Nightfall

by Anne Stuart

  She was mesmerized by the knife in his hands. And by the elegant, deadly beauty of those hands. “And what would happen to you?”

  “Oh, I’d be back when I said I would,” he said, waving the knife airily. “I always keep my word, don’t you know?”

  “And I suppose you never lie?”

  “Oh, no,” he said calmly. “I lie all the time.” He started toward her, the knife still held in one hand, and it took all the courage she possessed to stand her ground. He wasn’t going to use that knife on her, she knew it. Even if he wanted to convince her that he would.

  “You aren’t going to hurt me,” she said.

  He brought the knife up, letting the dull edge stroke the side of her face. “Why do you think that, Cassie? Don’t you think I like to hurt women? I’ve hurt you already, and I’ve enjoyed doing it.”

  “You aren’t going to frighten me.”

  “You’re scared shitless.” He turned the blade, so that the sharp edge touched her delicate skin.

  “You have no reason to kill me.”

  “Madmen don’t need a reason. We just do it because those little voices in our head tell us to,” he said, his eyes glittering. “And I have a reason. You’ll tell people where I went. The fewer people who know about this place, the better. It might be worth killing to keep it a secret.” The tip of the knife trailed down her throat, a steely caress, and she couldn’t keep herself from swallowing convulsively.

  “You’re not a madman.”

  “I’m doing my best to convince you that I am,” he said with eerie calm.

  “I know. And I wonder why.”

  They heard the car at the same time, pulling to a stop outside the house, the sound of laughing voices, the slamming of several doors. All Richard’s taunting malice disappeared, wiped clean, and he looked pale, almost sick.

  “Get out of here, Cassie,” he said, and it sounded almost like a plea. “Just get the hell away from here before it’s too late.”

  She didn’t know what she expected to burst through the door. What hounds of hell, what evil personified would race in.

  Richard had dropped the knife, taking a step away from her, and his face was set, pale, unreadable. As the door opened, two small figures hurtled toward him, flinging themselves in his arms.

  “Daddy!” they shrieked, a babble of noise almost too much for two children. Ariel and Seth, showering their father with kisses, with questions, with demands and with love.

  Cassidy stood there, numb, when she felt a hand on her arm. It was Sally Norton, looking up at her, an unreadable expression on her piquant face. “I should have known,” she said wearily. “Another American out here was too much of a coincidence.” She tugged at her. “Let’s leave them alone for a bit, shall we? They haven’t seen each other in more than a year.”

  Cassidy followed her, too shocked to hesitate. The side garden was just coming into bloom, and Sally pushed her down into a chair, then sat across from her.

  “They’re not dead,” Cass said.

  “No, they’re very much alive. And thriving. As you can see, I’m not dead, either.”

  “And Diana?”

  “Diana’s quite dead,” Sally said emotionlessly. “Rotting in hell at this very moment, if there’s any justice.” Her sudden smile was almost a shock. “You’re not what I expected.”

  “Expected?” Cassidy echoed, still reeling.

  “Then again,” she continued, “it makes a certain amount of sense. I’m just surprised he didn’t bring you when he came. He said you weren’t ready yet.”

  “Ready for what?”

  Sally Norton’s eyes narrowed in sudden concern. “Exactly why are you here?”

  Cassidy shook her head. Jet lag, confusion, postcoital dementia, had melted her brain. She was surrounded by Richard Tiernan’s victims, each of them alive, healthy, and she didn’t know what to think. Her mind refused to function.

  “I don’t know,” she said simply. She rose, walking out of the garden without a backward glance, back to the hated confines of the rental car.

  Chapter 12

  SHE’D RUN AWAY again, Richard realized. It was to be expected, Cassidy Roarke had an unfortunate habit of always being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Why the hell couldn’t she have gone to the Hamptons with Sean and Mabry? Why the hell did she have to come back to the apartment when he’d finally reached his limit? Why did she have to follow him here, when he needed just five days alone with his secrets? And then, why the hell did she have to disappear again, after she’d blundered in and jeopardized everything?

  He couldn’t go after her. He had to trust that she wasn’t about to go off half-cocked, that she’d simply needed to run away and hide. She was tougher than she realized, but she knew her limitations, and he expected she’d simply gone to ground someplace, to lick her wounds and try to make sense of what she’d seen.

  He doubted she’d be able to. It wouldn’t make sense to her, that a man would stand by and willingly go to his death for the murders of his wife and children, when he knew his children were very much alive and thriving. Hidden from sight, hidden from danger. In the safe, capable hands of Sally Norton.

  They were thriving, indeed. Seth, after his initial exuberant welcome, grew a little hyper, ending in exhausted tears. Ariel was uncertain, watching him out of blue eyes that were identical in color to her mother’s, if completely lacking Diana’s eerily calm expression. By the time Seth had fallen apart, Ariel had started talking, and she prattled away, nonstop, tucking her small, delicate hand in his and looking up at him trustingly.

  No one had looked at him with any kind of trust in well over a year. It was a novel experience, shattering, reminding him of just how he had come to this desperate, barren place in his life. Reminding him, if he had any chance of forgetting, just what his priorities were.

