Nightfall (3 page)

"That he doesn't," Bill said with a sigh, walking with her to the elevator. "Mind you don't forget. Can I carry your bag up?"

"And have Father disown me? We're staunch believers in democracy, remember? No one's allowed to wait on us. Unless it's a bartender."

Bill shook his head. "You watch out for yourself, miss. I'll be down here if you need any help."

"Why should I… ?" But the elevator had already closed, and it was making its swift, silent way up to the twelfth floor.

Cassidy wasn't much fonder of elevators than she was of airplanes, but she wasn't crazy about walking up twelve flights, and Sean always wanted to be on the top floor wherever he lived. He and Mabry had been in their current apartment for the last ten years, and it felt oddly like home. She had every intention of kicking off her shoes and walking barefoot through the thick pile carpets, scarfing down Mabry's supply of Perrier or whatever designer water she was currently favoring, and finding something impossibly fattening in defiance of her father's strictures.

She dropped her suitcase in the inside hall, stepped out of her shoes, and took a deep breath. She looked at the wall of mirrors that Mabry, the ex-fashion model, had had installed, and she stuck out her tongue at her reflection.

Sean never failed to make her feel gangly, clumsy, and huge. He didn't like the fact that her five feet nine inches towered over him, and had since she was in her early teens. He didn't like it that she came equipped with an hourglass figure that no amount of rigid dieting, compulsive exercise, or self-hatred could change. He didn't like the calm intelligence in her eyes, he didn't like her flyaway red hair or her choice of professions. In fact, he didn't approve of one damned thing about her.

The odd thing was, he loved her. Cassidy had no doubt whatsoever about that. Which was why she put up with him, for as long as she could stand him.

She tossed her down coat over a chair and began unbuttoning her silk blouse, running a hand behind her neck, freeing her mass of curls that never stayed in a neat bun. She had at least an hour alone in the apartment, and she was going to enjoy every minute of it.

The refrigerator was surprisingly well stocked. Mabry had switched to Clearly Canadian, and Cassidy grabbed a bottle of peach water and a chicken drumstick, shoving the latter in her mouth with relief. She'd been starving, but nothing on earth would make her eat in the train station.

She didn't hear a sound. Indeed, the silence was so strong that she didn't bother to remove the chicken leg from her mouth as she wheeled around to stare at the far doorway. She simply stood there, her mouth stuffed with food.

He filled the doorway, but the room was in shadow, and she couldn't see his features. She didn't need to. The man standing there watching her with such an unnatural silence could only be one man. Richard Tiernan.

And her father had let her come up to the apartment like a sacrificial lamb.

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The man in the doorway took a step forward, into the murky light of the kitchen, and Cassidy finally had the presence of mind to remove the chicken leg from her mouth. She took a faltering step backward, putting a nervous hand to her throat, only to realize that her blouse was unbuttoned.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he said. He had a deep voice, quiet, with a thread of menace like a strand of silk winding through it.

She took another involuntary step backward, away from him, furtively trying to wipe some of the chicken grease from her mouth. "You didn't," she said, her voice shaking slightly.

It was the merest ghost of a smile that danced across his face. Clearly he wasn't a man who found much to amuse him. "I'm not going to hurt you, you know," he said, stopping his advance. He was close enough so that she could get a good look at him in the murky kitchen light, and she didn't like what she saw.

He was attractive. Not handsome in a conventional way—his face was too austere, his narrow nose a bit too forceful, his eyes a bit too haunted. But there was something about him—charisma, charm, perhaps—that reached out beyond the wary cynicism and called to her, even as she knew better than to respond.

He was tall, towering over her own substantial height, and very lean, almost to the point of gauntness. His skin was pale, a prison pallor, she thought belatedly, and his dark hair was cut too short. His mocking, enigmatic eyes were very dark, he hadn't shaved in several days, but he was one of those lucky men who simply looked more appealing when they had a two-day stubble.

He was wearing jeans, a wrinkled oxford shirt, and socks, no shoes. He looked far too much at home in her father's sprawling apartment.

