Nightfall (28 page)

"Lucky you," Cass said. "I think I've gone beyond exhaustion. I only wish there was a simple cure for jet lag."

The silence deepened. Mabry opened her eyes, when Cass had been hoping she'd drifted off to sleep. "Why do you have jet lag, Cass?"

It was a simple inquiry, calmly asked. Cass stared at her, unable to come up with any kind of sensible answer.

And then she didn't have to. Mabry set the glass of whiskey on the nightstand, closed her eyes, and went instantly to sleep.

She didn't dare get up from the end of the bed for a few minutes, afraid that the slightest movement might jar Mabry from her sleep, might bring back the unanswerable questions. By the time she moved, her muscles were stiff and aching, and she tiptoed from the room, so tired she wanted to weep.

She stared down to the end of the long hallway. The door to Richard's room stood open, darkness beyond. Sometime, tomorrow perhaps, she'd steel herself to go down there and check, to see whether he'd left anything incriminating behind. Whether she liked it or not, she was now an accessory to his escape. She wasn't about to tell anyone where he'd gone, or let him leave anything that might yield a clue. She wanted him healthy, safe, and continents away from her.

She needed sleeping tablets, or whiskey, or warm milk. She had moved beyond exhaustion into some dark, anxious place, and sleep seemed no more than a pipe dream. In the end she decided to go for warm milk, the safest choice, as always.

Until she walked into the kitchen.

He was sitting at the table. The mug of warm milk sat in front of him, a bottle of Irish whiskey stood open beside it. "I think you'd do better if I spiked this," he said, his voice calm, reasonable, as if there was nothing more than wary politeness between them. As if she'd never lay beneath his body and cried out with the wonder of it.

Without waiting for her answer, he tipped a goodly portion into the mug, then poured some into his own glass of ice. For a moment Cass was gripped with a strangling, powerful rage. She wanted to scream, to throw herself at him and shake him, to smash the whiskey and ice and hot milk across the room.

And he knew it. He watched her, remote, observing, reading all her emotions far too well. It took every ounce of strength she had left to pull herself together, to wrap a false calm around her.

"I don't like whiskey," she said, and she was shocked to hear her voice, smooth, unemotional.

"I know you don't. Drink it anyway." He kicked a chair away from the table for her, and she knew she should walk away.

She moved carefully, taking the chair and sitting down, away from him. The milk sat in front of her, the faint amber of the whiskey leaving a shadow on its creamy surface.

"Is Sean going to make it?"

She lifted her eyes to meet his. "Do you care?"

Richard shrugged. "It depends whether he's finished the book or not."

"He's finished. He was done before he left for the Hamptons."

"Did you know that?"

"No. What does the book matter to you? It doesn't have the truth in it, does it? You didn't tell Sean what happened that night. You didn't tell him your children were still alive."

"You know Sean writes fiction. I gave him enough to weave elaborate tales. I imagine it will be a very powerful book." He leaned back in the kitchen chair, watching her. "However, he's paying my estate a very considerable sum of money for my cooperation."

"What about the Son of Sam law? I thought a criminal couldn't profit from books about his crime ?

Richard's smile was faint and chilling. "Mark Bellingham is a better lawyer than you might think. The money doesn't go to me, it gets put in a blind trust to be administered by Mark, Sally Norton, and a third party to be named by Mark."

"It's for the children."

He said nothing.

"That's what it's all about, isn't it? You've done this all for the children." She reached out for the mug of milk, then pulled her hand back again, not surprised to see it was trembling. "Is that why you killed your wife?"

"Drink your milk, Cassie," he said gently.

She stared down at it once more. She knew too much, far too much for his safety. She'd abandoned him, ruined his plan for his children, and now, instead of staying in England, he'd come back, and in all likelihood he'd come after her. To silence her.

Would he poison her? He was already under sentence of death, and he seemed to have no interest in having that sentence commuted. They could only execute him once. If she were dead, there would be no one to tell about the children. Mark had a professional vow of silence, Sally was risking her health and her very life to take care of them.

She was the only wild card. He'd killed for them before, she no longer had any doubt. Would he kill for them again?

