by Melanie Rawn
“No alarms that we know of.”
Holly bumped Evan with her elbow. “Just the perfect ray of sunshine, aren’t you?”
Jamey held up a palm. “Um . . . I don’t mean to spoil the fun, but has anyone given at least a passing thought to the Fourth Amendment?”
Evan nudged Holly in return. “Pesky thing, the Bill of Rights. We really ought to get a warrant.”
“Picky, picky.”
“Grounds?” Cam prodded.
“I don’t need any,” Nick informed them.
“I thought you and Alec were retired,” Holly said. “Besides, your mandate doesn’t cover officers of the court.”
Jamey was trying very hard not to look confused, and succeeded only in looking rather forlorn. Nick opened his mouth to explain. Evan beat him to it.
“They have rules, and a tendency to police themselves. Think of Nicky as an officer of a somewhat esoteric court. Another long story I’ll save for later. Okay?”
“Okay,” Jamey agreed warily.
“I don’t know what you’re worried about,” Holly said. “We’re all reasonably bright. I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
“If all else fails,” Evan conceded, “I can always say I caught Nicky breaking and entering.”
“Were I ever to do anything so crass,” he replied with a sniff, “you would never catch me at it. Holly’s right. Worry about it later. Now, what about other guests? Did anybody check the register at the front desk? Do we even know how many people are in residence tonight?”
“I can fix it so they won’t hear anything,” Cam volunteered. “All the wallpaper is silk. No expense spared.”
Lulah nodded her satisfaction. “A silence spell and some coercion on the locks will keep them all safe enough. How many rooms?”
“Six on each floor,” Evan said. “Varying sizes. Eighteen total.”
“It’ll take a while.” Cam’s frown cleared swiftly. “But I can explore walls for hidden entrances while I’m at it.”
“Okay,” Evan announced, “here’s how it’ll work. Cam, Nicky, we’ll start from wherever we can get in, and head up. Lulah—”
“And Holly,” Holly stated flatly.
“—and Holly,” he acknowledged with an exasperated glance at his wife, “you head down. Jamey guards the entrance.”
“From outside or inside?” Lulah asked.
“How would he warn us if he’s outside? It’s got to be within the staircase.”
Cam scowled. Nick watched Holly try and fail to hide a smile.
“Not a word,” Jamey warned. “I’m useless, but I won’t be left out any more than Holly.”
“We’re real pains in the ass, aren’t we?” She grinned at him.
“A lifelong aspiration. It’s gratifying to know I’m fulfilling it at so critical a juncture in the proceedings—”
“Stash the sesquipedalia verba,” Cam admonished.
Jamey leaned around Lulah and glared at him. “ ‘Quid de utilitate loquar stercorandi?’ ”
“Oh, shut up.”
Nick waited what seemed a decent interval before asking, “Where’s Herr Weiss likely to be after the ballroom empties out? Where’s his office, his quarters?”
“Map,” Cam said, “top desk drawer.”
Turning, he rummaged and came up with a full-color brochure. As he fished for his glasses in his jacket pocket, he remarked, “I suppose you’ve noticed that they don’t spell ‘Westmorland’ correctly.”
“No!” Cam exclaimed with a sudden grin. “You’re kidding!”
Nick eyed him dourly over the rims of his glasses, but forbore comment. “Hmm. I think we may assume that the staff dorm won’t be of much interest. The main house is rather large, isn’t it?” He studied the layout. Ground floor: restaurant and kitchen, ballroom, library, six smaller guest rooms. Second and third floors: six suites each, identical layouts. In the huge cellar was the spa, with the usual facilities for massage, workouts, sauna, steam; locker rooms, whirlpool, lap pool, and Olympic-sized pool. Also, interestingly enough, cold and hot plunges, like a Roman bath. He spared a moment’s nostalgia for the Russian bania his stepfather Sergei Maximovich Orlov had built long ago in Hungary, then returned to the diagram. Outside the main house were two more buildings, one labeled CONFERENCE ROOMS AND OFFICES and the other one STAFF. He glanced at Cam. “Do we dare take the time to sneak over and put lock and silence spells on the outbuildings?”
“Cars,” Holly said suddenly.
