by Anne Stuart
The smile that twisted his mouth was ugly. “The only person Diana loved more than she loved me was her father.”
“Another difference. I’m a minor cog in my father’s grand scheme of things.”
“Poor girl,” he mocked her.
It nettled her, as it was meant to. “You say she was twisted. Does that mean you consider me to be the picture of mental health?”
“Yes,” he said flatly. “Except when you’re around me.”
“Well, we have one thing in common, apparently. An unfortunate association with you.” She leaned back. Her coffee was cold, but she took a delaying sip, just for something to do. “Did you cheat on her?”
“The courts said I did. Any number of times.”
“And did you? Did you cheat on this neurotic woman who loved you to distraction?” she pursued.
“Yes.”
“The court transcript said one of your lovers disappeared without a trace. There was the hint that there may have been more, but that was stricken from the record.”
“Yes.”
“Do you kill all the women you sleep with?”
“Only the ones who deserve it,” he said. And he picked up his book again, ignoring her.
“YOU’RE LEAVING today?” Cassidy echoed in horror.
“Cass, darling, we have no choice,” Mabry said patiently. “Sean wants to get out of the city, and I’m not about to argue with him. There’s a party at Chaz’s, and it might be the last one he’s really up to. I’m not going to tell him we can’t go when it’s his last chance. Come with us.”
“I hate the Hamptons, I hate Chaz Berringer, I hate literary dinner parties,” she shot back as she watched Mabry continue to pack, calmly, relentlessly.
“As much as you hate Richard Tiernan?” Mabry countered.
“I don’t hate Richard Tiernan.”
Mabry raised a perfect eyebrow. “You’ve been doing an excellent impersonation of hatred, then. I’m sure I thought you despised him.”
“Come on, Mabry. You saw the two of us in the hallway a few days ago.”
“I also know both you and Richard fairly well, and I can imagine whose fault that little scene was. You’ve always gone for the safe, unimaginative type. Doubtless a reaction to your childhood. You and Mark Bellingham seemed a perfect match.”
“He’s married.”
“He’s divorced. Or close to it. Who told you he was still married?”
“Richard. Who else?”
“Interesting,” Mabry said, wrapping silk in tissue paper. She made everything an art, from packing to making coffee to applying makeup.
“So we’re agreed that Richard’s not my type. I like men who are safe and boring,” Cassidy said in a deceptively calm voice. She didn’t like how astute Mabry had suddenly become. She did tend to date men who were safe, unthreatening, even boring. And it was a good thing she did. Look what happened when she was exposed to a dangerous package like Richard Tiernan. Her brain and all her self-protective instincts short-circuited.
Mabry’s gaze was calm and curious. “So where does that leave you and Richard?”
“There is no me and Richard,” she said firmly. “But that doesn’t mean I hate him. I feel sorry for him. He’s lost his wife and his children, he’s been convicted of murder, and he’s an outcast of society.”
“Somehow I don’t think that bothers Richard one tiny bit. I think he’s happy to be rid of society,” Mabry said wryly. “So you feel sorry for him, do you? The earth mother, gathering the suffering to her noble bosom. Except that you’re afraid he might be a viper.”
“Do you think he killed them?”
Mabry’s eyes met hers for a breathless moment. When it came to people, Mabry’s instincts were invaluable, and Cassidy suddenly felt as if her entire future hung on her opinion. If she thought Richard was innocent, then the dark cloud that floated around Cass’s head would lift, and there was hope. Though she didn’t dare consider what that hope might be.
But life was never that simple. “I don’t know, darling. I wish I did.” She closed the suitcase, then turned toward Cass. She was one of the few women who could look her in the eye, though her willowy model’s proportions made her seem smaller. “Come with us, Cass. You need a break as well.”
“Don’t you think I’m safe here?”
“Of course I do.”
“Even though he’s suspected of killing far more than just his wife and children? Not that that shouldn’t be enough,” Cass added with a trace of black humor.
