Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [55]
And pigs could fly.
There was a faint light coming from the living room, and Jilly halted at the foot of the stairs, momentarily startled. It wasn’t a room anyone used much—if the three siblings actually spent time together it was usually in the Tropicana Room, an art deco room sporting a huge curved bar, shag rugs and a big-screen television, a present from Jackson when he was in one of his more generous moods.
As far as Jilly knew there were no lights in the living room, and yet the glow was palpable. The furniture was draped with Holland covers and pushed against a wall, the place was coated with dust. Who the hell would be in there?
The ghosts. There could be no other explanation. The unearthly light, the eerie silence, the sense of some…presence, just beyond. Maybe she had to be half-loaded to finally see them. It didn’t matter. After eighteen years Jilly was finally going to see the famous ghosts of La Casa de Sombras, and nothing was going to make her go back to the dubious safety of her bed without making the most of the long-awaited opportunity.
She peered inside the arched doorway, half-empty juice glass of brandy clutched in one hand. The place looked deserted, except for the glow of light in the far corner, behind the high-back sofa. The cover had been thrown off in a heap on the dusty floor, and Jilly felt a moment’s misgiving. Maybe she should go upstairs and get Roofus. Maybe she should go upstairs and stay put.
She stood motionless, listening. She’d been told the ghosts of La Casa were particularly noisy ones—if they were there on the sofa she should hear something. Come to think of it, what would they be doing on the sofa? There were rumors that Brenda de Lorillard and her lover had been seen frolicking, nude, decades after they’d been found dead. While Jilly had a strong interest in finally seeing her purported ghosts, she didn’t fancy catching them in the act.
Nothing. Not a sound. The light was a steady glow, creating a small pool of warmth, and she moved toward it, unable to resist the pull, like a moth.
She was halfway across the room when she realized it was no unearthly ghost illuminating the corner. Someone had taken a table lamp from one of the unused rooms and plugged it in. The bare lightbulb was probably not more than a forty watt, making little dent in the cavernous shadows. But at least there was a perfectly logical explanation for the light.
It wasn’t until she came around the other side of the high-back sofa that she realized logical explanations were not particularly what she wanted.
Coltrane lay there stretched out on the sofa, shirtless, unshaven, barefoot and gorgeous. Alone. There was no sign of Rachel-Ann anywhere.
She took an instinctive step backward, stumbling into another one of the sofas. His eyes opened, but she suspected he already knew she was there.
“Wile E. Coyote?” he murmured. “What are you drinking?”
“Brandy.”
He scooted back on the sofa, sitting up, and leaned against the overstuffed armrest. In the dim light of the bare lamp the ripped damask looked ivory against his golden skin, golden hair. He held out his hand for the glass, and without thinking she handed it to him. She’d never seen someone so completely comfortable with his body. Alan had always preened, expecting admiration. Coltrane seemed oblivious, accepting his body for what it was, a tool.
An incredibly beautiful tool, Jilly thought, sinking down on the sofa opposite him. The cover was still draping it, a small defense against the ravages of time. She’d forgotten just how comfortable the sofa was.
“Where’s Rachel-Ann?” she asked.
“I haven’t seen her all day. Is she missing? Should we be worried?”
She ignored the we. It was a slip of the tongue. “She didn’t come home last night. I assumed she was with you.”
“Why?”
“Because you seemed