Nightfall (13 page)

"You don't usually pay any attention to what I tell you to do. If I'd realized you were so malleable, I would have been more creative. Why don't you stop fiddling with that button and unfasten it?"

She'd been toying with the high button of her suit jacket, and she pulled her hand away. "I don't want to."

"It's warm, you've been racing after me down a crowded street, and you're buttoned up tighter than a battleship. I'm not asking, I'm telling you. Unfasten the goddamned button, or I'll do it myself."

The second glass of whiskey appeared in front of her, lighter in color, and then they were alone again, in the almost deserted bar. She reached up and unfastened the button. "I don't want the drink."

"Drink it."

"I don't want it…"

"Drink it."

She picked it up, took a sip, and grimaced. "I hate Irish whiskey."

"How'd you know it was Irish?"

"I'm my father's daughter. Unfortunately." She took another sip anyway, letting it burn down her throat, between her breasts. It stopped some of the panic that had been building up inside her.

He leaned back against the vinyl banquette, staring at her. "So you are," he said, cradling his own glass. "Fatherhood's an interesting thing, wouldn't you say? There are so many different aspects to it. There's your own father, using you for his needs, blithely disregarding your well-being for the sake of his own inflated ego. Then there's a man like Amberson Scott, whose life, outside his career, was entirely devoted to the worship of his little princess." There wasn't the faintest trace of irony in his voice, but the chill reached deeper into Cassidy's soul, and she took another sip of the strong whiskey.

"And then, of course, there's me," he said, staring at his own glass with a cool, meditative air. "If you were to believe the media, and Jerome Fabiani, I'm a man who was so busy with my career and my womanizing that I barely noticed the existence of my children, apart from the act of creating them. Until, of course, the night I decided to kill them, along with their unborn sibling and their mother. I'm not sure what people think I did with their bodies. One theory is that they're buried on a farm in Pennsylvania. I think one of the tabloids suggested that I ate them."

Cassidy drained her glass in one swift gulp. She wasn't used to drinking, and she hadn't been eating much. The alcohol hit her like a sledgehammer. "Did you love them?" she asked, knowing she should keep her mouth shut, knowing she should run.

Tiernan looked at her, his eyes full of sorrow. "More than life itself," he said simply. And she knew for the first time that he was telling her the truth.

He'd made her drunk. It should have amused him, that Cassidy Roarke, the daughter of such a notorious high-liver, couldn't hold her Irish whiskey. It should have made him feel guilty. Or triumphant. He should have felt something, other than the cool, dead feeling in the pit of his stomach, and in the dark hole where his heart had once been.

She'd been close to bringing him alive, and he'd hated her, resented her for that. That cocoon of stillness and death that had shielded him was starting to unravel, all due to her presence, and he'd needed her too much to resist.

He still needed her. But he needed his distance as well. He should have just left that room, left the fat, smug faces and staring eyes of all those people who looked at him and saw a man who'd committed the foulest crimes against nature. All those innocent, condemning faces. All those fools.

But he wasn't strong enough. He'd considered himself invincible, but he couldn't walk away and leave her there, to listen to the things they would say about him. And he didn't want to leave her with Sean, with Mark, with his father-in-law. Most of all, not with retired General Amberson Scott.

Scott could make a believer out of anyone. He could turn a Quaker into a Green Beret, a democrat into a republican, a dog into a cat. If Cassidy had any doubts at all about his guilt, Scott could wipe them out with the sheer force of his personality.

He couldn't let that happen. He needed to keep Cassidy on edge, confused, doubting, afraid.

Of course, he could always tell her the truth. He watched her as she sat across from him, trying to gather her dignity around her like a torn shawl. How would she respond to the truth that he'd never admitted to a soul?

She'd probably run screaming out of the bar.

He needed to own her first. He needed to have her, body and soul, mind and spirit, before he let her know even an inkling of the truth. He needed her so tied to him that she couldn't run, couldn't struggle, that she'd simply accept, and do as he needed her to do.