She stopped her retreat, straightening her shoulders, unable to decide whether she was better off buttoning her blouse, or whether that would simply draw his attention to it. "I never thought you would," she said with spurious calm. "I'm Cassidy Roarke. Sean's daughter."

"His name's O'Rourke."

She shrugged. "So he says. He was born John Roarke, but he decided to change it so that he could get in touch with his Irish roots. According to him, he was simply reverting to the name his ancestors used."

"Is it true?"

"Not as far as I know. But Sean adjusts reality to suit his own purposes. You're Richard Tiernan, aren't you?"

There was a quality of stillness to the man that was unnerving, despite the fact that he'd stopped his advance. "Guilty," he said.

If he'd been looking for a conversation stopper he couldn't have chosen a more effective one. Cassidy felt a shiver of pure, superstitious panic wash over her, and then she fought back, hating the feeling, the sense of oppression he brought out in her.

"Really?" she said brightly, buttoning her blouse, realizing with perverse disappointment that he didn't even notice. "I gathered you were insisting on your innocence."

His faint smile should have warned her. "Merely a figure of speech. I didn't realize you were familiar with my case."

She shrugged, refusing to be intimidated. "Actually, I'm not, compared to most of the world. I don't like horror stories, and I was never fond of Stephen King."

"If you think Stephen King is frightening, you should try reality some time."

"I try to avoid it. At least, Sean's version of reality. Life doesn't have to be that unpleasant."

"Sometimes there's no escape."

The conversation was getting odder by the moment, the two of them, conversing in her father's deserted kitchen about death and murder when they hadn't even been introduced. "It's none of my concern whether you butchered your wife and children," she said, her own words shocking her. "I don't want to hear about it."

"Don't worry, I wasn't about to confess," he said in a cool, meditative voice. "You're right, it's none of your business. Unless, of course, I felt the sudden urge to repeat my heinous crime. After all, we're alone in the apartment, and your father won't be back for hours."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I'm suggesting that you might benefit by being a little less trusting."

"I don't trust you, Mr. Tiernan," she said briskly. "I'm not an idiot. I just don't think you're going to take a gun to me. If you've been around Sean and haven't resorted to your murderous ways, then I'd think I'd be relatively safe."

"Maybe I only like to kill women," he said. "And it was a butcher knife, not a gun."

Chicken grease wasn't the best choice on an empty stomach. Cass wondered for a moment what would happen if she threw up, right in front of the rumpled elegance of Richard Tiernan. Probably nothing. He looked like a man who didn't faze easily.

"Did you do it?"

There was nothing pleasant in his cynical smile. "Ask your father," he said.

"Sean doesn't have a great allegiance to the truth." She moved then, reaching behind her to switch on the overhead lights, flooding the room with brightness. It dispelled the physical shadows. It didn't dispel the emotional ones.

"So I've noticed," Richard said. "What about you?"

"Oh, I worship the truth. The one benefit of a typically dysfunctional upbringing—I always say what I think and I never lie."

"I'm not so sure I think that would qualify as a benefit. Lies can be quite useful."

"I'm sure they can." She sounded starched and repressive, like the old maid Sean frequently accused her of being. At least she didn't sound frightened. "What are you doing here?"

"Didn't you realize? I'm living here."

She should have known. It was just the sort of thing Sean would do, give houseroom to a convicted murderer and then fail to tell his daughter about it. "For how long?"

Tiernan shrugged. "Until they send me back to jail, I presume. Your father wants my help on his newest project."

"A book proving your innocence?"

His smile was no more than a faint curve of his mobile mouth. "That would seem logical, wouldn't it?"

"You're not very optimistic about staying out of jail. What if your appeal works?"

"I won't be holding my breath." He moved away from her, heading toward the refrigerator. "Does your father know you're here yet?"

"I met him as he was leaving."

"And he didn't tell you I was up here?"

"He didn't." Cass couldn't keep the aggrieved tone out of her voice. She should have been used to Sean by now. He'd sacrifice his own mother for a good story. A disappointing daughter would be no sacrifice at all.

He closed the refrigerator, turned around, and leaned against it, looking at her. "Interesting," he murmured. "Do you know why you're here?"

