Nightfall (17 page)

"The skies mourned when she died," Richard said mockingly. "You wouldn't have liked her. The two of you are complete opposites."

"So I noticed," she said wryly. "On the one hand we have the fairy princess, adored by father and husband, on the other, we have…"

"On the one hand," he interrupted ruthlessly, with the first real anger she'd ever seen, "we have a preening neurotic who could see no farther than her own selfish needs and twisted longings. On the other, we have you."

She stared at him. "You hated her."

"Intensely." There was no apology in his voice. "It came through during the trial, even though I did my best to hide it. It was that hatred that convicted me, among other things. That hatred that inspired the judge to sentence me to death."

"Did you hate her enough to kill her?"

"Yes." His answer was flat, uncompromising.

"Did you kill her?"

"Read the book." His brief flare of anger was gone, and the manipulator was back.

"I don't believe everything I read."

"Wise of you. Don't believe everything people tell you, either."

"On the other hand?"

There was a gleam of amusement in his bleak eyes. "You want to know how you differ from Diana? Searching for compliments, Cassidy? Come to bed with me, and I'll tell you everything you want to hear. I'll even tell you I love you if I have to."

She just watched him steadily, refusing to back down. She was getting better at dealing with him, and that knowledge strengthened her. "How am I different from your wife?"

"She was porcelain—fragile, with a hidden flaw that made her shatter. You're earthenware, strong, eternal, solid."

"Lord," she said in disgust, "how could you have been considered a womanizer with a line like that?"

"I'm not trying to seduce you at the moment. I'm telling you the truth, and giving you credit to be able to appreciate it," he snapped.

"Okay, I'm clay, she's porcelain. What else?"

"She was the center of the universe—everyone existed to complement her. She couldn't live outside of the perfect little world she'd spun for herself, with the help of the people who adored her."

"Did she cheat on you? Did she have lovers?"

The smile that twisted his mouth was ugly. "The only person Diana loved more than she loved me was her father."

"Another difference. I'm a minor cog in my father's grand scheme of things."

"Poor girl," he mocked her.

It nettled her, as it was meant to. "You say she was twisted. Does that mean you consider me to be the picture of mental health?"

"Yes," he said flatly. "Except when you're around me."

"Well, we have one thing in common, apparently. An unfortunate association with you." She leaned back. Her coffee was cold, but she took a delaying sip, just for something to do. "Did you cheat on her?"

"The courts said I did. Any number of times."

"And did you? Did you cheat on this neurotic woman who loved you to distraction?" she pursued.

"Yes."

"The court transcript said one of your lovers disappeared without a trace. There was the hint that there may have been more, but that was stricken from the record."

"Yes."

"Do you kill all the women you sleep with?"

"Only the ones who deserve it," he said. And he picked up his book again, ignoring her.

"You're leaving today?" Cassidy echoed in horror.

"Cass, darling, we have no choice," Mabry said patiently. "Sean wants to get out of the city, and I'm not about to argue with him. There's a party at Chaz's, and it might be the last one he's really up to. I'm not going to tell him we can't go when it's his last chance. Come with us."

"I hate the Hamptons, I hate Chaz Berringer, I hate literary dinner parties," she shot back as she watched Mabry continue to pack, calmly, relentlessly.

"As much as you hate Richard Tiernan?" Mabry countered.

"I don't hate Richard Tiernan."

Mabry raised a perfect eyebrow. "You've been doing an excellent impersonation of hatred, then. I'm sure I thought you despised him."

"Come on, Mabry. You saw the two of us in the hallway a few days ago."

"I also know both you and Richard fairly well, and I can imagine whose fault that little scene was. You've always gone for the safe, unimaginative type. Doubtless a reaction to your childhood. You and Mark Bellingham seemed a perfect match."

"He's married."

"He's divorced. Or close to it. Who told you he was still married?"

"Richard. Who else?"

"Interesting," Mabry said, wrapping silk in tissue paper. She made everything an art, from packing to making coffee to applying makeup.

