by Brenda Joyce
"So the kid who did this gets his due," Alex said with anger flaring in his eyes.
Jill looked at him.
He stared back.
"Someone wants me to go home," Jill said flatly. "Because of Kate—and you know it, too."
He studied her. "I don't know if I buy that," he said, his tone even. He turned away, but not before Jill saw the anger in his expression. ■»
Was he furious because someone had done this to her? Or because someone in his family had something to do with it and she had correctly guessed so? Jill stared. She could not decide.
Alex did not have to do his own dirty work. He was loaded.
Jill closed her eyes briefly, wishing she'd not had that thought—again.
If he was involved in any way, then he was an utter sociopath.
"Let me make a few calls," Alex said. "I'll have someone come over and clean up, I'll have some scotch delivered, and some food, too. You want a Valium?"
She didn't answer, thinking that she was afraid not to have her wits about her.
'That doctor I mentioned. I can call him right now and—"
"No."
"Okay." He smiled at her, but his gaze was searching. "Hey. You are one helluva tough gal." He touched her cheek briefly with his fingertips.
His touch was comforting. Jill stood, confused. "I don't want to stay the night here alone," she said cautiously.
"Of course not. I'll stay. On the couch," he added, returning her stare.
Jill nodded. "Lady E." She stopped, fighting her sudden loss of composure. "We had become friends."
"I know," he s^id softly. "I know."
Jill had changed into sweats and thick white socks. As she combed her hair, which was damp from a shower, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was utterly devoid of color, except for her hair, which appeared a dark red, and her mole, which stood out against her pale skin. Jill's hand stilled. She felt as if she were looking at another version of Kate Gallagher.
She felt as if she were looking at her twin.
She laid the comb down. A few minutes ago she had heard Alex speaking with someone downstairs—^perhaps a delivery boy or whoever he had called to clean up the porch.
Jill's knees buckled and she gripped the small sink for support. She had to tell Allen Barrows about his cat. And she had to ask him what he wanted to do with her. The prospect was unpleasant.
Sir John remained beneath her bed, crouching and watchful. Jill wanted to pick him up and hug him, but she was afraid she would chase him away.
Jill left the bathroom, making little noise in her thick wool socks. She checked on Sir John, who stared unblinkingly at her, and left the bedroom. The downstairs was cast in silence—Jill wondered if Alex had fallen asleep on the couch before offering her a scotch. She was about to take one step down those stairs, her hand on the smooth wooden banister, when she suddenly heard his voice. He was talking in very low tones, so she could not hear what he was saying, but he was extremely angry.
Jill stiffened, straining to hear. Now there was only silence.
Who was he talking to? And why was he angry?
Her pulse began to pound. Jill stepped down the stairs, one at a time, careful not to make a sound. On the bottom landing, she froze. He was, she thought, in the kitchen, on his cell phone.
Why hadn't he used her telephone?
"I'm warning you," Alex suddenly ground out. "You've fucked up big-time." There was a pause. And Alex said, his tone hard and angry and mocking, "Right."
Jill's heart slammed against her breastbone with sickening force. She clutched the wall for support, waiting for him to speak again. An endless minute or two passed. She finally concluded that he had hung up.
Surely "You've fucked up big-time" did not mean what it seemed to mean. It could mean anything. He could be on the phone with a business associate, they could be discussing a deal. She should not conclude that he was angry with his henchman, for messing up Lady E.'s murder.
There was another explanation for the call. There had to be.
Alex was not a killer.
"Jill?" He suddenly came striding into the parlor.
Jill rearranged her face and stepped around the comer of the entry, into the parlor, facing him. Her smile felt like a plaster cast.
"Now what? You're looking at me like I'm a serial killer." His smile vanished. "You don't think I had something to do with the cat?"
Jill shook her head vehemently. "No. I don't. I just came down to say good night. I'm really tired. Thanks for coming over." She hesitated. "I'm fine now. You don't have to stay."
