Anne Stuart - Shadows At Sunset

“I don’t find that amusing, Coltrane,” Meyer said icily. “I’m not in the habit of murdering my children.”

No, only your lovers, he thought calmly, eyeing his drink. “Then she’s going to keep after you until you give her what she wants. You know what women can be like.”

“She always was a stubborn bitch. Just like her mother,” Meyer snapped. “What is it exactly that she wants?”

“She wasn’t particularly clear about that, but I imagine it’s something along the lines of you loving your son and me being at the bottom of the ocean.”

Meyer’s dry chuckle sounded faintly asthmatic. “Made a good impression on her, did you? I warned you she could be difficult. What are you planning to do about her?”

“Take her out to dinner tomorrow night.”

“You won’t get her into bed. She’s the prude in the family.”

“Why would I want to get her into bed?” Coltrane took another sip of his Scotch. The ice had melted, watering the drink down slightly, and the sharpness danced against his tongue.

“To keep her occupied. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed she’s a good-looking woman. Can’t hold a candle to Rachel-Ann, of course, but she’s still pretty enough even with that hair of hers. And last I heard you weren’t involved with anyone.”

Coltrane had no doubt that Meyer knew exactly who he’d been sleeping with over the last year and how long each relationship had lasted. His employer’s efforts at surveillance were laughably blatant, and Coltrane always fed him just enough to keep him satisfied.

“You want me to marry her, boss?” he drawled. “Or just shack up with her?”

“Don’t push me, Coltrane,” Meyer said. “I want you to distract her. I’ve got too much on my plate right now. Getting the Cienaga estate shouldn’t be causing these kinds of problems, and I don’t need the Justice Department breathing down my neck. You were supposed to give them stuff to distract them. Send them off on another tack.”

“I took care of it.”

“Goddamned bureaucrats don’t seem to have a realistic idea of how things are done out here. And where the campaign contributions come from. Get them off my back, Coltrane.”

“It’s been done,” Coltrane said soothingly. Indeed, it had. The Justice Department investigations of Jackson Dean Meyer’s covert business practices had gone from one investigator to an entire team. And Meyer hadn’t the faintest idea how little time he had left.

“I don’t want to waste my energies distracted by inconsequentials,” he said.

Inconsequentials like your children, Coltrane thought, but didn’t say it out loud. There was a limit to how much leeway Jackson Meyer would give him. The man was convinced he needed Coltrane for all his little schemes to fall into place, but he needed his sense of omnipotence even more.

Meyer was going to find out that his trust in both Coltrane and in his own invulnerability were sadly misplaced. And while it would be the icing on the cake for him to lose his children at the same time, it hadn’t taken Coltrane long to realize Meyer had really lost them years ago.

“All right, boss,” he drawled. He was the only person who called Meyer “boss,” the only one who could get away with that faintly mocking tone. “I’ll sleep with your daughter. Hell, I’ll sleep with both your daughters, but I draw the line at your son.”

Meyer chuckled humorlessly. “He’d be too easy for you. And you keep away from Rachel-Ann. She’s fragile right now, and I don’t want you interfering with her. She won’t be a problem—she’s never been any trouble to me, unlike the other two. My fault for marrying their mother. You just keep Jilly busy until this deal is finished. Then you can dump her. You know it’ll be worth your while.”

It was a good thing Meyer couldn’t see the slow smile that curved Coltrane’s mouth. “That’s what I like about you, boss. Your sentimental streak.”

“Fuck you, Coltrane.”

“Yes, sir.” But Meyer had already slammed down the phone, certain that he was going to get his own way. Coltrane would sleep with his daughter to keep her occupied while Meyer did his best to deal with the unexpected financial calamity that was bringing his empire down around his ears.

Little did he know he was asking the fox to guard the henhouse.

Jilly never entered her bedroom without making a great deal of noise. It was the master bedroom, the largest, most elegant of the massive rooms in the old mansion, but no one had argued with her when she’d chosen it for her own. Dean preferred his sterile haven, and Rachel-Ann was too superstitious to care.

Not that Jilly believed in ghosts. La Casa had been in the family since before she was born, and she’d spent enough time there to have run across a ghost or two if they’d actually existed. Dean had tried to scare her when they were younger, telling her elaborate stories of the murder-suicide pact and the ghosts who roamed the halls, but for some reason he’d never succeeded. If there were any ghosts in La Casa de Sombras then they were benevolent ones, no matter how harshly they died.

But even so, she didn’t fancy walking in on one, unannounced. Clearing her throat, she rattled the doorknob before pushing it open and flicking on the light switch. No shifting shadows, no dissolving forms. Just the same bizarre room it had always been.

It looked like a cross between a bordello and a Turkish harem, with a totally peculiar touch of chinoiserie. It was whimsical Gothic horror, from the elephant-footed stools to the ornate, gilded, swan-shaped bed, and Jilly loved every tacky inch of it.

She filled the huge marble tub, stripping off her clothes and sliding into the scented water, letting it engulf her as she closed her eyes. It had been a long, miserable day, one for the books, and not only had she not accomplished a damned thing, she might have made things worse. She’d certainly added to her own discomfort. She didn’t want to go out to dinner with Coltrane—she’d done her best to keep her distance from all the sharklike young men her father employed. He was everything she despised—ambitious, aggressive and too damned good-looking. He knew it, too, which was probably why Dean found him irresistible. Dean always had a weakness for smug, clever, pretty boys, especially those who were unattainable.

Rachel-Ann would probably find him just as enticing. He wasn’t as outwardly dangerous as the usual losers her sister surrounded herself with, but he was gorgeous enough to make up for it. They’d make a stunning couple.

The water had grown cold in an astonishingly short amount of time. Jilly pushed herself out of the deep, marble tub, grimacing at her reflection in the mirror. There were too damned many mirrors in this house—everywhere she turned she got an unwanted glimpse of herself. She had no idea who had installed all of them in the first place, the silent movie star who’d built the house or Brenda de Lorillard, who’d died there. As someone singularly devoid of vanity, Jilly found them unnerving.

Particularly when Rachel-Ann was convinced the place was haunted. Every now and then Jilly would catch her reflection in the mirror, but she wouldn’t be looking at herself. She’d be looking for a ghostly image of someone long dead.

It was a cool night, and she pulled on cotton sweats rather than close her windows. She liked the fresh air infusing the house. It swept away the cobwebs and the trace of mildew. Oddly enough it could never rid the house of the smell of fresh tobacco smoke, or the faint note of perfume that lingered, a scent she half recognized from her childhood. It must have been her grandmother’s. Probably Julia Meyer had dropped a bottle and the stuff had penetrated into the woodwork. Jilly rather liked the scent. It made her think her grandmother was watching over her, somehow. Even if Grandmère hadn’t been much more than an adequate guardian in life.