Something in his tone of voice startled her. "That's an odd question. I'm here to visit my father," she said.

"Just a spur of the moment thing?"

"No. Mabry called and asked me to come. She said he hadn't been feeling well, but I assumed that wasn't true. Sean's never been sick a day in his life. Are you suggesting there's another reason I'm here?"

"I'm not suggesting a thing." He pushed away from the refrigerator, moving past her toward the back of the kitchen. "Ask your father when he comes home."

"I have a lot of things to ask him." He looked over his shoulder at her, and his smile was oddly, chillingly sweet. "I imagine you do." And then he left her, without another word. Cass stood alone in the kitchen, still dazed from the strange encounter. Richard Tiernan was unlike anyone she'd ever met in her life, but then, as far as she knew she'd never met a murderer before. He'd disappeared in the direction of the back of the apartment, and she could only assume he was staying in her half brother Colin's old room. That, or the study, and Sean barely allowed anyone inside the room, much less let them sleep there.

She had a number of options. The first, and most appealing, was to put on her shoes, her coat, grab her suitcase, and walk out the door. Sean was manipulating again, and while Cass had learned to withstand all but his most masterful schemes, she wasn't sure she was up to dealing with the added complication of Richard Tiernan.

Because she had no doubt whatsoever that he had something to do with why she was here. She'd been maneuvered by an expert, and if she had any sense of self-preservation whatsoever, she'd get the hell out of there.

Of course, that would mean not finding out what Sean wanted from her. And if Cass had one abiding weakness, it was her curiosity. She couldn't stand not knowing, even the most insignificant detail.

She also didn't fancy rooming with a man who'd taken a butcher knife to his wife and children. His wife had been pregnant at the time, hadn't she? The thought sent chills of horror through her. Sean might like to flirt with the very edge of madness—Cass much preferred comfort and safety.

She would wait until Mabry and Sean returned from the doctor. She'd spend the night, make a graceful escape the next morning, and leave Sean to his own devices. If Richard Tiernan decided to continue his murderous rampage, there wouldn't be anything Cass could do to stop him.

He didn't look like a murderer. A butcher, a man who'd committed the foulest crime imaginable.

But he didn't look like the boy next door, either. He looked like a man intimately acquainted with death and horror. A man capable of making a pact with the devil, only to find that the price was too high to pay.

She dismissed the notion, giving herself a brisk shake. She was, after all, her father's daughter, and fully capable of letting her imagination run away with her. Richard Tiernan was another of her father's dangerous characters, in the flesh this time, but nothing to do with her.

Mabry had redecorated recently, and Cass wasn't sure she liked the change to her old bedroom. Gone was the beautiful simplicity of the shaker furniture, which had in turn, replaced her French provincial four-poster. Mabry had gone in for early Gothic, with oversize dark furniture, a dynasty-founding bed, and a green-gilt wallpaper that looked as if it came from a Venetian palazzo. Even the tall window overlooking Park Avenue was swathed in dark green velvet drapes, and the gloom was palpable. She looked around her, knowing instinctively that she was no longer alone.

"How do you like it?"

"Like what, Sean?" At least her father hadn't startled her the way Tiernan had. She turned to glower at him. "Your houseguest, or Mabry's vampire decor?"

"Oh, I tend to think it looks a bit like a Victorian bordello," Sean said airily, sauntering in. "You know I don't interfere with her hobbies."

"What kind of room does Richard Tiernan have? Something with barred windows, to make him feel more at home?"

Sean clucked disapprovingly. "You're getting sour in your old age, darling. Don't you have any compassion for the poor man?"

"I have more compassion for his wife," she said tartly.

"He's the victim of a grave miscarriage of justice…" Sean declaimed, but Cass interrupted him.

"I don't think you believe that."

"How do you know what I believe?"

"Let me correct that. I don't think you care, one way or the other. As long as it makes a good book, that's all that matters to you."

Sean's smile was self-deprecating, charming, the sort that would melt the stoniest heart. Cass had learned to resist it years ago. "I'm a slave to my muse," he said. "And that's why you're here."