Novels 03 After Twilight, page 3
Well, maybe just for tonight.
She rolled over, leaving the lamp burning, angry with herself for being afraid of the dark.
Braedon pounded his pillow, wondering how long exactly it was going to take him to fall asleep. Maybe it was jet lag. He rearranged the sheets and closed his eyes. A face floated through his mind, complete with dimpled cheek and emerald green eyes. Kacy Macgrath. So much for jet lag.
He rolled onto his back, locking his fingers behind his head. She was nothing like he’d imagined. And he’d imagined a lot. Some wild combination of Ethel Rosenberg and Marie Antoinette mostly, with a little of the Sharon Stone character from Basic Instinct thrown in for good measure.
The woman in Finnegan’s Folly was none of the above. At least not based on her appearance, his brain cautioned. Right. And appearances could be deceiving. Hell, he ought to know that. He’d been pretending to be something he wasn’t most of his adult life.
At least she hadn’t recognized his name. Or his face. He hadn’t even thought about running into her at the pub. Stupid assumption. What the hell had he been thinking coming here? Matt should have come. His friend was the expert in covert operations. That’s why Braedon had him on the payroll.
But this was Braedon’s problem, his reputation at stake, and he intended to get to the bottom of it. He thought about his encounter with Kacy. Despite his blunder, he’d come out of it okay. She had no idea who he was. Or she was a hell of an actress.
He thought back over what he knew about her. Nothing, really. The woman seemed to appear for brief moments of time only to disappear so completely it was almost as if she’d never existed. What had Matt said? A blip on the radar screen. There one moment, gone the next.
He’d had Matt run a background check on her, and he’d come up with almost nothing. A grainy photograph that could have been anyone, and some vague memories from staff at an art school in France. She was a chameleon, blending into the background so well, no one seemed to even notice she was there.
She was evidently as reclusive as she was talented. During one of her brief appearances on the radar, she’d begun to obtain some acclaim for her art restoration. But even then, she’d worked alone and rarely if ever actually appeared in public. And, just as suddenly, she’d disappeared again altogether.
Even her marriage to Alex seemed odd. The man had been a confirmed playboy. His marriage should have been big news. But Alex hadn’t mentioned it. Granted, Braedon hadn’t talked to him all that often. The galleries pretty much ran themselves. But it seemed reasonable to have expected Alex to have at least mentioned his new wife.
Hell, it was only after his death that Braedon realized she even existed. And by then she’d managed to disappear again. At the time he hadn’t cared. It was only now, in light of recent developments, that it mattered—her odd behavior taking on a more sinister cast.
He frowned, trying to put what he knew together with what he’d seen. The pictures didn’t mesh. The reclusive chameleon didn’t jibe with the vibrant woman he’d met in the pub. His instincts rarely failed him, and he had a strong notion he’d either misjudged Kacy Macgrath or seriously underestimated her.
And worse, he had the feeling he wasn’t going to get any sleep until he figured out which one it was.
The bus’s doors slid shut behind him with a satisfying thunk, the Q101’s engine revving as it moved away from the stop. Max Madison bit back a grin. He was free. Free. He breathed deeply. Even with bus fumes, the air smelled better off the island. Traffic moved at a snail’s pace all around him. Pedestrians jostled past him. New Yorkers, dressed to the nines, always in a hurry.
He looked down at his shabby suit, out of fashion and a little snug. He’d managed to gain weight in prison. Sort of amazing, really, when one considered that the fare was hardly nouvelle cuisine. He straightened his tie and shrugged. Well, at least it was better than a monochromatic jumpsuit adorned with only a number.
Running a hand through his hair, he scanned the street for the limo. A woman pulled her child closer as they passed him, her eyes wary, watchful. Geez, she thought he was a street person. He looked down at his suit with disgust. Where was Anson? He needed a tailor. Needed a manicure and a haircut, too. Who was he kidding, he needed a whole new life, and he was determined to get it. But first, there were some things he had to attend to.
