Novels 03 After Twilight, page 10
“I take it she’s none the worse for wear?” Max flicked at a nonexistent speck of lint on the shoulder of his suit.
“No thanks to you.” Rico tried to hold on to his temper. Angering Max wouldn’t further his cause.
“Pity.”
“And did you also have something to do with her dog being poisoned?” Rico waited, fearing the worst.
“I told you, Rico, I intend to find out what the little slut knows. And I’m not adverse to using whatever methods might be necessary.”
“You agreed you’d wait before you did anything.” Rico carefully worked to modulate his voice. He was pleased to hear that he sounded calm, almost bored.
Max flexed his fingers. “So I did. But sometimes opportunity presents itself when you least expect it.”
Rico sighed. “You’re not seeing the big picture here.”
“Big picture. Big picture?” Max’s voice crescendoed, filling the car. “What could be bigger than murdering my brother?”
“She didn’t murder your brother.” Rico felt his own anger rising.
“And how do you know this?” Max’s voice dropped, deceptively soft now.
“I saw a painting. A beautiful, heartrending painting. She was in great pain when she painted it, Max—true, gutwrenching agony.”
Max’s hand flashed across the space between them, his fingers circling Rico’s wrist like a vise. “A painting. You hear that, Anson? A painting.” Max laughed, but there was no humor in it. With a jerk, he twisted the wrist and Rico bit his lip to keep from crying out in pain. “Make no mistake, my friend, Kristin Macgrath killed my brother. And anyone foolish enough to get in my way will suffer for it. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal.” Rico barked out the word, certain the bones in his wrist were breaking.
“Good.” Max released the hand as suddenly as he had grabbed it, straightening his tie with a casualness that belied the tension of the preceding moments. “Anson.”
The car slid to a halt.
“Never forget who’s in charge here, Rico.”
The door opened and Rico slid gratefully out into the lane. He stood, rubbing his wrist, watching the car disappear into the twilight.
A long time ago, he’d paid for someone else’s mistake. And now, despite his instincts to the contrary, he intended to see that Kacy Macgrath didn’t suffer the same fate.
For once in his life, Enrico Gienelli was going to do the right thing.
“Where to?”
Max met Anson’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “Take me back to the hotel. Then I want you to head back to Kirstin Macgrath’s.”
“To see what she’s hiding?”
“There has to be something. Records. Bank accounts. I don’t know, something that will tell us what she did with the money.”
“What do you want me to do if she’s there?”
“She won’t be. Unless I miss my guess, Mr. Roche will take care of that for us.”
A crooked smile lit Anson’s face. “You do your homework.”
Max steepled his hands, bringing his index fingers to his lips. “Always.”
The chauffeur nodded. “What are you going to do about Gienelli?”
“Nothing, yet. The man’s a coward. Self-preservation at all costs. I don’t think he’ll present a problem.”
“And if he does?” Anson’s eyebrows lifted.
“Then we’ll have to take care of him.”
Max cracked his knuckles, wishing he’d broken the little man’s wrist. It would have emphasized his point and helped to relieve his boredom.
* * *
Kacy checked the locks on the windows in the room for the third time in less than an hour. Everything was locked up tighter than a drum. A fire burned cheerily in the hearth, but the dancing flames did little to dispel her sense of dread.
Mac slept peacefully in front of the fire. He was some comfort at least. He’d bark bloody murder if anyone were nearby. He’d also eat little pills that paralyzed him, the little voice in her head whispered. And someone had gotten close enough to give him one.
She shivered, walking into the hall, lifting the receiver for the phone. The dial tone hummed in her ear, a vital connection with the rest of the world. She sighed and replaced the handset, embarrassed at her own insecurity.
She thought of heading for the pub. Company would be more than welcome. Braedon’s company, specifically. She smiled at the thought. In a very short time, he seemed to be filling a major role in her life.
But the pub was up a very long and dark road. And her bicycle was trashed.
She wandered into the kitchen, eyeing the back door.
Locked. Had she locked the front door? She was fairly certain. She frowned, trying to assure herself. Of course she had.
Blowing out a breath, she wondered how in the world she was going to make it through the night. She plugged in the teapot and then unplugged it again. Tough times call for tough measures. She needed a glass of wine.
Opening a bottle of merlot, she poured it into a Waterford goblet and headed into her studio.
Work.
What was the saying? Work will set you free? Well, she had no idea if that were true, but certainly work would keep an overactive imagination occupied. And right now, that’s exactly what she needed.
She turned on the light over her drafting table and settled in to work on one of the miniatures Professor Baucomo had brought her. Madame de Fornio. The painting was old, probably from sometime in the sixteenth century. It was a family heirloom and the work was being done to preserve the heritage, not the actual painting, which made it easier for her.
When the work had to be restored rather than preserved, there were strict rules she had to follow, but simple preservation allowed more creativity. She could use her judgment. The equivalent of airbrushing an oil painting.
A very tiny oil painting.
The wind rattled against the window. She glanced up, startled to see that it was already quite dark. She looked at her watch. Only six.
