by Anne Stuart
“Where?” She didn’t trust him, but they were at a standstill.
“My place. It’s not far—”
“You live up here?”
“On the rare occasion when I’m in the States, yes. Where else would I live? My brother isn’t about to welcome me with open arms and Stephen Henry and I do best with a polite distance between us. I’d offer you my hand but you’d probably bite it. Get to your feet on your own and you can come and get warm.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Spoken like a redhead,” he said. “Though, right now you looked more like a drowned kitten than a mother lion. If you try to walk down the mountain in your condition you’re likely to fall and twist your ankle. Even if you kept upright you wouldn’t make it to your daughter’s school by three o’clock, and I’m sure that’s what you had in mind. If you come back to my place and dry off I’ll give you a ride to your car and you’ll be there in time.”
She tried to ignore the sudden ice in the pit of her stomach. “How do you know when my daughter gets out of school?”
“I grew up here, remember? School has always let out at three. And you better move quick—I’m not going to stand out here forever, waiting for you to make up your mind.”
He was right—it was late. As usual, time had gotten away from her. Rachel scrambled to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster, keeping a wary eye on him in case he made any sudden moves.
“I’d appreciate a lift into town,” she said. “I can dry off there.”
“We can argue about it once we’re out of the rain. I don’t suppose you want to hold on to me while we climb down there? It’s a little rough.”
“I’ll follow you,” she said, wary. “If you tell me how you happened to be up here just as I was about to fall into the water.”
“I could say it was fate, but the fact is you’re about as delicate a climber as a grizzly bear, and I could see the bushes moving as you thrashed your way up here. I came out to see who was tearing up the hillside—hell, maybe I’d catch the killer at work. You’re just lucky I was curious, or you might be floating down the stream like an elderly Ophelia.”
“Elderly?” she said, furious.
“Ophelia was around Juliet’s age—fifteen or sixteen. I believe you’re well past that.”
“Fuck you. Maybe I’ll push you into the falls just for the hell of it. Even if you aren’t the serial killer, you’re no great gift to society. My husband would probably thank me.”
“Yes,” he said, amused. “He probably would.” He spread his arms out. “Give it your best shot.”
The last thing she wanted to do was put her hands on him. “I’m not going to bother. Sooner or later some irate husband will blow a hole in you.”
“The only married woman I’m interested in is you.”
She froze. He was looking at her out of those sharp, dark eyes, and illogical as it was, she believed him. She just wasn’t sure why.
The rain had stopped, at least for the moment, and she looked at the path she’d used. If she hurried, she might make it in time, without subjecting herself to any more time in Caleb Middleton’s uncomfortable presence.
But she couldn’t put Sophie at risk. “Stop talking and show me where your car is,” she said, keeping her voice clipped and unemotional.
The faint hint of a smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, ma’am. Follow me.” He disappeared into the woods, and she hesitated. He disturbed her, on every level, and willingly putting herself in his company felt like a very bad idea. The only thing worse was having Sophie get tired of waiting and walk home.
She started after him, pushing past the wet branches, following him down the steep, muddy path. She slid once, landing on her butt, and he glanced back at her but didn’t slow down. She got to her feet once more and hurried on, trying to keep him in sight without getting too close.
Her first image of the house was the bright blue of the tarp covering the half-finished roof. The trees had grown up all around it, and she could see lines and angles, oddly familiar. It was more of a ruin than a half-finished house, and yet she couldn’t rid herself of a feeling that she’d been there before.
“Lovely,” she said in an undertone. “Do you even have a telephone?” Maybe she could call home when she got there, see if David could pick Sophie up. Except then she’d have to explain where she was, and who she was with. That, or lie, and neither of those choices was acceptable. There was nothing wrong with what she was doing—she just didn’t feel like having to explain it to David.
“Of course I do.”
“Where’s your car?” she said when she reached the level ground. She stared up at the house. There was a long series of rickety-looking steps leading up to the front door, and there were two wings spreading out from either side. Eerily like David’s house, which she still couldn’t think of as her own.
He was already halfway up the steps. “Around back. It’s a rental, and I’m not about to let a mud rat in it. Come inside, Rachel. I promise I won’t strangle you.”
She didn’t move. “Don’t you think that’s a little tasteless?”
“I’ve never been troubled by matters of taste, and if my intended victim were a yappy broad like you the first thing I’d do is shut you up. Either come in and clean off or get down the mountain on your own. I’m getting tired of all this.”
“You’re a son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” He kept climbing the stairs, and she had two choices. Make it on her own, and go with him.
He was arrogant, dangerous, rude and much too good-looking for her peace of mind. She liked gentle men like David, not bastards like his brother.
She looked up at the half-finished, prairie-style house, and she had the odd feeling that she was at the point of no return.
She put her foot on the first step and began climbing.
He whistled beneath his breath as he drove into the garage and closed the door behind him. The women of his household were gone—Sophie was at school, Rachel had gone looking for his brother. He’d known she would—women couldn’t keep away from Caleb once he decided to lure them, and he’d been watching Rachel with those dark eyes of his.
