Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [54]
And there were other men, good-looking men who’d been attentive in the past. Sam Bailey and Mark Fulmer and that lawyer down at the Preservation Society…no, she didn’t want lawyers. And she couldn’t seem to summon up even a trickle of yearning for any of those strong bodies, handsome faces, pleasant souls.
It was beginning to look like she had more in common with her sister than she’d ever realized. Including an irresistible attraction to exactly the wrong man.
She sat up, kicking the tangled covers away from her feet. It was four in the morning—typical of her usual sleep patterns. Maybe she should follow her sister’s example even more closely. She had no idea whether Dean was home or not—his quarters were removed enough that sound didn’t carry, and he often spent the night away. Besides, his drink of choice was vodka, just as Rachel-Ann’s was tequila, and Jilly hated both.
Alcohol would help her sleep, though. A nice glass of brandy would burn its way down her throat and warm the pit of her stomach, and she’d be able to snatch another few hours of sleep. Besides, it didn’t matter if she was late for work—there was nothing on the agenda.
It probably wouldn’t matter if she never went to work again. The historic preservation of Los Angeles was a joke. She couldn’t even keep her own house from falling in, much less save any other place. The salary she was paid was pitiful—surely there was something else she could do that would bring in enough money to support La Casa. If not restore it, at least keep it from falling into complete ruin.
Roofus slept soundly on the floor beside her bed, and she tiptoed past him out of the room. If he heard her and followed he’d be full of his usual bounding energy, leaping with joy, and there’d be no way she’d ever get back to sleep. If she could just manage to creep downstairs to the kitchen, find the brandy and pour herself a glass she might be able to make it back upstairs before dawn.
The brandy snifters were long gone, of course. She ended up pouring a healthy dose of Calvados into a small juice glass with Wile E. Coyote on the side. She leaned against the iron sink as she took a tentative sip, letting it trickle a fiery path down her throat.
She might as well accept it—Rachel-Ann and Coltrane were off somewhere together. There was something between them, something powerful. Even the most unobservant person in the world would have to recognize it, and Rachel-Ann had never been shy in expressing her interest.
Nor did Jilly have any delusions about Coltrane. He wanted something from the Meyer family, and he had no qualms about how he got it. He’d probably sleep with both of them if it served his purpose. She only wished she knew what the hell his purpose was. What he wanted from them.
She drained the glass, then on impulse refilled it. Too much, when she wasn’t used to drinking, but who would it hurt? There was no one around, and she’d simply crawl back in bed and sleep as long as she could. It was the least she deserved.
It was a relief, really, she thought, switching off the overhead light and plunging the kitchen back into darkness. She’d been more unsettled by that kiss than she wanted to admit. Unsettled enough to consider kissing him again. To consider just saying the hell with it and…and…
And do what? Sleep with him? She wasn’t that crazy, was she? And now, of course, it was out of the question. He’d gone off with Rachel-Ann, and she wasn’t going to take her sister’s leftovers. Despite her best efforts, her self-esteem wasn’t that strong.
The cognac was soothing her jangled nerve endings. She was finally relaxing, that bone-tightening tension draining from her. Who the hell cared who Rachel-Ann was sleeping with? The last man had been a physically abusive drug dealer—even Coltrane was a step up from that.
As for Coltrane,