Shadows At Sunset (18 page)

“Where are the goddamned lights?” Jackson shouted in fury. She could hear him crash into the furniture, all the while Roofus was barking wildly, unsure whether to protect her or to attack. There was no sound from Dean, who must have gone to find out what was wrong with the electricity, and Rachel-Ann had vanished. Escaped while she still could, Jilly was sure of it, even though there was no way she could have known for certain.

Jilly felt detached, almost floating, as she lay still in the darkness. She could feel the rubble beneath her—smashed glass and broken coffee table, digging into her back. And Coltrane on top of her. In the dark he seemed huge, almost smotheringly powerful, and she knew she should be fighting to get him off her. But for a moment she didn't move, absorbing the feel of him, the astonishingly safe weight of him in the darkness.

The lights came on in the hallway, and Jackson greeted it with a burst of profanity. “Where are the goddamn lights in this room?”

“Aren't any.” Dean's voice came from over by the doorway, and the beam of flashlight washed over the room, stopping on Coltrane and Jilly. “My, my, don't you two look cozy? Should we leave you alone to enjoy yourselves?”

“Don't move,” Coltrane breathed in her ear, ignoring Dean. Jilly said nothing, still in that strangely altered state.

“Where the fuck is Rachel-Ann?” Jackson demanded.

“Didn't see her,” Dean replied, seemingly undisturbed. “Though I thought I heard a car drive away when I was looking for the fuse box.”

“Fuse box? I told you this place was a firetrap. And Rachel-Ann couldn't have left—I boxed her in.” Even from her strange sense of distance Jilly could hear the smug satisfaction in her father's voice.

“That doesn't mean she couldn't have taken another car,” Dean said reasonably. “Looks like she got away, after all.”

“Shit! You've got to help me find her. Bring that flashlight!” There was no missing the rage in Jackson's voice.

“But what about Jilly?”

“Coltrane will see to her.”

“Assholes,” Coltrane muttered beneath his breath when they were alone. “Are you okay?”

Still that odd, floating feeling. “I don't know,” she said.

“There's broken glass all around us. I don't want to make things worse by moving too quickly. Are you bleeding?”

“I don't know,” she said again, almost dreamily.

“Shit. Don't pass out on me!” He sounded oddly panicked. She couldn't imagine why. The darkness was soft, warm, and those annoying noises had gone. She wasn't particularly comfortable, but if she concentrated on the weight of his body on top of hers rather than what lay beneath her, she was happy enough.

He moved, his weight lifting off her as he put his hands down on either side of her, and a moment later he'd pushed himself back, a muttered curse escaping as he straightened up.

“Stay put,” he said. “I'm going to find some lights.”

“I wasn't planning on moving,” she said in a wry, dreamy voice. It wasn't as nice without him covering her, though she was having an easier time breathing. And she definitely didn't like it when he left her alone in the room, in the darkness.

Reality was beginning to rear its ugly head. Her back was stinging, and she thought she could feel the warm wetness of blood beneath her. Rachel-Ann had disappeared, all hell had broken loose, and she was lying on a bed of glass….

She started to shift, but Coltrane was already back. “I told you not to move.” He sounded harsh. A moment later a small pool of light illuminated the scene. The same damned bare-bulbed lamp that had lit the previous night's little scene. Embarrassing as that had been in retrospect, she still preferred it to tonight's absurd disaster.

“I'm going to pull you straight up,” he said, looming over her like a huge, dark shadow. “Don't wiggle, don't squirm, just let me pull you.”

“And if I've hurt my back?” She managed to find some of her usual tartness.

“Then you'll be paralyzed for life and you'll stop annoying me,” he said. He leaned down and reached for her hands. “One, two, three.”

She was up, soaring, his unexpected force propelling her against him with such strength that the two of them fell back against the sofa, her on top this time.

“We've got to stop meeting like this,” Coltrane muttered.

This time she didn't hesitate, putting her hands on his chest and pushing herself upward, away from him, only to shriek with surprise at the pain in her back.

“Shit,” Coltrane said again. “Look at your back.”

“An anatomical impossibility, slightly different from the one I was going to suggest to you.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. And then he laughed, a great, whooshing sound of relief and something else. “You are amazing, Jilly Meyer,” he said finally. “I'm taking you to the emergency room to get that back looked at. We can discuss anatomical impossibilities on the way over. You'd be quite surprised at what I can manage.”