The truth was his, and his alone. Sean thought he was getting it, but Sean's ego was blinding him. No doubt he was writing a hell of a book, a landmark of a literary creation. But it wasn't the truth.

Richard was going to die with the truth. If state laws and the vagaries of the justice system gave him a reprieve from his death sentence, he was certain one of his fellow inmates would see to the matter. Scott was right—even the most hardened criminal drew the line when it came to the murder of children, and there were any number of people inside who might think they were buying their own way into heaven by disposing of him.

In the meantime, he had to get Cassidy Roarke back to her father's apartment before anyone else returned. He had to get her back to her Gothic bedroom and put his hands under her skirt. He wanted to touch her, to get her wet, to make her want him. More than she already, reluctantly did.

And then he'd leave her. Aching, wanting, needing him. So that the next time, or maybe the time after that, she'd be ready. And there'd be no turning back. For either of them.

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The bright day had darkened considerably by the time Richard steered her out of the bar. He'd managed to get her to drink another half glass of Irish whiskey, mainly by goading her, and she was in a delectably reckless state. One push, one hard push, and she'd fall, on her back, taking him with her.

The hell with waiting. He wanted her, wanted to lose himself in her body, the taste, the smell, the feel of her. He wanted to thread his hands through her wild hair and draw her mouth down his body, he wanted her willing to take everything from him, and then take more.

She stumbled slightly as she followed him into the elevator, leaning back against the burnished walnut and closing her eyes. She hadn't rebuttoned her suit jacket, and he could see the silk blouse that was clinging to her, see the hollow between her breasts. He wanted to put his mouth there.

The elevator door slid open when they reached the twelfth floor, and he waited, hoping he'd have an excuse to touch her, knowing he needed no excuse. He doubted they'd get past the hallway.

She moved with careful grace, past him, and he let her go. For now. He stood aside while she fumbled with the keys, controlling his impulse to snatch them out of her hands and open the locks himself. The delay simply added to the anticipation. Each level of frustration was a challenge.

The door finally yielded. He followed her into the darkened hallway, closing the door behind them, and put his hand over hers as she reached for the light switch.

"It's dark," she said.

"I know."

"Mabry must be out somewhere…"

"Didn't Sean tell you? They were going out to some publishing function, and then on to dinner. They won't be back until late." His hand still covered hers, and he felt the jerk of panic beneath her skin.

"He didn't tell me."

"I didn't think so." He moved her hand away from the wall, using his strength, and she let him. The combination of fear and desire was thick in the air, a potent aphrodisiac. He'd never made love to a woman who was frightened of him, and who wanted him anyway. He was looking forward to it.

He took her hand and placed it on his chest, so she could feel the tempo of his heartbeat, feel his heat. "Do you want to run away, Cass?" he whispered, bending closer, his mouth next to her ear, beneath the cloud of flame-colored hair. "Are you frightened?"

He didn't think she would answer. Probably without the Irish whiskey she would have lied. But she made the mistake of looking at him, and even in the shadows of the deserted apartment he could see everything she wanted to hide from him. Her fear. Her anger. And her desire.

"Yes," she said. And it sealed her fate.

He drew her hand down his chest, to the belt buckle, his eyes never leaving hers. She couldn't look away from him, he couldn't look away from her. He moved her hand lower, covering his erection, and she made a faint sound, one of distress, perhaps.

She tried to pull away then, but he wouldn't let her, pushing her up against the wall, trapping her hand between their bodies, pressed against him, as his mouth caught hers. She made that sound again, and it was something more than distress. It was longing as well, and he tasted it, his tongue in her mouth, as he tasted the Irish whiskey they'd shared, and he was on fire with his need for her.

He slid his hand behind her, pushing the jacket from her shoulders, determined to strip off that suit and have her naked on the hardwood floor of her father's foyer. He felt her fingers curl around him, and he almost came. He reached up and caught her head in his hands, threading his fingers through her tawny hair, and used nothing but his mouth to take her, seduce her, own her, as her body softened and flowed against his hardness.

