Liam knew him too well.
“All right. I came back only because Abby asked me.”
“She’s that sick, huh?” Liam asked softly. “Is she dying?”
“It’s not a kind disease, but she could live for years and years—in total misery. There is a surgery …” His words trailed off, and he shrugged. “I don’t know. I just got here.”
“She called the cops not long ago, you know,” Liam said.
Conar nodded. “I know. She told me.”
Liam leaned forward, rolling his ice in the glass. “She said she was getting phone calls; whispered threats against her daughter. And she said that she’d gotten a note, but that it had disappeared.”
Conar nodded.
“It wasn’t that the police don’t take all threats seriously, but we couldn’t trace any unusual calls, and the note couldn’t be found. I’m afraid I didn’t get out to talk to her. I would have, but—”
“It’s all right.”
“She imagines things?” Liam said.
“She admits to some delusions, but insists she knows the truth about this.”
“Suppose there were threats. I mean, Jennifer is a well-known actress. There’s a lot of jealousy out there.”
“That there is,” Conar agreed.
“Abby asked you here specifically because of Jennifer?”
“Yeah.” Conar had been staring at his glass, but he looked up suddenly, not sure why he was suddenly aware that Jennifer was standing in the doorway.
Elegantly slim, perfectly shaped, she hugged the door frame, eyes wide in her beautiful face. Her eyes were like her mother’s, large, expressive, luminous. Her features were more slender, her lips were more generous. She had her own distinctive look—and personality.
She had probably heard her name and paused to eavesdrop.
“Jen, you can hear better in here,” he suggested. Then he gritted his teeth. So much for getting along. She resented the hell out of him, and he wasn’t helping matters. He rose, indicating that she should take a seat with him.
She walked into the room, ignoring his silent invitation to sit. Liam rose, and she offered him an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I really didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the whole thing just makes me a little crazy. My mother is feeling … well, she’s overanxious. It’s because of the disease.”
“Maybe she has good reason,” Liam said, staring at Jennifer.
Conar frowned. “What makes you think these threats might be real?”
“Nothing,” Liam admitted. “It’s just that—”
“What?” Conar asked sharply.
Liam shook his head, standing setting his drink glass down. “You should have seen the body, that’s all,” he said softly. “Brenda’s body. Violence can … well, it can happen anywhere. It won’t hurt to take care.”
“I’m always careful,” Jennifer told him.
“Well, don’t resent a bodyguard, eh?” Liam asked her, indicating Conar.
“Hey,” Jennifer said with a shrug. Her eyes touched his. Blue fire, steel—and hostility. “He’s living here, isn’t he?” she added sweetly. “And God knows, he’s such a hunk. Nothing like a good heartthrob to keep his eyes on you. I couldn’t feel safer.”
Liam laughed. “Yeah. Good. Well, I’ll get going then. I’ll see you tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow night?” she said.
“Conar invited me to your party. You don’t mind?”
“No. No, of course not,” she said too quickly. Her eyes fell on him. “He is living here, Mom’s house is my house—and his house as well. Our resident heartthrob-slash-bodyguard is more than welcome to invite guests into his home.”
Conar smiled with little humor, walked to her side, and put an arm around her shoulder. He’d had enough. “Let’s see our guest out, shall we, sis?”
Her eyes narrowed. She would have escaped him, but he didn’t allow it.
He propelled her hard behind Liam as they walked him from the den down the hallway and through the foyer to the front door. They bid Liam good night. He felt the stiffness in her shoulders; the fury in her form. But she didn’t wrench free from him until the door was closed.
“What the hell was that?”
“That was nothing—except that I never really got to give you a good answer earlier. So here it is. There was just a nasty murder in L.A. Your mother is afraid for you. In my opinion, you’re still a spoiled little bitch, but let’s lay it on the line. Abby wants you protected. I’m going to protect you. So don’t fuck with me. Sorry, that’s the way it is. I’m a guest in her house—the same as you. She loves you, I love her, that’s why I’m here. Got it?”
She was staring at him as if she might explode. Her eyes were blue daggers. If looks could kill, he’d have been bleeding all over the floor.
But she didn’t touch him. She didn’t have much of a rejoinder.
“Asshole!” she hissed.
Then she turned around and headed for the stairs.
Jennifer lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. She was exhausted, but her mind wouldn’t seem to turn off.
Abby seemed worse than ever today. So fragile. Trembling, unable to talk, choking. When she was in bed. When she should have been a bit more peaceful.
It was Conar’s arrival.
She tossed, turned, and closed her eyes. She wanted to sleep so badly.
Closing her eyes wasn’t such a great idea. She saw with her mind’s eye instead. Saw Brenda Lopez. Her striking face and features, sweeping long hair, beautiful dark eyes. Saw them flash, heard her laughter.
Saw her as the news had described her …
Stabbed.
Again and again.
