Nightfall (10 page)

"Twenty-seven."

"I was that young once."

"I doubt it."

She wished he wouldn't smile at her like that. With that peculiar bittersweet expression that caught at her heart. "He needs your help, Cassidy. I don't imagine it's easy for him to admit it."

"You're very good, aren't you?" she shot back.

"Am I?"

"You can hone in on a person's weakness. If I stood on my head, I wouldn't be able to win my father's love and approval."

"You already have it."

"Bullshit. My father's love and approval is reserved for himself."

"You're confusing love with attention. He's self-absorbed, and nothing will ever change that. But he needs you. Are you going to turn your back on him?" He asked the question with what seemed no more than casual interest.

"What does it matter to you?"

"The future of the book is of some importance to me."

Of course it was. He must be counting on that book to save him from the bizarre horror of execution. Sean's book would either vindicate him or, if the worst was true, it might explain his actions, enough to keep him from being the first man executed in the state of New York in God knows how long. With a court date on the horizon, Richard couldn't afford any more delays.

"It's a little late to defend yourself," she said, steeling herself not to feel the wrenching sympathy.

"I'm not interested in defending myself."

"That much was obvious from the transcripts. Why didn't you just tell them the truth and get it over with?"

The silence between them was long and icy cold. "But what is the truth?" he murmured.

"Did you kill your wife and children?"

She wanted, needed to hear an answer. Even if it was the one she abhorred.

But he simply smiled, an eerie, haunted smile. "Don't leave, Cassidy. Don't abandon your father."

"I can't…"

"Don't abandon me."

And the quiet words lingered in the air, long after Richard had disappeared down the quiet hallway.

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She knew all the buzzwords. She'd read enough, edited enough self-help and psychology books to know that the word "abandonment" was a loaded one, particularly for someone with her family history. All people feared abandonment, by parents, by loved ones, even those who grew up in a safe, "Leave it to Beaver" household. She'd spent years protecting herself from the fear of it, and now it had come around full circle. It was her choice, to abandon those who needed her desperately. Those whom she loved.

She couldn't do it, and Richard Tiernan knew that full well. Lord, he was good, better even than Sean when it came to manipulation. And here she was, falling for it, playing her part.

She stared at her half-packed suitcase. She wouldn't put the clothes away. She wouldn't run like a scared rabbit, either. She's give it another day, another twenty-four hours, before she made a decision.

She stayed in her room, waiting until the apartment settled down into a midday quiet before heading for the kitchen. The last thing she expected to run into was a handsome young man, complete with wire-rimmed glasses, khakis, deck shoes without socks, and a polo shirt with the collar up. He was standing in the pantry, hanging over the open refrigerator door, and when he looked up and saw her, his astonishment equaled hers.

"You must be Cassie," he said after a dumbstruck moment. Then he shut the refrigerator door, held out a hand to her, realized he was clutching a Harp beer, and quickly shifted hands. "I'm Mark Bellingham."

"Richard's lawyer," she supplied, taking his hand. It was cold and wet from the beer, a strong grasp, and her eyes were level with his. "Have you seen him? I can show you where…"

"I just came from a conference with him and your father. I gather you're privy to what's going on. I can tell you things aren't looking any too good, but I still have a few possibilities." He glanced at his beer, then at her. "Can I get you one of these?"

She shook her head. "What do you mean, things aren't looking too good?"

"You've read the transcripts. Richard said I was authorized to tell you anything. You know as well as I do that he refuses to mount a defense. He sticks to that same lame-ass story, and it would take Clarence Darrow to get him acquitted. And I'm not Clarence Darrow."

"So you've given up?" She leaned back against the refrigerator, staring at him. He was a very handsome man, with a rumpled, self-deprecating charm about him that was at odds with Tiernan's dark menace.

"On getting him off entirely? Yes. The best I can hope for is getting the death sentence commuted. If he gets life, he could get out in twenty years or so, if he behaves himself. Not that I've ever known Richard to behave himself," he added, half to himself.

"You've known him for a long time?"