He pulled away from her, breathing hard, making no effort to control his reaction to her. Her own eyes were lowered, and she leaned back against the wall, waiting. Reaching up, he began to unfasten the silk covered buttons, roughly, wondering what had happened to the deft seducer. He knew the answer to that one. He was living on borrowed time, and he couldn't afford to waste a moment.

He pulled her blouse free from her skirt. Her bra was skimpy, lacy, barely covering her breasts, and he let his thumb trace the darkness of her areolas beneath the lace, felt the nipples bead up. Leaning down, he took one in his mouth, through the lace, swirling his tongue against the textures, sucking it in deep, and he felt her jerk against him, as her hands came up to rest on his shoulders, and she arched back, offering herself, as he needed her. He slid his hand up her thigh, pulling her narrow skirt up with him, when he heard a strangled gasp of shock. Mingled with a snort of amusement.

Cassidy didn't move. He felt the coldness swamp her body, mixed with the heat of embarrassment. He lifted his head, and his eyes met hers for a long, pregnant moment. And then she closed hers, leaning back against the wall and uttering a faint moan.

He pulled her shirt back around her, shielding her body with his, before turning. The three of them stood in the kitchen doorway, with three, varying reactions. Mark looked shocked, even frightened, Mabry troubled. And Sean, curse his black Irish soul, was smirking.

Cass pushed away from Richard, and he tried to reach out and catch her wrist, but she was too fast, moving down the hallway, past the voyeurs, away from him. A moment later he heard her door slam, and it didn't take much imagination to know that the lock had followed.

"Richard," Mark said, his voice shaken.

"Come on, Mabry," Sean said, his voice rich with amusement. "I think the lads have a few things to work out."

"What have you been doing, Sean?" Mabry asked wearily, but there was no answer, and Richard was left alone in the hallway with the only true friend he had.

"What in God's name are you trying to do?" Mark demanded in a hushed voice.

"You're smart enough. You figure it out."

"Don't tell me it's a simple case of lust. I won't believe you."

"Lust is seldom simple."

"Don't play games with me, Richard. I want to know what you have in mind for her. She's an innocent—you don't need to drag her into this mess."

"Who says I'm dragging her into anything? Who says I want anything more than a taste of that remarkably luscious body of hers? You had your chance a few nights ago—now it's my turn."

"Is this some kind of one-upsmanship? I thought I was the one who had to compete with you, not the other way around," Mark said bitterly. "At least, that's the way it's always been. And she refused to go out with me. Thanks to you, no doubt. What did you do, tell her I was married?"

Richard allowed himself a faint smile. The rage in his blood had quieted, at least for now. He accepted the fact that Cassidy had escaped. For the moment. Sooner or later they'd be alone, and nothing would stop him. "It's the truth."

"Damn it, Richard, the divorce will be final in less than three weeks. I'd hardly call that a lifetime commitment. You didn't explain that, did you?"

"I mentioned you might have some trouble in your marriage."

"Trouble like a divorce that's almost final. Damn you, Richard. What do you want from her? You seemed determined to keep her away from me."

"Now, why should I do that? You're not a serial killer are you? Murdering women once you fuck them?" He kept his voice low and conversational, knowing it was the best way to rattle him.

"Neither of us are."

"How do you know who and what I am?" he countered.

Mark shook his head. "You're wasting your games with me. You forget, I know you. Better than anybody. You have something in mind for Cassie, and her father's in collusion with you. I want to know what it is."

"I'd suggest you use your imagination, but I've already seen how dangerous that can be. If I want anything from Cassie, I promise you'll be the second to know. After the lady herself, that is," he said pleasantly.

"Damn it, Richard, I care about her!" Mark said furiously.

"That was remarkably fast, wasn't it? Since you said she wouldn't go out with you, you must have seen her, what is it? Twice? Don't tell me it's love at first sight."

"I hate it when you sneer," Mark shot back.

"Was I sneering? Sorry. Young love brings out the cynic in me."

"We're not talking about young love, or love at first sight, or any of that bullshit. We're talking about a decent human being who doesn't deserve to be brought into your tortured schemes."