Shadows At Sunset (19 page)

And he'd just have to hope that Rachel-Ann was safe somewhere. Far away from her father.

 

When Rachel-Ann ran from the house she didn't stop to think, to hesitate, to question. She ran blindly, down the path circling the terrace to the garage, only to find her car trapped by her father's G-Wagen. On instinct she grabbed her useless keys, then turned to look for another avenue of escape. Coltrane's Range Rover was parked beside it, and in a panic she tried the door. He hadn't locked it, and the beeping noise signaled that he'd left the keys in the ignition. She didn't bother to question her sheer good luck, she simply jumped in, started the car and took off down the long, winding driveway. She was shaking so badly she could barely keep the car on the road, and it slid into a side street, just barely missing an oncoming car.

She pulled over to the side, fastening the seat belt with shaking hands. “You'll be fine, Rachel-Ann,” she whispered. “Just drive carefully and you'll be fine.” She pulled into the street once more, after carefully checking the traffic, and began to drive, putting all her concentration into the simple act of keeping the Range Rover moving in a straight, steady line. She didn't want to think about them. About the voices, the hands that touched her.

“Run away,” the ghostly apparition had said. “Your brother will stop him. Get out of here, quickly!”

And Rachel-Ann, numb with terror, had said, “Yes, I will.”

She had no idea where she was driving, she simply drove, concentrating on the traffic, the lights, the simple mechanics of the car.

She should go to a hotel, book a room and hide there. No one could find her there, not ghosts, not her father. She'd be safe, alone.

She didn't want to be alone. And she'd run out without her purse, even her wallet. If the police stopped her she'd be ticketed for driving without a license. Maybe worse, since she hadn't stopped to ask Coltrane if she could borrow his car.

She picked up the keys she'd dropped on the seat. She had a change purse attached to the key ring—she usually kept a few dollars in there for parking. No credit cards, though, and not enough for even a fleabag motel.

She pulled up to a red light and unzipped the change purse. One lousy dollar bill—which would get her exactly nowhere. She was about to dump the key ring back on the leather seat beside her when she noticed the key.

It hadn't been there yesterday. She knew those keys very well—the key to her car, a key to La Casa, one for the gates that no one had closed in years. But there was a new key, next to the old, familiar ones.

The light changed to green, and she turned left. There was no guarantee, but she had a pretty good idea who had put that key on her key chain. It was worth the risk.

She'd never been particularly good at finding her way through the city streets, and yet she found herself back in Rico's neighborhood almost instinctively. It was Saturday night, and the street was jammed with people, lights and noise. She drove very slowly, past the rows of apartment buildings, looking for his. Looking in vain for a parking spot.

She found his building, but the cars were so thick she could barely drive, much less find a place to park. She was inching along, scarcely moving, when someone knocked loudly on her window.

It startled a little shriek out of her, but she pushed the button and lowered the window. It was the gang member from that morning, looking not the slightest bit safer by the garish streetlight.

“Hey, lady, you came back. Doc's at work, but he'll be back soon. You need a parking spot?”

“I don't—” But he was ignoring her, letting out a piercing whistle.

“Hey,
compadre,
move that rust bucket so the doc's lady can park her car!” he ordered in a loud voice. A spate of angry Spanish answered him, but one of the ancient cars pulled into the street in front of her, leaving her with just enough room to park the Range Rover.

“There you are. Nice car, lady. I like it better than the BMW. Is it new?”

“I stole it.”

The boy grinned. “Way to go, lady! We'll make sure no one touches it. Just go on up and the doc'll be home soon. If you want I can let you into his apartment. I know how to jimmy his locks.”

“That's okay. I think I have a key.”

The boy grinned. “You go on up, lady. Don't you worry about the car. We take care of our own, and if you're Doc's that makes you one of us.”

And for the first time in hours Rachel-Ann's panic began to fade.

I
t came as no surprise when the strange key fit Rico's door. She had no idea when he'd put it on the key ring, she only thanked God he had.

The apartment was still relatively neat, though there were dishes in the sink. She washed them. She wasn't quite sure why—it just seemed like the thing to do. She wandered into the living room, over to the wall of bookshelves.

She turned on the TV, but he only got three channels and they were grainy. No Weather Channel. She flicked it off again, then her eyes narrowed as she looked at the photographs on the shelf. There was Consuelo and Jaime, older than when she'd last seen them, looking happy and secure. One of Rico and a pretty young woman holding on to his arm. And one of Rachel-Ann, no more than sixteen years old, young and innocent and still hopeful.

She wasn't sure which picture bothered her more—the unknown woman clinging so happily to Rico, or the image of a youthful Rachel-Ann.

She took the afghan off the sofa and set it carefully on the desk, just as he had the night before. She opened up the sofa, stripped off all her clothes and crawled beneath the covers, waiting for him in the darkness.

Half an hour later, she got up, put her underwear back on, and got back in bed.