"So we're agreed that Richard's not my type. I like men who are safe and boring," Cassidy said in a deceptively calm voice. She didn't like how astute Mabry had suddenly become. She did tend to date men who were safe, unthreatening, even boring. And it was a good thing she did. Look what happened when she was exposed to a dangerous package like Richard Tiernan. Her brain and all her self-protective instincts short-circuited.

Mabry's gaze was calm and curious. "So where does that leave you and Richard?"

"There is no me and Richard," she said firmly. "But that doesn't mean I hate him. I feel sorry for him. He's lost his wife and his children, he's been convicted of murder, and he's an outcast of society."

"Somehow I don't think that bothers Richard one tiny bit. I think he's happy to be rid of society," Mabry said wryly. "So you feel sorry for him, do you? The earth mother, gathering the suffering to her noble bosom. Except that you're afraid he might be a viper."

"Do you think he killed them?"

Mabry's eyes met hers for a breathless moment. When it came to people, Mabry's instincts were invaluable, and Cassidy suddenly felt as if her entire future hung on her opinion. If she thought Richard was innocent, then the dark cloud that floated around Cass's head would lift, and there was hope. Though she didn't dare consider what that hope might be.

But life was never that simple. "I don't know, darling. I wish I did." She closed the suitcase, then turned toward Cass. She was one of the few women who could look her in the eye, though her willowy model's proportions made her seem smaller. "Come with us, Cass. You need a break as well."

"Don't you think I'm safe here?"

"Of course I do."

"Even though he's suspected of killing far more than just his wife and children? Not that that shouldn't be enough," Cass added with a trace of black humor.

"There was no evidence about any others. Just rumors. If I thought you were in any danger, I wouldn't have let Sean bring you here."

"Wouldn't you? We're both willing to do just about anything for Sean. Especially now. And what I can do for Sean is stay here while you go to the Hamptons and keep an eye on Richard."

"Why should you need to do that?"

"Because he asked me to."

"Damn Sean," Mabry said wearily. "Richard doesn't need to be watched. If he wanted to take off, it might be better all around."

"Didn't Sean post bail?"

"The money doesn't matter. Estate taxes will probably take most of it anyway."

"Don't talk that way."

"He's going to die, Cass. I need to get him away from here. He's been working too hard, and he'll burn out that much faster if he doesn't get some rest. I just want him at the beach house for a week or so, away from work, away from distraction. I… I want him for me. Is that so evil of me?"

She wouldn't cry, Cassidy told herself, her heart breaking for all of them. "Not evil at all," she said softly. "And even more reason for me to stay here. Don't worry, I won't let Richard get to me. He likes the challenge. If I refuse to fight him, he'll get bored and leave me alone."

Mabry looked at her, not bothering to disguise her disbelief. "I can't persuade you?"

"Not right now. I have tons of things I can do in the city—I'll probably hardly be here, and you know Richard seldom leaves. We won't even run into each other."

"Cassidy, you know better than that," Mabry said gently.

"If things get uncomfortable, I'll take the first train out to the cottage. I promise."

Mabry shook her head. "Now, why do I feel things are spiraling out of control?"

"Because the men in this apartment are doing their best to manipulate us," Cass said with deceptive calm. "I, for one, don't intend to let it go any farther."

Richard had developed a deep fondness for thunderstorms in the city. He stood in the open window as the noise rumbled overhead, and the people beneath scurried to get out of the pelting rain. Violence in nature was suddenly attractive, and he wondered if it was a reaction to the violence he had discovered in his own soul. He could watch the lightning sizzle through the thick gray sky, and feel his own blood leap in response.

He had to get rid of her, and quickly. He wondered whether Sean thought he'd been doing him a favor, leaving her behind. He was deteriorating faster than Richard had expected, and he wondered whether the book would be published. It didn't matter. He had the money stashed away, ready to be paid out in discreet, untraceable amounts. No one would ever be able to find it—Mark had helped him cover his tracks too well.

He was running out of time. He needed to dispose of Cassidy Roarke's interfering presence, and then he needed to disappear. Just long enough to make sure everything was well, and then he'd be back, the model prisoner, awaiting his fate with stoic calm.

Thunder racketed through the apartment. It was late, and as far as he could tell she hadn't returned yet. Maybe she wouldn't come back at all, maybe she'd thought better of sharing a deserted apartment with a serial killer who drew her despite her best efforts at resisting.

