Nightfall (12 page)

Something in her voice must have caught his attention. "Spill it, Cassie. What else did General Scott tell you?"

She could have asked him anytime during the last few days, and each time she'd considered it she'd stopped, frightened. Frightened of his answer. "He told me you weren't writing a book to clear Richard's name."

"And what kind of book did he say I was writing?" Sean countered, unmoved.

"That you were writing a book, with Richard's help, that would illuminate the mind of a murderer. That you're writing a book about evil, and you don't care what price you have to pay for it."

"You think books about evil shouldn't be written? I didn't know you had such a censorious streak in you."

"You know I don't. Don't try to change the subject, Sean. What's the damned book about?"

"About Richard Tiernan, and the murders of his wife and children. I'm telling his side of the story."

"Are you telling the story of a murderer?" she persisted, not wanting the answer.

She didn't get it. "Ask Richard," he said.

"I'm asking you."

"Don't." The word was short, fraught with meanings she didn't want to consider. "Will you come with him to the lawyer's office or not?"

"Yes."

She'd manage to startle her father, no mean triumph. "You must be more like me than I realized," he said, half under his breath. "Two-fifteen, at Bellingham's office. Richard knows how to get there."

"Why won't he go himself?"

"Beats me. As far as I know he hasn't left this apartment since he got out of jail. Why don't you ask him?"

"Richard doesn't give me straight answers any more than you do."

"Count your blessings," Sean said. "Be ready to leave by two."

"Will he be ready?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

She sat without moving for uncounted minutes after Sean left. Bridget's wonderful coffee had grown cold in the cup by her elbow, and her stomach, comfortably full of cholesterol, now began to revolt. She should know better than to eat anything but dry toast as long as she lived surrounded by the miasma of Richard Tiernan's crimes.

If they were his crimes. She hadn't seen him since the night before last, when he'd pushed her up against the counter and kissed her. It was just as well. She'd escaped to her room, locking the door with the newfound key and staying there, terrified that he'd come knocking, terrified that she'd let him in.

She hadn't bothered to correct his assumption that she was going out with Mark, for any number of reasons. She wanted him to think she had an escape, even when she knew she didn't. She wanted him to think she hadn't paid any attention to his subtle warnings, when she had. And she wanted him to think that he hadn't become an obsession with her, a constant, peace-destroying presence in her mind.

She flat-out refused to think about the kiss. She'd never realized she had a gift for denial, for blocking things too overpowering to deal with. But every time the taste, the memory came sneaking back, she shoved it away from her with a fierce determination.

He was waiting for her in the hallway, sitting in the Chinese chair. He'd shaved, and his dark hair was beginning to grow from its prison shortness. He sat there in a dark suit, his face thin and shadowed, watching her, and she tugged at her own power suit, something she seldom wore, complete with NFL-size shoulder pads. He rose, slow and graceful, and she wished she'd worn heels. She needed all the defenses she could get against a man who overwhelmed her, physically and emotionally.

"Ready?" she asked brightly, inanely.

"Yes." He opened the door, waiting for her to precede him. That was one thing she could say for him—the man had impeccable manners when he chose to use them. It was hardly reassuring.

She didn't know what she expected as they walked down the broad sidewalks of Park Avenue. He stared straight ahead, his mind seemingly a million miles away, and she hurried to keep up with his long strides. She half expected the people rushing past them to stop and stare, to point out the murderer and his consort. But the people of New York were far too involved in their own affairs to notice the tall, haunted-looking man as he strode down the street.

She reached out to catch his arm, to slow him down. He stopped, turning to look at her, and for a moment his bleak expression lightened with a look of wry amusement. "Out of breath?"

She was, but she quickly tried to cover it. "We aren't running a marathon, are we?" she countered. "How far away is Bellingham's office?"

"Just another block. We have plenty of time," Once he stopped he didn't seem inclined to move, and the hordes of people simply surged around them, like the Red Sea parting.

"Then why were we running?"

He glanced around them, and shrugged. "I've been in prison too long."

