Anne Stuart - Shadows At Sunset

Working as an historic preservationist in Los Angeles was a classic exercise in futility, and she’d known that going into it. Los Angeles was based on money and power, and history and aesthetics were commodities of little value. In the three years Jilly had worked for the Los Angeles Preservation Society she’d watched landmark after landmark be turned into rubble and then transformed into Bauhaus boxes. The best she could preserve were memories.

Today was particularly bad. She’d spent the day scrambling over debris at the Moroccan Theater, snapping pictures with the digital camera, taking notes, taking measurements. In a few more days it would be gone, its last reprieve used up. And at one point Jilly sat in one of the dusty, plush velvet seats and wept, not sure if she was weeping for the building or her own life.

Dean and Rachel-Ann were gone by the time she got home in the middle of the afternoon, and chances were they wouldn’t be back until late. Just as well. Handling Coltrane was difficult enough—she didn’t want to have to worry about her siblings at the same time.

She’d showered the dust and rubble off her body, made herself a tall glass of iced tea and wandered out on the terrace to watch the sun set over the huge expanse of overgrown lawn. She loved the terrace, the old iron furniture, the flagstones, the stone columns weathered and chipped from the years, the towering palms surrounding them. But down in the middle of the lawn, some two hundred yards away, lay the dank, algae-covered pool, and Jilly could never look at it without shuddering.

It was past time to get someone in to drain it again, she thought idly. It hadn’t been used in years. As a child she’d had an unexpected dread of it, even though she spent all her free time in her friends’ pools. Maybe it was the trees looming overhead, or the odd patterns in the tiles, or maybe an excess of teenage imagination. Whatever it was, Jilly had stayed away from the pool most of her life.

When they’d inherited the house she’d had it drained, but each year it would fill again, water seeping in from a crack in the lining. There was no way she could afford to hire heavy machinery to come in and bulldoze it, so it just sat there, dank and malevolent, with only the wild tangle of rosebushes to shield it.

Jilly perched on the wide stone railing, breathing in the scent of roses mixed with the acrid perfume of exhaust from the surrounding city. There was nothing she wanted more than to climb into her huge marble bathtub and stay there until her skin got wrinkled. She didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone, save anyone. Not tonight. She most particularly didn’t want to have to deal with Z. R. Coltrane.

At least she’d found out that much about him, even if she couldn’t fathom what Z. R. stood for. It seemed an apt enough name for a Hollywood cutthroat.

Not that she had any particular reason to consider him a cutthroat, apart from her instinctive dislike of all lawyers. She wasn’t particularly trustful of good-looking men, either—years in Los Angeles had taught her to be wary, and Alan had finished the lesson. Of course Coltrane didn’t look the slightest bit like her former husband. Alan was dramatically beautiful, with long, flowing dark hair, a poet’s face, an artist’s hands, a butcher’s soul.

Coltrane, on the other hand, was a shaggy-haired, bleached California blond, a lawyer, not an artist, a businessman, not a poet. Unlike Alan, he made no pretensions to being a gentle, noble soul. And yet he was a phony, a liar, just as much as her husband had been. What you saw was definitely not what you’d get, or so her instincts screamed at her.

Coltrane was the sort of man who could easily figure out what appealed to certain people and tailor his approach accordingly. If anything, he’d seemed determined to annoy her rather than seduce her into thinking he was harmless.

Bad word, seduce. Particularly in connection with him. They’d have a business meeting tonight, a calm, rational discussion of how Dean’s situation could be made more tenable at Meyer Enterprises, and then she’d bow out, gracefully, and never have to see Coltrane again. She never went to her father’s lavish holiday parties—for all she knew she hadn’t even been invited the last couple of years. There was no reason she should ever have to run into one of her father’s employees again.

It was all quite simple once you put it in perspective, she thought, sipping her tea and averting her gaze from the swimming pool. She’d let her imagination get out of hand, which was downright silly of her. She’d learned to change what she could and let go of what she couldn’t fix. There was a good chance she could at least help Dean. And if she couldn’t, she’d simply have to work on backing off and letting him deal with it on his own.

She heard the sound of tires on the overgrown driveway, and her stomach lurched unpleasantly. She didn’t recognize the sound of the car. It was just seven o’clock, and her unwanted date must be arriving.

Coltrane knew exactly where La Casa de Sombras stood behind its curtain of overgrown trees. He’d developed an odd sort of fascination for it, though in truth it probably wasn’t that odd. He knew from the photograph that his mother had spent time there in the sixties, though he had no idea how long or if his father had been there, as well. There’d been no dates on the newspaper photo, and no one to ask. His father had flatly refused to ever discuss his mother. But La Casa de Sombras was part of his family history, a place where some of the answers to his past lay buried, and it had taken a long time to finally get inside. Things were beginning to fall into place.

He’d considered breaking in at some point during his tenure. It would have been a piece of cake—during his hellion youth he’d learned all sorts of skills from the motley group of lowlifes he’d hung around with, and he knew how to break into a house without leaving any mark. He’d chosen not to risk it, relying on his patience. Sooner or later he’d walk in through the front door. He could wait.

But now that the time had come he found he was oddly tense. The last few years of his life, maybe his entire life, were coming down to this night, and all he could think about was Jilly Meyer.

He had to remember that she wasn’t the weak link. If anything, she was the strong one, and he wasn’t particularly interested in a challenge. He’d already been working on her brother, but it was her fragile older sister who was going to provide the key. He knew it by instinct, instinct bred in him by his Irish mother. Rachel-Ann Meyer was the way to Jackson’s heart, and to his destruction.

The ornate gates at the bottom of the overgrown driveway were stuck open, rusty even in a place where it never seemed to rain. He drove slowly up the winding drive, dodging an overhanging tree limb here, a raised hump of grass there. In Los Angeles, one of the most developed areas on earth, there were sport utility vehicles in almost every garage. This was one place where one might actually be needed. He wondered how Jilly managed to avoid the potholes in her gorgeous, low-slung Corvette.

He first caught sight of the huge garage. The slate roof was cracked and damaged—it was a good thing it seldom rained or the place would have been worthless. There were seven garage doors—three of them were closed, three were empty. The Corvette stood in pristine glory in the remaining bay.

He parked directly behind it, blocking her in. There was no sign of anyone around, so he immediately headed over to the red car, letting his hands brush the shining finish like a tender lover’s. He’d always thought his dream car was a Gull Wing Mercedes, or perhaps a classic Jaguar XKE. He’d never realized how deeply American he was, after all.