Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [32]
The bed was a mess, the box spring half collapsed. He simply pulled the mattress off and set it on the floor, shoved the old frame and box spring up against the wall, and opened the windows to the balmy night air in a vain attempt to rid the place of the musty smell. There was a private bathroom off to the left, and the toilet worked, but the sink and bathtub were supposedly beyond repair. He could share with the girls, Dean suggested. Or come down and use his palatial bathroom. And anything else he might feel like using.
Not bloody likely, Coltrane thought. So one plan was shot—he couldn’t get to Meyer through Rachel-Ann. That didn’t mean he couldn’t come up with an alternative that was equally pleasing and didn’t involve cozying up to Dean. If he couldn’t sleep with Rachel-Ann and bring her father down that way, then there was another sister in the house, one who was already clearly susceptible to him, whether she wanted to admit it or not. He wasn’t about to waste his time trying to develop a conscience.
He leaned against the wall, looking at the room. The carpeting had been torn up, and the floors were marble, cracked and stained, but marble nonetheless. Cold as hell in the morning, but at least the mattress would have good support. Most of his clothes had suffered smoke damage, but it hadn’t been difficult to arrange for replacements, and by the time they’d arrived he’d at least managed to fumigate the closet. He wasn’t crazy about the smell of mildew, either.
It had been a simple matter, setting his apartment on fire. But then, he had a talent for a number of unusual things. He’d long ago scoped out where the fire hazards were, who the secretive smokers were. In L.A. it was more socially acceptable to beat your wife than to smoke cigarettes, and even in the privacy of their own apartments his neighbors went out of the way to hide their secret vice, making accidental fires almost inevitable. It had been arranged easily enough, and as far as anyone knew he’d been at work when the flames broke out. There was no way it could ever be traced to him. Then it had been only a matter of a carefully orchestrated suggestion and he’d ended up ensconced in La Casa.
With a different victim, he reminded himself. Rachel-Ann Meyer was off-limits. He only hoped she’d listen to her instincts and keep away from him. He really didn’t want her coming on to him. This situation had suddenly gotten very tricky, and that was one complication he wasn’t going to deal with.
No sheets, no towels, and he hadn’t thought to bring any. He was in shirtsleeves, and he pulled his shirt free, unbuttoning it to hang loose, kicking off his shoes so he could move silently through the house. He should leave Jilly alone, but he was restless, ready to move, and Jilly had become his obvious target. She wouldn’t want him showing up at her door shirtless, but this was the next best thing. She was reluctantly fascinated by him, and he had every intention of exploiting that fascination right into her bed. Maybe even tonight. He was in that kind of mood.
Not that he really had any particular reason to seduce her. Getting to Rachel-Ann had made sense, since she was the only one Jackson Meyer cared about. He didn’t need to sleep with Jilly Meyer to gain entrance into the house—he was already safely ensconced. Her father wouldn’t give a damn whether he was screwing her or not—Jackson had already given him his blessing—and he was reasonably certain she didn’t know a thing about her father’s business affairs or the dark secrets of his past. She’d taken a step away from the old bastard, unlike her siblings, and there was very little to gain from sleeping with her.
Well, maybe he wasn’t going to do it for gain. Maybe he’d do it simply because he wanted to. Because she looked at him with