OVER HER DEAD BODY: The Bliss Legacy - Book 2 (12 page)

She raised her eyes. “Dear God, Mary, I hope you at least marked them by year.” She said the prayer aloud, but she didn’t hold much hope that Mary’s administrative skills, always horrendous, would yield that kind of order.

Two minutes later, discovering she was right, she let out a long sigh. No neat labels written in black felt pen marked either the year or the contents of the boxes. Not one of them was labeled. Keeley’s next hope was that their order would provide a chronological clue, by running up from the floor, oldest to newest.

She decided to test her theory and started to move the plastic boxes that formed most of the top tier to the floor to get at the cardboard boxes on the floor.

As she shifted the third box, the wall of cartons started to wobble—along with her nerves. She covered her head, sure she was about to be engulfed in a semi-load of cardboard and plastic. “Darn it, Mary.”

A big hand came from behind her and averted the avalanche.

“What are you doing down here?” Gus said, his voice low, his palm flattened against a plastic container to hold it in place against the wall. “It’s the middle of the night.” He sounded annoyed.

Keeley, not over her surprise at his being here, wearing nothing but low-riding sweat pants and chest hair, glanced away and said, “Or very early morning, depending on your point of view.” She got to work, and using her foot, she shoved aside one of the boxes she’d taken from the stack. “Don’t let go for a minute,” she said, then pulled out a mashed cardboard box from the bottom and shoved a plastic one in its place. The stack stabilized. “Thanks.” She risked another quick glance at him before kneeling in front of her quarry and opening the flaps. Oddly, she didn’t want to look at him, ridiculously unnerved by being in the dark with a half-dressed man—in particular this half-dressed man who currently resided in the room next to hers.

“You’re welcome. Even if you are crazy.” He brushed some dust from his hands and gave the box she’d opened a curious look. “What is that?” Looming over her, he put his hands on his hips, utterly relaxed and seemingly unaware of his almost-nakedness.

“Records, I hope.” She coughed, blamed it on the dust, and turned her attention to the overworked file tabs in the box at her knees.

“You’re kidding,” he said.

“About what?”

“Going through these boxes now. Tonight. It’s a good idea but”—he waved a hand around the room—“not in a basically unlit room in the middle of the night.”

“Or very—”

“—early morning depending on your point of view.” He gave her a speculative look. “You don’t sleep.”

“Highly overrated, sleep.” She lifted a file toward the miserable light. “Most of the records in this box are from the seventies. Too early, I think. Dinah’s contributions started in late nineteen eighty—the same year I was born.”

“Get up.”

“Excuse me.” She looked up at him, just as he gripped her upper arms and dragged her to her feet He tried to maneuver her toward the cellar stairs, but she dug her heels in. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Sleep may be overrated but going blind isn’t. You could grow mushroom crops down here. The files can wait.” They faced off, and she caught the hint of a boyish frown. “You said hell. I didn’t think nuns used that kind of language.”

The man, standing there looking like the devil himself with his black hair, his mysterious scar, and his dark-eyed intensity, appeared genuinely surprised.

“I haven’t been a nun for years now, as I’ve already told you.” She looked pointedly at his hands, still grasping her arms. “What I am is a woman who doesn’t react well to orders. And if you think hell is
naughty
,
try giving me another one. I can do much better.”

His lips barely moved, the smile so slight and gone so fast, she thought she’d imagined it. But when his gaze trailed hers to where his fingers wrapped around her poor excuse for biceps, he immediately let her go. “Sorry,” he mumbled, and for a moment that rivaled his smile for brevity, he looked awkward.

Keeley didn’t know why that word sprung to her mind, but it was the only one that fit, because even though she didn’t know Gus Hammond very well— if at all—she was certain being awkward was a new sensation for this purposeful, unnervingly handsome, too-confident man. The idea piqued her curiosity.

She rubbed her upper arms, looked up at him. “I make you uncomfortable.”

He was standing under the low-wattage bulb that dangled from a short cord attached to the low ceiling. It was barely an inch above his head, and its position cast long shadows over his perfect angular features and blackened his scar. “What makes you say that?”

“Ah, a question for a question. I’ll take that as a yes.”