“I'm fine. I don't need to go anywhere with you.”

“Don't argue with me,” he growled, taking her hand. “I'm not in the mood for it.” As they moved into the hall she could see he had something wrapped around his left hand, stained with blood. Blood on his khakis, as well. “You're hurt,” she said, pulling to a stop, trying to ignore the pain in her back.

“We're both hurt, sugar. And Dean and your father are out chasing ghosts, Rachel-Ann's disappeared, and it's up to us to get our butts to the emergency room. So stop arguing and come on. And try not to pass out. I could carry you, but I'm not in the mood if it's not going to lead to something more entertaining than a hospital.”

“No, you couldn't.”

“Couldn't what?”

“Carry me. I'm five eleven in my bare feet…oh shit.” She looked down. Sure enough, she was leaving bloody footprints on the floor.

He sighed. “Where are your goddamned shoes?”

“I don't remember. Where's my goddamned dog?” She suddenly wanted to cry.

“I put him out in the back. I figured you didn't need him licking your face while you were lying there in pain.”

“I like having him lick my face.”

“You'll have to make do with me. Can you walk?”

“Of course I can,” she said, pulling her dignity around her. And she could even, with great effort, do it without a limp.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, obviously not convinced. A moment later he'd swooped her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, and they were out in the evening air.

D
iscovering his car missing didn't improve Coltrane's thoroughly foul mood. It was only a slight relief when he realized that Meyer's Mercedes G-Wagen blocked Rachel-Ann's BMW. She must have taken his car in a desperate bid to escape. He'd have to assume she'd be all right—at the moment he had more pressing matters, like the woman he was carrying and the fact that his left hand was bleeding like crazy.

“We're going to have to take your car,” he said to Jilly, still slung over his shoulder. She was right, she was no lightweight, and apart from Rachel-Ann's escape, this night was going from bad to worse.

“My feet are cut,” she said from halfway down his back. “I can't drive.”

He strode into the garage, opened the passenger door of her Corvette and dumped her in. “You're not going to.”

He ignored her protests, moving around to the driver's side. His left hand was hurting like hell, but it looked as if the bleeding had slowed. He'd managed to slice the hell out of it when he'd pushed off her, and he'd never been particularly fond of blood. He didn't have the choice of getting light-headed, not with Jilly's lacerated back and bleeding feet.

“I told you, you aren't driving my car,” she said weakly as he got in beside her. “What's wrong with your car?”

“Your sister stole it, and a good thing she did. Let's just hope your father can't catch up with her. Stop arguing and tell me where the keys are.”

“What if I told you they were back in the house?”

“I'd say you were a liar wasting important time.” He flipped down the visor and the keys dropped into his lap. “Put on your seat belt.”

He was having a hard time managing his with the dish towel wrapped around his hand, but it was too dark for her to see how bad it was. The engine of the Corvette purred to life, and he backed it out of the garage with total disregard for whoever might be wandering around in the dark. He would have just as soon run Jackson Meyer over—he was past the point of subtlety when it came to revenge. He wanted him dead.

Dean was pretty high on his shit list, as well. What the hell was he trying to pull tonight, with his obscure hints? What had he found on his goddamn computer that he thought could put the fear of God into Jackson Dean Meyer? For that matter, what had he found that could put a backbone in Dean himself?

He raced down the driveway, the lights spearing the darkness. Jilly was silent beside him, and he wondered whether she'd passed out. As far as he could tell his hand was bleeding more than the lacerations on her back and feet. Maybe he crushed her when they fell. Maybe she was in shock.

“If I didn't know better I'd say you engineered this entire thing in order to drive my Corvette,” she said, and he laughed. Then again, maybe she was just fine.

“I'm not that manipulative,” he said, running a red light rather than shifting gears. He needed to keep his right hand on the steering wheel, giving his left a break. It was bleeding again, soaking through the dish towel, and Jilly wasn't going to like having her precious vintage leather-covered steering wheel stained with his blood.

