help my sister to a couch in the the gallery, please.”
As the butler took Cassandra’s arm formally and guided her away, she looked back over her shoulder at Lily. “You think you can worm your way into our lives like this. Don’t forget what I told you.” She took a deep gulp of air, then added grimly, “But I didn’t mean to mash Loopy.”
Lily knotted both hands in her shirttail and gave Cassandra a look of weary disgust, but said nothing.
When she and Artemas were alone in the hall, he led her to a small, sumptuous sitting room and closed the door. She exhaled and studied him with shadowed eyes. “Cassandra mouthed off at the veterinarian, and he fought back. I didn’t think your sister was the sensitive type, but then, I don’t know her very well. I guess he upset her. By the time we got back to my place, she was almost in tears. She muttered about being treated badly by men, and hitting Lupa, and”—Lily shrugged, uncertain why she felt sorry enough for Cassandra to care—“and I ended up giving her the bottle of wine. I didn’t expect her to drink the whole thing in less than ten minutes’ time.”
Artemas thought of Armande and knew there must be a connection. “And then?” he asked, stepping close enough to Lily to see the feathering of unhappiness around her eyes, urging himself to keep the conversation centered on his sister.
“She said I’m causing disagreements in your family. She said that’s the revenge I want—to cause you to fight among yourselves.”
He shut his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, they were the stained soft gray of forgotten pewter. Lily took one of his hands between hers. She could only whisper—her throat was too tight for more. “Even with the bitterness I feel and the stand I’ll always take, I never want to see your family torn apart. That’s not the answer, to me. Hurting you won’t ever make me happy. This has to stop.”
He covered her hand. They were poised at a dangerous edge. “They’ll understand, in time. They’ll know what’s between you and me, if you’ll help me prove it to them.”
Before she could answer, the door burst open. James stepped inside, bracing himself with his cane. Alise had her hands on his arm as if she’d tried to stop him. Behind him, Michael and Elizabeth looked regretful also. James’s expression was furious as he studied their intimate scene. Lily withdrew her hands and faced him. He said grimly, “I’ve never seen my sister in a drunken stupor before. What did you do to her?”
Artemas stepped forward, his face set in harsh lines. “Lily was kinder to her than she deserved. And I’m going to be more patient with you than you deserve, despite the fact that you’ve broken into the middle of a private conversation.”
“Are you getting what you want, Lily?” James continued, limping toward her, ignoring the rage and surprise rising in Artemas’s eyes. “When will it stop? When you’ve played this martyr act so well that my brother forgets why our youngest sister is dead, and why I have to walk with this cane? You’re not a martyr—you’re a goddamned parasite. Here, try walking with this for the rest of your life, if you want to have people pity you.” He threw the cane at the floor in front of her feet. The violence of his actions unbalanced him. He stumbled and fell against a chair. Alise, Elizabeth, and Michael leaped forward and caught him as he slid to the floor, his bad leg angled hideously beneath him.
Elizabeth’s five-year-old wandered into the frozen tableau. When he saw his uncle on the floor, he ran to Elizabeth and clutched the skirt of her pink sundress, then stared at everyone fearfully and began to cry.
Lily’s heart had slopped at the sight of him. Painful chasms broke open inside her. She couldn’t bear to see a child hurt, even in a small way. She started past Artemas. He reached for her. Lily moved out of his range.
She walked swiftly through the hall, found her way into the huge gallery at the back of the house, then ran to the doors of the loggia and outside. Artemas caught her at the steps below. “I don’t want—don’t, please,” she said. She looked up at him desperately “You would never forgive yourself if you lost their respect. Go back to James. Make things right.”
“You will always be welcome in this house,” he said, holding her arms, his eyes filled with fierce promise. “Come back inside.”
“Oh, Artemas,” she said, groaning his name. She pulled away violently, brought his hand to her lips, and kissed it. “I meant what I said. Don’t make James hate me more than he does. Go back. It’s the only way. If you care about me, then go hug your brother.”
His hands dropped to his side. She turned and went down the hill. Artemas went to the balustrade of the fountain terrace and watched her as long as he could.
Twenty-four
The beer-gutted, balding bastard had asked for trouble, and Cassandra would make him regret it. She turned off the road outside town beside a handsome wooden sign bearing MACKENZIE VETERINARY HOSPITAL in raised white letters, stopped the car, and studied the setting like a general surveying a battlefield.
