Jackson Dean Meyer hadn’t even bothered to accompany his children to Edith’s funeral. That was when the hatred had begun, Jilly thought. And the last eighteen years had only solidified it.
“Still the revolting hippie look I see,” Jackson said benevolently, reaching for her braid. “When are you going to cut your hair? And those clothes!” He sighed. “I would have thought you’d have inherited some clothes sense from your mother and me. If I can say one good thing about your mother, she knew how to dress. You seem to have missed out on that ability entirely.”
“Daddy…” Rachel-Ann’s troubled voice reached them, but he waved a silencing hand without looking at her. He hadn’t finished his carefully orchestrated attempt at demoralizing Jilly. He used to be able to do it so well. He must have forgotten that she’d grown impervious, once she found she no longer cared.
“Why are you here?” she asked in an even voice. “It’s not Christmas or anyone’s birthday, though you usually don’t pay attention to those, anyway. What blessed convergence of the stars do we have to thank for your appearance here tonight?”
“Your brother invited me.” He smiled his affable smile at Dean, who raised his wineglass in salute. Jackson Meyer’s smile had always been one of his most effective weapons. It reached his eyes, lit his whole face and convinced the recipient that this charming, wonderful man was totally enchanted with them. Until he slipped the knife between their ribs.
“I’m sure it’s not the first time he’s invited you. Dean hasn’t given up on you yet,” Jilly said.
“Ah, but you have, is that right, Jillian? Fortunately I have two other children to fall back on, since you in your infinite wisdom have decided my sins are unforgivable. It must be nice to be so sure of yourself, that you can sit in judgment on others.”
“You’re losing your touch, Jackson,” Jilly said, unruffled. “You tried that tack two Christmases ago. It didn’t work then and it won’t work now.”
Only the faint tightening in his handsome jaw-line betrayed his reaction. He smiled benevolently in her direction, but the smile faded slightly from his eyes. “Well, then, I’m sure we can excuse you for the rest of the evening, since you find my presence unacceptable. Dean and Rachel-Ann are glad to see me, and I know I can count on Coltrane.”
“I know you can,” she said sweetly.
“And take that hellhound with you,” he added, another trace of his affability vanishing. “He sheds.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t think of going anywhere,” Jilly said smoothly. “If you’ve finally decided to set foot in La Casa for the first time in my memory then the least I can do, as one of the owners, is to make you welcome. Are you here for dinner or are you just the appetizer?”
Jackson looked at her sorrowfully. “I must have hurt you very badly, dear girl. I’m so sorry.”
Zing! She didn’t betray the sting of fury. “I forgive you,” she said sweetly, sweeping around him and heading back to the table. Roofus was still eyeing Jackson and growling low in his throat, but Coltrane’s long fingers soothed him, and he settled back on the floor with a reluctant sigh as Jilly sat back down on the sofa.
Jackson took his time finding a comfortable chair and dragging it over to the table. He paused to give Rachel-Ann a kiss on her proffered cheek, then nodded at the two men in a manly, convivial gesture. He put the chair at the head, of course. He sat down, then beamed at the four of them with patriarchal majesty. “Isn’t this nice?” he murmured.
“Lovely,” Jilly muttered. Waiting.
“You can leave any time now.” A note of annoyance was creeping into Jackson’s voice, and Jilly made a mental hash mark. He wasn’t the only one who could score points.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” she said in a sultry voice. “You’re up to something, and nothing on this earth would make me miss it.”
“I wouldn’t count on the ghosts interfering, either, though they may qualify as on this earth,” Dean said prosaically. “Anyway, I want you here. Our esteemed father has an offer to make, and it should be heard by all three of us.”
“Then what’s Coltrane doing here?” She’d glanced at him, just once, before tearing her eyes away from him. He sat in the shadows, watching, almost a ghost himself.
“As my chief legal counsel I felt he should be here,” Jackson said smoothly. “Besides, the man’s living here. It would hardly be polite not to include him. Where’s your hospitality, Jillian? I would have thought your grandmother would have taught you better than that.”
Jilly curled her feet up on the sofa, a small enough barrier between her and Coltrane. “I think this house has had too many guests and not enough family.”
“Shut up, Jilly,” Dean said. “I get tired of the two of you baiting each other. Father’s here for a reason, and we owe it to him to listen.”
Normally Jilly would have argued. Dean was always trying to win Jackson’s approval, and he never would. At first she thought he was ready to crawl once more, until she recognized the odd glitter in his eyes. If it had been Rachel-Ann Jilly would have said she was on drugs. Dean didn’t do any drugs but vodka, and the look in his eye was slyly triumphant. She found that even more troubling.
“Thank you, son,” Jackson said. It was probably only the second or third time Jackson had ever called him son, and Jilly could see Dean’s reaction, even as he fought it. Jackson leaned back, pulling a silver-chased cigar tube out of his pocket, making them all wait while he went through the ritual of lighting it. Coltrane shifted, letting his hand rest on the sofa. Between them. Near her feet.