Maybe he should simply disappear. But he couldn't trust her not to sound the alarm, call the police, and then all hell would break loose. No, he couldn't risk it. His disappearance had to be discreet, unnoticed. Too much was riding on it.

He lay on the bed, listening to the sound of the front door opening, the quiet murmur of voices. Cassidy's, low, throaty, infuriatingly sexy. And a male voice, familiar. Damnably so. Mark Bellingham.

The rage wasn't good for him. The shaft of possessive fury was dangerous. He needed Mark as much as he needed Cassidy. And for the same reason.

A calm man, a sane man would consider alternatives. The practical possibility would be to tell her a portion of the truth, letting her ally herself with Mark, work with him. Together they could provide the perfect answer.

But he was neither calm nor sane. Events had turned him into a conscienceless sociopath, and he accepted that truth with a certain grim satisfaction. He could trust no one, nothing. Not noble resolve, not friendship, not justice. He could only work with what he had. And the only thing he trusted was obsession.

He moved, silently, through the hallway, waiting in the darkened kitchen, listening to them. The conversation was light, flirtatious, innocent, and he wanted to snarl.

He wasn't sure what he would do if Cassidy took Mark back to her Gothic bedroom. He didn't want to think about it. The madness was pulsing in his veins, and he was afraid of it. Afraid of what he might do, whether he was capable of hurting her. He no longer knew his own limits.

The door closed again. If there had even been a kiss, it had been so brief that he hadn't been aware of the momentary silence it had required. The chains went up, the locks turned, and overhead the thunder rumbled, and the rain pelted the kitchen windows that overlooked the massive apartment building's inner courtyard.

She would come in here, he knew it. And he waited, a trap already baited, waited for her to come to him.

He smelled her first. The ozone and wet rain that clung to her hair, the deceptively erotic perfume. When she appeared in the kitchen door she was barefoot, silhouetted, and he felt a curious pain in what should have been his heart. He didn't want to do this. He couldn't help himself.

The lightning flashed, illuminating the kitchen for a timeless moment, and they stared at each other. She was wearing a long, flowery dress, her hair was wild about her face, and her eyes were dark with knowledge and longing.

The kitchen was plunged into darkness again, and he took a step toward her, waiting to see if she'd run. She didn't. She couldn't. He came up to her and reached out, sliding his hands up her legs, pulling the dress up her thighs, as he drew her toward him.

She came, unresisting, and in the darkness her eyes were wide and frightened as they looked up into his. His hands slid along her bare thighs, pulling the material with him, and her breasts were against his bare chest. She was damp from the rain, she was hot, and she was his.

He moved his head to kiss her, and she tried to turn her face away. "Don't," she whispered, a plea that should have broken his heart.

He had no heart. "I can't afford to be merciful," he said. And he kissed her.

Lightning flared in the kitchen again, then darkness, and in that moment of time he'd hooked his thumbs inside her panties and yanked them down her legs. Her arms went around his neck, and she kissed him back, as he reached down and unzipped his jeans, releasing himself, before he lifted her, up, up, onto the kitchen counter, pushing her back against the cupboards and thrusting inside her.

She was wet, ready for him, and the sound she made in the back of her throat was dark, entirely sexual, as she wrapped her legs around his hips. She tipped her head back, and he could see the line of her throat, feel the curtain of hair sweep over his arm, and the darkness that was his constant companion filled him. He wanted her to feel that darkness, to know its relentless heat, and he thrust deep, feeling the shivers that swept over her, knowing that he was taking her, owning her, destroying her as surely as he would be destroyed for doing it.

He reached up and ripped at her dress, and her breasts spilled free, against him, nipples hard and constricted, and he could hear the soft, choking sound as she clung to him, feel the ripples of reaction that started to spread.

He knew how to prolong it. He knew how to bring her to the very edge, and then pull back, so that she was clawing at his back, desperate, and each buildup was more intense, until she was soaking with sweat, shaking with need, longing for the oblivion of that exquisite small death that was perhaps worth the ultimate sacrifice.