“There was no evidence about any others. Just rumors. If I thought you were in any danger, I wouldn’t have let Sean bring you here.”
“Wouldn’t you? We’re both willing to do just about anything for Sean. Especially now. And what I can do for Sean is stay here while you go to the Hamptons and keep an eye on Richard.”
“Why should you need to do that?”
“Because he asked me to.”
“Damn Sean,” Mabry said wearily. “Richard doesn’t need to be watched. If he wanted to take off, it might be better all around.”
“Didn’t Sean post bail?”
“The money doesn’t matter. Estate taxes will probably take most of it anyway.”
“Don’t talk that way.”
“He’s going to die, Cass. I need to get him away from here. He’s been working too hard, and he’ll burn out that much faster if he doesn’t get some rest. I just want him at the beach house for a week or so, away from work, away from distraction. I . . . I want him for me. Is that so evil of me?”
She wouldn’t cry, Cassidy told herself, her heart breaking for all of them. “Not evil at all,” she said softly. “And even more reason for me to stay here. Don’t worry, I won’t let Richard get to me. He likes the challenge. If I refuse to fight him, he’ll get bored and leave me alone.”
Mabry looked at her, not bothering to disguise her disbelief. “I can’t persuade you?”
“Not right now. I have tons of things I can do in the city—I’ll probably hardly be here, and you know Richard seldom leaves. We won’t even run into each other.”
“Cassidy, you know better than that,” Mabry said gently.
“If things get uncomfortable, I’ll take the first train out to the cottage. I promise.”
Mabry shook her head. “Now, why do I feel things are spiraling out of control?”
“Because the men in this apartment are doing their best to manipulate us,” Cass said with deceptive calm. “I, for one, don’t intend to let it go any farther.”
RICHARD HAD developed a deep fondness for thunderstorms in the city. He stood in the open window as the noise rumbled overhead, and the people beneath scurried to get out of the pelting rain. Violence in nature was suddenly attractive, and he wondered if it was a reaction to the violence he had discovered in his own soul. He could watch the lightning sizzle through the thick gray sky, and feel his own blood leap in response.
He had to get rid of her, and quickly. He wondered whether Sean thought he’d been doing him a favor, leaving her behind. He was deteriorating faster than Richard had expected, and he wondered whether the book would be published. It didn’t matter. He had the money stashed away, ready to be paid out in discreet, untraceable amounts. No one would ever be able to find it—Mark had helped him cover his tracks too well.
He was running out of time. He needed to dispose of Cassidy Roarke’s interfering presence for a while, and then disappear. Just long enough to make sure everything was well, and then he’d be back, the model prisoner, awaiting his fate with stoic calm.
Thunder racketed through the apartment. It was late, and as far as he could tell she hadn’t returned yet. Maybe she wouldn’t come back at all, maybe she’d thought better of sharing a deserted apartment with a serial killer who drew her de
spite her best efforts at resisting.
Maybe he should simply disappear. But he couldn’t trust her not to sound the alarm, call the police, and then all hell would break loose. No, he couldn’t risk it. His disappearance had to be discreet, unnoticed. Too much was riding on it.
He lay on the bed, listening to the sound of the front door opening, the quiet murmur of voices. Cassidy’s, low, throaty, infuriatingly sexy. And a male voice, familiar. Damnably so. Mark Bellingham.
The rage wasn’t good for him. The shaft of possessive fury was dangerous. He needed Mark as much as he needed Cassidy. And for the same reason.
A calm man, a sane man would consider alternatives. The practical possibility would be to tell her a portion of the truth, letting her ally herself with Mark, work with him. Together they could provide the perfect answer.
But he was neither calm nor sane. Events had turned him into a conscienceless sociopath, and he accepted that truth with a certain grim satisfaction. He could trust no one, nothing. Not noble resolve, not friendship, not justice. He could only work with what he had. And the only thing he trusted was obsession.