"Is that why you haven't left the apartment since you got there?"

"Is that what your father told you? I haven't become agoraphobic. At least, not yet. I don't imagine I'll have much time to develop the affliction. Unless Mark can manage to pull a rabbit out of a hat."

"If you don't think Mark can get you off on appeal, why don't you hire another lawyer?"

"I don't think anyone can get me off on appeal," he said lightly. "My fate is sealed, and it's a waste of time and energy to fight it. Besides, I have a certain amount of loyalty. I've known Mark since we were in high school, and he's stood by me. How was dinner?"

The change of subject was so abrupt she almost blew it and told him the truth. That she hadn't gone out with Mark and had no intention of doing so. "Fine," she said instead. "Mark's very charming."

Richard made a noncommittal noise. "Let's go see if he's able to charm my father-in-law and the prosecutor, shall we? I expect that's beyond even his abilities."

"Will you tell me the truth if I ask you one question?"

His dark eyes were hooded, and his thin mouth turned up in a taunting smile. "If you can stand the answer."

"Why did you want me to come with you today? You aren't worried about being recognized, and you don't really have a problem with being out on the streets, do you?"

He considered it for a moment. "I'd say I have at least half a dozen reasons. Are you certain you want to hear them?"

No, she thought. "Yes," she said.

"Number one, I didn't want to be out here alone. I've spent too much time being confined during the last year, and the thought of being allowed to walk free in the city terrified me."

"Nothing terrifies you."

"If you want my reasons, don't pass judgment on them."

"Sorry. Reason number two?"

"Number two, your father thought it was a good idea, to make certain I actually got there. Number three, I want Mark to see us walk in together, arm in arm, so that he won't be so sure of his ability to charm anyone he wants into his bed. Number four…" he ruthlessly overrode her protest, "I want General Scott to see you with me, to know that all his warnings came to nothing, that another innocent female is in my clutches, and there's not a damned thing he can do about it." .

She didn't say a word, shocked into silence.

"Number five," he continued smoothly, entirely aware of her tumbled reactions, "I simply wanted your company, and I knew your father could command it."

She tried to speak for a moment, cleared her throat, and tried again. "That's five reasons, most of them sick. You said there were at least half a dozen."

"Number six," he said, with a charming, predatory smile, "was the irresistible urge to see just how far I can push you. I make you very uncomfortable—you aren't certain whether you despise me, or if I simply scare you half to death."

"You don't scare me."

"Liar. Every time you look at me, you think about what I was convicted of doing."

"And I don't despise you," she continued stubbornly.

"Another lie. You're frightened of me, you hate me, but you're also fascinated by me."

She didn't bother to deny it. "Why do you think I stay on here?" she said, raising her chin to meet his dark gaze. "Apart from helping my father, it happens to be a very interesting case. I think it will make a terrific book."

"You aren't staying because of the case, Cassidy," he corrected her gently. "And it's not my wife's death that fascinates you. It's me."

For a moment she was silent, as mesmerized by his wicked beauty as he'd accused her of being. And then she marshaled her defenses. "I'm fascinated by the size of your ego."

He tucked his arm through hers, his large hand covering hers, and there was no escape. She trembled, but she didn't pull away, letting him draw her down the sidewalk. "You see," he murmured, "just two harmless souls on a stroll down Park Avenue. Who would have thought about the darkness that lurks beneath our pleasant surface?"

"There is no darkness in my life," Cassidy snapped.

He glanced down at her. "Yes, there is," he said gently. "I'm in your life."

The conference room at the office of Bellingham and Stearns resembled nothing so much as an armed camp. Jerome Fabiani and General Scott were sitting on one side of the broad mahogany table, hands folded, faces set in identical expressions. On the other side sat Mark, looking deceptively rumpled, Sean, and Till Elder, Sean's publisher for the last dozen or so years, and a handful of suits Cass didn't recognize, lined up on either side of the table.