Evan nodded his understanding before Nicky had entirely comprehended the import of the word. “Lulah’s the only one who can legitimately stick around. Eventually the place will clear out, and somebody will notice all our vehicles. Can we move them, hide them, without being seen?”
“It’s a muddy mess out there,” Lulah said. “Nobody will count heads. Stash Jamey’s motorcycle in the back of my pickup.”
Holly nodded. “Better than my Beemer.”
Evan eyed his wife sidelong. “How come you have to think of this stuff when we’ve got other things to do?”
Succinctly: “I plot.”
Nick repressed a smile and scrubbed his fingers back through his hair again. “All right, somebody go take care of the cars. Jamey, find a back door and let them in—”
“Not in those white shirts,” Lulah pointed out. “And Holly honey, you ain’t goin’ noplace in those ridiculous shoes.”
“I like those shoes,” Evan said in wistful tones.
“So do I,” Jamey seconded. “But she’ll break an ankle for sure. And the skirt isn’t all that practical, either. What’s in your suitcase, Cam?”
Nick expected Holly to whine at least a little. Instead, she smiled and said, “I will consent to looking like a refugee from a trailer park yard sale only if somebody translates Jamey’s Latin for me.”
“It’s one you ought to learn,” Cam replied with equal sweetness. “Cicero might have had you in mind.” Striking a pose, he declaimed, “ ‘What shall I say about the usefulness of spreading manure?’ ”
Evan nudged Holly in the ribs. “You asked.”
THE ONLY PAIR OF PANTS Cam had with him with even a remote chance of making it up over Holly’s ass were part of a navy blue Armani suit. The three inches separating them in height were all in his legs. She sat on the edge of the bathtub and rolled up the hems, cussed under her breath, rolled them up some more, cussed a little louder, and—Armani or no Armani—thought seriously about finding a pair of scissors.
From the other side of the bathroom door she heard Evan say, “I’d never get it buttoned. You got any sweaters in there?”
“This one might work—it’s pretty big on me.”
Holly shouldered into Cam’s dark green dress shirt and tied the tails around her waist. Turning up the cuffs to her wrists, she surveyed her reflection—gold rings, diamond bracelet, and all—and winced. The lipstick, car keys, leather folder with her driver’s license, and her needle-and-alcohol-wipes kit that had been in her skirt and jacket pockets were transferred to the pants. Perched again on the tub, she unrolled a pair of socks, then looked at Cam’s sneakers. A dozen layers of socks wouldn’t make them fit. “Screw it,” she muttered, deciding to go barefoot, and opened the door.
Oh, my.
Three shirtless men were arranged ornamentally around the room. Two of them were trying not to look at each other. Holly could scarcely decide where to look first.
Jamey was all lean, luscious muscle covered in nut-brown skin that just begged to be drizzled in sage honey. Cam, more lightly built but just as powerful, was peaches-and-cream dusted with cinnamon. Very nice indeed, the both of them—but while sweets were all very well, she preferred the main course. Taller than either of the younger men, stronger through the shoulders and arms, sun-bronzed and solid—if Jamey made her think of honey-smeared baklava and Cam was peach pie, Evan was . . . prime rib. Flank steak . . . rump roast . . . tenderloin. . . .
A WOLF WHISTLE TURNED all three of them toward the bathroom doo
r. Lounging there, shoulder against the doorframe, looking preposterous in Cam’s clothing, was Holly—smiling as if she’d invented them.
“I do purely love the sight of a long-legged man in blue jeans. And now here’s three of ’em, right before my poor dazzled eyes. I declare, a girl could get spoiled.”
Lachlan watched Jamey blush and Cam stick out his tongue at her. Both of them grabbed for their shirts like teenaged girls caught in just their bras.
“Oh, don’t hurry on my account,” Holly drawled. “In fact, take your time.”
“You know what you are, McClure?” Evan asked. “You’re a dirty old broad.”
Cam snorted. “She’s been a dirty old broad since she was fifteen years old.”
“And I’ve loved every scenic second of it,” she shot back. “But this, I have to tell you, will rank right up there among the culminating moments of my life.”
“Yeah?” Evan started toward her, still shirtless. “And the ones that rank above it are . . . ?”
“Careful, Holly,” Jamey laughed suddenly. “Appease the beast.”
“The beast knows very well they all have to do with him.”