  It was past eleven when they were finally bedded down and sleeping. Past eleven when Richard was finally alone again with Sally, ready to ask the questions that had been waiting patiently.

  She handed him a tall glass of whiskey. “You look like you need it,” she said, throwing herself down on the shabby chintz sofa in the sitting room.

  He liked this place—he always had. It looked much the same as when he’d first bought it, three years ago, hoping to talk Diana into moving, away from the States, away from her family. She’d hated it.

  He sat down beside Sally. She was looking calm, beautiful, and she’d done more for him than any other human being. He took her capable hand in his. “I do.”

  She pulled her hand away, smiling at him. “Don’t, Richard. That’s history, and you and I both know it.”

  “Sally . . .”

  “I know,” she said gently. “You’d do anything for me. Even convince yourself you were in love with me once more. There’s no need, darling. You don’t owe me anything.”

  “I owe you my life.”

  “It doesn’t look as if you’re getting out of this mess with your life,” she pointed out.

  “I’m getting what’s most important to me.”

  “It’s important to me as well. I just wish things hadn’t taken such a turn. Perhaps I don’t need . . .”

  “Don’t even think it,” he said, his voice tight. “You’ve sacrificed enough.”

  “I’d do more.”

  “I know you would. I’m doing my best to ensure that you don’t need to. What did you think of her?” He asked the question casually, taking a sip of the dark whiskey, wondering if he could fool her.

  Sally knew him too well. “Don’t worry, Richard. She’ll be perfect. You know it as well as I do. But how much have you told her?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? She didn’t even know about the children?”

  “Or you. You’re one of my many victims, y
ou know. In the States they pretty much put every missing female to my account. I’m suspected of more crimes than Ted Bundy.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I traveled a lot. And Diana dropped more than a few hints. They don’t need to convict me of the others—Diana’s death is enough to make certain I get the death penalty. The tabloids can just enjoy themselves.”

  “Are you so very sure you can’t tell the truth?”

  “Very sure,” he said, leaning his head back on the shabby sofa. He wished there was some way he could bring himself to want Sally. To love her again, if he’d ever really been in love with her. But all he could see, all he could think about was Cass, with the wounded eyes and the soft body, and not the woman who had already given up everything for the sake of his children. He wanted one break, damn it. One tiny little advantage.

  He thought he’d gotten everything safely settled. He’d been ready to go to his death, either by official hands or by a murderous fellow inmate, when Sally had gotten word to him. And suddenly an appeal was necessary. He had more to do.

  He only hoped the appeal wouldn’t screw things up too much. His complete lack of interest in his defense had ensured that things moved along very quickly especially with his esteemed father-in-law pulling the strings and calling in favors. As long as he hadn’t put up any argument, his fate had been sealed.

  He didn’t want to spend years in and out of courts. He wanted it finished, over and done with. He wanted punishment, he wanted the end. But not until everything was taken care of.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “She asked if they were your children. I said yes. She asked if I was Sally Norton. I said yes. And then she left.”

  “That simple? Do you know where she went?”

  “Are you going after her?”

  “Not now. I only have a limited amount of time with the children.”

  “Will she call the police? Do you trust her?”

  He thought about it. Thought about her warm green eyes, her soft mouth. Thought about what he needed from her, and what he wanted from her. “I’m not quite sure yet,” he admitted. “I needed more time. I didn’t need her to follow me here, before I was ready . . .”

  “I think you’d better go after her.”

  “The children . . .”

  “The children are delighted you’re here, but they know your time is limited. I’ve talked to them, they know to take what they get and be happy. Children are resilient, Richard.”

  “They shouldn’t have to be.”

  “True. But it’s a little late to change things.”

  He grimaced. “Can’t you stay here?”

  “You know we can’t. You don’t want to endanger everything we’ve worked for, do you? We’ll head back down to Cornwall in the early afternoon. If things seem safe enough, you could come down in a day or two, for another short visit. The children have school, and they need to keep up a normal life. Bring her back with you, if you think she’s ready.”

  He managed a faint smile. “You’ve gotten bossy in your old age, Sally.”

  “It comes to all of us, when the stakes are high enough. Will you go after her?”

  “I have no choice.”

  “What are you going to do when you find her?” Her voice was hushed, edgy.

  He glanced over at her. At the face he’d once loved. “It depends. If things go as I wish, then I’ll tell her a small part of the truth.”

  “If not?”

  “Then I’ll have to kill her.”

  HER BRAIN HAD ceased to function, Cassidy decided. It wasn’t surprising, she was operating on a major case of jet lag, on top of one of the most devastating twenty-four-hour periods immediately preceding her abrupt trip to England. That twenty-four hours had included very little sleep and far too much emotional and physical upheaval. To come face-to-face with Richard Tiernan’s murdered mistress and children, very much alive, was a shock she wasn’t ready to assimilate. So she didn’t even try.

  She drove, far too rapidly for the twisting, narrow roads, but fortunately with the approaching dusk, the traffic was nonexistent. She was too tired, too distraught to read a map, and she didn’t give a good goddamn. She just wanted to get as far away from Wychcombe, from Richard Tiernan and his inexplicable lies, as she could.