After a long, faintly theatrical puff, Jackson leaned back in his chair, putting on his most paternal expression as he rested his hands across his flat belly. “You know I have a great interest in La Casa. I always have had.”
“I know you’ve never set foot in it in more than twenty years, and that Grandmère left it to us rather than to you,” Jilly said sharply.
“In trust. And it was for tax purposes,” Jackson returned. “I know you don’t like to think about the practical aspects of life. You’re so busy with your lost causes, running around town trying to save buildings that are past their prime. And you consistently fail, don’t you, Jillian? Because no one but you gives a damn.”
“True,” she said calmly.
“It’s common practice to skip generations when it comes to inheritance. Coltrane will be happy to fill you in on the legal ramifications at another time if you’re fascinated, which I doubt. It seems unlikely you’ll have any kind of estate to leave any children or grandchildren you might eventually produce if you continue devoting your life to lost causes.”
“I’ll pass. I really don’t care. And Grandmère didn’t want you to have La Casa. She knew you’d have it bulldozed and turned into high-rises.”
“Then why did she leave it in trust? As long as you want to live here it’s yours. But as soon as you leave, or it’s inhabitable, it reverts to me.”
“That was explained to us when we inherited the place,” Jilly said. “Tell us something we don’t know.”
“This place is unsafe. It’s a firetrap, and the next earthquake we get will probably have it collapse around you. I don’t want to lose my children in a tragic accident,” he said in such a concerned voice that any fool would have believed him. But Jilly had stopped being a fool long ago, at least where her father was concerned.
“We’ll be fine,” she said briskly. “Thank you for your concern, but we’re staying put.”
“It was left to the three of you, Jillian. Aren’t you interested in what your siblings have to say? I’m offering a substantial amount of money for each of you. Enough for you to buy all sorts of historic garbage heaps and restore them, enough for Dean to get the kind of place he wants.”
“And what about Rachel-Ann?” Dean questioned in a silky voice.
Jackson leaned over and put his perfectly manicured hand on Rachel-Ann’s slender knee, squeezing it. “I was rather hoping she’d move in with me.”
; The silence in the room was palpable. Jilly’s recoil was instinctive, but she wondered if she was overreacting to a perfectly normal suggestion.
Not if she were to go by the expressions on everyone else’s faces. It was as though Jackson had dropped a bomb in the middle of the room and everyone was politely pretending it hadn’t happened, even as it was about to detonate.
Coltrane’s face was frightening in its stillness, his eyes were like ice, and his hand had tightened into a fist. He said nothing, though, and the others couldn’t see his terrifyingly quiet reaction. Only Jilly could, and she wondered what caused it. What she was missing.
There was no mistaking Rachel-Ann’s blank expression. She didn’t move, and Jackson’s hand remained on her knee, softly kneading.
Dean was the first to speak, clearing his voice with a sound that was shocking after the deep silence. “Wouldn’t Melba have something to say about that, Father?” he asked softly.
“Melba and I have agreed to an amicable separation. We signed a prenuptial agreement, of course, so it should all be relatively straightforward, and she had no grounds or interest in contesting it. I haven’t given her any.”
Jilly couldn’t pull her eyes away from his hand, squeezing her sister’s knee, a slow, hypnotic caress. “And…?” Dean prompted, his voice faintly hollow, the triumphant glitter still in his eyes.
“I’ve bought a place in the Hills. I’ll need a hostess, and Rachel-Ann needs something to do. I’m sure she won’t mind looking after her old man. Will you, baby?” Knead, squeeze, knead, squeeze. His fingers caressed her knee.
“Yes, Daddy,” she said in a soft, little girl voice. “I mean, no, Daddy. I won’t mind.”
She was trembling. It took Jilly a moment to realize that her sister was practically vibrating in distress. She called him Daddy. Odd, none of the others ever had. Dean called him Father, or Jackson, and Jilly tried to call him nothing at all.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Coltrane said, his voice cool, emotionless. “I think—” Before he could finish his sentence the candelabrum went flying, sailing across the room like it had been thrown by an unseen hand. The other candelabrum toppled from the piano, the coffee table shook, knocking the glasses to the floor as the rest of the lights went off and the house was plunged into darkness.
Rachel-Ann screamed in utter terror, and Jilly leapt forward, trying to reach her, only to collide with Coltrane in the dark. Tripped by Roofus’s sudden leap, the two of them went down, directly into the middle of the glass coffee table in a tangle of limbs. A second later it broke beneath them. Coltrane was on top of her, heavy, overpowering, and they tumbled to the floor so that she lay underneath him, shattered glass beneath her back, digging into her skin. She could hear Roofus barking, Dean and Jackson were shouting, and she closed her eyes in the smothering darkness, feeling faint….
And then Rachel-Ann’s voice came to her, clear and oddly close, as if she were whispering in her ear. “Yes,” she said. “I will.”
“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.
18
Discovering 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.