His gaze was searching. "I'm staying. I don't want you here alone." He hesitated. "How about a drink?"
She finally dared to meet his vivid blue gaze. She no longer wanted him to stay—but on the other hand, she dreaded^was terrified—to be alone. Jill shook her head, biting her lip, tears forming in her eyes. "No. That's okay."
He came swiftly to her, pulling her into his arms. "Everything will work out, Jill. Trust me. Please."
She met his brilliant gaze, her body stiff and resistant against his. "I want to," she whispered. "I really do." It was the truth.
His hand has slipped to her nape, under her wet hair. "Then just do it. I would never hurt you. You know how I feel about you."
She found it hard to breathe, and she wanted to back away, but she did not. Her eyes searched his. "No. I don't."
His jaw flexed. His hand, on the nape of her neck, seemed
to tighten. An iniage of Lady E/s decapitated, bloody body flashed through Jill's mind. And suddenly he was leanlhg over her, and his mouth touched hers.
The image of the dead cat vanished.
His lips were soft, barely there, uncertain. Jill forgot to breathe.
And then his mouth came down without hesitation, firmly, on hers. His hands closed on her shoulders. Jill's mouth parted and they stood there, for a long time, kissing with growing abandon and urgency, with mutual need.
Jill did not know who ended the kiss. But suddenly they were apart, staring at one another, breathing unevenly, both of them equally surprised. And then Alex glanced past her, toward the stairs.
Jill understood.
Then a sharp recollection of the bloody, headless Lady E. swept the sudden need away. She needed comfort, but she did not dare. "I can't. Not tonight."
"I understand." His smile was slight, forced.
Jill felt like crying again. "Good night," she^ managed. And she watched him walk back into the kitchen, where he was undoubtedly pouring himself a drink.
Jill mmed and went upstairs.
The next morning, she found Alex hunched over the Libretto. It was just past seven, and the aroma of freshly made coffee filled the kitchen, as did bright morning sunlight. The day promised to be devoid of fog or rain.
Jill studied him from behind. He was so engrossed in whatever it was that he was doing that he had not heard her enter the room. He hit a few keys. "Good morning," Jill finally said.
He jumped, turning. "Scared me." His smile disappeared as his gaze searched her face. "How'd you sleep?"
"Nightmares." Jill went over to the coffeemaker and poured herself a mug. Her dreams had been terrifying, all of them about some faceless man with a bloody ax chasing her and Lady E. She didn't want to talk about it—she didn't want to think about it. She was exhausted. "You're pretty handy to
have around. A Sir Galahad who also makes fresh coffee." She saluted him with the mug.
"Some of us bachelors can even fry eggs," Alex said, smiling slightly. But his gaze was too direct, and Jill turned away so he couldn't read her. "I've got a nine o'clock meeting so I have to run shortly. How are you doing?"
"Okay." A lie. She felt like death warmed over, and she couldn't stop thinking about the length someone had gone to in order to scare her away. Jill hesitated. "So who killed the cat? Thomas? Lauren? Your uncle?"
"You don't mince words." He powered off and closed the small, silver-gray lid. When
he met her gaze, his face was strained.
Jill wondered what had been on his screen—what it was that he did not want her to see.
He slipped on his suit jacket. "It's nice to see a hint of color in your cheeks, Jill." His words were not at all in keeping with his tone, which was slightly cool.
She stared. This would be so much easier, she thought, if they hadn't slept together, if they hadn't even kissed last night. Or if he hadn't spent the night on her couch, offering some degree of both comfort and protection. "I want to talk."
He set his briefcase down on the table. "Obviously."
Jill leaned her hip against the counter, bracing her body. "Alex. You're a smart man. Let's not play games. What happened last night was not a prank. This is a good neighborhood. There's no crime here."
He was silent.
"I'm upsetting the Sheldon applecart, aren't I?"
"No one in my family is capable of that kind of brutality," he said, his face stiff with tension. "And I disagree with you. I think this was a prank. There's always some crime in every neighborhood, Jill."