Sighing, she reached for her wine. It was going to be a long night. She forced herself to concentrate on her work. The woman in the portrait was not a classical beauty, but she had a certain style. Using a small knife, Kacy dislodged a few loose pieces of paint.
The worst damage was to the top. A hat. The trick would be guessing at the missing colors. She spent the next hour removing bits of color and making notes so that she could create a color map of the original.
Reaching for her glass again, she was surprised to find it empty. The wind moaned and a branch tapped against the window. She jumped. Definitely time for a break. Rubbing her neck wearily, she decided to head for the kitchen.
After the cool silence of the studio, the kitchen was comfortingly cheerful. She felt instantly better. More secure. She corked the bottle of wine. Never drink alone, her mother had always said—usually while pouring a stout bourbon.
Tea was a much better alternative. She plugged in the kettle and was reaching for the tea tin when a low growl issued from the entry hall.
Instantly alert, Kacy grabbed a cleaver from the butcher block, not sure exactly what she was going to do with it, but feeling better holding it. “Mac?” She inched into the hallway. “What is it, boy?”
Her rational mind was informing her calmly that there was nothing to be concerned about. Her emotional mind was strongly urging her to run for the hills, literally. She swallowed and tightened her grip on the knife.
Mac was whining now, circling in front of the door. There was a single rapid knock, and then the door handle slowly turned. Kacy sucked in a breath, gripping the knife with everything she was worth. Watching, mesmerized, she followed the turn of the handle and breathed a sigh of relief when it stopped.
A part of her mind urged her to head for the phone, but her feet evidently hadn’t got the memo, and she stayed firmly rooted to the spot. Suddenly the lock clicked ominously, and the door began to swing inward.
Kacy opened her mouth to scream.
Chapter 10
“I’M SORRY, KACY. God, I’m sorry.” Braedon held his hands up, his face a chaotic cross between apologetic and relieved.
“You son of a bitch.” She hissed the words, surprised at her own vehemence. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Well, then, we’re even. When you didn’t answer, I thought … I thought …”
“So it’s a draw.” She laid the cleaver on a table, exhaling a breath she had no idea she’d been holding.
In one motion, he was across the hallway, his arms wrapping around her. She tipped her head back, telling herself she only wanted to see him better, but when his lips descended, she opened hers willingly—savoring the taste of him, the feel of him.
He devoured her, drinking her in, until she was certain there was nothing left to give. And still he demanded more. Her body arched against him, his hard muscles burning against hers. She wanted to pull him deep inside and never let him go.
Never had she felt anything so powerful. His hands traced their way down her body, stopping to caress her breasts. Breathing became difficult, and all she wanted was to lose herself in this man.
He pulled away, his eyes burning into hers. “I came to ask you to dinner.”
She fought her desire, trying to ignore the question in his eyes. God, she wanted him. Summoning superhuman strength, she stepped back. “That would be great,” she said, amazed at how normal her voice sounded.
They stood a few feet apart, eyes raking over each other, his gaze tracing the curves of her body. She felt herself blush. “You should change,” he said.
She fingered the hem of her sweatshirt. “I’ll just be a minute.” She walked into the bedroom, her breathing still coming in gasps. She heard Mac growl playfully and poked her head out the door. “Mac has to come, too. Okay?”
“No problem. I called to make sure all three of us would be welcome.”
She smiled, feeling suddenly optimistic. How could a girl not like a man who loved her dog?
She walked into her closet, trying to decide what to wear. What she needed was the proverbial little black dress, but she didn’t have anything that even came close. She finally settled for a silky sheath in navy. At least it was sleek and had some semblance of what she considered high fashion.
She knelt on the floor of her closet, trying to find matching shoes, and finally with relief slammed her feet into what she hoped was a pair of navy pumps.
With a quick brush of her hair, she walked back into the hallway, hoping she looked presentable. She honestly couldn’t remember the last time she’d cared if it mattered. “I’m ready.”
His gaze raked her from head to toe. “I’ll say.” His eyes abolished any doubt she could have harbored.
“Let’s go.” She tried to sound calm, but she kept remembering the kiss. Frankly, dinner was the last thing on her mind.
The three of them settled into the car, Mac with his nose on the gear shift.
“I take it we’re not going to the pub?” Kacy asked.
“No. I thought considering everything that’s happened, you could use a change of venue.”
No one had ever thought about what she’d want. Not ever. She tried not to read more into it than there was. “Sounds great.”
Braedon tried to concentrate on the road. It had been a long time since he’d driven on the left and he usually kept a mantra going in his head. Right is left. Left is right. But tonight he was finding it hard to focus on anything but Kacy.
Her dress skimmed her body like a glove, hugging her thighs, accentuating her bare legs. He felt like a teenager with a boner. She was enticing, to say the least. And he could still feel her soft lips opening under his, responding with joyous abandonment.
Mac sighed.
“I’m with you, boy.” Braedon grinned, reaching over to scratch the dog.
“What?” Kacy turned to look at him, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
He hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud. “Nothing. Just a sidebar with the dog.”
