by Anne Stuart
“Is it true? Are you a violent man, capable of murder?”
He rose then, and leaned across the desk, close enough so that he could smell the coffee on her breath, the scent of her perfume. Another erotic pulse throbbed. “You’re going to have to figure that out, aren’t you?” he murmured.
She stared up at him, mesmerized. “Why should I?”
“Because you’re curious. You can’t help yourself, Cassidy. You look at me and wonder whether I’m some kind of monster who butchered his wife and children, or whether I’m just a poor victim of a crazy judicial system. Your heart wants to bleed for me, I can see it, and you want to believe me, but you can’t quite bring yourself to do it. So you’re torn. You don’t know whether to comfort or revile me. Do you?”
He could see the faint flush of color on her translucent cheekbones, the aching warmth in deep green eyes. “Would you let me comfort you?” she asked, her voice hushed.
It was like a blow, ripping away the layers of protection, the defenses, so that she struck, straight to that dark, empty place that had once been his heart. He stepped back, away from her, away from the dangerous seduction of her compassion, away from the first real threat he’d come across since that night, endless nights ago, when he’d knelt in the pool of his wife’s blood and watched her die.
“No,” he said. And he turned and left her, almost running, suddenly, irrationally afraid.
“I’M NOT CERTAIN this was such a good idea after all,” Mabry said from the open doorway.
Cass looked up from the neatly stacked files of papers on Sean’s walnut desk. She’d been at it since Richard Tiernan had abruptly walked out on her—reading, cataloguing, inuring herself to horror.
The initial police report was there, and the coroner’s report as well. Diana Scott Tiernan had died of massive blood loss, caused by a slashed aorta. The fetus was approximately seven weeks old, and had suffocated once Diana Tiernan’s heart had stopped pumping.
There were signs of a struggle. She was bruised, with small traces of blood under her fingernails. Blood that had matched the scratches on her husband’s arms. Scratches he insisted came from an encounter with a stray cat.
Cassidy had read it all with a kind of shocked detachment. These weren’t people she knew, she told herself. If she could just manage to convince herself it was all fiction, a murder mystery, then the sick burning at the pit of her stomach would leave her.
She glanced up at Mabry’s pale, perfect face. “Not a good idea?” she echoed. “Why do you say that? You’re the one who got me up here in the first place.”
Mabry grimaced. “Sean was determined that you should come and visit, and who can hold out against your father when he gets in his moods?” She drifted into the room with her unconscious, model’s grace, deliberately avoiding the green leather chair. Cass wondered why.
“So he’s not really been sick? Never has been?” she asked, leaning back.
“I don’t know,” Mabry said simply. “I do know he’s actually gone to the doctor on several occasions, which would have been unheard of when I first met him. He’s refused to let me come with him, and when I asked him what was wrong he simply told me it was constipation. And frankly, if there’s one thing Sean isn’t, it’s anal retentive,”
“Do you really think he’s sick?”
Mabry shoved a slender hand through her perfectly straight hair. “I don’t know. But if he is, I still doubt that has anything to do with his determination to have you here.”
“And it couldn’t be anything as healthy as simply missing his family.” Cass stared down at the desk, her voice neutral. It didn’t hurt. She’d stopped letting Sean hurt her years ago.
“I don’t think so. If it were, he would have made some effort to get Francesca back here as well. You know he dotes on the child.”
“I know,” Cass said, stifling her unreasoning sense of jealousy. She adored her baby sister, as did they all. She just wished there’d been a time when Sean had thought she was as bright and quick and wonderful. “And just when did Sean come up with the notion that he needed me here? I don’t suppose it happened to coincide with Richard Tiernan’s release from jail?”
“What was the reason he gave you for wanting you here?”
“To help him on the Tiernan book. He says he’s never done nonfiction before, that it’s too detailed for his creative brain, and he needs some editorial help.”
“And you believe him?” Mabry asked.
Cassie didn’t hesitate. “Not for a moment. Sean isn’t the kind of person who asks for help, and I’m the last person he’d come to if he was forced to admit he needs it. As for details and facts, when has Sean ever troubled himself about them?”
“He’s got a reason for having you here, Cassie. And I don’t like it. I don’t trust him, or his infatuation with Tiernan’s case.”
“What do you mean, infatuation?”
“He’s obsessed by it. And by Richard himself. He’s got more passion, more interest in his work than he’s had in years, and it’s all due to a horrifying crime. It’s bad enough that Sean is living and breathing murder. I don’t want you dragged into it as well.”
“You think he did it,” Cass said flatly. “You really believe Richard Tiernan slaughtered his family. How in God’s name can you bear to have him in the house? To talk to him?”
“I didn’t say I thought he did it,” Mabry said, tossing her famous head of hair.
“Then if you don’t . . .”
“I didn’t say that, either. I don’t know what to believe. All you have to do is look into Richard Tiernan’s eyes and you see things you wished you never had to. The kind of things that will haunt you.”
Cassidy felt an answering chill run down her spine. Mabry was the least fanciful human being Cass knew. It was her serenity, her ability to accept things at face value, that made her so restful, and so important to Sean. If she could see ghosts in Richard Tiernan’s dark eyes, then ghosts were most definitely there.