He moved, silently, through the hallway, waiting in the darkened kitchen, listening to them. The conversation was light, flirtatious, innocent, and he wanted to snarl.
He wasn’t sure what he would do if Cassidy took Mark back to her Gothic bedroom. He didn’t want to think about it. The madness was pulsing in his veins, and he was afraid of it. Afraid of what he might do, whether he was capable of hurting her. He no longer knew his own limits.
The door closed again. If there had even been a kiss, it had been so brief that he hadn’t been aware of the momentary silence it had required.
The chains went up, the locks turned, and overhead the thunder rumbled, and the rain pelted the kitchen windows that overlooked the massive apartment buildings inner courtyard.
She would come in here, he knew it. And he waited, a trap already baited, waited for her to come to him.
He smelled her first. The ozone and wet rain that clung to her hair, the deceptively erotic perfume. When she appeared in the kitchen door she was barefoot, silhouetted, and he felt a curious pain in what should have been his heart. He didn’t want to do this. He couldn’t help himself.
The lightning flashed, illuminating the kitchen for a timeless moment, and they stared at each other. She was wearing a long, flowery dress, her hair was wild about her face, and her eyes were dark with knowledge and longing.
The kitchen was plunged into darkness again, and he took a step toward her, waiting to see if she’d run. She didn’t. She couldn’t. He came up to her and reached out, sliding his hands up her legs, pulling the dress up her thighs, as he drew her toward him.
She came, unresisting, and in the darkness her eyes were wide and wary as they looked up into his. His hands slid along her bare thighs, pulling the material with him, and her breasts were against his bare chest. She was damp from the rain, she was hot, and she was his.
He moved his head to kiss her, and she tried to turn her face away. “Don’t,” she whispered, a plea that should have broken his heart.
He had no heart. “I can’t afford to be merciful,” he said. And he kissed her.
Lightning flared in the kitchen again, then darkness, and in that moment of time he’d hooked his thumbs inside her panties and yanked them down her legs. Her arms went around his neck, and she kissed him back, as he reached down and unzipped his jeans, releasing himself, before he lifted her, up, up, onto the kitchen counter, pushing her back against the cupboards and thrusting inside her.
She was wet, ready for him, and the sound she made in the back of her throat was dark, entirely sexual, as she wrapped her legs around his hips. She tipped her head back, and he could see the line of her throat, feel the curtain of hair sweep over his arm, and the darkness that was his constant companion filled him. He wanted her to feel that darkness, to know its relentless heat, and he thrust deep, feeling the shivers that swept over her, knowing that he was taking her, owning her, destroying her as surely as he would be destroyed for doing it.
He reached up and ripped at her dress, and her breasts spilled free, against him, nipples hard and constricted, and he could hear the soft, choking sound as she clung to him, feel the ripples of reaction that started to spread.
He knew how to prolong it. He knew how to bring her to the very edge, and then pull back, so that she was clawing at his back, desperate, and each buildup was more intense, until she was soaking with sweat, shaking with need, longing for the oblivion of that exquisite small death that was perhaps worth the ultimate sacrifice.
And then he could withhold it no longer. He lifted her off the counter, holding her against him, as he plunged into her, hard, like a weapon, and she shoved her face against his sweat-slick shoulder and buried her scream, as she shattered, rigid and lost. He had no choice but to follow, to his own small death, feeling his body explode inside her, pulses of life flowing between them, endlessly.
He could no longer hold her. He let her slide down his body, so that her feet rested on the floor, and it took her a moment to find her balance. She swayed, staring at him as if she didn’t recognize him.
Her dress was ripped to the waist, and her beautiful breasts spilled out. He wanted to reach for her, to pull her against him, to kiss her high forehead beneath the wild hair, to close her desperate eyes and murmur comfort. To take her back to his bed and do it all again, slower this time, using his mouth, on her breasts, between her legs, doing it all, everything he could think of.