"What's going to happen now?" she asked, delaying.

"It all depends. Sean will live or die. If he lives, you'll be so caught up in being the perfect daughter, trying to prove your love for him, that you won't have any time to waste worrying about me and mine. Sally's health seems to have stabilized for now, and in the meantime Mark will be on the lookout for someone to take her place. Someone trustworthy. Someone willing to put the lives of my children ahead of anything else."

It shouldn't have hurt. But he was so adept at twisting her around, even his lightly spoken words were like a knife, stabbing at her.

"And if Sean doesn't regain consciousness? If he dies?"

"Then I think you'll be very dangerous, indeed. You'll be torn apart by grief and unfinished business, and you'll probably say the wrong thing to the wrong person. I can't let that happen."

"How are you going to stop me?"

"I'm not certain. Drink your milk, Cassie."

Old movies danced through her head, a poisoned drink taken from the hands of a lover. She could accidentally knock if over. She could flat-out refuse—he wouldn't hold her down and force it down her throat.

She reached out for the mug, and he watched her. It had cooled considerably, and she could smell the tang of whiskey. Did she smell something else as well, something lethal?

"What did you put in here?" she asked, stalling for time.

"Milk. Low-fat, I'm afraid, that's all that was here. A shot of whiskey. Almond extract."

"Almond?" Wasn't there a poison that smelled like bitter almonds? Something immediately lethal.

"Almond," he said. "Oh, and of course, there's the rat poison Bridget left behind. I hope it won't taste too terrible. I was hoping the almond and whiskey would cover the taste. Maybe I should have added some sugar as well."

Cassie swallowed nervously. "I'm glad to know you find this all so amusing."

"I find you amusing," he said, darkness in his eyes. "Particularly your definition of love and trust, right before you run away. Drink the fucking milk, Cassie, and see whether you drop dead or not."

"Why don't you have the first sip?"

He shook his head. "Not on your life. Suicide was never my thing."

She looked at him. At his dark, defiant eyes, the bitter cruelty of his mouth. His elegant hands, the bleakness of his soul. She took the mug of milk and drank.

She almost drained it. She set the mug down again, and met his eyes defiantly. "How long does it take to work?"

"I don't know. You're my first poisoning. I usually stab my victims."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" She sat there, waiting for the first cramp to hit. "Do you always punish people who are crazy enough to fall in love with you?"

"Falling in love with me isn't your crime, dear heart," he said lightly. "You can't convince me you even committed it in the first place. Love isn't great sex, and jumping to conclusions, and believing the worst, and running away when things get nasty."

He leaned closer, close enough to kiss her, and she could taste the whiskey on his breath, the fury in his soul. "Your crime was making me love you. Trust you. Believe, for a few, crazy hours, that there was something to fight for, after all." His lips brushed hers, heartbreakingly gentle. "Your crime was giving me hope, and then taking it away again."

She didn't move from the table. He was long gone—she heard the door close behind him, but she sat there, unmoving, as the first gray light of dawn filtered into the kitchen. The doctored milk sat in her stomach, curdled there, and she wanted to get up and vomit in the sink. She wouldn't let herself do it.

She put her head down on the table, her hand clutching the empty mug of milk. Astonishingly enough, she slept.

Richard leaned against the door, his eyes closed in the darkness as he fought it. Fought his rage, his fury. Fought the murderous frenzy that he thought he'd finally quelled. Could he kill someone? Someone he thought he'd loved?

Hadn't he already done just that? His moral responsibility to his children put him on the wrong side of the law, but he wasn't going to worry about it. He didn't make excuses, or try to hide from what he knew was the truth. He had made an irretrievable decision, and Diana was dead. Excuses and justifications wouldn't change that.

If only he could scour his soul of the anger, the rage, the stupid, lingering hope that Cassidy Roarke brought out in him. He thought when he saw her again, he'd feel nothing but rage. He was wrong.

She looked at him and the mug of milk he offered, and she thought him capable of murdering her. For that very belief moment, he wanted to kill her.

