OVER HER DEAD BODY: The Bliss Legacy - Book 2 (16 page)

“I told you. I owe Dinah.” He crossed his arms, settled back into an easy, deep coolness.

She studied him. He was no more than a shadow beyond the low overhead light in the alcove, his face indistinct, his eyes unreadable. “I don’t think that’s all of it,” she said. “I think you’ve got reasons of your own for being here.”

“Yeah? And what would those reasons be?”

She thought a minute. “Money, maybe,” she said, then immediately shook her head, answering her own question. “No. Not money. You don’t strike me as a man who can be bought.”

He stepped toward her then, his face set in hard, deep lines, his eyes shot with anger. “And you don’t strike me as a naive woman.” He took her arm, led her toward the three steps that led down from the church entrance. “And it’s not getting any drier out there, so if you’re finished your praying, we’d best get back to the house.”

She held her ground. Unduly conscious of his strong hand on her forearm, she pulled it from his grasp.

He looked down at her, unmoved. “Fine. You want to stay. We’ll stay.”

“We’ll stay until I know a lot more about the man who’s living in my house—a bedroom door away from mine.”

“A little late for second-guessing the room and board arrangement, isn’t it?”

She ignored his question. “What kind of man are you, Gus Hammond?” She’d been stupid not to ask this question sooner, not to have checked him out more carefully. Well, the stupid bit was over. She was more determined than ever to find out about everything and everyone connected with Mary and Mayday House. Past and present. “And make it the truth. Like I said, I don’t have time for lies or liars.” Gus didn’t speak for what seemed forever. Then, watching her face intently, he said, “I’m the kind of man who makes women happy.”

She frowned, irritated by his sarcastic reply. “You’re not making me happy.”

“You’re not paying me.”

Her breath snagged in her throat. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

He briefly looked amused. “Probably.”

“You’re saying you, uh, take money for …”
Sex for money!
“That you’re a—” She stopped, unable to say the word gigolo.

He nodded, all trace of amusement masked by an expression of flat indifference. “I’ll guess the words you’re looking for are either gigolo or paid escort. And the answer is yes.”

Keeley turned his reply over in her mind, no longer shocked, not even repulsed, simply confused. Trying to look into his dark eyes was useless, they gave away nothing. Gus Hammond was as adept at caging his demons as she was hers.

“Now can we go?” he asked.

“Dinah Marsden,” she said. “Was she one of the women who … paid you?”

“Yes.”

“Is she still?”

“No.”

Keeley took a step away from him and wrapped her arms around herself. “Let me get this straight. You were Dinah Marsden’s lover, yet her ex-husband felt fine about calling you to work against her.” She paused, for the first time feeling uncomfortable with Gus’s revelation. “Cozy.”

“Dinah’s lover, past tense. Now the personal security business—and there’s nothing cozy about it. Just like there’s nothing cozy about that Victorian nightmare of a house you’re so fond of.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, if the woman waiting for you in your kitchen is right, there’s a body buried somewhere in that mausoleum. And from what you’ve told me about the late-night phone call and the book deliveries, I’d say we’re not the only ones out to find it— and use it”

“Mary didn’t kill anyone,” she repeated stubbornly, her heart starting to race. “And there are no dead people buried in Mayday House.”

He gave her an impatient glare. “Good. Then all we have to do is prove it. Then we’ll watch the bad guys put their forked tails between their legs and hoof themselves away.”

“Ah, a little religious irony. How clever.”

She heard him expel a breath. “What I’m doing is trying to get your attention—and shove that sharp brain of yours into a forward gear. Fordham says she was adopted out by Mary in nineteen eighty—illegally—the same year Dinah started donating to Mayday. Body or no body, there has to be a connection.”

“You think Christiana Fordham is Dinah’s daughter.”

“Could be, but if she is, it’s unlikely Dinah is going to willingly let some medic swab for her DNA, so those house records of yours are all we’ve got.”

“And you think Mary Weaver killed her father?” Her throat closed over the question as if trying to pull it back.

He hesitated, ran a hand though his hair. “I don’t know. But either we find out what went on here, or we play a game of let’s-pretend, and hope like hell no one gets hurt. Your choice.”