An hour later she got up and pulled the skimpy dress back on. Her panty hose were shredded, and she tossed them in the trash. It was cool in the apartment, or maybe she was just nervous. She found a T-shirt hanging on the back of the bathroom door—it smelled of soap and shampoo and Rico. She pulled it over her dress and it came halfway down to her knees.

Back in the main room, she put the sofa bed back together again. And then she took Consuelo's afghan, wrapped it around her, and curled up on the cushions, closing her eyes against the bright streetlights beyond the window.

When she awoke the night was still and silent, and she wasn't alone. Only the streetlights lit the apartment, but Rico lay stretched out on the floor, his head against the sofa, near hers.

He looked exhausted. For the first time she had a chance to look at him, really look. She was astonished she hadn't recognized him before. He still had the beautiful cheekbones, the sensuous mouth, the strong jaw. But he'd lost some of that youthful arrogance. Consuelo and Jaime's young son had been beautiful, proud, sleek and sexual, in love with her and in love with life. Nothing was beyond him back then.

Now he looked like someone who'd lived. There were lines around his eyes, around his beautiful mouth. There was even a trace of gray in his dark hair. And he was more beautiful than anything she'd ever seen.

She didn't want to wake him—he looked bone weary. Besides, she was content just to lie there and watch him while he slept. Staring at the smooth planes of his face gave her a sense of safety she hadn't felt in years. Maybe never. She didn't want to think about what had sent her running out of La Casa hours ago. Didn't want to think about Jackson, about the voices, about anything. She simply wanted to lie here and watch Rico sleep.

Almost on cue his eyes fluttered open, and he turned his head to look at her. Without a word she put her hand on his face, she put her lips on his mouth, and a moment later she lay on the floor beneath him.

He made love to her in silence, with such tenderness it made her want to weep. On the floor he took her like a virgin bride, with gentle hands and mouth, with strength and heat and fierce desire always in control, and when he slid inside her she came, for the first time in years, a sweet, tight orgasm that made her cry. He kissed her when he climaxed, kissed her tear-streaked face and her mouth, with his body and his soul. And then he held her as she wept, curled up on the floor with his body wrapped tight around her.

Sometime during the night they opened up the sofa and got into bed, under the covers. They made love again, and this time she felt freer, more open, ready to take him again and again, hungry for him. When she woke in the morning he was wrapped around her, his thumb stroking the scars on her wrist.

“So much pain,
chica,
” he whispered.

“Yes,” she said. Because it was only the truth.

“Are you all right? You can see why I didn't kiss you the other night. I knew this would happen, and I didn't know if it would only hurt you more.”

She rolled over on her back, looking up at him. “You never hurt me, Rico,” she said.

His smile was wry. “Now that's not true. I was an arrogant asshole, sure of myself and the world. Teenage boys are oblivious to the trouble they cause.”

She smiled at him. “Well, then, let's say you hurt me less than most.”

“What brought you back here to me, Rachel-Ann?”

“You put your key on my key chain.”

“Yes, but I didn't expect you so soon.”

“Should I leave?” She started to roll away from him, teasing, and he uttered a mock growl.

“I want you to tell me what made you run. What happened?”

She turned her face away from him. “Nothing. Nothing different. My father came for dinner last night. You never met him, so you wouldn't know how frightening he can be.”

“Yes, I did. The day we left La Casa.”

She opened her eyes. “He sent you away?”

“Who else? Your grandmother had a fit, of course. It's hard to replace good help like Jaime and Consuelo on a moment's notice, but she agreed that you needed to be protected from my mongrel influence. He didn't like the idea of a Hispanic son-in-law.”

She was silent for a moment. “We never talked about marriage,” she said finally.

“No. But I dreamed about it. I was in love,
chica,
desperately, passionately in love as only a teenage boy can feel it. I wanted to slay dragons for you, to fight anyone who dared to hurt you. In particular your father. Unfortunately I was badly outmatched back then.”

“And now? Can you save me from him now?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“Yes,” he said. “But I think you need to save yourself.”

“And what if I'm not strong enough to? What if he wins? What makes you think I'm not more helpless than I was fifteen years ago?”

“You were never helpless, Rachel-Ann. He just made you believe that. It wasn't your weakness that got you into trouble, but your strength.”

“I don't believe that.”

He kissed her nose. “I know you don't,
mi alma.
And I can't convince you. You'll have to find it out for yourself.”

She just looked at him, trying to find defenses against what she was feeling. The soft, melting need that was unlike anything she'd felt before. She knew what needs sent her to men, and it was a far cry from what she needed from Rico.

“Can I come here again?”

“Of course. I gave you the key, remember?” he said gently.

“Can I live here, with you?”

“Yes.” He didn't blink, didn't hesitate.

“Will you make me go to AA meetings?”

He shook his head. “I won't make you do anything you don't choose to do, Rachel-Ann. If you like, I won't even mention the word
meetings
to you again. It's up to you to ask.”

“It's not the answer for me,” she said, needing to convince him. “I know you can't accept that, but it doesn't work for everyone.”

“I can accept anything you want to tell me,” he said calmly. “But I can't give you the answers—you're going to have to figure them out for yourself.”

