Nightfall (15 page)

"He's throwing it away on tabloid trash."

Mabry shook her head. "It's not what you think it is."

"Then how the hell am I supposed to help with the book when I don't even know what it's about?" she demanded, frustration and denial battling for control.

"It's about Richard Tiernan."

Cassidy took a deep, shuddering breath. "Mabry, I can't stay here. Not with that man. He… unnerves me."

"Do you think he killed them? More importantly, do you think he's planning to kill you?"

Cassidy grimaced. "It sounds absurd, saying it like that. No, I'm not afraid that he's going to kill me. Nothing so obvious. He wants something from me, Mabry. Something terribly important, and I don't know what it is. And it frightens me."

"You never used to be so imaginative."

"I'm my father's daughter, remember?" she said wryly.

"If you think he wants something from you, why don't you simply ask him?"

"And expect a simple answer? No."

"Is there anything I can do to make you stay?"

"No," said Cassie, quite firmly. "I've had to learn to take care of myself, or my parents would have eaten me up. I'd do anything for Sean, but not at the expense of my own life. I'll come visit, after Richard Tiernan has left, but in the meantime I have to look after myself. I'm a survivor, and I've put the past behind me. I have a safe, comfortable life, and I'm not going to throw it all away."

Mabry leaned back and sighed. "All right," she said, no longer arguing. "I'll come with you to the train."

Cass didn't move for a moment. It would be so simple—escape. She could run, she could hide, she could forget Richard Tiernan ever existed. After all, she didn't read tabloids, she didn't watch television. She probably wouldn't even hear when he was executed.

Executed
. The word burned in her brain, her heart, like acid. She looked up, and met Mabry's knowing blue eyes. "I'm not going anywhere," she said wearily.

Mabry smiled faintly. "I know, darling. I know."

«
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Cassidy couldn't sleep. It didn't come as any sort of surprise—she'd had trouble sleeping ever since she'd made the life-altering mistake of coming up to New York. Just the presence of a convicted murderer under the same roof was enough to unsettle anyone, and after the events of today it was a wonder she wasn't sitting in a corner, babbling.

She rolled over, squinting at the carriage clock Mabry had chosen to fit the funereal decor of her bedroom. At 2:45 a.m. the apartment was quiet—even Park Avenue down below her velvet-curtained window seemed subdued.

She still couldn't believe Sean was going to die. When she and Mabry had returned, Sean was dozing in his office, and she'd stood there and stared at him, seeing the puffiness of pain and illness around his eyes, the graying of his hair, the look of frailty his robust personality had masked. She stared, and knew Mabry told her the truth. He was dying.

And she knew she couldn't say anything to Sean. He thought it was a secret, kept from those who loved him most. God only knew why—perhaps he needed to think himself indestructible, omnipotent. Perhaps he needed denial.

She couldn't leave him. She couldn't even go to a hotel and keep herself away from Richard Tiernan's very real threat. Sean would make a fuss, he wouldn't understand, and Cassidy wasn't in the mood to argue. She just wanted to be with Sean, to do whatever she could for him. If Richard were to hold a knife to her throat, she still couldn't leave her father. She'd made her life, separate, safe, but all those self-protective instincts vanished in the face of her father's need. She hadn't been able to save her parents' marriage, she hadn't been able to make her father into the kind of man she wanted him to be. She wouldn't be able to keep him alive, either, but at least she could make his passing easier. And make some kind of peace for herself.

But she wasn't going to be able to do it with Richard Tiernan stalking her.

She pulled herself out of bed, turning on the light that was too dim for reading. Without thinking about what she was doing, she got dressed, pulling on underwear, an oversize T-shirt, sweat pants, and a baggy shirt, topping it all off with a bulky sweater. She was too hot, and the layers of clothing added ten pounds to her already generous proportions, but she had no intention of considering that. If she was going to survive, to be here for her father when he needed her, she was going to have to make a few things very very clear to Richard Tiernan. And foolish or not, she was not going to wait any longer to do so.