She worried her lower lip a moment, then started down St. Ivan’s church steps. The first drops of rain cooled her face and the wind lifted her hair as she turned to look back at Gus. He was following her down, pulling up the collar on his expensive leather jacket.

When he caught up to her, she faced him, less than a foot separating them. “Before I agree to help you—before I do
anything—I
want a promise from you.”

“I’m listening.”

“You agree to work for me, not Dinah, not Hagan.
Only me
. I want what’s best for Mayday House, and whatever went on here—if anything at all—stays here. I won’t have Mary’s name destroyed because of some marital vendetta.” She looked up at him. “I want your promise you’ll respect her life, and not use what happened here for anyone’s gain.”

They stood in the rain, the silence between them louder than the wind swirling through the leaves around their feet. Keeley swore she could hear the wary gears in his mind turning.

“Why would I promise you that?” he said at last. “And why would you trust me if I did?”

“Because I asked you to and”—she stared into his dark, impenetrable face—“because if you don’t promise, you can walk back to the house with me, pack your bags, and get out of Mayday House.”

Gus ran his knuckles along the scar on his jaw, then shifted his gaze from Keeley’s upturned face to the blackness beyond St. Ivan’s gate. Christ! No way could he promise what she asked. The stakes were too high for him and his sister. He might not plan on giving up Dinah to Hagan Marsden, but if he ran out of options, if that’s what it took to find April … Hell!

“Well?” she prodded.

He swallowed the bile that came with his lie and said, “You have my promise.”

“Good.” She turned toward home.

“So with those few words, you trust me?” he said from behind her, his question stopping her—and surprising him. If he was smart he’d leave things be. For a time she kept her back to him.

When she looked back, he could barely make out her face through the sheeting rain, but he heard her sigh, then watched her straighten to meet his gaze, even though he was sure she couldn’t see his eyes. “Have you ever broken a promise to me before?”

“I haven’t made one.”

“Exactly.”

“Cute.” He stepped in front of her, grasped both her arms. “But not good enough.”

“Okay, how about this?” She pulled from his hold and rubbed where his hands had been. “I’m trusting you, Gus Hammond, because I want to, and because”—she stopped, as if uncertain of the personal territory her instincts had led her into— “I think we have something in common.”

“Go on.”

She continued to rub her arms and took a deep breath. “I think we both want to start over. Leave the sins of the past behind us.”

“Sins.” He knew his cold skepticism showed in his face. “Not a concept I’m familiar with.”

“Mistakes, then, if that word works better for you.” She walked a step, then turned back. “Whatever you call it, I think both of us are tired of being what we were, tired of—”

“Fucking up?” He used the word to shock, jolt her into reality, make her see the difference between the convent-bred young girl and the street-hardened tough. Hell, for him “fucking up” didn’t come close to describing his mistakes. She looked unfazed by his crude word.

“Yes.” She nodded her head firmly. “That’s it exactly. Now let’s go.”

He watched her walk away from him and worked to settle the complex skew of emotions this unusual woman had set bulleting around in his head. Keeley Farrell had a way of getting to the bones of things. He’d have to make sure that’s as far as she got, because his goddamn black soul was his own business.

When they got to the house, Christiana was in the front hall preparing to leave, her coat in hand.

“I wasn’t sure when you’d be back,” she said, glancing at Gus. “So I thought I’d better get going. I’ll come again … when we’ve both had time to think about things.”

Keeley took the coat from Christiana’s hands and hung it on the coat rack near the front door. “You’ll stay the night,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. “The weather’s miserable, and we have plenty of rooms.” When Christiana hesitated, she added, “And I think we need to talk more—but in the morning after we’ve had time to think.”

Gus studied both women: same height, same complexion; oddly dark tan complexion, for either a blonde or redhead. If Christiana was Dinah’s daughter, the resemblance was superficial and all about being tall and blond. And he knew firsthand Dinah’s color came courtesy of Miami’s most expensive salon.

Keeley looked exhausted but determined. Fordham merely looked exhausted, but still she waffled. “I don’t know …”

“Well, I do.” Keeley said. “Come with me. I’ll find you something to sleep in. It won’t be fashionable, but it will do.”

Fordham caved. “That won’t be necessary. My bag’s in the car. I went right to the station for my interview, so I didn’t get around to checking into the hotel.”