David had driven by the parking area at the base of Silver Mountain, just to be sure. Rachel’s Volvo was parked there, the car he’d given her for a wedding present. He couldn’t help it—he chuckled. She was so easy to manipulate, so transparent. His brother would probably have her on her back in record time.
An ordinary man would have been disturbed. Not David. He’d known almost immediately that he’d made a mistake in marrying Rachel. She’d seemed the answer to everything—she calmed him when his needs flared, and he thought she’d be perfect. By the time Sophie reached the right age he might even have moved past his darkest desires. He’d been having a harder time controlling them recently. He’d never felt the need to strike only six months apart. He could keep Rachel as the perfect wife, the perfect cover. And he could watch Sophie grow into the young woman she was meant to be. And when that happened, maybe this strange cycle, that had lasted more than twenty years, would come to an end. Something would happen to Rachel, and he could live out his life with Sophie, serene and brilliant.
In the meantime, Rachel was proving a sore disappointment. He kept hoping he could train her, but she ignored his hints, and he understood human nature well enough to know that she wouldn’t respond well to direct orders. There was nothing he could do about it, except get rid of her in as timely a manner as possible.
But first he had to make absolutely certain that Sophie would be his.
He knew that she wanted him. Her careful way of avoiding him, of never meeting his gaze, of being studiously distant and polite, simply covered the same longing he felt for her. He had to be very delicate about it. She was young and shy, despite what her mother said. Her friend had been easier—older, more self-assured. He could bless Tessa for bringing him to Sophie. This was who he’d been wa
iting for, the one to make him complete. Not her mother. And it had all been sheer luck. He’d found Tessa, and she’d been perfect for a time, and when he’d finished he should have been able to go back to his normal life.
But he couldn’t keep away from the funeral, and the moment he saw Sophie, he knew she was meant for him.
For a short while he’d hoped he could be like other men. That Rachel would be the answer until Sophie came of age.
But his needs were growing stronger.
He opened the trunk of the car and took a step back, assailed by the stench. Rotting flesh. He should have dumped her weeks ago, but for some reason the chance never came up. He had to admit that a certain part of him enjoyed knowing she was back there, wrapped in a tarp. He liked driving Rachel around, telling her about the bloated deer corpse he’d accidentally run over. She’d believed him, the silly cow. Because she adored him.
He took the cans of air freshener and sprayed them liberally through the trunk. He should have gone up to Costco and bought a case—it was taking forever to get rid of the smell. But then, someone might have noticed, and he was a very careful man.
He closed the trunk again, then opened the back door of the garage to release some of the lingering odor. It was getting close to three o’clock—if she wasn’t back to the car then he’d be able to pick up Sophie. He always liked those moments. She would sit beside him in the car, her hands clasped in her lap, her long legs beneath the school uniform deliberately enticing him. Maybe he’d take her for a drive, talk to her about how depressed her mother had been. He’d explain that Rachel had been hiding it from her daughter, but that she was indeed a deeply troubled woman.
He needed to be careful, though. Sophie was smart as a whip, and devoted to her mother.
There was no hurry. At least, he hoped not. He was making very sure that all his bases were covered, now that Caleb was back in town. And if he was lucky, he could ride this for another few years.
But he wasn’t quite sure if he could tolerate Rachel that long. She seemed to accept his departure from their marriage bed with good grace, and she hadn’t minded when he’d withdrawn more and more.
Maybe she’d behave herself, learn her place, preparing her daughter.
Otherwise, one slip and the falls could take her. And no one would ever know he’d been the one to push.
6
“This place is a death trap,” Rachel said, standing in the middle of what should have been the living room, oblivious to the ancient bloodstain on the plywood beneath her.
Caleb stripped off his rain-soaked slicker and hung it on one of the nails, turning to her. “An interesting way of looking at things. Why do you say that?”
“I nearly fell through one of the steps.” She was making no effort to divest herself of her muddy clothes. “Are you going to drive me down to town?”
“I should have warned you about that one. Upkeep on this place isn’t a high priority.”
“I can see that.” She looked around her, and he could practically read her mind. The place was a disaster—a half-constructed architect’s dream that had suffered the indignities of rain, wind and abandonment for the last fifteen years. He’d tacked fresh tarps on the western side of the frame to keep the wind from blowing through, but he hadn’t gotten around to replacing the shredded blue fabric that covered the roof, and there were pools of rain water at regular intervals on the warped floor. “So why does this place look familiar?” she said suddenly pushing back the hood of her raincoat.
“Good eye. It was designed and built by the architect who did David’s house. And yours.”
He could see her shoulders relax slightly. A mistake on her part, but she didn’t realize the mess she’d gotten herself in. “Yes, I can see that now,” she said. “Why didn’t he finish it?”
Caleb shrugged. “He went bankrupt and killed himself. That’s his blood you’re standing on.”
She looked down at the dark stain, and to her credit she didn’t leap away with a squeal. “And you left it there?”
