Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [75]
“Lovely,” Jilly muttered. Waiting.
“You can leave any time now.” A note of annoyance was creeping into Jackson’s voice, and Jilly made a mental hash mark. He wasn’t the only one who could score points.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” she said in a sultry voice. “You’re up to something, and nothing on this earth would make me miss it.”
“I wouldn’t count on the ghosts interfering, either, though they may qualify as on this earth,” Dean said prosaically. “Anyway, I want you here. Our esteemed father has an offer to make, and it should be heard by all three of us.”
“Then what’s Coltrane doing here?” She’d glanced at him, just once, before tearing her eyes away from him. He sat in the shadows, watching, almost a ghost himself.
“As my chief legal counsel I felt he should be here,” Jackson said smoothly. “Besides, the man’s living here. It would hardly be polite not to include him. Where’s your hospitality, Jillian? I would have thought your grandmother would have taught you better than that.”
Jilly curled her feet up on the sofa, a small enough barrier between her and Coltrane. “I think this house has had too many guests and not enough family.”
“Shut up, Jilly,” Dean said. “I get tired of the two of you baiting each other. Father’s here for a reason, and we owe it to him to listen.”
Normally Jilly would have argued. Dean was always trying to win Jackson’s approval, and he never would. At first she thought he was ready to crawl once more, until she recognized the odd glitter in his eyes. If it had been Rachel-Ann Jilly would have said she was on drugs. Dean didn’t do any drugs but vodka, and the look in his eye was slyly triumphant. She found that even more troubling.
“Thank you, son,” Jackson said. It was probably only the second or third time Jackson had ever called him son, and Jilly could see Dean’s reaction, even as he fought it. Jackson leaned back, pulling a silver-chased cigar tube out of his pocket, making them all wait while he went through the ritual of lighting it. Coltrane shifted, letting his hand rest on the sofa. Between them. Near her feet.
After a long, faintly theatrical puff, Jackson leaned back in his chair, putting on his most paternal expression as he rested his hands across his flat belly. “You know I have a great interest in La Casa. I always have had.”
“I know you’ve never set foot in it in more than twenty years, and that Grandmère left it to us rather than to you,” Jilly said sharply.
“In trust. And it was for tax purposes,” Jackson returned. “I know you don’t like to think about the practical aspects of life. You’re so busy with your lost causes, running around town trying to save buildings that are past their prime. And you consistently fail, don’t you, Jillian? Because no one but you gives a damn.”
“True,” she said calmly.
“It’s common practice to skip generations when it comes to inheritance. Coltrane will be happy to fill you in on the legal ramifications at another time if you’re fascinated, which I doubt. It seems unlikely you’ll have any kind of estate to leave any children or grandchildren you might eventually produce if you continue devoting your life to lost causes.”
“I’ll pass. I really don’t care. And Grandmère didn’t want you to have La Casa. She knew you’d have it bulldozed and turned into high-rises.”
“Then why did she leave it in trust? As long as you want to live here it’s yours. But as soon as you leave, or it’s inhabitable, it reverts to me.”
“That was explained to us when we inherited the place,” Jilly said. “Tell us something we don’t know.”
“This place is unsafe. It’s a firetrap, and the next earthquake we get will probably have it collapse around you. I don’t want to lose my children in a tragic accident,” he said in such a concerned voice that any fool would have believed him. But Jilly had stopped being a fool long ago, at least where her father was concerned.
“We’ll be fine,” she said briskly. “Thank you for your concern, but we’re staying put.”
“It was left to the three of you, Jillian. Aren’t