Her bare feet made no noise whatsoever as she moved down the long hallway to her brother's old bedroom at the far end. She walked at a brisk pace, knowing if she hesitated she'd chicken out. If she didn't confront Tiernan now, she'd never be able to. There was something about the middle of the night that stripped life down to its essentials, and she couldn't be bothered with second thoughts.

She didn't knock on his door. Sean, despite or perhaps because of the large amounts of whiskey he consumed, was a light sleeper, and he would be up and spying at the first sound. She reached for the doorknob, wondering if Richard locked himself in at night. It turned silently beneath her hand, and she pushed it open.

She wasn't sure what she expected. She hadn't been in her brother's room since she'd been back, and part of her had pictured satanic rituals or prison-like decor.

In the moonlit darkness it looked much the same as it had the last time she'd seen it. Southwestern decor, narrow beds, clean lines. The twin beds were empty, one neatly made, one in complete disarray. She looked up, around the dark room, and saw him.

He was standing by the window, silhouetted by the moonlight, and the shadow of the mullions looked like bars around him. He was turned toward her, but his face was in the shadows, and all she could see was the glitter of his eyes as he watched her.

She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. "Don't jump to any conclusions," she said.

He was motionless. She was suffocating in her multiple layers, he must be freezing. He was wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, and the window was open behind him, letting in a chill night breeze. It ruffled his hair, then danced on toward her, playful, innocent.

"I wasn't about to," he said in his slow, deep voice. "I find things are seldom what I expect them to be. And never what I want them to be."

She wasn't about to touch that statement. "My father is dying," she said baldly.

"I know."

"How?"

"He told me."

He couldn't have delivered a cruder blow, and he must have known it. "I don't believe you."

"Of course you do. It's just the sort of thing your father would do. Keep his own family in the dark and tell a stranger. The fact of the matter is, I wouldn't have done this book with him if it weren't his last chance. I knew he couldn't afford to screw it up."

She made a small, unintelligible sound of distress, and he moved toward her through the shadows. "You didn't really expect him to tell either you or Mabry, did you? That's not the kind of man Sean is. He's not the kind of man who asks for help, particularly from the women in his family. Particularly not from the woman he's hurt the most."

"He wouldn't want help from my mother."

"I'm talking about you, Cassidy. He knows how he's failed you, don't mistake that for a moment. It eats at him, as the cancer eats away at his body, and there's not a damned thing he can do about either one. He is what he is, and it's too late to change him."

"I can't leave him."

She could see his smile in the darkness. "Is that what's troubling you? You want to run away from me, but you can't leave him? It's true, right now we come as a package deal. And the big question is, who's going to die first?"

"You're so kind to spare my sensitive feelings," she said with acid-tinged politeness.

"You're tough, Cassidy. Any fool can see that. You can take what your father dishes out, and survive. You can even take my worst behavior and still come back fighting. If someone lied to spare you pain, you'd probably slug them." He took a step closer, into a shaft of moonlight, and she could see his face clearly. He had a scrape along one side of his face, beneath his eye, and she wanted to reach up and touch it.

"What happened to you?" Her voice came out in a hushed whisper, as she clenched her fists beside her.

He reached out and took one hand, gently, making no attempt to force the fingers open. He simply stroked the back of it, slowly, letting his fingertips brush against the claddagh ring she wore. "My just desserts," he said.

She'd forgotten. Blocked out that she'd hauled off and hit him. She hadn't forgotten why. Her blood was thrumming through her veins with a slow, insistent beat, and she swallowed, suddenly nervous. "You haven't asked me why I came here."

"I know why you came here." His smile flashed white in the darkness. "You came to tell me to leave you alone. You're not asking, you're telling. I'm to keep my hands to myself, keep my remarks to myself, and leave you the hell alone. You'll stay on, you'll nurse your father like the dutiful daughter that you are, putting your unrequited love for Daddy ahead of your own sanity and safety, and you want me to stand by and let you do just that. For the first time in your life, you get to be Daddy's girl, and you actually think I'll agree."