She felt ill at the prospect of baiting him. There was no choice. "Then why didn't you call the police?"
"I already did. Someone came by last night, and I gave my statement; a detective will be by today to take yours."
She'd lost that round. "I hope you're right," she finally said.
"I know I'm right." He fisted his hands on his hips. "Jill, you are a wreck. Here." He reached into his breast pocket and handed her a business card. "Go see Dr. McFee. He's the kind of doctor who will take one look at you and then he'll sit you down and talk to you the way a father would. You need to shut down, Jill. You can't see clearly; you can't think clearly."
"You want me to quit now? When I'm so close to finding out the truth about Kate—and your family?" Jill was angry. "This isn't the first time you've gotten on my case—and we both know why."
"God damn it!" he exploded. "There's no conspiracy here, and what happened to Kate ninety years ago is a done deal. You can't bring her back. If she was killed, you can't prosecute her murderer. Let it go before you make yourself—and everyone—insane!"
Jill was shocked by his loss of control. "I can't. I need to know what happened to Kate. I think I already do know." She didn't hesitate. "Edward killed her because she stood in the way of his marriage to Anne." Her heart thumped painfully as she spoke. In her dreams, Edward had seemed to be in love—and not a killer. But those were only her dreams. She had to rely on logic now, not fantasy. Jill had seen too many portraits and likenesses of Edward to count, she'd read the letters and directives that he'd written to his staff and family, and there was little question that he had been a hard, cold man.
Alex stared at her and finally shook his head. "No one," he said harshly, "is better at leaping to conclusions than you."
"Kate needs me." Jill said, defensive and grim.
"Kate is dead, Jill."
Jill started. Sometimes that was a fact she seemed to forget. But Kate did need her. Jill suddenly closed her eyes and saw Kate in the tower, bloody and terrified, reaching out. And suddenly it was so obvious that Kate was reaching out to her, Jill.
"She expects me to help her, to solve this," Jill said, opening her eyes.
His regard was unblinking. "You should go home. Coming back to London was a mistake."
His words took her by surprise, like a blindside, and worse. It was like being stabbed in the back with a knife.
"And I didn't mean it the way you're taking it," he said angrily.
Jill shook her head. "I can't go home. Not now—not until this is over."
They stared at one another.
"Okay," Alex finally said, his face and tone grim. "I have to go, Jill." He glanced at his watch. "I'll call you later to see how you are. Think about calling this doctor. He'll not only fit you in at the drop of a hat, you can tell him everything. At the least, maybe he'll give you something to help you sleep."
Jill nodded just to appease him. She did not want to deal with that issue now.
He had picked up his briefcase. He suddenly strode to her and kissed her cheek before walking out of the kitchen.
The feeling of his lips lingered, as did the spicy, woodsy scent of his aftershave. Jill walked as far as she could toward the parlor, and glimpsed him exiting the front door. She turned away, a heavy depressive weight settling over. Or was it dread?
Jill sat down at the table, glancing briefly at the card he'd given her without really reading it. She could hear his Lamborghini roaring to life outside.
Something terrible had happened to Kate, and now, ninety yeairs later, she was being warned in no uncertain terms to back off. Jill inhaled, stricken with the feeling she'd had at Stainesmore, that something terrible might happen to her next.
Because so much was at stake.
Jill flinched at the sound of Kate's voice, there in her mind, so loud and clear it was as if she were standing in the room with her, speaking aloud. Something caught her eye. Jill looked up, chills breaking out all over her body, and she turned.
Kate stood by the back door, staring at Jill.
348 ' BRENDA JOYCE
Jill's pulse exploded, going sky high. She shook her head to clear it, blinking. And when she opened her eyes, Kate was gone.
April 27, 1908
"Is he here? Is he here?" Kate cried, lifting her skirts and flying across her bedchamber. She leaned toward the window, her huge swollen belly in the way, making it difficult for her to get as close as she wished, in order to gaze down at the front yard and drive.