"Since we were teenagers. He always was a chilly bastard, but he had a good heart, or so I always thought, and he would have done anything for a friend." He shook his head, taking a long pull on the beer. "Maybe you could talk to him."

She stood up straight. "I can't imagine why you'd think that would do any good."

"He likes you. He trusts you, as much as he's ever trusted a woman, and I can tell you right now those occasions haven't been too often."

"He must have trusted his wife."

"Diana?" Mark Bellingham snorted in contemptuous amusement. "Her least of all. Princess Diana, we used to call her." He drained the beer, then glanced at her. "Look, are you doing anything right now?"

She had the oddest feeling someone was watching, someone was listening. She hated being spied on. "Not at the moment," she said.

"Come to lunch with me. We both care about Richard—maybe between the two of us we can figure out how to save his ungrateful life."

"What makes you think I care about him?" she shot back, appalled.

He looked startled. His sandy blond hair had fallen across his wide forehead, making him look boyish and touchable. She wanted to reach up and smooth the hair back. He was probably used to that reaction, had trained his hair to do just that.

"Don't you?" he countered.

The apartment was quiet, listening for her answer. The heated denial that sprung to her lips would have been more damning than a thousand polite lies. "I care about everyone," she said finally. "Of course I want to help."

Mark Bellingham looked relieved. "There's a wonderful Italian place just few blocks down. But you probably know that as well as I do—you used to live here."

"Not for years," she said. "And Italian sounds fine. Just let me get my purse."

"Don't you need to tell someone you're going?"

"No," she said. Not when they were listening, watching, she wanted to add, knowing she'd sound paranoid.

He was waiting for her in the front hallway, and she told herself she needed this, needed a break from the apartment, from the overwhelming presence of Richard Tiernan. In fact, Mark Bellingham scarcely mentioned his name during lunch, instead going out of his way to be comfortable and charming. There was no reason for her to feel guilty, Cass thought, as she sipped her cappuccino. No need to worry about the people back at the apartment, and what they might think of her. She was free to come and go as she pleased, she owed nothing to anyone, particularly nothing to the man who lived in the back bedroom and haunted her dreams.

She waited until Bellingham had paid the check, waited until the very last moment. "Who do you think did it?" she asked.

He didn't pretend to misunderstand. "I haven't got the faintest idea. Diana was a royal pain in the butt, but no one had cause to hate her. There was no reason for anyone to kill her like that."

"What about the children?"

For a moment he looked blank. And then his golden complexion, probably the result of a tanning bed but appealing nonetheless, turned pale. "I try not to think about the children," he said in a lifeless voice.

They walked the few blocks back to the apartment in silence. The spring afternoon had grown cool and dark, and Cass shivered in her light cotton sweater. When they reached the elevator, he reached out and touched her, and his hands were warm and strong. "I enjoyed this, Cass," he said.

"So did I."

"We didn't talk much about Richard."

"No."

He managed a rueful smile. "That's probably why we enjoyed ourselves. Sometimes our friends put us through hell."

"He's lucky to have a friend like you."

Mark shrugged. "I just wish I could do more for him. But you can't help a man who refuses to help himself, can you?"

"No," she said softly, "you can't."

"Come to dinner with me tomorrow night," he said impulsively.

She had no reason to hesitate. He was handsome, he was charming, he was sane. She needed to get out of the apartment, and he made her laugh. So why did the very thought fill her with a sense of betrayal? What had Richard Tiernan done to her, all with barely putting a hand on her, to make her feel so tied to him?

She ignored the feeling, knowing how irrational it was. "I'd love to," she said firmly. "Call me."

He had a charming smile. Like sunshine on a cloudy day, it should have warmed her soul. "You're sure Richard won't mind?"

"Why should he?" she asked warily.

"Just a sixth sense. Richard's not a man to cross. I wouldn't want to interfere if something's going on between you two."

"Do you think that's why he killed her?" The words came out, before she could stop herself.

"I don't know that he did," Mark said. "He was never a particularly possessive man. Diana was the possessive one."