“Yeah?” Lachlan said again, looming over her now. “Name one.”
She curled her fingers into the low-slung waistband of his jeans. “First orgasm you ever gave me. I think I’m still shaking from that one.”
“Jesus!” Cam exclaimed as his head emerged from the neck of a black long-sleeved t-shirt. “Don’t you two ever stop?”
“I do my best,” she said in deliberate echo of what Evan had said earlier that night, and he leaned down to kiss her. A few moments later, she drew back a little. “Get dressed, or I won’t be held responsible.”
The plum cashmere sweater would indeed be large on Cam. It fit Evan like bark on a tree. Having stashed her clothes and shoes in Cam’s suitcase, Holly was happily ensconced in the desk chair by now, ogling at her leisure.
“Black does absolutely nothing for you, Cam. What were you thinking? And I don’t know how you could have made a mistake like that charcoal shirt, although I like what it does to Jamey’s eyes. In fact, he should wear your shirts more often.”
“Lady love,” Lachlan said, “you’ll excuse my saying so, of course, but right now you’re in no position to give fashion advice.”
Jamey snorted. “What is this, Project Runway?” When all three stared at him, he blushed. “I confess. I watch that show. I conform to the gay fashionista stereotype. Pillory me later. Is everybody set?”
Evan gave them all a once-over, his gaze lingering at Holly’s bare feet. She looked down, and grimaced.
“Mine are big,” she said. “His are bigger.”
Evan took a pair of balled-up socks from her hands and tossed them to her cousin. “Do something to these, will you?”
Cam thought about it for a second, then squeezed the socks between both hands. Lobbing them back at Holly, he smiled a smile of pure sweet wickedness.
“All right, what’d you do?” she demanded.
“Something. Just like he said.”
She eyed the socks, then pulled them on. “As long as they don’t set me to dancing maniacally like the princess in the fairy tale, I’m good with it.”
“You actually trust me?”
“Hell, no. But I remind you, darling dear, that whereas Evan seems to have figured out certain things of a—shall we say—floral nature, Jamey remains unaware of—”
“Warm and dry,” Cam interrupted in haste. “Silent. Impervious to punctures. Sorry, didn’t have time to include a pedicure.”
“Unaware of what?” Jamey asked. Everyone, particularly Cam, ignored him.
“I suppose,” Evan asked, “it’d be too much to ask you to keep her from tripping over her own two feet?”
“It would.” Watching as she bent to fold up the hems of his pants again, Cam intoned, “ ‘I grow old . . . I grow old . . . /I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.’ ”
“Nobody likes a smart-ass,” Evan informed him. “Especially a literate smart-ass.”
Holly straightened up and smiled her sweetest at him. “You just wait. First pair of scissors I see—”
“My best Armani suit? Don’t you fucking dare!”
Thirteen
FOR A WHILE Lachlan actually thought they were going to get away with it.
As Lulah and Nicky went after the brass locks on the third floor, with Holly trailing along looking as useless as she probably felt, he and Cam and Jamey made their way downstairs to take care of the cars. Weiss, still in the ballroom doorway bidding good-bye to his guests, had his back turned to them, and that was good. Gib, Erika, and Troy were right ahead of them, and that was bad.
Just how bad, Lachlan wasn’t going to let Cam open his mouth to let everybody else find out. He glimpsed the younger man’s clenched profile, groaned inwardly, and put a grin on his face wide enough so that a even casual observer could have counted his molars.
“Hey, Gib! There you are! Holly’s upstairs—Lulah’s had it with baby-sitting, wants to get herself spa’d tomorrow, so she’s spending the night—Holly said be sure to find you and say goodnight for her. Let me hold that umbrella, Erika. Troy, get the door for your mother. Geez, I hope this rain lets up or all the outdoor barbeques tomorrow are gonna end up as picnics on the rug. Where’s your car? Troy, do me a favor and help Jamey load his motorcycle into that red pickup over there. Thanks. Cam, here’s the keys to the Beemer—you and Jamey head back to Woodhush, we’ll be there in a while. Don’t let the kids con you into milk and cookies—the sugar rush will keep them up until dawn.”