A black limo slid silently up to the curb, one tinted window halfway down.
“Maxie, welcome back.”
Nadine. He hadn’t expected her to be here.
The door to the limo opened, and she stepped out, her long legs accentuated by the tight red miniskirt she wore. He felt a rumble of life below his belt. On the other hand, who was he to argue with fate? It had been a hell of a long time since he buried his johnson in anything but his own hand. He licked his lips, already anticipating the ride.
Nadine reached him just as Anson emerged from behind the wheel. He shrugged and grinned. Max swept the redhead into his arms, winking at his chauffeur over her shoulder. He kissed her thoroughly and then pulled back, his breath coming in short gasps. Damn, he needed it bad. But he needed to talk to Anson more.
“Nadine, honey, could you go over there and buy me a pint of whiskey?” He pointed to a storefront across the street.
“I thought you’d be happy to see me.” She pursed her lips in a calculated pout.
“Sweetie, I am happy to see you.” He placed her hand on the hard bulge of his crotch. “Believe me.” She smiled and tightened her hand. “But first—” He traced the curve of her breast with a finger. “—I want some whiskey.”
“Sure, Maxie, whatever.” She ambled off, tottering on her high heels, looking like the bimbo she was. Anson joined him.
“What the hell is she doing here?”
“I couldn’t stop her. She showed up at the brownstone and I figured you wouldn’t want a scene in front of the staff.”
Max shrugged and smiled. “Well, at least certain parts of her are welcome.”
Anson grinned. “I take it you’re not talking about her mouth.”
“Not if it’s empty.” The two men laughed and walked toward the car. Anson was more than a chauffeur, he was Max’s right-hand man. He’d trust Anson with his life. Fact was, he had on more than one occasion.
The only person he trusted more than Anson was his twin. But Alex was dead. He sobered, his desire metamorphosing into anger. “Did you find her?”
“Yup. Wasn’t easy, the broad is real good at covering her tracks, but I found her.”
“Where?” He felt a rush, similar to what he’d felt at the first sight of Nadine. But this was a different kind of lust. Blood lust. For the bitch who killed his brother.
“Ireland. She’s in some podunk town in Ireland.”
“Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be. The chick keeps a low profile.” Anson paused, studying his shoes.
Max raised an eyebrow. “There’s more?”
“Yeah. My sources tell me Gienelli is in Ireland, too.”
“Son of a bitch. If the little greaseball is there, then you can bet we’ve got the right girl.”
“What girl?” Nadine sauntered up, her red lips almost the same color as her henna dyed hair.
He wondered what had ever possessed him to get involved with her. She thrust out her chest and pouted provocatively. D cups. They got to him every time. “No one you need to know about.”
“But I heard Anson telling you about her. You’re going to Ireland to see her, and some guy named Gio something.” Nadine frowned, narrowing her overmascaraed eyes, obviously trying to remember his name.
Max bit back a surge of irritation and pulled her close, whispering in her ear, “Right now, baby, there’s no one I want but you.” Over her shoulder, he exchanged a knowing look with Anson and took the knife the other man offered him.
They slid into the car, and Anson shut the door behind them. There was a bottle of champagne on ice. Dom Pérignon, bless him. Max reached for the bottle.
“I thought you wanted whiskey.” Nadine held up the bag, pouting again. God, he hated women.
“I did.” He opened the bottle she offered and took a long pull. “How about you?” He held out the pint and she looked wistfully at the champagne. “Don’t worry, you can have that, too.” He smiled, loosening his zipper. “But you’ll have to earn it.”
A slow smile spread across her face and she slid to the floor of the limo. Max leaned back, trying not to explode as her mouth closed around his throbbing shaft. Now he remembered why he’d spent time with Nadine.
He took another drink of the whiskey, closing his eyes, letting the sensations rock through him. It was all a matter of timing.
Timing.
He closed his hand around the handle of the knife. It was too bad she’d overheard them. He sighed. Too bad. He arched back, shoving himself deeper into her mouth, the heat and suction threatening to undo him.
