Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [88]
“You can count on me, Jackson,” Coltrane said. “What do you want me to do?”
“You can bring me Rachel-Ann.”
It was dawn when he returned to La Casa. The sun was coming up over the lawn, fingers of pale lavender reaching out to touch the facade of the house. Neither Dean nor Rachel-Ann had returned home, and Jilly must still be completely zonked out, thank God.
He started up the steps to the terrace, then at the last minute changed his mind and turned around. He’d be gone from this place soon enough—he wanted to wander around one last time and see if anything jogged his memory. He had no idea how young he’d been when he first lived here—probably only two or three. He didn’t remember his mother being pregnant, and Rachel-Ann was only a few years younger than he was. Maybe he just hadn’t noticed his mother’s rounded belly.
He walked down the gravel path, past the towering palm trees and tangled undergrowth. It really was odd to see vegetation grow wild like this in Los Angeles, where yard workers were plentiful and affordable. But then, Jilly paid the bills, and as far as he could tell she never ventured off the patio. There was something she didn’t like about the grounds.
Then he remembered her reaction to his mention of the pool. Something about the pool bothered her, enough so that she let the landscaping grow up around it and practically obscure it, enough so that in the land where the climate cried out for a swimming pool, she kept it unusable. He wondered why.
It was simple enough to find. Even with the overgrown pathways the smell of rotting algae was easy to trace. He could see the roof of the pool house, half caved in, before he came to the actual pool itself.
It was surprisingly small, only about half full of dank, black water and some kind of plant life, and it looked as if it had been abandoned decades ago. The tile around the edges was cracked and discolored, and weeds grew up in the cracks. The diving board was long gone, the steps leading down into the pool were rusted, with a rung missing. It looked derelict and depressing. It was no wonder Jilly kept her distance. That the entire family kept their distance.
He walked forward, staring down into the murky depths. Even though there was only about three feet of water in the pool he couldn’t see the bottom, which was probably a good thing. From the smell of the place there might very well be some decomposing wildlife in there, as well.
A shiver ran across his backbone. Maybe as a going-away present he’d pay for a bulldozer to come in and demolish this cesspit. It was the least he could do for Jilly—after destroying her family he could give her that much.
The wind had picked up, swirling dust into the air, and Coltrane grimaced. He’d be glad to be out of this town. There was usually nothing he liked more than a good storm, but the wind in L.A. made his hackles rise.
There were a few lights still on in the shadowy interior of La Casa, and he switched them off as he went, plunging the place into a predawn gloom. It suited his mood. He climbed the stairs slowly, silently. Jilly wouldn’t be likely to wake up, but he didn’t want to risk it. He’d walked away from her once. There was a limit to how goddamn noble he could be.
He didn’t even glance at her door as he walked past, determined to put temptation out of his head. Now that he’d made up his mind not to touch her again, not to hurt her, he wanted her more than ever. Must be human nature. The more off-limits something was, the more you wanted it.
Which brought him back to Meyer, and his stomach knotted in disgust. Meyer wanted Rachel-Ann, his own daughter, and it wasn’t to act as hostess for him while he lived the life of a wealthy fugitive.
And Coltrane, far too much like his nemesis, wanted Jilly, when to touch her would destroy her.
Meyer was right—they were too damned much alike. Ruthless, amoral, out for their own agenda. It didn’t matter that Coltrane wanted