She smiled in earnest, her dimple popping into view. “Well, I’m glad the two of you can hold a conversation.”
Mac wagged his tail and Braedon felt a little foolish. What he needed was something to get his mind off of how much he wanted to pull the car over and make love to her right here and now. Dog be damned.
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, forcing his libido into low gear. “So, tell me, how did you get the name Kacy? It’s kind of unusual, isn’t it?”
“Actually, in Irish Gaelic it means brave. But that’s Casey with a C, not a K.”
“So someone thought you were brave, but couldn’t spell?”
She shook her head, her silky hair swirling around her shoulders. “No. In my case it’s a nickname. My initials are K.C. One of the nuns—”
“Nuns?”
She dimpled again, nodding. “Nuns. I was sent to Switzerland to boarding school after my mother died. Anyway, Sister Margaretta could never remember my name, so she used my initials. And before long, everyone was calling me Kacy.”
“Even your family?”
A shadow passed across her face. “There was only my father. And I didn’t see him that often.”
He considered the information she’d just given him, mentally marking a check in the Kacy’s innocent column. Boarding school in Switzerland cost money. And if she had family money, she certainly had no need to kill Alex for his. “What does the C stand for?”
She was quiet, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. “It’s a family name,” she said finally.
“Obviously one you’d rather not share.”
She studied her fingernails. “Right.”
He felt like he’d stumbled onto something important. A key to understanding whatever it was she kept so closely guarded, but now wasn’t the time to press. She’d already shared a lot. “Okay, then I’ll guess. Let’s see. Cleopatra?”
She laughed, automatically relaxing. “No.”
He pretended to ponder the issue. “Cornelia.”
“Yuck.”
“I’ll take that as a no. Hmm.” He turned into the parking lot of the restaurant. “Calandra.”
“Calandra? What kind of name is that?”
“Greek. It means lark.”
“You speak Greek?”
“A little.” He killed the engine, turning to face her. “What can I say, I’m a man of many talents.”
Their gazes met and held. Breathing normally suddenly seemed difficult. He reached out, taking a strand of hair, stroking it softly between his thumb and forefinger. With a gentle tug, he pulled her to him.
Her eyes widened, her pupils dilating in anticipation, and when she licked her lips, he was lost. Leaning forward, he brushed his lips across hers, running a hand through her hair. With a groan he pulled her to him, bringing them together more forcefully. She moaned and he felt her hand at the back of his neck, stroking, kneading.
With a playful yip, Mac pushed his way between them. Braedon sat back, the separation almost physically painful.
He met her gaze, satisfied to see desire reflected in her eyes. “I guess someone is ready to eat.”
Mac barked again and Kacy laughed.
Braedon stepped out of the car into the cool night air, relieved to see that there was no physical remnant of the moment. Mac jumped out behind him. “Next time, big boy, there won’t be any interruptions.” He shook a finger at the dog, speaking with mock severity, then walked around the car to open the door for Kacy, smiling to himself.
If he had his way, there would definitely be a next time.
The restaurant was lovely. Part of a hotel. A restored tower house, actually. No doubt a fortification left behind by the O’Briens or Macnamaras. The two families had fought for control over Clare for centuries, and their strongholds dotted the countryside, most of them in ruins.
Their table was in a quiet corner of the dining room, candlelight and soft music adding an air of romance. Not that they needed any help in that department.
Kacy shot a look at Braedon. He was studying the menu, a little frown wrinkling the skin between his eyes. Even when he looked intense, he was handsome.
Mac shifted at her feet. And she wondered if she should be thanking him or punishing him for his timely disturbance. She reached for her wineglass, grateful for something to do with her hands. She felt like a teenager on a first date. Heavens, her palms were even sweaty.
“Have you decided what you want?” Braedon closed his menu and laid it on the table.
You. I want you. She bit back a smile. That wouldn’t do. “A salad, I think. I’m still on protein overload from breakfast this morning. How about you?”
“Salmon.”
The waiter came and took their order, leaving a basket of warm soda bread on the table. Kacy reached for a slice the same time Braedon did, their hands colliding, sparks shooting up her arm. The man was lethal.
“So, you know a lot about me, and I still don’t know that much about you.” She bit into the bread, savoring the contrast of coarse bread and sweet currants. “Tell me about Braedon Roche.”
“There’s not much to tell, really.” He lifted his glass and sipped idly.
“Well, I know you were born in Dublin.”
“Actually I was born in County Cork, near Fermoy.”
She frowned, trying to remember his earlier remarks. “But you said—”
“That I lived in Dublin. We moved there when I was six.”
“We?” She offered him the bread basket and he took a slice. He slowly slathered it with butter. God, even the way he buttered bread was sexy.
“My mother and I.” There was a finality in the way he said it, and she realized the subject was closed.
All right then, she’d try another tack. “So where do you live now?”
He smiled at her, and she was glad she hadn’t pressed for more. “New York, mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“I have a flat in London and a house in Colorado.”
“You must be a successful mogul,” she said dryly.
“Those were your words, not mine.”
