Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [14]
“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