She needed to leave. Turn her back on her father the first time he really seemed to need her, and run for safety.
If only she could.
“You’ve been married to Sean for almost ten years. Surely you know by now there’s no getting him to say anything he doesn’t want to. I’m sure he’ll reveal his master plan for me in his own good time,” Cass said with deceptive ease.
Mabry just looked at her. “You’re right, of course. I only hope that he gets around to it before too much time passes. Before it’s too late.”
Cassidy rose abruptly, needing sunshine, fresh air, smiling faces. She was unlikely to find any of those three commodities in Manhattan any more than she was likely to find safety.
“Too late for what, Mabry?”
Mabry shook her head. “I don’t know, Cass. I just have a bad feeling about this. And it’s only going to get worse.”
RICHARD WAS lying in the darkened room, stretched once more on the bed that had belonged to one of Sean’s children. He never slept much—a few hours here and there, but when the wheels started spinning too quickly, when the lights grew too bright and the pain started, then he had no choice but to shut himself away. He couldn’t face anyone right now. Not and be sure he could keep controlling the darkness, the fury that coursed through him.
Sean wasn’t the kind of man who paid attention to closed doors. The murky light of the hallway threaded into the room as he stood there, his stocky figure filling the frame. Beyond him the apartment was still and silent.
“The women have gone out,” Sean said. “Probably gone shopping.”
“Anyone ever tell you you were a sexist pig?” Richard inquired, not bothering to turn his head.
“Any number of femi-nazis,” he replied. “I view it as a badge of honor. Name me one woman who doesn’t like to shop. Your wife, for inst
ance? Didn’t she have staggering credit card bills?”
“You read the trial transcripts, Sean. You know that as well as I do. You never forget anything.”
“True enough.” He wandered into the room, closing the door behind him, closing in the murky darkness. He sat down in the chair beside the bed. “So what do you think of her?”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “You already asked me that.”
“What happened this morning? I left the two of you alone, and I expected . . .”
“What did you expect, Sean?” He let the savagery emerge in his voice. “You think I’d have her spread out on the desk, her skirt pushed up to her waist?”
“I’m the girl’s father,” Sean said coolly. “Watch your mouth.”
“You’re the girl’s father, and you don’t have any qualms about handing her over to me.”
“Oh, I have qualms aplenty. I’m willing to take the chance.”
“It’s not you who’s taking the chance, is it, Sean? What if I turn out to be a crazed murderer? Another Ted Bundy?” He sat up, turning on the light beside the bed, and Sean blinked like a blinded owl. “You know what they say. That I murdered my wife and children, that I probably killed countless other women. They haven’t found Sally Norton’s body, but that’s the only thing that’s kept them from charging me with that murder as well. What if I can’t resist? If I have to stab every woman I fuck?”
“Trying to shock me, Richard? I’m a little hard to horrify at this stage in my life. I can understand why you might want to kill your wife. Why on earth would you want to kill Cassidy?”
He sank back on the bed, suddenly weary of the man’s obtuse egotism. “Maybe for the simple reason that it would hurt you, and you’re beginning to piss me off.”
“I’ve always pissed you off, Tiernan. Let’s not pussyfoot around. We’ve made a Faustian bargain, you and I. My daughter for your story. You want someone to screw, and for some reason you’ve hit on my daughter. So be it. I need someone to help me with the book, and she’s a talented girl. I’m not about to renege. Are you?”
He curved his mouth in an unpleasant smile. “No,” he said. “Though I have one question.”
“Just one?” Sean said boisterously. “Fire away.”
“If we have a Faustian pact, just which one of us is the devil?”
There was a momentary silence. “That, my boy, is what’s going to make this book a classic.”
SHE WAS BEING watched. It had taken her several blocks of city streets to recognize the feeling, but when she turned and looked around her, no one seemed particularly interested in a tall, well-rounded redhead dressed far too casually for the Upper East Side.
She’d been right about the sunshine and smiling faces. The bright morning had turned dark and glowering, the people around her were striding down the wide sidewalks, their heads down, their perfectly painted faces blank. The air smelled like thunder and exhaust.
She headed toward the park. Not the place to go in search of peace and safety, but she needed trees, even ones that were half-dead from pollution. She needed to watch children playing, to see life, to forget about Richard Tiernan and his twisted destiny.
She was being followed. She entered the park at Seventy-second Street in a small group of people, and she knew one of them was there with her. But whether it was the silk-suited yuppie, the mumbling homeless woman, the cop, or the jogger, she had no idea. It could just as easily have been the pretzel salesman or the elegant gentleman with the military bearing.
And then she knew.
She walked slowly, aimlessly, making it easy for him to keep up with her. She stopped and bought a bag of popcorn, then sat on one of the relatively clean benches. She tossed a piece of popcorn on the ground, watching as a pigeon darted toward her.
He stood at the edge of the path for a moment, watching her as she fed the pigeons. Squirrels with ratty, moth-eaten tails joined the battle, and eventually Cassie resorted to throwing vast handfuls out.
“You have a soft heart.”