But he saw the pain and the panic in her silvery green eyes. He felt the longing and despair in her soul. She was a coward and a fool, she'd run from him when he needed her to trust him. And yet he'd known that despite everything, despite believing the worst of him, she still loved him.

It made life so much more complicated. It kept him tied to her. He couldn't hate her. He couldn't turn off his feelings, as he'd learned to do years ago. He was enmeshed in her, wrapped tight, and there was only one way to slash free.

He waited until first light. When he walked back into the kitchen, he'd thought it was deserted, until he saw her at the table, sound asleep.

Another mistake on his part. He remembered her lying curled in his arms, her pale skin with the faint dusting of golden freckles, the utter stillness of her. Vulnerable, sexual, and he wanted her with a sudden fierceness that threatened to wipe out everything.

It took him a moment for sanity to rear its ugly head. By the time he put his hands on her he was calm. She didn't wake when he lifted her up in his arms, her solid weight settling against him. Or if she did, she didn't want to admit it. He carried her through the apartment, into the Gothic monstrosity of her bedroom, and lay her down on the neatly made bed. She reached for him, murmuring something unintelligible, but he carefully released her hands from behind his neck and set them beside her, pulling a cover up around her. She pouted for a moment, then with a sigh she curled up, one hand tucked beneath her face, flame red hair spread out around her.

Her body trusted him, even when her mind couldn't. He should take that as some kind of comfort, but he wasn't in the business of looking for comfort. Or for justice. Lies were his only protection now.

He stared down at her, imprinting her on his mind. For a moment he allowed himself to reach out, to push a tangled strand of hair away from her face, to caress her with a feather-light touch. He wouldn't put his hands on her again, he knew it.

And then he left, closing the door behind him.

"Get up. Cassie." She heard his voice through a fog, calling to her. She struggled to open her eyes, as she'd fought to do for the last few hours, but the mists of sleep and exhaustion were powerful foes.

"Get up," he said again, impatient. "Mabry needs you."

She stirred. She couldn't remember where she was, what house, what state, what country even. Richard's voice, cool and impatient, the bed beneath her, soft and smothering. Had he drugged her after all? Or had life finally caught up with her? She didn't want to open her eyes—Mabry could cope by herself.

"Your father is dying, Cass. Wake up."

She opened her eyes. It was late afternoon, raining, and she was lying in her bed at the Park Avenue apartment. She hadn't the faintest idea how she got there. For the moment she didn't care.

"What did you say?" Her voice was raspy with sleep and denial.

"Mabry's going to the hospital. Sean's in a coma, and they don't think he's going to pull through. Do you want to go with her?"

She didn't bother to answer him. She simply scrambled out of bed, kicking the covers away.

The floor swayed beneath her, and she felt herself falling. His hands were there, elegant, deadly, impersonal, catching her, holding her until she regained her equilibrium. A small, treacherous part of her wanted to sink against him, to close her eyes and take warmth and comfort and strength from him. He held her at a distance.

"Too much rat poison, Cassie?" he murmured.

She looked up at him. "Not enough," she said, and pulled away.

It was rush hour by the time they made it down to the lobby, but Bill had a taxi waiting, the meter running. Mabry looked pale and still and cold, and it took Cassie a moment to realize that Richard wasn't just seeing them into the waiting car, he was coming with them.

The backseat of the taxi was small. Richard's long legs pressed up against hers, his thigh measured against her own, and she felt the heat and strength of him.

It was just as well he was with them. For once, Cassie's calm, maternal instincts failed her. She simply let Richard lead the way through the maze of bureaucracy that was Sloan-Kettering. She trailed along behind him, her arm around Mabry's suddenly frail figure.

It took her a moment to realize the looks they were getting, once they reached Sean's floor. People weren't staring at her and Mabry. They were looking at Richard Tiernan, the murderer, and there was fascination and horror in their faces.

Mabry went first. Richard and Cass sat across from each other in the small, private waiting room. She wouldn't look at him, afraid of what she might see. Her nerves were on the raw, screaming edge, and if she looked at him, saw the cool, murderous contempt in his eyes, she would shatter.