Instead he reached down and calmly straightened his jeans, zipping them. And then his eyes met hers, and he plastered a wry smile on his face. “How does it feel to fuck a murderer, Cassidy? Worth it?”
He expected her to slap him. He expected fury and despair. He should have known better.
She simply looked at him, her mouth swollen from his. “Bastard,” she murmured, a mere token. And then she walked away.
He knew she would leave. He left his door open so that he could be certain she was gone. It took her close to an hour to shower, pack, and leave, the front door slamming behind her. He wondered absently how far she’d run. Whether she’d go all the way back to Maryland, or simply seek the safety of her father’s house in East Hampton.
He hoped it was the latter. When he came back, if he came back, he still might be able to salvage something. To use her, as he needed to. He’d given too much time to preparing her, when time was the most precious commodity of all. If she went to Baltimore, Sean could get her back. If Sean was still alive.
It didn’t take him long to get ready. He’d packed the moment he’d heard her leave, throwing in just the bare minimum of clothes he might need. The passport Mark had left him was magnificent—it would be simple enough to answer to the name Richard Thompson when he arrived. The driver’s license, insurance card, and credit cards were all equally professional. Mark, despite his reservations, had done well. If Richard could trust anyone, he could trust Mark.
But he couldn’t trust anyone.
It was past dawn by the time he arrived at JFK. The early morning flight was already boarding, and he’d cut it dangerously close, but he didn’t dare take a taxi. Taxis could be traced.
It took him a blessedly short time to get cleared to the plane, and he settled into his business-class seat with gratitude, pulling his alter ego around him. He was Richard Thompson, an insurance executive, on his way to a short holiday. No one would look twice at him, or connect him with the notorious Richard Tiernan. For the next few days, he was safe.
He leaned back as the half-filled plane began to taxi down the dawn-lit runway. He wondered how Cassidy was doing now. Was she furious? He hoped so. She was a fighter, far tougher than she realized. She got that from Sean.
And that was exactly why he needed her. She’d survive the rough sex on the k
itchen counter. She’d survive anything he dished out to her. If only he had enough time to make sure everything went as planned.
He shut his eyes, suddenly exhausted. He couldn’t remember when he last slept. The drone of the airplane, the comfort of the seat, was enough. He drifted off, and thought of Cassidy. And the despair in her dark eyes when she came.
Chapter 11
CASSIE GOT AS far as Penn Station, shaken, shattered, confused. She bought her ticket and climbed aboard the first train heading south, out of the city, waiting until the very last minute before she jumped off again, just as it was pulling away from the platform. She didn’t know what she was going to say to Richard Tiernan. She only knew she couldn’t run.
But there was nothing to say. By the time she returned to the apartment, it was past dawn. And Richard Tiernan was long gone.
At first she panicked, imagining the worst. Remembering all the stories and half truths she’d heard. But he hadn’t hurt her. He wasn’t the madman the media portrayed him to be. In the middle of her father’s kitchen, surrounded by knives, he hadn’t hurt her. And he’d let her go.
She searched his room. Most of his clothes were still there, neatly folded, with almost army-like precision. She wondered if he was naturally that precise a man, or whether he’d learned that order in prison. There was nothing of a personal nature, not even a scrap of wastepaper left behind. She sank to her knees in despair on the spotless carpet, and leaned her head against the neatly made bed. And saw the tiny corner of plastic beneath the quilt.
It was a credit card, a gold one with one of those limitless credit ranges. It belonged to a man named Richard Thompson.
She turned it over to look at the signature. It hadn’t been signed yet, but it didn’t need to be. It was issued from a New York bank on the cutting edge of technology, and the photograph on the back was Richard Tiernan.
It should have come as no surprise. He was a man under sentence of death—he had nothing to hold him here. It wasn’t even his money that had provided his significant bond. It was Sean’s—every last penny. If Richard Tiernan broke his bond, her father would die penniless.