He knew very well where he’d gotten this overflow of frivolous chatter. No one could live with Holly as long as he had and not pick up the knack of piling on the words until anyone within range simply collapsed from the weight of them. Sending Troy off with Jamey had earned him a barrage of icicles from Erika’s pale blue eyes. Gib looked mildly confused. Cam was still seething—but after a brusque nod he set off to find the black BMW.
Lulah had been right about the mud. Cars, trucks, and SUVs spun their wheels and slewed across the lawns until tires found purchase on the gravel drive. Lachlan grinned to himself, relishing in advance the fun of an official four-wheel-drive vehicle he could steer right past everybody else with or without lights and siren. Cutting more gouges in Herr Weiss’s manicured grass would be a satisfying bonus.
“Watch out, Erika, that’s more like a sinkhole than a puddle.” He slid a hand around her waist to steady her, and saw her gaze flicker to Gib to make sure he was watching. Lachlan resisted the urge to grimace. Evidently suspecting him and his of Witchcraft didn’t interfere with using him to tweak her husband. “There you go—Troy will get back in a second, I’m sure. Watch your head—whoa, don’t slip!” He used both hands at her waist to boost her up into the passenger seat of the family Bronco, then really laid it on by saying in a more intimate voice, “Oh, you’ve gotten splashed all over your legs,” and touched a finger to the mud-spatter on her knee.
She reacted exactly the way he’d known she would. She took her time swinging her legs into the car, and thanked him in a tone even cozier than the one he’d used on her. Not that she smiled; she was a woman who took good care what she smiled at, as if humor was rationed. Then again, maybe she was just scared of getting wrinkles.
Gib was already behind the wheel and firing up the engine. The look he gave Evan was not one of brotherly love. Lachlan pretended not to notice it as he said, “I’ll go find Troy,” and escaped. Yes, he knew the kind of woman Erika was. He’d almost married someone just like her—the memory was uncomfortable even at ten years’ remove—and his mother had been the same type. Out at the front counter, she sold sweet femininity and wide-eyed deference—and really great pie, he reflected with some regret—to the big brave smart how-do-you-ever-think-of-such-things men. Scarlett O’Hara wouldn’t melt in her mouth. But back in the warehouse, her stock was a flashing of tits and a swaying of ass and the im
plication that more would be forthcoming if the guy could scrape together the price of admission—whatever it might be at any given moment. If not, he was welcome to come back when he could afford her. And if he did manage to come up with the scratch, imagine his surprise when he had to keep paying and paying and paying.
“Partnership or power trip?” said Holly’s voice in his head, and he smiled to himself, shaking rainwater out of his eyes.
It wasn’t easy finding anything more than ten feet away in this downpour, but the outdoor floodlights picked out Lulah’s old Ford with its brand new candy-apple red paint job and Woodhush Farm in small, tasteful black script on the driver’s side door. Kirby had wanted her to put flames down the sides, or a row of galloping horses; Bella had urged lots of big five-pointed gold stars like on Daddy’s car. Evan felt an unexpected yearning to be with his children, to forget his disgust with all this adult bullshit in laughing at their innocent mischief. The mischief would linger—Holly and Cam were proof enough of that family trait—but the innocence? Kids grew older and grew up; he couldn’t protect them. No parent ever could.
As he approached Lulah’s truck, where Troy was leaping down as Jamey slammed the gate shut, he felt renewed anger that Erika wasn’t even trying to protect her son. So he paused, and waited for Troy to get to him, and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Look, if you ever need a place to hang out and chill for a few days, you come see us at Woodhush, okay?”
Troy looked startled. Then he looked grateful. Lachlan smiled at him and watched him disappear into the rain.
“Nice kid,” Jamey remarked.
“Yeah. Hey, is there a way to interpret any existing laws to arrest his mother for malicious stupidity?”
“Evan!” Jamey looked scandalized. “You’re the sheriff. I’m the district attorney. We can arrest anybody!”
CAM DRUMMED HIS FINGERS on the steering wheel of his cousin’s BMW. Somebody ahead of him was stuck in the mire. He hated traffic jams. He was pissed off anyway—that Ayala woman was lucky she wasn’t demanding to be taken to the ER for crotch-rot (nothing so benign as prickly heat would do)—and a glimpse of the son helping Jamey load the motorcycle hadn’t improved his temper. People had been looking at Jamey like that all his life. Anybody who didn’t look at Jamey had been dead for three days.