"But you don't know that he didn't kill her?" she persisted.

"No one knows but Richard."

"And the real murderer," she reminded him.

"And the real murderer," he agreed. "Still, you might not tell him you're going out with me. I'm not certain he'd understand we have his best interests at heart. He doesn't tend to trust people. Not that you can blame him." He looked down, as if he suddenly realized he was still holding her hand, and he released her. "Damn, I'm talking too much, as always. I'll take you someplace fabulous tomorrow night, and the name Richard Tiernan won't cross our lips. How does that sound?"

"Very nice," she said.

She waited until he'd gotten back in the elevator, waited until she was alone in the twelfth floor hallway, before she unlocked the front door of Sean's condo. The place was cool and dark and silent when she let herself in, and once more she told herself she had no reason to feel guilty.

"Enjoy your lunch?" Richard's voice was silken smooth. He was sitting in the Chinese chair in the corner of the hallway, in the shadows, and it took all Cass's concentration not to jump.

"Very much," she said warily.

"Mark's a good man, isn't he?"

"He seems to be."

"Unlike me."

"You aren't a good man?"

He rose, towering over her in the hallway, and she felt her hands clench nervously. She shoved them in her pockets, standing her ground. If she continued to let him terrorize her, there's be no way she could stay.

"I doubt you could find anyone who'd consider me to be particularly good," he said casually.

"Mark does."

"Mark." The word was succinct, dismissive. "He has a great deal of faith in mankind. You'd think a New York lawyer would know better."

"He has faith in you. Whether you deserve it or not."

"Such a reproach," he said softly. "Tell me, did he tell you about his lousy marriage and his dysfunctional childhood? You'd be ripe for a bleeding-heart story like that. Two adult children, adrift on a raging tide of emotions and hormones. It has all the makings of a
New York Times
best-seller."

"You are a bastard," she said.

His smile was wintry. "Tell me something I don't know, Cassidy," he murmured. "Are you going out with him again?"

"I don't think that's any of your business."

"It depends what's drawing you together. If the two of you want to compare rotten childhoods before you go to bed together, go right ahead. Just keep me out of it."

"It's so nice to have your permission," she said in an acid tone of voice. "But I have no intention of going to bed with him."

"His wife wouldn't mind."

"I get the message, Richard. He's married. Yes, he neglected to mention that fact, but you've more than made up for it. And as a matter of fact, we hardly talked about you at all. Sorry to disillusion you, but you aren't the most fascinating thing that ever entered either of our lives."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said, his voice patently disbelieving. "What did you say about me?"

"We talked about whether you killed your wife. And why you haven't made any real effort to defend yourself," she said flatly, wanting to fight back.

But Richard's armor was invincible. "And did either of you come up with any theories? Am I a roaming psychopath who finally snapped and slaughtered his family or an innocent victim of a serial killer?"

"I don't know."

He moved closer, so close his clothes brushed hers, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath. His dark eyes had tiny flecks of gold in them, and they seemed to glow in the gloomy light of the entryway. "Do you think I did it, Cassidy?" he whispered, intense, urgent, demanding. His mouth moved closer, hovering over hers, and she was trapped. "Do you?"

Bright light flooded the hallway, shocking her into moving, backing away from him. Mabry stood in the doorway, her serene face expressionless as always. "I thought you'd gone back to Maryland," she said, and there was no missing the anxiety and relief in her voice. "Your father said you'd left."

Cass shook her head. "I'll stay a bit longer." She refused to meet Richard's gaze, still astounded that she'd given in. She could tell herself she wanted to pursue the possibility of Mark Bellingham, but she knew that was a lie. For all that she found him attractive, he didn't call to her on any deep, emotional level. Besides, she was old enough and smart enough to know not to get involved with a married man.

She didn't seem old enough or smart enough not to get involved with a murderer, however. She wasn't staying for Mark Bellingham's sake, or for Mabry, or for her father. She was staying because she wasn't quite ready to leave the dangerous fascination of Richard Tiernan.