Richard didn't release her until they walked into the room, until he was certain everyone had seen his possessive gesture, and Cassidy wanted to scream out denial, fury. She said nothing, taking in each man's expression. Mark looked disturbed, the general, sorrowful, her father, pleased. And she didn't trust any of them.

"Sorry if we're late," she murmured, slipping into a seat between her father and Till.

"Not at all," Mark said genially. "We're not quite ready to begin."

A small buzz of strained chatter began to fill the room, and Till leaned over, putting his hand on Cassie's. "Glad to see you back, Cass," he murmured. "Your father's a reprobate, but he loves you, and he needs your help on this one. I think he's bitten off more than he can chew."

"Why don't you tell him you won't publish it?" she whispered back.

"I'm a businessman before I'm a friend," Till replied with Brahman dignity. "It'll sell like mad."

Richard had taken a seat beside Mark, and he was sitting there, unmoving, as his lawyer whispered in his ear. He was directly across from General Scott, and there was no missing the waves of hatred and fury that were emanating from his father-in-law. Richard met his gaze blandly.

Jerome Fabiani went on the offensive. "I don't know what the point is to this meeting," he announced in the golden voice that had made good use of the newly reinstated death penalty and assured him a future in politics that he was already beginning to work on. "Mr. Tiernan has been tried and found guilty by a jury of his peers. He's going through the appeal process, and despite my best efforts, he's presently free to walk the streets. If his counsel wanted more time to prepare his case then he shouldn't have gotten his client out of Dannemora. Each day that Richard Tiernan is out of custody is a day that society is endangered, and I have no intention of allowing that state of affairs to continue longer than necessary."

Sean dove right in. "A man is innocent until he's been proven guilty, Fabiani."

Fabiani looked at Sean with contempt. "He
has
been proven guilty, Mr. O'Rourke. Once we get through the farce of his appeal, I'm expecting the state of New York to do its duty. Barring any kind of nonsense like the death penalty being repealed again."

"I'm not really worried," General Scott spoke up. "Someone will take care of him in prison. Even the dregs of humanity draw the line when it comes to slaughtering your own children."

Richard didn't show the slightest anger; instead a slow, taunting smile curved his mouth, faint enough to chill Cassidy's blood. Scott's response was immediate, as he lunged across the table, and it took several of the men there to hold him back, as Richard rose, elegant, disdainful. "I don't really know what I'm doing here," he murmured in a bored voice. "You can work it out among yourselves. I'm going for a walk." Across the room his eyes met hers, distant, challenging. "Cassidy?"

She hesitated. She didn't want to go and stand by him, to leave this room and walk away with a man capable of such hideous crimes. And yet, was he capable? Had he done what he'd been convicted of doing? Or was he the most misunderstood, most cruelly victimized man in the world?

No, the man standing there, commanding her presence, was no victim. And much as she wanted to ignore him, she had no choice. Not with Sean kicking her under the table. Not with her own unruly nature calling out to him.

They watched her as she rose and crossed the room to him. All those men, passing judgment, some with disbelief, some with contempt. She went to him, because she had to. And because she wanted to.

He didn't say a word until they were back out on the street. He was walking faster than ever, and she had to break into a half run to keep up with him, but she didn't try to slow him down. He needed to move, fast, away from his devils. And she was willing to go with him.

They ended up in a bar on Sixty-ninth Street. It was dark in the middle of the afternoon, an old bar, redolent of ancient spirits and a lifetime of tobacco, and Richard went straight to a booth near the back, not bothering to check whether she followed him. To her amazement she'd no sooner sat down than a grizzled, elderly bartender appeared with a glass of whiskey and ice. "What would the lady like, Richard?"

He glanced at her. "The same as me, Ed. But not as strong."

She waited until the bartender left, staring at the man opposite her in surprise. "I thought you never left the apartment?"

"There's a service entrance in the kitchen, you know that as well as I do."

"I didn't think anyone ever used it anymore."

"I do," he said, leaning back and staring at her across the table. "Why did you come with me?"

He always asked the most difficult questions. "You told me to."