“It’s a helpful reminder of knowing your limitations. Hubris and all—you can’t reach too high or the gods will smite you.”
“In your case I’m not sure it sank in,” she said, moving past the stain to look out the framing that should have held a window. “You don’t seem particularly meek and humble.”
“No, that’s never been my particular character defect.” He moved closer to her, carefully, so as not to startle her. “You can see your house quite clearly if there’s no rain.”
“Which means never,” she said gloomily. “Why did you buy a house just like David’s?”
“Maybe you should ask him. Maybe the question is…why did he buy a house like mine.”
She turned her head to look at him. She was a tall woman, almost his height, and her eyes were clear and bright. “Why are you here?”
For one brief, crazy moment he considered telling her the truth. She wouldn’t believe him, of course. No one ever had, though his mother had suspected the truth. And he couldn’t risk her telling David.
So he lied. “I haven’t seen my father in years. I thought it was about time.”
“And David?”
“He’s visited me occasionally when I’ve been on assignment. He’s more sentimental than I am—he’s always made sure our brotherly connection remains strong. I last saw him in Tunisia.”
“I didn’t realize David traveled that much.” She unzipped her coat. He had a good fire going in the woodstove, and despite the gaping windows, the room was warm.
“There are a lot of things about David you don’t know. Why don’t I get you some clean clothes and you can change? If your daughter sees you like that she’s going to worry.”
She looked down at her muddy clothes, considering. “Mud dries.”
“During the rainy season? You’re more optimistic than I would have thought,” Caleb said.
“What do you mean, rainy season? Does the sun ever shine in this misbegotten place?”
“It’s been known to happen,” he said. “We’ve got four distinct seasons. Less rain. More rain. A lot more rain. And the deluge.”
“Nevertheless…”
He ignored her, disappearing into the far room, returning with his baggiest pair of jeans and an oversized flannel shirt. “Here.”
She made no move to take them, so he simply dumped them in her arms. “The bathroom’s behind that door. It even locks.”
“I really need to get back down to my car.”
“You have time.”
“Then I have time to get to my own house and change my clothes.”
“But again, I’m not putting you in my car in that condition,” he said, all breezy sweetness that he didn’t expect to fool her for one moment.
It didn’t. She made a low noise, somewhere between a snarl and a growl, and stomped off away from him, slamming the bathroom door behind her.
He found himself grinning. She was a firecracker, red hair and all, a fighter. This would be so much easier with a frail flower, but Rachel wasn’t the type to wilt.
Once more he considered telling her the truth. He could tell her what kind of danger she was in, but she wouldn’t believe him. For the moment she was safe. And what he had told her was the simple truth. The women had all been the same physical type—thin, average height, long, straight blond hair. A far cry from Rachel Middleton’s Amazonian proportions.
Sophie was a different matter, but she was way too young. In a couple of years or so she might be at risk, making him doubly grateful he’d finally chosen to face his worst fears. If he’d put it off, if she’d died, he’d never forgive himself.
In a way he was already at that point. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t had suspicions, doubts, but the truth of it was unacceptable even to a hard-core cynic like himself. But maybe, just maybe, the girl on the mountain wouldn’t have died if he’d come sooner. Maybe Libba, maybe even Sophie’s friend Tessa.
There were ti
mes when the real monsters were those who stood by and said nothing while evil erupted. And any silence would make him the monster everyone had always believed him to be.
He’d told Rachel to leave, warned her as best he could. He’d keep trying, if only to save the tattered remnants of his conscience, as ripped and shredded as the tarp that had once covered the roof of this haunted house. But if she wouldn’t leave, she could at least help him, willingly or not.
Taking David’s wife was the surest way of doing what he had to do.
The jeans barely fit, and she knew he’d chosen extra-baggy ones, not like the lean-fitting ones he wore. Asshole. She dumped her mud-encrusted pants and shirt on the floor, pulled his clothes on, grumbling beneath her breath. To her amazement he had warm water in the rust-stained sink. She washed some of the mud from her face, then paused, staring back at her reflection.
She could barely recognize herself. Her hair had gotten loose, and it was a tangled mess around her face. A kind soul might say it was sensual, David would have said it was messy. The last thing she wanted was for the black sheep to think she was sensual.
She was pretty damned safe on that account. He was a talker, nothing more. She hadn’t bothered with makeup, and her pale face looked oddly vulnerable, her eyes wary. But she was never vulnerble—she couldn’t afford to be. He’d given her a blue flannel shirt, by accident, of course, but it made the blue in her eyes stand out.
She didn’t look like the woman she was used to seeing in the mirror. No light sprinkling of freckles across her nose, no color in her cheeks, a sober expression on her face when she used to laugh, loud and often. What had happened to her? Had she started to mold in the dark, dank climate?
She should take Sophie and head for the sun. Just a vacation, a trip to see friends, she’d tell David. She’d stay away long enough to see things clearly, and if…make that when…she came back she’d have a better sense of who she was. She’d lost that over the last few months, and she couldn’t figure out why. It wasn’t as if David was an overbearing, macho pig like his adopted brother.