  She headed toward London, toward Heathrow and Gatwick and escape. To get away from the mind games and confusions she was willing to get back on a hated airplane, and as far as she was concerned, Richard could stay hidden in England. Mabry was right, Sean wouldn’t live long enough to miss the money he’d forfeit. And Richard’s disappearance would probably only help the sales of the book.

  She didn’t even know the name of the town where she stopped for the night. She paid no attention to clocks, to time. Her dreams were fitful and haunted. It wasn’t until she reached the outskirts of London the next morning that she slammed on the brakes, turned the car around, and nearly got herself killed in the process.

  A born victim, she thought as she sped back toward Wychcombe. A glutton for punishment, a masochist, a fool, and an idiot, who should have known better. She’d spent her adult life protecting herself, from dysfunctional relationships, men who were no more than grown babies, people with draining needs and hidden agendas.

  So why in God’s name wasn’t she smart enough not to fall in love with Richard Tiernan?

  It was dark when she reached the edge of Wychcombe once more. She’d spent the day in the car, finally coming to terms with right-hand driving and steering wheels and rearview mirrors. She was ready to confront Richard, in front of his mistress and children if need be. She was ready to demand answers.

  The farm at Herring Cross was harder to find in the dark. The narrow, winding roads seemed ominous, and the distant hush of the sea, mixed with the wind rushing through the newly budded branches overhead, seemed to warn her. She was past listening to any warnings, and had been for weeks.

  She pulled into the driveway. An ancient, gorgeous Morris Minor sat there, and the lights in the old house were minimal. There was no sign of the larger sedan Sally had been driving when she drove Cassidy off the road, and she had to accept the fact that Richard Tiernan might very well be alone.

  She wasn’t going to let it stop her. She was tired of running. Tired of being a coward. She thought she’d gotten braver, more resilient in the last few years, but Richard had taught her the error of her ways. She wasn’t going to let him defeat her. She wanted answers. She needed answers. And she was willing to risk anything to get them.

  The door was unlocked, the living room deserted when she let herself in. She looked around her, taking a deep breath to calm herself. It was a beautiful room, shabby, chic, with faded chintz slipcovers, comfortable old chairs, scratched, ancient furniture, a rose-colored rug, and piles of books everywhere. The vase full of daffodils stood in a corner, and she stared at it. Surely a man who picked daffodils was no danger to her.

  But he was, and he proved it time and time again. He was alone in the house, she knew that with sudden certainty. The night was dark, no one knew she was there. Even Sally Norton, his obvious partner in crime, thought she’d left. He could bury her in the back garden, hide the car . . .

  She shook her head, forcing the vicious thoughts to recede. He hadn’t murdered Sally Norton or his children. He hadn’t murdered anyone, and he wasn’t going to start with her.

  She turned, slowly, to see him standing in the doorway, watching her. He was wearing black, and his face, his expression was in the shadows.

  “You came back,” he said, his voice enigmatic.

  She didn’t move, and when she spoke, it seemed almost an errant thought. “I ran away from home for the first time when I was eight years old,” she said. “I got as far as the Port Authority Bus Terminal, where a policeman found me and brought m
e home. My mother gave him a tip, me a slap, and locked me in my room for three days. I ran away the first day she let me out. Sometimes it seemed like the only answer.”

  “And you never stopped running?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I thought I’d outgrown it. Learned to face my fears, face whatever threatened me. Until I met you. And then I started running again.”

  “Do I threaten you?”

  “Of course you do. You do it on purpose, but I’m not sure why. Will you ever tell me?”

  “Perhaps.” He moved into the room, toward her, and she hoped she’d see some kind of possibility in his dark face. All she saw was danger. And desire.

  “Your children aren’t dead.”

  “No,” he agreed.

  “Neither is Sally Norton.”

  “Obviously. She’s been taking care of them. Keeping them safe.”

  “Safe from what?”

  He smiled, a brief, terrible smile. “From the dangers of modern life.”

  “I came back to find out why.”

  “Why what?”

  “Why you haven’t told the truth. Why you allowed the prosecution to accuse you of murdering your children and your lover and you never told anyone they were alive.”

  “Why should I? I wasn’t convicted of their murders. Diana’s death was enough to send me to death row.”

  “Why didn’t you fight it?” She heard the desperation in her voice, ignored it. “If you’d told the truth, you could have had a fighting chance. Diana’s parents could have taken the children. Instead you let those poor people believe their entire family had been wiped out, when the children could have provided comfort for the general and his wife . . .”

  She was unprepared for his reaction. His face drained entirely of color. Only his eyes blazed with anger, and her own life hung by a precarious thread as he moved toward her, slowly, sinuously, and she was mesmerized, willing to die, unable to move, as he reached his hands up to cup her throat.

  “It’s easy to kill,” he murmured, and the pads of his thumbs stroked the fragile hollow of her neck. “Did you know that, Cassidy? Just a certain amount of pressure, and it would crush your throat. You’d suffocate, fairly quickly. It wouldn’t be very messy, at least at first. But then, when someone dies a sudden, violent death, their bladder and bowels empty. Diana stank when I found her.”