Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [65]
“How could Rachel-Ann inherit your father’s genes? I thought she was adopted.”
Dean’s smile was like the Cheshire cat’s famous grin, smug and secretive. “So she is. Sometimes I forget. Dinner tonight, Coltrane. I promise you an entertaining time.”
Dean knew, Coltrane thought, staring at him. Knew about Rachel-Ann, at least. The question was, did he realize Coltrane’s connection?
“Looking forward to it,” he said idly. “Do you know where Jilly went?”
Dean shrugged. “Could be anywhere. It’s Saturday, and she doesn’t have to work. If I know her she went to the ocean. That’s what she does when she wants to think. Why do you care? She’s not your type. I thought you were hot after Rachel-Ann.”
So he didn’t know everything. “I’m not hot after anyone, Dean,” he said lazily. “Just curious.”
“Sure you are, Coltrane. What are you going to do with your day off? Or does Jackson have plans for you?”
“I’m planning to do a little plumbing.”
Dean looked as if he’d said he was planning a mass murder. “Plumbing?” he echoed in tones of deepest horror.
“One of the many talents I’ve picked up over the years. I don’t touch electricity, though—at least plumbing can’t kill you. As long as I’m here it would be nice to have a working sink and shower.”
“I told you you could use mine. Doing your own plumbing seems a little extreme.” He shuddered.
“It’ll keep me busy for the day. You’d be surprised at some of my talents, Dean.”
“I imagine I would. I wonder what other surprises you have in store for us,” he said softly.
It was there between them, solid distrust over-laid with a veneer of charm.
“You never can tell,” Coltrane replied.
Jilly always loved this stretch of beach, almost as much as Roofus did. He was racing down the deserted sand, leaping in the air and chasing seagulls, in doggy ecstasy, and for a moment Jilly was able to smile. It was a chilly day at the ocean—the wind was whipping up the surf, and the few hardy surfers didn’t look as if they were having that good a time.
She took off her shoes, anyway, walking barefoot in the wet sand, letting the icy foam wash over her toes. She was half tempted to throw off her clothes and jump into the water, letting the chilly Pacific Ocean scrub away everything….
She wasn’t going to think about it! Denial had its uses, and today was one of those days. She’d walk for miles along the beach, watching Roofus leap and frolic, and she wouldn’t think about a damned thing but what a clear, clean, beautiful day it was. She’d ignored the strange knotted feeling in the pit of her stomach, the weird ache between her breasts. Ignored the intrusive memories, sensations.
Hell and damnation. It wasn’t even sex. It was heavy petting, and it was nothing but an accident. She’d had too much to drink, she’d been feeling feisty, and she should have known that someone like Coltrane would take advantage of her.
It was also an unpleasant fact of life that the longer you did without sex the less you needed it. Until something started your motor again. She’d been jump-started but good last night, and she couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him.
She didn’t want to see him again. The very thought of being in a room with him made her cringe. It would be one thing if she could count on him to be gentlemanly and ignore what had happened between them. But if she’d learned one thing about Coltrane it was that he’d do the unexpected.
She didn’t want to go home. There were places she could go—she could drive all the way up to Berkeley and visit with her old friend, Margie, and her husband, or she could head down to San Diego to see Christie. She wasn’t trapped at La Casa with the man.
But she also knew perfectly well that she wasn’t going to let him drive her out of her home. La Casa meant too much to her—she’d fought for it for too many years, worked for it, to cede it to the first interloper who used sex as a weapon.
Not that he wanted the house, she admitted fairly. She didn’t really