Anne Stuart - Shadows At Sunset

He reached for the door handle, unable to resist, when he realized he wasn’t alone. He didn’t even jump when he heard her caustic voice.

“I told you, you’re not driving my car.”

He kept his hand on the car, letting his fingertips caress it lightly, knowing Jilly was watching. And then he turned and peered at her from beneath his shaggy hair.

“I’m glad you didn’t put yourself to any trouble on my account,” he said. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and he let his gaze travel up her long legs. She obviously had no idea how very much her long legs turned him on, or she wouldn’t keep exposing them like that. It didn’t matter that the shorts were baggy cargo shorts—it was the legs beneath them that got him going.

Rachel-Ann, he reminded himself. She is the key. Meyer wouldn’t give a damn what happened to this daughter.

“Sorry, I’ve changed my mind. There’s no reason to go out—we can discuss the situation here as well as anywhere. Guess you’ll have to rethink your plans,” she said breezily.

“How about McDonald’s? I wouldn’t have thought fast food was the best arena for negotiations, but I’m game if you are. Especially if we get to eat in the car. That way no one will notice if I accidentally grope you.” He wasn’t quite sure why he’d added that—mainly to get a reaction from her, he supposed.

“Yeah, right,” she said, foolishly unconvinced. There was nothing he’d like better than to grope her, if the time and place were different. But for right now she was simply the means to an end. “Negotiations?”

“Isn’t that what this is about? You convince me to help your baby brother win Daddy’s love and approval? I’m going to be fascinated to hear what I have to gain by doing it, but I’m always open-minded.”

She didn’t bother denying it. “Maybe out of the goodness of your heart?”

“I don’t think there’s much goodness in me. Much less a heart,” he said, giving her his most dulcet smile.

She blinked, a good reaction. He believed in warning people. They seldom believed him—people always tended to downplay his honesty. It was only later when they looked back, battered and bruised, that they realized he’d simply told them the truth.

“You’re not going to convince me with that diffidence crap,” she said.

“Convince you of what? I’m telling you the truth.”

“I’m not sure you’d know the truth if it bit you on the ass.”

“I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He stepped back from the Corvette, hiding his reluctance. “So, are you going to give me a tour of this place? And don’t tell me I can take a bus tour. I want an owner’s perspective. Or at least the temporary owner. Your father’s the one who’ll end up with this place when you finally give it up.”

“That’s not about to happen. You’re awfully conversant with the legal ownership of this place,” she added suspiciously.

“I’m head of legal services, remember? It’s my job to know.” Hell, he didn’t usually make slips like that one. He had to be careful with Jilly—she was a lot more observant than her brother. “Anyway, I like old Hollywood legends,” he said. “I also like old houses. I studied to be an architect before I switched to law.”

Her disbelief should have been scathing, but he wasn’t easily scathed. “I got my degree in architecture from Princeton,” she said, warning him.

“I know.” He smiled at her. “Want to cross-examine me about architectural detail? You seem convinced I’ve got something to hide. What you see is what you get.” He held his arms out.

“Not if I can help it,” she muttered. “I don’t suppose you’ll be willing to leave until I show you the place.”

“As always, you’re very astute. And I’m looking forward to meeting your sister.” He liked how casual it sounded.

“Why?”

“I’m curious. As your father’s lawyer I’ve dealt with everything, including your divorce, Dean’s traffic accidents, and Rachel-Ann’s various…issues.”

“You’ll have to stay curious. She’s not home tonight. Neither is Dean, for that matter.”

“So we’re here alone? Maybe I don’t mind not taking you out, after all.”

She looked completely unflustered. “Depends on how you define alone, and whether you believe in the ghosts. I never see them, but a lot of other people have. I wouldn’t want to irritate them if I were you. Ghosts are notoriously unstable.”

“Fortunately I’m not very irritating,” he said, deliberately setting himself up for her hoot of disbelief. “Tell me about the place. Give me your best tour guide impersonation, and then we’ll talk.”

She wanted to get rid of him, she made that perfectly clear, and he still wasn’t quite sure why. He’d been his charming, unsettling best with her, and most women were reluctantly fascinated by him. She was fascinated, as well, but more along the lines of someone caught in the gaze of a snake. Maybe she was more intuitive than she gave herself credit for, despite her inability to see ghosts.

Coltrane didn’t believe in ghosts. When he was younger he used to try to see his mother, floating over him like some sort of guardian angel. But his mother was no restless spirit—he would have known by now if she were. His mother was at peace, no matter how she’d died. He was the one with the restless spirit, seeking answers, seeking resolution.

“All right,” she said finally. “Follow me.”

It took an effort to keep his eyes off her sexy butt and on the overgrown path leading up to the main house. She was rattling off details in a monotone, and he let them filter into the back of his efficient memory, to dredge up later if and when he needed them. Built by the Greene brothers, site of Hollywood parties, witness to the infamous Hughes-de Lorillard suicide pact, home to a roaming band of dopers in the sixties and seventies. Nothing he hadn’t heard before, though she didn’t seem to realize her father had been part of that pack. He listened with half an ear for any inconsistencies as they turned the corner and reached the edge of the extensive terrace, the house looming over them in the shadows.

He stopped dead, her words no more than a meaningless hum in the back of his head, like an annoying insect.

The stone railing was crumbling. Weeds grew up beneath the flagstones, the stucco on the house was cracked and streaked with water marks. The slate roof was missing several tiles, and the furniture on the terrace was rusting, broken, derelict. The house looked like a grand duchess turned hooker, out on the streets, her finery faded and torn. A magic castle for a lost princess. But suddenly he knew with a certainty his mother wasn’t the only Coltrane who’d lived there, decades ago.

He realized Jilly had stopped talking, and he tore his gaze away from the house to find her staring at him, a curious expression on her face.

“Not what you were expecting?” she said. “There’s been barely enough money to keep it from falling to pieces entirely. I don’t know how much longer I can keep it together.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who admits defeat.” He was amazed at how calm his voice sounded.

“I’m a realist, Mr. Coltrane. Not a fool.”

“Just Coltrane.” And if she was a realist then he was an altar boy. She was as idealistic and starry-eyed as anyone he’d ever met, at least when it came to what she loved. Which was old houses in general, and this old house in particular. “Let’s go inside.”

He was half expecting her to refuse, but after a moment she nodded, leading the way in. It was just as well—he wasn’t about to leave without finally going through the place. Not since that cold wave of shock had washed over him when he first looked up at the house.