Tossed down Laurel Canyon. Just below them. She could have been thrown from this property …
She tossed again, lay on her back. So tired. Don’t think about Brenda. Doug was here, funny, sweet. Which way was the soap going, what was the rehearsal, what was the new plot? The house was quiet, so quiet. Then it creaked and groaned. She knew the creaks and groans. It was an old house, settling all the time. She loved the house …
She must have dozed at last, because her sleep turned to a nightmare. She saw Brenda again … rolling down the hills and cliffs, naked, her beautiful body covered in dust and dirt, grime encrusted in the multitude of mortal wounds. She landed at the foot of the cliffs, deep in the canyon, surrounded by brush and dust and dirt.
Jennifer came to her, wanting to see her. Repelled, wanting to run, she stared at Brenda.
Brenda’s eyes opened.
“You have to be careful, so careful out here!”
Flies buzzed around her head. She laughed, and bugs began to crawl from her lips …
Jennifer nearly screamed. She caught herself; her throat was raw and sound didn’t come. Her eyes flew open.
She nearly screamed again. Someone was standing over her. A shape in the pitch darkness of her room.
She gasped—trying for sound. Blinked. The shape was gone. Panicked, not knowing if she had dreamed it or seen it, she leapt from her bed and flew for the light switch.
The room burst into light and color.
Still gasping for breath, shaking like a leaf, she spun around.
Nothing. She was alone in her room. The door was closed. She walked to it. Locked. She had pressed the lock when she had gone to bed.
Something she didn’t usually do.
She had never been afraid in Granger House before.
Still shaking, she sat at the foot of her bed. She had dreamed it. She had dreamed about Brenda, then dreamed that someone was in her room. What a dream. Her throat was dry. Her heart was pounding.
Lie down, go back to sleep, it’s going to get worse tomorrow, she tried to tell herself.
But she wasn’t going to be able to slip right back into bed. So she had imagined the figure above her in the night. She still couldn’t sleep.
She decided she was going to go down for a drink. That might help steady her nerves. Maybe she’d go dow
n and bring up a whole bottle of brandy. If she couldn’t steady her nerves, she’d just knock herself out.
So thinking, she slipped into her soft terry robe, opened her door, and slipped out into the hallway. There were always night-lights left on in the house. Right now they seemed to create shadowy images. Creatures, dragons, monsters.
“Goose!” she whispered aloud. Tying the belt of her robe, she took long strides down the hallway. She paused, looking back. The Granger Room was behind the large door at the far end of the hall. She narrowed her eyes. Was the door to it just closing?
She thought she heard a little clicking sound.
Had Conar been awake? Why would he sneak around the house—and stare at her while she slept?
She looked down the hallway. The door to the Blue Room, the guest room where Doug was sleeping, was closed. She glanced at her watch. Three in the morning. Naturally, he would be sleeping.
And Edgar would be sleeping as well. He had a small suite in what had been the attic, complete with his own little kitchen and sitting room. Privacy for an old and trusted servant.
She took a breath and hurried for the stairs. She hadn’t bothered with slippers, but the polished wood was carpeted with a crimson runner and her feet weren’t too cold.
She headed into the den. Opening the door, she headed straight toward the bar.
Then she saw Conar.
He was standing by the rear French doors to the pool and patio area, staring out. Wearing nothing but a pair of trouser-style pajama bottoms. He turned and watched her as she reached for the brandy bottle.
So he was up.
By all appearances, he, too, had gone to bed and awakened. And wandered the house. And he might well have been standing over her bed, staring at her. Scaring her half out of her wits.
She set the brandy bottle on the bar and walked over to him, shaking. “You stupid bastard,” she hissed. And to her horror, she raised a shaking hand and slapped him.
He hadn’t expected the assault and hadn’t made a move to stop her. But then his fingers wrapped around her wrist with a powerful grip that threatened to crack bone. His cheek reddened with the imprint of her hand, and a pulse ticked a staccato beat at the base of her throat.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” he demanded furiously.
“You … you scared me to death.”
“By standing here?” he said incredulously.
“By coming in my room.”
“I wasn’t in your room.”
“You … you were. Standing over me, staring at me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. You overestimate your appeal.”
She blushed with a vengeance, working to free her wrist. He was holding her too near. She felt acutely uncomfortable, almost touching his naked chest. The crisp, dark hairs brushed the terry of her robe, and almost touched her flesh beneath the fabric she wore. His shoulders glistened in the eerie half light; muscle and power delineated by the play of shadows.
“I wasn’t flattering myself. I assume you were trying to frighten me.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“So that I would be appropriately grateful that you were here.” He still held her wrist, and she still fought to free herself.
“Someone was in your room?”
“Will you let me go? Look, as far as I can tell, you’re the only one awake in this house. Maybe I imagined it. I was having a nightmare.”
“About what?”
She paused, staring at him. His eyes were on her so intently. She swallowed, shaking her head. What the hell is it to you? she might have shouted. But she didn’t. She still felt shaky.
“I … It was about Brenda.”
“Let’s go to your room.”