Though she was ruthless enough that she might enjoy it. “How are you feeling?” He glanced over at her. She was leaning back against the seat, safety belt fastened around her waist, her head back, eyes closed. She looked pale in the intermittent streetlights, and he pressed harder on the accelerator, torn between appreciation for the car's responsiveness and worry about Jilly.

“Don't push it,” she muttered without opening her eyes. “I'm fine. You don't have to drive like a bat out of hell.”

“Are you ever going to let me drive this car again?”

“Over my dead body.”

“So I might as well enjoy it while I can.” He zipped around a corner, the tires taking it perfectly. He'd thought he'd get her in bed long before he got behind the wheel of this beauty. He'd been wrong, unless you counted that frustrating erotic partial they'd had last night.

And for some reason, being wrong about the car wasn't particularly pleasing. He'd rather be inside her than her vintage Corvette, no matter how sleek it was or how beautifully the engine purred. He wanted to hear her purr again. The hell with the car.

He would have carried her into the emergency room, abandoning the car, but they were ready for them. Someone had called ahead, and it certainly wouldn't have been Jackson. Dean must have been more alert than Coltrane realized. He left the engine running while he helped her out, and she reached for his hand when he started to turn away.

“Come with me.” It killed her to say it. He wanted to laugh, but somewhere his sense of humor had vanished.

“You want me to abandon your precious car here? It's illegally parked. Chances are it'll get towed or stolen. What's more important, the car or having me with you?”

It was a no-brainer, but she didn't let go of his hand. Thank God she hadn't grabbed hold of his cut one—he was busy keeping it out of sight. “Screw the car,” she said.

They'd put her in a wheelchair and were busy wheeling her into the emergency room, and he had no choice but to go along with her since she wasn't about to let go of his hand. Moments later she was in an examining room, up on the stretcher, still clinging to him.

He heard Jilly's voice coming from a long ways away. She was talking to the nurse, explaining what happened, while they began to pick tiny shards of glass out of her bare feet. She was crushing his hand, or maybe it was his other hand that felt hot, heavy, crushed. He wasn't quite sure. He lifted it to look at it. The red kitchen towel swam before his eyes, then he remembered the towel had been white when he'd wrapped it around his hand.

He was the one who'd passed out cold, even before he hit the floor.

 

There was only one benefit to having made such an utter fool of himself, he thought three hours later when they were finally released from the emergency room. It had managed to put Jilly Meyer into an uncharacteristically cheerful mood. Maybe she liked to see men humbled. Or the ridiculousness of it tickled her. He didn't know and he didn't care.

“You'll need to stay off your feet for a day or two, as much as possible, Ms. Meyer,” the nurse said, giving final instructions. “The cuts aren't deep but they'll heal better if you give them a rest. They're actually worse than the scrapes on your back, despite the amount of blood. The doctor sent along something for the pain, and it might make you feel a bit woozy, but that's understandable.”

Coltrane didn't even blink. Blood, he thought. He really didn't like blood.

“As for you, Mr. Coltrane, once you drive home you should stay put. You've got seven stitches in your hand and quite a bump on your head from when you fainted in the emergency room. There's no sign of a concussion, but you should have someone check on you periodically to make sure you aren't developing any. It wasn't much of a blow, but we can't be too careful.”

He thought he heard Jilly snort faintly. “I'm fine,” he grumbled.

“Just keep an eye on each other. And next time, keep the sex play away from glass top tables.”

“We didn't—!” Jilly gasped, but Coltrane simply took the wheelchair from the nurse and whisked her out the door. The car was still there, adorned with a parking ticket, but waiting for them. He breathed a sigh of relief and put the brake on the wheelchair.

“You stay here while I bring the car around.”

“What did you tell the nurse?”

“Hey, it's L.A. I had to give her a believable excuse. Did you want me to tell her the ghosts scared your dog?”

“Is that what happened?” Her voice was hushed.

He paused, looking down at her in the wheelchair. She wasn't in nearly as bad shape as he'd thought. No stitches, and while her feet hurt, it had been more a question of cleaning the dirt and glass out of the tiny cuts and protecting them from infection. “I don't know,” he said. “All I know is I want to get you home and up to bed.”

“Don't count on it,” she drawled.

“Still arguing? I'm talking therapeutic rest, not sex, sugar,” he said. As usual, he was lying to her. He had every intention of carrying her up to the swan-shaped bed, stripping off her clothes and doing everything he'd been fantasizing about doing for the last three days. She was better off not knowing. It would give her less time to come up with objections.