“Maybe that's what I'm so frightened of.”

“Maybe it is,
mi amor.
Maybe it is.”

 

La Casa de Sombras lived up to its name when Coltrane drove up the winding driveway. Shadows everywhere in the moonlit night, and not a sign of life.

The massive Mercedes G-Wagen was gone, and so was Dean's Lexus. Rachel-Ann's sedan was still there, abandoned along with the ancient vehicle in the far bay. No sign of his Range Rover, which he accepted with equanimity. He was more interested in the Corvette, anyway.

He could only hope Rachel-Ann had found somewhere safe to run to. She'd sat at the table tonight like a meek fawn caught in the headlights of an oncoming tank, frozen, unable to move, with no idea of the disaster bearing down on her. She didn't know the extent of just how wrong Meyer's obsession with her was, even though she clearly had some inkling.

He'd wanted to kill him. It had been that simple, that direct, shockingly so. Coltrane always thought of himself as a man who used brains and trickery to get what he wanted. He'd never wanted the catharsis of physical violence before, not as much as he'd wanted it tonight.

And the damnable thing was, it had started earlier. Started when Meyer had first walked into the room and done his best to demoralize Jilly. It hadn't worked. Obdurate, that's what she was. Unflinching in the face of her father's bullying, unmoved by his malice. Clearly she'd let go of him a long time ago, and he no longer had the power to hurt her.

But Rachel-Ann hadn't let go. She sat on the sofa, shrinking into herself as Meyer clutched her knee like a ham-handed pervert, and she hadn't made a sound. And Coltrane had wanted to kill him.

He'd never had the slightest suspicion that Meyer's obsession went so deep with Rachel-Ann. He wasn't sure what he would have done about it if he had known—his reaction would have been violent no matter what the circumstances.

He pulled into one of the empty bays, parked the car and turned to look at Jilly. She'd fallen asleep—the pain pills they'd given her must have taken effect. He stared at her for a moment, taking a good long look at her.

She wasn't particularly beautiful, he supposed. Not stunning like some of the women he'd bedded. She wasn't particularly charming—she'd given him nothing but shit since the moment they met. Maybe that was part of her charm.

Because he was charmed by her. Effortlessly, completely. He'd been planning on getting her into bed ever since he'd realized who Rachel-Ann was. No, that was a lie. He'd been planning on getting Jilly into bed since he first set eyes on her in the waiting room at Meyer Enterprises. She'd been asleep then, as she was now. He'd never realized how sexy a sleeping woman could be.

He'd come up with a dozen excuses, wicked reasons, evil intentions to sleep with her. In the end, none of them mattered. Looking down at her while she slept, he knew why he wanted to take her to bed. For the sheer, simple joy of it.

And he knew he wasn't going to do it, after all.

She was primed, she was ready, she was half out of it on pain pills. He'd gotten her so turned on the night before she'd temporarily lost all sense of inhibition, and sexual need positively radiated from her. And he knew it was for him and no one else.

She'd been celibate, almost hermitlike, since her divorce three years ago. Meyer kept private investigators on retainer, and there was nothing in his children's lives he wasn't privy to. And Coltrane, with unlimited access to Meyer's records, knew it all, too.

She hadn't wanted anyone in three years, and she wanted him. He'd gotten beneath her impressive defenses, and tonight should have been the night for the big payoff. He could do what he'd been planning all along. Take her to bed, screw her senseless, and then wait for Meyer to show up.

And Meyer would, eventually. His house of cards was tumbling down, and he had no idea why. The carefully balanced scams and schemes, the incredibly intricate orchestration of money and deals that danced on the head of a pin were about to come crashing down, leaving Jackson Dean Meyer penniless, disgraced and under indictment for a textbook of illegal financial practices. Coltrane had been leaking information to the Justice Department for weeks, anonymously. Today he'd sent the final file, and by Monday they'd be ready to pounce. Maybe they wouldn't wait for the weekend.

They'd take everything they could. Including, most likely, the house. That was what would hurt Jilly the most. Dean would be shattered by the loss of money and prestige, Rachel-Ann by the loss of her father.

But Jilly would still be there to take care of them as she always had. Somehow she'd survive, even without her beloved mausoleum.

But who would take care of her?

None of his concern. He wasn't in the business of taking care of people, and Jilly wouldn't thank him if he tried. She wouldn't admit weakness, wouldn't take help from anyone, even when it was perfectly all right to occasionally take a helping hand. She had to take care of the world on her own, and he'd gladly leave her to it.

The one thing he could do for her was not sleep with her tonight. Better to leave her with that much dignity. Better to leave him with an itch that couldn't be scratched, an annoyance underneath his skin that he'd get over eventually. She was half-drugged and half in love, the fool. It was just too damned easy.

She muttered something when he picked her up, but she was too zonked out to do much more than put her arms around his neck and curl up in his arms. He carried her through the empty house, up the winding stairs to her room, laying her down in the absurd, swan-shaped bed.