Timing.
He moaned, lifting his arm. With one quick thrust, he rammed himself down her throat, then pulled out, stabbing her at the base of her throat with the knife. One twist and it was over. He leaned against the seat cushions, gasping for breath, feeling more fulfilled than he’d been in years.
He hit the button for the window separating him from Anson. Silently it slid open. “I think we’d best make a couple of stops.”
“Where would you like to go, sir?”
“The East River might not be a bad idea.” He looked down at the crumpled body on the floor and then back at his chauffeur. “Oh, and I think I’d like to call on my tailor.” He slid the window shut and reached for the champagne, popping the cork. Filling a glass, he toasted himself. “One down, one to go.”
Chapter 3
KACY STOOD ON the rise, looking out at the wet, green field stretching down toward the fort. The rain had stopped for the moment, but the clouds hung ominously close to the ground, and she knew it was only a matter of time before the deluge resumed.
She loved this country. Loved everything about it. The rain, the stone studded green hills. There was an ancientness here. A feeling of being part of something larger than life. She wrapped her arms around herself and surveyed her kingdom, as it were. She felt at peace here. As if at long last, she had found her way home.
She shook her head, laughing at the turn of her thoughts. Too much time alone could make a person dotty. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a tattered tennis ball and threw it in the direction of the fort. With a joyous bark, Mac set out after the ball, his ears streaming behind him.
The rain began again, but she only pulled the hood of her slicker over her head. Ignoring the misty drizzle, she watched Mac leap into the air to catch the ball, then return triumphantly to lay it at her feet, his body poised in anticipation of the next throw.
“Again? You’re insatiable.” She reached down to pick up the soggy ball, grimacing at the slimy feel of it. “Is it absolutely necessary to slobber all over it?”
She shot a narrowed-eyed look at the dog, then threw the ball toward the white stone of the fort. Mac was off like a shot, disappearing behind a wall, nose buried in the grass.
Simple pleasures.
In the dark shadow of the souterrain, something shifted, black on black. She froze, the little hairs on the back of her neck standing at attention, eyes searching for something out of place, beyond the normal. The rain slackened and the sound of the surf echoed from the cliff below. A lonely gull’s cry drifted across the meadow.
She wondered if she’d always be this wary.
A lifetime of living in the shadows had obviously made an indelible impression. One that could not easily be discarded. Still, her demons were long buried. There was nothing left to hide from. No one left to hurt her.
She was alone.
“Kacy?”
She whirled around at the sound of her name, heart pounding, the wind whipping her hair across her eyes. She grabbed at it, trying to see who was calling her.
The figure of a man emerged from a tumbled down gap in the fort’s outer wall. She stared at him, taking an involuntary step backward, the wild ramblings of her imagination taking on solid proportions.
The man raised a hand and called again. Mac appeared in the gap, circling the stranger with excited little yips. Her stomach dropped and her heart rate abruptly changed tempo as recognition dawned.
Braedon. It was Braedon.
She rubbed suddenly sweaty palms against her sweater. He’d said he was coming, but a part of her had hoped he wouldn’t. Although if she were honest, she’d have to admit it was only a tiny little part of her. The sensible part, a little voice whispered.
Smiling, she waved in return. She could see his features now and caught her breath at the sheer imposing strength of him. He was dressed for the weather in an anorak and jeans, Wellingtons, or some expensive American version, encasing his feet. God, he looked good.
She ran a hand through her hair, suddenly wishing her worn Aran sweater and faded jeans would morph into something more chic. She’d never had fashion sense. Her mother had lamented it. Her father had always tried to make light of it. But the fact remained, she couldn’t tell a Chanel from a Clio, and frankly, she looked deplorable in both.
She shrugged mentally and tried to tuck her unruly hair behind her ears. Fat chance in this wind.
“I’m glad you’re here.” His voice was low, pitched so that it would glide under the sound of the wind. It caressed her and a sensuous shiver twisted down her spine.