She’d been too busy to notice the details two days before, with Lily glaring at her and Lily’s dog whimpering pitifully in the back seat. A long paved lane curved between beautiful pastures outlined in white wooden fences. Glossy, thickly muscled quarter-horse mares and foals grazed
in the knee-high grass. Lush, forested hills rose behind the pastures. The lane ended at a cluster of pecan trees and a handsome white clinic. Beyond that was a large, rustic house of stone and wood, with a wide veranda, a long, modern stable, and neat outbuildings. A shiny four-stall horse trailer was parked near a gleaming black truck outfitted as a mobile veterinary unit. An old red Corvette was stored inside a small stone shed near the house.
The place was handsome. It had class, serenity, charm. It certainly didn’t reflect its owner.
She clenched the steering wheel of the black Jaguar she’d brought up from Atlanta. By God, if Artemas expected the family to visit the old estate regularly, she wouldn’t drive around in one of the homely Land Rovers anymore. And if Dr. John Lee Sikes thought he could intimidate her, she’d leave Jaguar tracks on his beefy, overindulged body.
If she hadn’t let him upset her on top of her humiliation over Armande’s insulting behavior and her guilt about Lily’s dog, she’d never have taken the bottle of wine from Lily, never have babbled to Lily about the family’s private discussions of her motives, never have gotten so drunk that Lily had to drive her back to the estate house, where that awful confrontation between Artemas and James had occurred. The family was still tiptoeing around each other, James acting grim but humble, Artemas keeping to himself. Artemas and James had talked, alone, for an hour after Lily’s departure. The result had been only a pathetic truce, not an understanding.
Artemas was disgusted with her for what she’d said to Lily. She was disgusted with herself. Something about her anger toward Lily wasn’t clicking anymore. Dull respect modified it. That didn’t mean Cass forgave her, but—oh, hell, who knew what to think anymore? Lily appeared to be minding her own business. It was Artemas who couldn’t stop pushing for reconciliation.
Reconciliation with anyone was the last thing on Cass’s mind. She drove up the lane, squinting at Dr. Sikes’s handsome home and untangling the windblown red scarf from her hair. The hot summer wind billowed under her thin blouse and long skirt. Her toenails, peeking from open white sandals, were painted the same violent red as her fingernails. Let him stare at her and make lewd comments today. She would chew him up and spit him out in small, hairy, tattooed pieces.
Horse halters and leads were draped over the veranda’s railing. A brown boxer with a face like a flat scowl lounged on the stone walkway that bisected a small lawn, proudly licking his enormous assets.
He needs to have his balls cut off, Cassandra thought, jerking the car to a halt in the yard and scowling at the doctor’s home. And his dog does too.
It was Sunday, so she didn’t look for him at the clinic building. She climbed stone steps to the veranda, got no response when she rang a bell beside a handsome door with leaded-glass insets, then marched out to the barn. The boxer followed, sniffing at her bare ankles and licking the hem of her skirt.
She walked into a long, low hallway between large stalls and spotted her nemesis. He was leaning over a stall door, watching something on the floor inside. She scanned him with a breathless little catch in her throat, cataloging his, what—appeal? Threat? Old western boots, run-down at the heels. Tight jeans on lean legs. A sweaty white undershirt of the tank-top variety, revealing brawny arms and too much chest hair. The jaunty belly that had been graced by a plaid sports shirt the other day made a hard curve over the jeans waistband. His face was blunt but intelligent, and the thinning, closely cropped brown hair was sun-streaked. The scalp under it had tanned the same toast color as his leathery face.
“Keep quiet and come here, Cassandra,” he said.
Cassandra flinched in astonishment. He’d never looked her way. “Are you psychic, Dr. Demento?”
“I saw you drive up. And now I can smell you.” He continued studying the mystery inside the stall. “I remember your perfume.” He gestured lazily with one hand. “Come ’ere.”
Hypnotized, she walked to the stall and peered inside. A fat calico cat was curled in a mound of wood shavings. Several slick newborn kittens were nursing as she cleaned them. “What’s her name?” Cass whispered. “Or do you bother to name your pussies?”
His eyes flickered at the obscene taunt. A sly smile crept over his mouth, but he still didn’t bother to look at her. “Doesn’t matter what her name is. My pussies come when I call them. Just like you did.”
Cassandra inched away from him and snatched at the small white purse that hung from a thin strap on her shoulder. Opening it, she pulled out a wad of money. “I’m here to pay the bill for Lily Porter’s dog. Tell me how much it is.”
“You Colebrooks have a peculiar interest in Lily’s life. Your brother Artemas was here yesterday offering to pay.”
Cassandra grimaced. “Our relations with Lily Porter are none of your business.”