“What?”
“Let’s go check out your room.”
Him? In her room. Half-dressed?
“No, I must have imagined it. I just told you, I was dreaming. I probably kept dreaming. I woke up afraid …”
“We’ll go see.”
He was turning. His grip on her sure and strong, dragging her along. They reached the hallway, then the stairs, then the door to her room.
“Conar!” she whispered with vehemence.
She stopped dead, jerking back hard, causing him to turn. She spoke softly but with determination. “I … I must have imagined it. The house is all locked up. There are gates. The dog is out at night. She wouldn’t let anyone near. And …”
She broke off herself, frowning, feeling like an idiot.
“And what?” he demanded tersely. His voice was louder than hers.
“Shush!”
“Keep talking.”
He wasn’t going to shush.
She moistened her lips. “My door was locked. I … I don’t usually lock it, but I had done so tonight. I don’t know why. I woke in a panic … but I noticed it was still locked.”
“Because you thought I would come into your room and stare at you while you slept?” he demanded.
She prayed that they weren’t waking anyone else up with their conversation. He still had her wrist in an absolute vise.
“No, don’t be ridiculous,” she said, and she hoped she sounded equally contemptuous. “I guess I locked it … because of what happened to Brenda.”
“But you feel so safe. You don’t need protection.”
“Conar, you’ll wake everyone up.”
Wrong comment. He opened the door to her room, pulled her on in, and shut it. And through it all, he never eased his hold on her.
“Conar, really, I swear. You can’t imagine the power of the medications she’s taking. She talks to friends in the walls, for God’s sake. Truly, I think that my mother is imagining any danger to me.”
“So why were you so afraid? Why lock your door—why slug me?”
“I didn’t slug you, I slapped you.”
“Pardon me, I’ll grant you the difference.”
“Look, what we both need is some sleep. I’m sorry I slapped you, I’m really sorry. Please, if you would just …” She tugged at her wrist. He seemed very tall in her room. As usual, his presence seemed to fill all space.
And he also seemed very …
Naked. Heat seemed to radiate from his bronzed chest and shoulders.
“Conar … please.”
She lowered her eyes, stunned by the pleading in her voice.
He dropped her wrist. “When I leave, lock your door again.”
“Look, honestly, I don’t think that—”
“Lock your door!” he snapped.
He turned and left, closing the door behind him.
She stared after him, annoyed to realize that she was trembling.
“Lock it!”
She jumped at the sound of his voice coming through the wood. She quickly stepped forward and locked the door. Apparently, he heard the click and was satisfied. She heard him walking away.
She stood for a long time, then walked back to her bed. She sat down. Her mind was still spinning. Now she was really never going to sleep.
And she hadn’t even gotten the brandy. Lord, she would really love a drink.
She didn’t get up. She kept sitting on the side of her bed, embarrassed to realize that she wasn’t about to leave her room and go down the stairs again.
She might run into him once more.
Swearing to herself, she rose, pulled back the covers, doffed her robe, and crawled into her bed.
She loved her bed, she reminded herself. The mattress was perfect. Her pillows were plump and soft. The sheets were always clean and fresh smelling.
She stared at the ceiling, wide awake.
Later, hours later, when she finally began to doze, she wondered once again just what had happened.
Had there been a shadow? The door had been locked …
But what had Conar been doing downstairs, wide awake, staring out at the moonlight?
Out at the moonlight …
Toward Laurel Canyon.
Chapter 6
Liam, with the police, apologized but said they had to track down every lead they had. Abby understood completely. She was glad of the police.
Conar was in complete control, creating a liaison between the police in the yard and Abby in the house. He stood with Liam watching as they inspected the cliffs and the manicured lawn area of the house.
Gloved men and women went over the grounds inch by inch.
Around two in the afternoon, Abby came out by the pool. She looked beautiful. More slender than ever, she had a pale, ethereal quality. She didn’t have a tremendous amount of strength, but on Conar’s arm she walked to a chair by the pool.
She might have been holding court. One by one, the officers came to her and paid homage. She encouraged them, telling them she was more than willing to do anything she could to help them find the murderer.
Jennifer sat beside her mother at the pool, Lady curled by her side. Abby didn’t sneeze at the dog’s fur as long as she wasn’t confined inside with it. She loved Lady as well, but had to wash her hands soon after if she offered the dog a show of affection. It was difficult, because Lady adored Abby. She was a huge dog, too, not so much in bulk, but in height and size, and beautiful with brown-and-tan fur.
“They have found nothing in the yard?” Abby asked Liam.
He hunkered down to pet the dog.
“It rained early this morning,” Liam said. “But … ,” he added, sweeping his arm out in an encompassing gesture, “it’s equally true that she might have been thrown from the vacant land to your left, or from the back of the house immediately to your right.”
“They think she was murdered at her own house, then thrown down into the canyon?” Jennifer asked, a hand on Lady’s soft head.
Lady whimpered, as if she understood the seriousness of the conversation.
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