"Madam," the housekeeper said from behind her. "Please. Do not so exert yourself with the child due in two weeks."
Kate ignored her, for there was no mistaking the coach that had turned into the pebbled drive of Coke's Way. "It's Edward!" she cried, overcome with excitement. She turned and dashed past the ever-dour Miss Bennett, and out the door.-
He had promised that nothing would keep him away from their child's birth. But his father had fallen ill while in the south of France and he had summoned Edward to his side— well over two months ago. Kate had not let on that she was despondent. She had encouraged him to go. She understood Edward's duty to his father. Until she had come into his life, he had firmly believed in duty and honor. Now he was torn.
The earl was approaching seventy years of age. Edward had not wanted to obey the summons, leaving Kate in her condition for even a minute—much less several months. But Kate was afraid the earl might die. While that would solve their problems—for then they could instantly wed—she had imagined the guilt that would fester should Edward refuse to go to his father's side, should he die. Kate knew Edward would never forgive himself.
Kate hurried downstairs, out of breath, for the baby inside her womb demanded so much from her. She heard the carriage door slam as she opened the front door of the small cottage where she had been staying for six achingly long, terribly lonely months.
Kate had never understood loneliness before. And the fear had begun—the fear every woman faces when it is time to
give birth. One night, well past the midnight hour, she had picked up a quill and penned a will in the horrific case that she and her child might not survive the upcoming ordeal.
Edward was striding up the brick walk. He saw her and faltered.
"Edward," she whispered, clinging to the door, her knees going weak, her heart pounding far too rapidly for comfort.
"Oh, God, Kate!" Edward ran forward, and the next thing she knew, she was in his arms, and their mouths were fused and nothing had ever been so right.
He tore his lips from hers. "How I have missed you—how beautiful you are!" Only to kiss her cheek, her forehead, the tip of her nose, and then claim her mouth again.
This time Kate pulled back. "I did not think you would return in time!"
His eyes darkened as he clasped her hands to his chest. "Nothing could keep me away—not even the subterfuge of an old, rotten man."
&nb
sp; Kate froze. Once, before she had appeared in his life, he had respected and even been fond of his father. No longer. "Darling?"
He forced a smile. "I am sorry. Come. Let's go inside, we have so much to discuss, it's been so very long."
They entered the house. Miss Bennett stood in the entry and she nodded at Edward. "My lord," she said, coming forward to take his hat and gloves. "How was your journey?"
"Very well, thank you. Miss Bennett." His smile was brief, and even as he spoke to her again, his warm gaze was on Kate. He stared at her big belly. "Please give us a few moments of privacy." He smiled at Kate. He could not take his eyes from her, she thought, not even for a moment. How it warmed her.
She felt herself blushing. Miss Bennett disappeared as Edward pulled her into the parlor—and into his arms. They kissed for an endlessly long time.
"I am shameless," Kate whispered. "I am thinking of what it would be like to go upstairs."
He stared at her, at once incredulous and horrified. "You are about to have a child!"
"I know." Kate cast down her eyes.
Edward finally settled himself in a large armchair. Kate brought him a glass of brandy. "What subterfuge did you speak of?" she asked with dread.
Edward drank. "My father lied. He was not ill. He sent for me only to keep us apart. I have told him about the child, Kate—and even that has not swayed him. He still refuses to permit us to marry."
Kate nodded, sitting on the sofa, her hands clasped in her lap. She was not surprised. Six months ago, she had been devastated when the earl had refused to allow Edward to marry her. She had even approached the earl herself—only to find herself subjected to such condescension and disrespect that it was one of the singularly most disheartening experiences of her life. "It doesn't matter. I met Collinsworth once, do you not remember?" To this day, Edward did not know that she had actually raised the subject of their suit, merely that they had been introduced. "I do know the kind of man he is. He will never change his mind about me. Indeed, I do think this is as much a war between you and him as it is about his finding me far too inferior to be a wife for you."