He was silent for a second or two, then nodded. “Yeah, you do. Make me uncomfortable. I’m not used to dealing with righteous women.”

Although his description of her didn’t sit well with her, she ignored it to ask, “What kind of women are you used to dealing with?”

The look he gave her was unreadable. “The kind who don’t ask questions, the kind who—”

“—who aren’t around for coffee and donuts the morning after?”

His gaze didn’t shift, but something in it did, darkening to anger. “That about sums it up, Sister.” His gaze was steady, his emphasis on the word
sister
.
“Now unless you want to start right in saving my soul, I suggest you get your holy butt up those stairs. We’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow. It would be best if we were both awake for it.”

“I’ll go, but for the last time, I am
not
a nun, a sister, or any other religious manifestation your mind wants to dream up.” She paused. “If you must know, I’m a widow.” She had no idea why she told him that, why it was suddenly important that he see her as a woman instead of a … untouchable. The minute the words were out of her mouth, she wished them back. She never spoke about her marriage, mainly because there was so little to say. Tragically short, it was easier to forget her time with Marc, accept it as God’s inscrutable hand at work, and let it go. With sadness, yes, but no more tears.

Surprise lifted his eyebrows, and for a moment he said nothing. Then he ran a hand through his thick hair, accidentally touched the light bulb, and set it swinging, causing shadows to writhe along the wall of boxes and the pipes and dials of the ancient furnace. “What happened?”

“His name was Marc. Marc LaSalle. He was a doctor, a pediatrician. He headed up the aid group I was attached to at the time.” She stopped, took a breath. “He stepped on a land mine a month after we were married.” She didn’t add she’d been barely ten feet behind him when it happened.

“Jesus! When?”

“Five years ago. In Beida, a small village in the Sudan. We were setting up a clinic.”

“Hell of a honeymoon.” He studied her for what seemed forever. “I’m sorry,” he said.

She had the overwhelming urge to back away, hide behind a leather face, a stone heart. “What for?” she asked, again wishing she’d never brought up the subject of her marriage. “You didn’t know him.”

“No. But I know you. A little,” he said. “And I know about losing someone you care about.” Again leveling his gaze to meet hers, he added, “So I repeat. I’m sorry.”

She opened her mouth to say—God knew what—something about how she’d accepted Marc’s death, had canonized him in her mind and moved on because moving on, in the Sudan where the need was so immense, was the only choice. She settled for a simple, “Thanks.”

“Now can we go to bed?” he said, immediately scrunching his face into a grimace at the inadvertent double-entendre.

His discomfort made her smile and tripped her heart. “Yes, Gus. We can go to bed now.” She started up the stairs, her silent, once-again-awkward houseguest trailing behind her.

Dinah tossed down the book she was reading and walked to the window. The view wasn’t much, primarily other tall buildings, most of them offices with their drones toiling away behind vast sheets of glass, with glimpses of water and the Seattle Space Needle somewhat to the north. So gray, so cold, compared to Miami, and home to so many dismal memories. She pushed them aside and turned back to Cassie, who was on the phone—again. No doubt with her tiresome teenage daughter.

Dinah chewed back her annoyance and decided to leave her to it. She turned to look again at the lifeless wall of office towers outside her luxurious suite. She hated Seattle, and if it weren’t for Gus being here, and the confusion surrounding Mayday House, she’d never have set foot on its sidewalks again. Two days here, living like a recluse, and she was going mad.

Damn it, Mary, why didn’t you keep your promise, leave Mayday to me like we agreed? I kept my part of the bargain, why in hell didn’t you keep yours? Why put my life at risk after all these years?

Dinah hoped she’d kept her other promise and destroyed all the records—if there were any—because if she’d left one link to Dinah …

Her heart was beating too fast; she took a breath. Odd how coming back to Seattle had initiated a panic she hadn’t felt in the Miami sun. And stupid. Getting upset would accomplish nothing. No need for it. So far everything was under control. Although it would help if Gus called, told her he had the Farrell woman’s agreement to sell. She had no doubt her plan to remove the woman from Mayday House would work eventually. Money always worked—especially when it came with a side order of fear.

Finally she heard Cassie say “Good-bye” and hang up the phone.