Keeley looked at Gus. “Would you mind?”

“It’s just an overnight bag.” Christiana said. “It’s in the back seat.”

“I’ll get it,” he said.

Ten minutes later, after she’d settled Christiana in a room, Keeley came back down the stairs. “I’m for bed,” she said. Glancing up the stairs she’d come down, she grimaced. “It looks like tomorrow is going to be an interesting day.”

“Erica and Bridget, where are they?” he asked.

“Erica’s in her room. Bridget’s gone to a movie. She has a key.”

“Hm.” Gus planned to check the house and grounds before turning in, but he walked the few paces down the hall with her.

At her door, she stopped and looked up at him. “That promise I asked you for?” she said, her eyes fierce and squarely set on his.

“Uh-huh.”

“I expect you to keep it.” With that she turned away from him, walked into her room, and closed the door.

She might as well have shoved one of his own knives into his lying frozen heart.

Dolan James ordered another beer and cast a moody glance around the gloomy no-name Seattle tavern. This meet with Mace was necessary but not welcome. He couldn’t wait to get back to San Francisco, but he didn’t like what Mace was telling him. There were now five people in that fucking house. “Who the hell is this new one?”

“Don’t know. Oregon plates. And I don’t think she’s staying—the guy brought in a really small bag. If she hangs around, I’ll check her out.”

Dolan let his breath hiss through his teeth. “Christ, what the hell is the woman running, a damn motel?”

Mace sat across from him in the high-backed booth and stirred his scotch on the rocks with his index finger. “Looks like it.” He licked his alcohol-slicked finger and watched the waitress’s ass through narrowed eyes.

Dolan couldn’t believe he was tied to this lowlife. For sure, when the old man kicked off, and he got his hands on some real money, it’d be an instant
sayonara
to this piece of crap. He took another look at the big man opposite him. One more pumped-up bicep and the guy would bust the seams on that silk suit he was so fond of wearing. Mace Jacobs was all muscle—as Dolan had found out the one time he’d tried to stiff him on a drug deal.

Dolan ran a hand roughly through his fair hair. “This is getting complicated. Maybe we should knock her off and be done with it.”

“I don’t think so.” Mace’s hard eyes met his. He looked pissed.

“Why the hell not? It’s what we planned in the first place.” And Dolan hadn’t flown up from San Francisco for a one-hour meeting to maintain the status quo. “Think about it, we get rid of her, empty the house out, and search it from top to bottom.” He brightened, lit by his own idea. “Or better yet, burn the sucker to the ground.”

Mace gave him a searing look. “You really are a stupid bastard, Dolan. No wonder your old man hates your guts.”

Something inside Dolan twisted. Hurt. Maybe what Mace said was true, but he didn’t like hearing it from what amounted to a hired hand. Not that Mace saw himself that way. Mace saw himself as the center of the universe. A misconception Dolan would fix when the time was right. “If he hated my guts, I wouldn’t be living in his house, and I sure as hell wouldn’t be in his will.”

“You wouldn’t be within signature distance of that fuckin’ will, if I hadn’t got you straight and sent you home.” He shook his head. “You being too cracked up and dumbass to figure things out on your own, even with a sick daddy worth millions.”

Dolan looked at his ex-dealer sourly. He owed him, all right, and he’d make damn sure he got what was coming—from the barrel of a gun.

Again Mace shook his head. “I’m surprised the old man didn’t put you down at birth.” He took another drink and turned his eyes back to the waitress’s butt.

”You’re a son of a bitch, Mace.”

Mace shifted lazy mean eyes to his, smiled thinly. “You maligning my mother?”

Dolan, uncomfortable with the look in Mace’s eyes, looked away, said nothing, then muttered, “If you don’t want to get rid of the woman, what do you want to do?”

“Oh, I’ll get rid of her, all right. Got to pick my time is all. But considering all the company she’s got right now, it’s gonna have to wait.” He rubbed the side of his nose and seemed to think a bit. “The thing is some of the company’s damned interesting.”

“Like?”

“Erica Stark, for one.”

The name meant nothing to Dolan.

“Starrier Productions?” Mace raised a brow. Dolan shook his head. “You ever see a movie called
Getting a Long?
”