Her gaze locked on his, her breath coming in little gasps. She opened her mouth, but couldn’t find words. He smiled, his hands settling on her shoulders, gently pulling her nearer. She sighed, closing her eyes, waiting for his touch, his kiss.
A rumble followed by an ominous crash splintered through the meadow, shattering the moment. Braedon grabbed her hand and pulled her low to the ground, his eyes searching the area, trying to locate the source of the noise.
Except for the whistle of the wind against the cliffs, the meadow was silent. Mac raced off toward the far wall, his bark echoing off the stone circles. Braedon stood, pulling her with him, his arm locked around her.
She leaned into his strength, her fear evaporating. “It was the fort.” She pointed to a heap of rubble lying against a remnant of stone wall.
Braedon’s gaze followed hers and she felt him relax. “It caved in.”
She nodded and then stepped from the shelter of his arms, suddenly embarrassed at the intimacy. “It happens a lot. Especially when it rains.”
“But these things have been here for centuries. Why would they fall now?” He raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Because farmers take the stones. They use them to make new walls. And they don’t really care which stones they take. So bit by bit the wall becomes more unstable until—”
“Until the whole damn thing comes tumbling down.” He stared at the rubble.
“Exactly.”
Mac barked, leading the way as they set off to examine the remains firsthand. The rubble was in a corner between three sets of walls, two forming a right angle and a third stretching off behind them like the tail on a Y. The hill dropped off toward the third wall and Kacy knelt by the edge of it. “There’s a souterrain here.”
Braedon joined her. “That’s the underground passageway you were talking about.”
“Right. This place is riddled with them. It’s a wonder the fort doesn’t fall into the passages below.” She shifted a couple of rocks. “There was an entrance here. The stones have covered most of it. See?” She stood back, pointing to what was left of an archway at the bottom of the wall. A black hole gaped beneath it, partially blocked by the rubble.
Mac was sniffing at the entrance, whining.
Kacy grabbed his collar. “No, Mac. It isn’t safe.”
Braedon eyed the hole, his eyes narrowing. “For anyone.”
Kacy met his gaze, confused. “What is it?”
He gestured to the ground at her feet.
She looked down, her eyes settling on the clear imprint of a man’s foot. “Oh, my God, someone could be trapped in there.” She started forward, reaching for the fallen stones. He pulled her back.
“Look again.”
She did, her eyes staring at the footprint, trying to see what he saw.
“It’s facing out, Kacy.”
“Out?”
“Away from the tunnel.”
She sighed with relief. “So there’s no one trapped inside?”
“No. Whoever left this print was leaving, not coming.”
“That’s good, right?”
“For him.” Braedon still looked pensive. He placed his hands on her shoulders. She could feel the warmth of his hands all the way through her sweater. “Look, Kacy, I don’t want to jump to any conclusions here, but wouldn’t you say it’s a little coincidental that there’s a footprint right where a wall suddenly falls down?”
She stared at the footprint, then looked up at him, frowning. “Maybe it’s an old footprint.”
“In this weather?” He gestured to the moisture laden sky.
“So what are you implying? That somebody made the wall fall? That doesn’t make any sense at all.” She searched his face, trying to understand where this was coming from.
“I’m not saying anyone did anything on purpose. I’m just saying that this footprint is fresh, and that I’d bet anything there’s a connection.”
“Braedon, there wasn’t anyone here. If there had been, Mac or I would have seen him.”
“Not necessarily. Not if he didn’t want to be seen.”
She stepped back. “Braedon, you are scaring me.”
“I’m sorry. I guess I just have a suspicious mind. It was probably just a kid. A prank.”
“Maybe so.” She thought about the movement she’d sensed earlier. Had there been someone here? Someone watching her? She shivered and pushed the thought aside.
He wrapped an arm around her. “You look cold. What do you say we head for Finnegan’s and a hot toddy? You can show me the fort on a drier day.”