“Try Gus’s number again, Cassie,” Dinah said. “Then order us some lunch, would you?” Dinah worked to sound cool, to ignore the soft flutter in her stomach that came with even the possibility she’d hear Gus’s deep voice.

Cassie nodded, but before her hand touched the phone, it rang. She picked it up. “Hello.”

Dinah could see her grip on the phone tighten from ten feet away.

“I’ll see if she’s in.” She looked directly at Dinah and put her hand over the phone. “It’s Hagan.”

“How in hell did he know I was here?”

Talk about bad Seattle memories.

“I have no idea,” Cassie said, adding in a whisper, “What do you want me to do?”

Dinah made a quick gesture with her hand toward the phone. “Give it to me.” She took the phone, held it to her chest. “And make yourself scarce, will you?”

“Not a problem,” Cassie said. Looking relieved, she left the room.

Dinah took a deep breath and settled the phone on her ear. “Hagan, darling, how wonderful to hear from you—after all this time.” She oozed the insincerity down the phone line, keeping her voice low and flat. She hated this man.
Hated him.

“Yeah, I can tell you’re overjoyed.”

“I was on my way out. What do you want?”

“Other than you giving me all my money back? Absolutely nothing—except maybe getting your expensive ass out of my town.”

She heard him take a drink.

“You’ll be happy to know,” she said, “that I’ll be leaving ‘your town’ at the first opportunity. And as to the money issue, I believe we settled that.”
About fifty million times.
“And so did the courts, as I recall—in my favor.” Suddenly anxious to get him off the phone, close the line that seeped his terrible voice into her ear, she said sharply, “I repeat. What do you want?”

“Being friendly, darlin’, that’s all.”

“Good thing you’re not in the room, then, because if I remember correctly, the friendliest thing about you was the fist you used on my face.”

“Ah … those were the days.”

“You’re a son of a bitch, Hagan, and the worst thing that ever happened to me,” she said, keeping her voice cool and level.

He laughed. “Says she who is happily situated in the best hotel suite in Seattle, courtesy of my money.”

“Your money was the best thing about you, Hagan. It sure as hell wasn’t that poor excuse for a cock you’ve got between your legs.”

No laughter now. Dinah could feel the venom slithering through the line. “On the subject of cock, bitch, you want to tell me which one of the many you’re familiar with you sent running to Mayday House?”

“Mayday House?” Her bones locked and froze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hagan spoke softly now. Too softly. Threateningly soft. “Oh, you know well enough. It’s me who’s in the dark. But not for long.” He stopped. “I hired a mutual friend of ours.”

“We don’t have any mutual friends.” Dinah put a hand to her throat, rubbed the knot holding back her breathing.

“We do now. And this time he’s all mine. Bought and paid for.”

“What are you talking about?” She forced herself to show anger, impatience—anything but the sick dread bunching low in her belly.

“Not what, who. I hired myself your boy toy, bitch. Gus Hammond works for me now. I guess he got tired of crawling over those skinny old bones of yours and set his eye on the main chance.” The guttural laugh coming down the line was a sneer. “And that’s me. I hold all the cards, including your fuck jock. You’ll be hearing from me.” He hung up.

Dinah couldn’t move, couldn’t think or even blink.

Her first reaction was denial. Gus wouldn’t …

Don’t be a fool, Diana. People can be bought—like you bought Gus in a damn gas station. So be smart. Never underestimate the power of cash.

She closed her eyes, and her mind filled with the vision of Gus and Hagan, together, against her. Then it shifted to Mary Weaver wearing a blood-soaked nightgown running down the long dark hall of Mayday House, a hall Dinah had sworn never to walk again.

She replaced the phone receiver in its cradle, slowly, carefully, as if it were the most fragile of crystal, her mind hovering, then locking on the grisly secret that could destroy her life.

If she let it…

When Gus stepped into the kitchen, it was nearly ten. He’d been up since seven. Determined to get a good feel for the place, he’d already checked die outbuildings, walked the property, and the surrounding neighborhood, mostly houses like Mayday, large timeworn Victorian-style farmhouses, set on acreages about eight miles from the town of Erinville.

Keeley sat at the table with a piece of toast, largely ignored by the look of it, in one hand and a pen in the other. She was scribbling into a blue notebook. An empty coffee mug sat to her right.