“Some say you want to drive her away. Some say she wants to tear up your family. Seems odd to me that either you or your brother would care whether her dog’s bill gets paid.”
“I was the one who hurt the damned dog. I take care of my responsibilities.”
“Forget it. Lily and I worked out a barter.”
“Yes, I just bet you did.”
He turned slowly, nailing her with an amused, admiring gaze. “She’s going to put in some new shrubs and flowers around my place. God, you’re suspicious and territorial. I like that, if it doesn’t go too far. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“You think I care what you do?” He took one step and was suddenly so close that the scent of sweat and horse hair was an invisible steam. He was no taller than she, but he seemed overwhelming. His expression was bawdy and profane, as coarse as a diesel engine. Her heart pounded with excitement. He leaned toward her, his eyes half-shut. “I asked Lily all about you. The funny thing is, she didn’t have a bad word to say about you or your family. She respects you a helluva lot more than you think. But from what she told me about your parents and your upbringing, sounds like you were a defensive little fat girl trying to survive any way you could. I think you still are.”
She shivered. “Fuck you,” she said between gritted teeth.
His voice became gentle and persuasive. “Well, little fat girl, I see through your bullshit. I grew up with a drunk for a mother, and a father who beat the hell out of me every chance he got. I understand you better than you understand yourself.”
Her fingers trembling, she threw a handful of bills. They fluttered against his chest and fell to the sawdust-covered floor. “If you won’t take that for your shitty little services, then donate it to the local humane society And by God, you’d better do it too. I’ll check. If I find out you used the money to take some slut on a spending spree at Frederick’s of Hollywood, I’ll put your balls in traction.”
“I love it when you talk dirty. You’re incredible.”
“Men usually ask for more money before they suck up to me.”
He pulled a lighter from a back pocket, bent gracefully, and scooped the bills in one bearish hand. Then he set them on fire. Cassandra gasped as the flames curled through them, eating closer to his clenched hand. His deep, mocking gaze held her riveted. When the flames were licking his skin, he casually dropped the burning money on the floor and crushed it with the toe of a boot. She threw more money at him. “Wrap that around your tiny little cock and set it on fire.”
He jerked her purse off her shoulder and tossed it aside. “You don’t have to pay for it. It’s all yours, Queen Bee. It was yours from the first minute I saw you.”
She darted past him, but he caught one of her hands. Snarling at him under her breath, she elbowed him in the stomach. It was like hitting hard rubber. They went down on their knees, wrestling wildly. She pounced on her purse. He snagged her from behind and pulled her against him, clamping her arms to her sides.
His breath was hot on her cheek, his belly and thighs pressed tightly to her hips. Blindly cursing, she noted the hard mound of his erection and the amazing desire coursing through her body like mercury.
“Apologize
,” he hissed into her ear.
“Make me.”
He circled her with one arm, holding her still. One hand crept under her voluminous skirt, inserted itself between her lower thighs, and began a slow progression upward. “Apologize,” he whispered.
“Make me,” she repeated.
His fingers slid higher. “Garters. How wonderful.” He delved under her sheer silk panties and began stroking her. She bucked against him. “Wet,” he purred. “Wet and hot. Apologize.”
“Make me.” Her voice was now a low rasp. She wasn’t helpless, she was taking what she wanted from this man, she told herself. Just as she always used men.
The heat and sudden, plunging intimacy of his fingers poured into her senses and made her shudder. Helpless. Helpless and dazzled by his raw attention, she shut off rational thought. Her legs were spread in uncaring recklessness, her knees digging into the sawdust.
He pulled her skirt to her waist and continued to stroke her, murmuring crusty, explicit endearments. Sensation built inside her quickly, luxuriously, riding the movements of his fingers and urged onward by the throaty, rapid pulse of his breath. She had him, had him right where she wanted him.
The explosion inside her shattered around his careful, thrusting hand. She moaned, shocked and angry and delirious when he pulled his hand away They were both on their knees. He bit the back of her neck gently. Dimly she heard the quick, rough sound of her panties tearing, then his zipper sliding down, and then reason fled in the immediate, smooth ramming of his body into hers. He slammed into her with short bursts of power, and his hoarse sigh of delight drove searing victory into her mind. She had him. He had her. The taking was confused now. Exquisite volleys of pleasure assaulted her again. Rocking against him, she forgot to hold back, to force her way. Her whole body hunched in wild, graceless welcome.
He poured into her to the hilt, his hand caressing her hair, the other twisting deliciously into the waistband of her skirt, pulling her hips upward so that they hung impaled on him.
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