Anne Stuart - Shadows At Sunset

He’d lived here. No one had ever told him—as far as he’d known he’d spent the first thirteen years of his life in Indiana. He’d simply assumed that picture had been taken before he was born, before she’d met his father.

Wrong. He’d lived here, and he had no conscious memory of it. Just a weird, certain knowledge that this place had once, long, long ago, been his home.

The smell of the place was so damned familiar, another blow. He was glad Jilly’s back was to him—he wasn’t certain he could manage to keep his expression imperturbable. He knew the hallway, knew the long, curving staircase, and he followed her wordlessly as she cataloged the details of the house in a rapid, bored voice that slowly, reluctantly turned to warmth and fascination. She loved this house, he thought, loved it with a lover’s passion. She would be an easy woman to use—her heart was on her sleeve. She loved the house, her brother and her sister, and all he’d have to do would be to apply a little pressure on one of those three things to get her to do what he wanted.

They wandered through drawing rooms, dining rooms, salons and breakfast nooks. Whoever had built this place had spared no expense, and the thing rambled for what seemed like acres. It was sparsely furnished, the few shabby pieces looking like lost remnants of a once grander time. “Brenda de Lorillard hired a set designer to decorate this place,” Jilly was saying, “and unfortunately she picked someone who’d done a lot of work for Cecil B. DeMille. Some of it looks more like an opera set than a house.”

She was right—it was gloriously tawdry, from the Italianate wallpaper to the gilt-covered furniture. The huge kitchen was a monument to impracticability, with not even a dishwasher in sight. There seemed to be no air-conditioning in the house, but the place was comfortably cool, anyway. He wondered if that was because of the supposed ghosts.

“What about upstairs?” he said, when her chatter had finally wound down.

“Bedrooms,” she said.

“That’s logical. Is that where it happened?”

She looked startled. “Where what happened?”

“The murder-suicide? Or does this place hold other scandals, as well?” He knew the answer to that, but he wasn’t sure whether she did.

“The master bedroom. Trust me, there’s nothing to see. All the blood was cleaned up.”

“Show me, anyway.”

“No. It’s my bedroom now and I don’t like strange men traipsing through it.”

“Why?”

“I like my privacy.”

“And you don’t have any problem sleeping in a murder scene? A haunted one?”

“I told you, I don’t believe in ghosts,” she said.

“Don’t believe in them? Or just don’t see them?”

She glowered at him. She had a very impressive glower. “I’m getting tired of this.”

“And I’m getting hungry. Show me the murder scene and then I’ll ply you with fast food. Unless you’ve changed your mind and want to go someplace better.”

“I told you I don’t want to go anywhere with you,” she snapped.

“But then your brother’s left to sink or swim on his own.”

She didn’t say a word; her expression was withering enough. But Coltrane wasn’t easily cowed—he was getting more reaction out of Jilly Meyer than most people usually got, he was certain of it. And he knew just how much to push, and when to back off.

“All right,” she said. “You can ogle the murder scene, and then we talk.” She turned and headed out into the hallway, and he followed after her, taking the steps two at a time until he caught up with her, walking beside her. Now that he’d regained his equilibrium he was more curious to see her reaction. Did she really sleep in a room where a murder occurred and not mind it? Would he recognize the room himself?

He almost laughed when he saw it. It was absurd, the ultimate in faded kitsch, from the swan-shaped bed with its filmy draperies to the voluptuous, oversize furniture that littered the room. There was a dressing table that looked as if it had seen no use at all. He stepped past her, walking into the room, looking out the French doors, across the wide balcony that ran the length of the house to the overgrown lawn below. He could see the dark rectangle of a lichen-covered swimming pool halfway down the row of trees, and an odd, stray shudder passed over his body.

He turned to glance at Jilly, who still stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, a stubborn expression on her face.

“Are you certain they died here? In that bed?”

“It’s common knowledge. Hollywood loves its scandals, and this was one of the best ones.”

“So Brenda de Lorillard killed her married lover and then herself, right? Any reason ever surface?”

Jilly shrugged. “Maybe he was growing tired of her. Men have a habit of doing that, you know.”

“Do they?” He kept the grin from his face, but just barely. Someone needed to teach Jilly Meyer a few more effective defenses. She was as vulnerable as a kitten, spitting and scratching and pathetically easy to manipulate.

“How many other bedrooms?” he asked curiously, changing the subject.

“Seven. Rachel-Ann’s in one, Dean’s got his own apartment behind the kitchen. The rest are closed up.”

So there was plenty of room for him. Assuming he didn’t move right in with Rachel-Ann. He smiled briskly. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s go find some food.”

For a moment she didn’t move, staring at him across the room.

“I don’t like you,” she said abruptly. “And I don’t trust you.”

“I know,” he said with unexpected gentleness.

“Give me a reason why I should.”

“I can’t think of one.”

“Are you going to help me?”

Lying was second nature to him. He didn’t even hesitate. “Yes,” he said.

And for a moment it looked as if she might make the desperate mistake of believing him.

The sky over Los Angeles was streaked with lavender and orange, the smog thickening the sunset into iridescent stripes. Jilly sat on the steps leading down into the tangled garden, an icy bottle of beer in her hand, waiting for Coltrane.

She had no idea what he was doing in the house. He said he’d needed to use the bathroom, and she could hardly dispute it. Nor could she wait outside the door of the ornate powder room with its pink swans and gilt faucets for him to reappear. She went back to the kitchen, took two beers and headed out for the terrace.

Not that she wanted to encourage the man. But it had been a long day, and she needed something from him. She was refusing to go out with him—she could at least offer him a beer without compromising her position.

What could he be doing in there, besides the obvious? Surely she was being paranoid—what possible interest could a stately old wreck like La Casa have for a man like him?

Her beer was half gone by the time he appeared. He’d taken off his jacket, his sleeves were rolled up and his tie was off. His streaked blond hair was rumpled, and he looked good enough to eat. Jilly ignored him.

“I don’t suppose you have another beer, do you?” He leaned against the balustrade.

She handed it to him without a word, and he took a long swig of it. She watched the line of his throat, the condensation dripping off the bottle onto his skin, and she turned to concentrate on her own beer.

“So, what are we going to do about your brother?” he asked in a casual tone.

She glanced up at him. “You wouldn’t feel like quitting your job and going back to New Orleans, would you?”

“You’ve been checking up on me.” He sounded faintly pleased, and she could have kicked herself.

“I believe in knowing one’s enemy.”