She didn't want him to pick her up and put her in the front seat of the Corvette, but she had no choice. She held herself stiffly, making it even more difficult, but he didn't bother arguing with her. There'd be time enough for that when they got back to the house.

He had no idea what he'd find there. Jackson and Dean still storming around? Maybe the so-called ghosts had driven their sorry asses out of the place, which would be a relief. Unfortunately he didn't believe in ghosts any more than Jilly did.

Rachel-Ann did. They'd scared her away, which in fact was a good thing. Coltrane had been about to crash across the table and grab Jackson Meyer by the throat. Rachel-Ann had sat there, frozen, as her father stroked her knee, and Coltrane had been equally frozen in disbelief.

It had to have been an earthquake. Just one of those random tremors he was getting used to after more than a year in California. Or maybe Roofus had been stuck under the table.

Or maybe La Casa de Sombras really was haunted. If so, it wasn't by his mother, he knew that much.

Los Angeles streets were never empty, but at two o'clock in the morning things were relatively quiet. He drove at a leisurely pace, enjoying the feel of the Corvette, when Jilly's quiet voice broke the silence.

“There's nothing wrong…that is…” She stopped.

“Nothing wrong with what?” He knew what she was going to say. He just didn't know how he was going to answer it.

“If people aren't related by blood,” she said finally. “There's nothing wrong with them having sex, is there?”

He was half tempted to make a joke, come on to her again, but for some reason he wasn't in the mood. Oh, he was in the mood to take her upstairs to her bed at La Casa and fuck her senseless. He just wasn't in the mood to joke.

“You mean your father and Rachel-Ann,” he said, not mincing words.

“It was that obvious?” she said in a lost little voice. “I'd never had any inkling. I mean, I knew he doted on her, but we all do. She needs looking after—she's always been so fragile emotionally. But I assumed he just gave her all his paternal affection. I didn't mind—I know it's unnatural but I really hate him. Not so much for what he's done to me but what he's done to the others. And for what kind of man he is. But since Rachel-Ann isn't related to him, it isn't really incest, is it? Even if it feels…peculiar. And maybe I was just imagining it. Maybe I was jealous. Maybe I—”

“Hush, Jilly,” he said softly. He wanted to reach out and take her hand, hold it for some kind of comfort, but he didn't trust his left hand with the wheel. “You didn't imagine it. And whether or not it's incest, it's wrong. He's the only father she's ever known. Rachel-Ann knows it's sick. I think Jackson knows it, too, and he doesn't give a shit.”

“Oh, God,” she said in a quiet voice.

“He's not going to get her, Jilly. He's not going to put his hands on her again.”

He had no idea what she made of his steely voice. It didn't matter. He'd wrap his hands around Jackson Meyer's carefully tanned throat and squeeze the life out of him if he ever put his hands on his sister again.

Jilly was silent. “I trust you,” she said finally.

“Don't. I'm not someone you should ever trust. Just because I won't let your father touch Rachel-Ann doesn't mean I'm not dangerous on my own. Don't ever forget that.” He had no idea why he was warning her. Particularly when he had every intention to taking her to bed within the next hour.

“Big bad man,” she murmured sleepily.

“Don't say I didn't warn you.”

“I consider myself warned. You're not nearly as evil as you'd like to think you are. I'm on to you. I should have realized when Roofus liked you so much. He has excellent instincts when it comes to people.”

“You're out of your mind.”

“It's been a long night—cut me some slack,” she said sleepily. “Don't worry, I'll hate you tomorrow. In the meantime I like the novel sensation of someone taking care of me. Are you really going to carry me upstairs when we get home?”

“It's either that or you crawl up on your hands and knees.”

“I think I prefer the Scarlett O'Hara scenario,” she said dreamily.

“Just don't punch me when I'm carrying you.”

“I'll try to resist the temptation,” she said.

It wouldn't do her any good, but he didn't bother to tell her that. She'd already had a hard time resisting him, and tonight she was far more vulnerable. He wasn't going to leave her until he'd taken everything he wanted from her, wasn't going to leave her until she was so bone weary she'd sleep for weeks.