Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [18]
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.
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.