Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [2]
“I’m not leaving until I see him.” Her voice didn’t waver, a small blessing. Mrs. Afton demoralized her, and always had, but her father had ceased to wield any power over her, whatsoever. Jilly just simply hated confrontations, and she was anticipating a major one.
Mrs. Afton’s thin lips compressed into a tight line of disapproval, but Jilly didn’t move. She was still three doors away from the inner sanctum, the holy of holies, and those doors were electronically locked. If she tried to force her way in she’d only wind up looking foolish.
“You can wait in the gray reception room,” Mrs. Afton said finally, in no way a capitulation. “I’ll see if he can spare a moment for you, but I’m not holding out much hope.”
Abandon all hope, ye who enter, Jilly thought absently. “I don’t mind waiting.” After all, it was past three. Ever since her father had married Melba he’d been less of a workaholic. Jilly didn’t know whether it was jealousy or lust that kept Jackson Dean Meyer from abandoning his third wife as he’d done his first two, and she didn’t want to think about it. Suffice it to say, Melba might have mellowed the old bastard a bit. Enough to get him to do what Jilly desperately needed him to do.
The gray sitting room had a tasteful array of magazines, most of them about cigar smoking, something that failed to captivate Jilly. The leather furniture was comfortable enough, and the windows looked out over the city of Los Angeles. On a clear day she could see the Hollywood Hills, perhaps even the spires of the house on Sunset. La Casa de Sombras, the House of Shadows. The decaying mausoleum of a mansion that was her unlikely home.
But today the air was thick with smog from the Valley, and the autumn haze enveloped Century City. She was trapped in a glass cocoon, air-conditioned, lifeless.
She’d dressed appropriately for a paternal confrontation, in black linen with beige accents. Her father was a stickler for neatly dressed women, and for once she’d been willing to play his games. Since the prize would be worth the effort.
However, if he was going to keep her waiting she was going to end up wrinkled. So be it. He’d have to listen to her, wrinkles and all.
She kicked off her shoes and curled up in the corner of the gray leather sofa, tugging her short skirt as far down her thighs as she could manage. She rummaged in her bag for a compact, but it was the Coach bag Melba had given her for Christmas last year, not the usual one she used, and she’d transferred only her wallet and identification. No compact, no makeup, only a rat-tail comb which would be useless with her thick hair. She closed the purse again, leaned back against the sofa and sighed, trying to get rid of some of the tension that was swamping her body.
It was ridiculous. She was almost thirty years old, a strong, independent, well-educated woman, and she was still afraid of her father. Over the last two decades she’d tried everything, from meditation to tranquilizers to psychotherapy to assertiveness training. Every time she thought she’d finally conquered her fear, Jackson Dean Meyer returned it to her on a silver platter. And here she was again, ready for another serving.
Codependency was a bitch. It was relatively easy to break free from her father’s influence. He had little interest or affection for her—he probably didn’t notice when years went by without seeing her. Her father had made his choices and lived life the way he chose. She couldn’t save him, even if he wanted to be saved.
But when it came to her sister and brother things were different. Although Rachel-Ann was probably beyond redemption. All Jilly could do was love her.
And Dean. It was for him that she’d come here, walked into the lion’s den, ready to fight. For her brother or sister she’d do anything, including facing the tyrant who fathered them, though in Rachel-Ann’s case the