She wasn't going to argue with the way he put things. He had a talent for twisting things around. "You have no choice."

His smile was chilling. "There's always a choice." He still held her hand, gently, stroking. "I'll make a bargain with you."

"No bargains."

He ignored her. "Something we can both live with. We both get part of what we want, even if we don't get it all." he said. "A compromise, a deal."

"You can't give me what I want. Even a part of it."

"You think not? It depends on what it is we're talking about. I can't keep your father alive, but then, no one can. He ignored it for too long, too sure of his own immortality. And I can't make him love you. He already does, to the best of his ability. Far more than you realize."

"Then what can you give me?" She should pull her hand away from him. The gentle touch of his long fingers was mesmerizing, and she couldn't bring herself to break the touch.

"The best sex you've ever had," he said in a low, calm voice. "But you don't want that, do you? You're so busy protecting yourself from hurt that you've stopped living. All your energies go to protecting yourself from pain. Well, life involves pain. And you have to make up your mind whether you're going to choose life or not."

She managed the ghost of a smile. "You're a fine one to talk about choosing life. You've chosen death."

"Are you asking me whether I killed my wife?"

"No. You aren't going to answer, and I don't think I want to know. I've finished the trial transcripts. Your defense was tantamount to a confession of guilt. You put up no defense whatsoever—I don't know why you didn't just cop a plea and go straight to jail. For that matter, I don't know why you agreed to get out on appeal. From what I can see, you made no effort to make bail while you were awaiting trial. You've accepted your fate with a kind of inhuman passivity, and it's a wonder you aren't dead already."

"Did I have anything to live for?" he inquired gently.

"Has that changed?" she countered.

He looked down at their hands, then met her gaze again. "No," he said. "And it's better that way, don't you think? Considering that I'm not likely to be living for much longer."

"What do you want from me?"

"I want your innocence. I want your blind, unquestioning devotion to your father, your acceptance of who and what he is. I want you to look at me the way you look at him, knowing the worst. I want you to trust me, even when your brain tells you you shouldn't, I want you to ignore common sense and your lifelong need to protect yourself. I want you to give yourself to me, body and soul." The words were soft, silken, hypnotic, weaving a spell around her, one she struggled to break free from.

"You don't ask much, do you?" Her voice came out hushed.

"Everything."

He was mad. Why hadn't she realized it before? A man who could slaughter his family and then go on with his life, a man who could taunt and mesmerize and make her mad as well. She looked at him, and she felt the pull of him, the need, drawing her closer, closer, until she knew she would drown, and drown willingly. Had Diana Scott Tiernan gone to her death as willingly?

She shook her head, trying to break the spell. "No," she said, more a negation of his effect on her than a refusal.

"Of course," he said blandly, "I'd settle for a straightforward fuck."

Her head jerked up to meet his cool expression, and she was furious. "It's all a game to you, isn't it?" She pulled her hand free from his. "Murder must have been the ultimate thrill, and now life is intolerably boring. You have to get your kicks seeing who you can confuse and manipulate."

"Have I confused you, Cassidy? What are you confused about?"

She had never been so angry in her life. So wildly, intensely furious. "I'm calling your bluff, Tiernan. You say you'll settle for a straightforward fuck? If I strip off my clothes and lie down for you, will you leave me alone afterward?"

"How would you define leaving you alone?"

"Don't touch me, don't talk to me, don't tease me."

"No
t
words. No taunting, tickling, or torturing, either?"

God, she hated him. "You turn everything into a mind game, don't you? Can't you ever give an honest answer?"

"Give me a letter of the alphabet, and I'll stick to it," he murmured, unmoved by her whispered fury.

"Go fuck yourself."

"I thought I was going to fuck you."

He stood there, far too close, arrogant, cool, and mesmerizingly beautiful in the moonlight. He was doing it again, playing with her for his own twisted reasons, expecting her to run away again.

She couldn't live in this apartment, with her father, if she didn't face Richard down. Richard, and her fears. "I'm calling your bluff, Tiernan. I go to bed with you, and then you'll leave me alone. Right?"