He sat down next to her. She turned to look at him, hoping the sudden tension wasn’t as transparent as she feared it was. “I have a passion for justice.”
“So do I.”
“Justice?” she asked. “Or revenge?”
Retired General Amberson Scott nodded approvingly. “You’re smart as well as pretty. I like that in a woman. In this case justice and revenge are the same thing.”
He was a distinguished-looking man, Richard Tiernan’s father-in-law. He didn’t look all that different from the media darling who’d fielded questions on the Gulf war. Despite the tailored British suit, he still exuded a military fairness, a decency, an intelligence mixed with equal parts determination and compassion. It was little wonder he’d been such a damning witness for the prosecution.
“Your father’s a fool,” he added abruptly.
“No, he’s not.”
“Then he’s playing a very dangerous game, and he’s old enough to know better. Richard Tiernan is a sociopath, totally without conscience. Any man who could slaughter his pregnant wife and children and still sleep at night must be some kind of monster.”
“What makes you think he sleeps at night?” she asked, knowing it was a stupid, inconsequential question, unable to banish the memory of his hands on the glass of warm milk, handing it to her.
Scott shook his head. “I’ve talked to your father, any number of times, and he refused to listen. I kept out of it—Richard’s been convicted, and I have a strong faith in the justice system of this country. It’s not going to let a man like him go free. He’ll pay for the murder of my daughter and her babies, and I intend to be there and watch.”
It was spoken with calm determination, and Cassidy had no doubt whatsoever that Scott meant every word he said. “But what if you’re wrong? What if my father is able to prove he didn’t do it?”
Scott shook his head. “Not as smart as I thought,” he murmured. “Your father had no qualms about admitting the truth to me—why don’t you ask him yourself what his new book is about?”
“I know what it’s about. He’s going to tell Richard’s side of the story. He’s going to prove he couldn’t have done it.” Even as she said it, the words sounded hollow.
General Scott shook his head. “No, he’s not. He’s going to tell Richard’s story, all right. He’s going to illuminate the mind of a murderer.”
“I don’t believe you,” Cassie said hotly. Too afraid that she did.
“Sean O’Rourke wouldn’t be interested in anything as tame as a true crime story. He’s expecting this to be a masterpiece, and he doesn’t care what kind of price he has to pay.”
“And what kind of price do you anticipate?” Cassidy asked in a frosty voice.
“If Richard runs true to form, it will be the same price I paid. The life of a daughter.”
The wind stiffened, catching a piece of torn newspaper and scudding it down the winding pathway. In the distance Cassidy could see the blurred image of Richard Tiernan, and one word of the headline. Murderer.
It would have been simple enough to go with the fear that had been teasing and taunting her for the last twenty-four hours. Ever since she’d arrived in New York. But if she started running, she didn’t know when she’d be able to stop. And she wasn’t quite ready to run yet.
She rose, tall, graceful, and he rose with her, polite, distinguished, a few inches shorter than she was. “I understand how you must be feeling, General Scott,” she murmured. “And I wish there was some way I could help, but I think . . .”
“There is a way you can help,” he said, and she braced herself, knowing what would come next. He’d ask her to spy on Richard, to intervene with her father, he’d ask her to . . .
“Stay alive,” he said. “He’s already killed at least two wome
n, and the police think there were probably a great many more.”
“But . . . Cassie protested, filled with sick horror, but his stern voice overruled her.
“Don’t let him kill again.” Without another word he turned and walked away from her, and the pigeons scattered in his path.
Chapter 5
THE APARTMENT was still and silent when Cass let herself back in. There was no sign of Mabry and Sean, no sound coming from the bedroom. Cass locked the door behind her, slipped off her shoes, and leaned back against the solid surface.
It was after midnight, but for the first time she had felt safer on the mean streets of New York than she felt in her father’s house. The run-in with General Scott had left her shaken, and nothing could rid her of that nagging fear. She’d been trying to tell herself there was nothing to worry about. In a few short minutes Scott had reinforced all her fears. She was living with a murderer. And she was stupidly, irrationally drawn to him. As, doubtless, his other victims had been as well.
She’d gone shopping, hoping the bright lights and bustle of the city would distract her. She couldn’t bring herself to buy anything. She went out to dinner, only to find she couldn’t eat anything. She went to the movies, and discovered she’d mistakenly made the worst possible choice. She’d been looking for something absorbing and Hitchcockian. Instead she’d ended up with a slasher movie, rampant with elegant erotica, and she’d sat there, horrified, mesmerized at the stylish bloodbath on the screen.
It was no wonder she thought of Richard Tiernan.
She’d delayed even further, stopping for dessert and Irish coffee at a small restaurant around the block from her father’s condo. By the time prowling singles started noticing her, she realized she couldn’t put off her return any longer.
She pushed away from the door, pulling off her jacket and tossing it on a chair. She moved down the carpeted hallway, tiptoeing. It wasn’t until she reached her bedroom door that she heard the voices. Muffled, ominous. Sean’s light, bullying voice, carrying the deliberate tones of drunkenness on its Irish lilt. And Tiernan’s, slower, deeper. Hypnotic.