OVER HER DEAD BODY: The Bliss Legacy - Book 2 Read online

  Any other day she’d have asked, busy with what? But not today. Today, Dinah’s antennae were up. She sensed trouble, and he was about to give her some.

  “I expected you hours ago,” he said. “I wanted to—”

  “Freshen this, will you?” She held out her glass, still half full.

  He rose, crossed over to her, and took the glass—for the fucking last time—and filled it. Poured a scotch neat for himself.

  “Where do you want to go for dinner tonight?” she asked.

  “We’re not going to dinner tonight. Tonight I’m getting on a plane. Which you well know. I waited for you to say good-bye.”

  “Gus, let’s not—“

  He stood over her, probably looking as irritated and impatient as he felt, and handed her the drink. “I’ve tried to talk to you about this for days. Hell, months. None of it should be a surprise. Did you think your not showing up would change things?”

  Ignoring his question, she set the G&T on the coffee table, picked up the black and gold bag, put her hand in, and pulled out a velvet box. “I bought you something.”

  “Jesus, you haven’t heard a word I said.” He let out all the damn breath in his lungs, slashed a hand through his hair.

  “It’s a Piaget. An Emperador something-or-other. Quite special, or so I’m told.” She held it out to him. Ninety grand’s worth of gold and diamond timekeeping.

  He looked at the watch, then into her eyes, big, blue, and showing the barest trace of vulnerability and desperation. Hell! “I’m going, Dinah,” he said as patiently, as softly as he could. Soft generally not being his thing. “Nothing you say, or buy, will change that.” He took the watch from her hand, set it on the table, and raised her fingertips to his mouth. “I don’t want another watch, another car, or another Armani. What I want is for us to be straight with each other, and if possible, part as friends.” He paused. “I owe you, but I can’t give you what you want anymore. I don’t—”

  She pulled her hand from his, holding it palm out to stop him from saying more. Closing her eyes, she took a breath, and opened them. “You don’t love me,” she finished, her voice low and cool, “the way I love you.”

  Gus let her comment fall into the room’s bright white void. If there was one thing he knew about women—and he’d learned a hell of a lot through the years—anytime the L word came into play, it was time to shift into reverse. Lately, with Dinah, the word had come up on a regular basis. “It’s time for me to move on.” Years past time.

  She got up and walked to the window, keeping her back to him. “You’re going to Josh. In Seattle.”

  “Yes.” Only a piece of the truth. But enough.

  She nodded, and he saw her straighten her shoulders before turning back to face him, pride and self-assurance intact. “I guess I shouldn’t complain. We’ve had a good run.”

  “Better than most. You were there for me—and Josh—when no one else was. I won’t forget that.” And he wouldn’t. Ever. This woman had saved his life—such as it was—and given him more than he damn well deserved, but he didn’t owe her his future. The way he saw it, as complicated as their relationship was, they were even. “I’ll always be grateful, Dinah.”

  “Thank you for that.” She walked to the coffee table and picked up her drink. “Give Josh a kiss for me, will you?” She gestured idly toward the abandoned watch, now gleaming hotly under the slanting rays of the afternoon sun. “Maybe he’d like it?”

  Gus shook his head. “He’s got a phone.”

  “Of course.” She stopped. “When are you leaving?”

  “In about an hour.”

  “I see.” She took a step away, looked out the window, holding, not drinking, her G&T.

  Gus knew she didn’t see at all, would never see. If Dinah Marsden was anything, it was stubborn. She liked things her way, and she didn’t like to lose.

  “Then you can save me a trip.” She settled her gaze on him, this time speculatively.

  “Pardon?” Her new tack caught him off guard.

  “I need a favor. And I need discretion.”

  He watched her, the word favor ringing alarm bells.

  “Who better than you to provide both?” A wily smile turned up her brightly colored lips.”That’s what we’re all about, isn’t it, Gus, darling? Favors and discretion?”

  CHAPTER 2

  Gus should have seen it coming, been prepared. He knew Dinah well enough to know she didn’t give up on anything she wanted—until she’d exhausted every hook in her inventory.

  Shit! He eyed her, waiting.

  “Someone I’ve known—and supported—for many years recently died. Her name was Mary Weaver. Yesterday I received a letter from a woman named Farrell who claims to be Mary’s goddaughter, and who seems intent on taking over her affairs. She’s requesting money, of course. Quite a lot of money.” She frowned. “She says she wants to continue Mary’s good work.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Mary ran sort of a private home for—” She stopped and seemed to search for words. “Troubled women is how best to put it, I suppose.”

  “You said ‘sort of.’”

  “The home started as a haven for unwed mothers, then grew into a shelter for abused women. Something like that. To be honest, I haven’t kept up with her work—her mission, she used to call it. I lost track.” She walked a few steps away and looked out the window.

  Gus’s interest was snagged, and he waited for her to go on. Dinah didn’t lose track of anything, unless it suited her purpose.

  She walked back to him. “The place is called Mayday House, and it’s in Erinville, Washington, a couple of hours southeast of Seattle. The last time I spoke to Mary—had to be four, maybe five years ago. At that time she was talking about getting too old to run the house, closing it down.” She looked annoyed. “Obviously, she changed her mind and made other arrangements—without any consultation with me. Shortly before she died, apparently. All the while assuming my continued financial support.” She shook her head, disgusted. “The whole idea of such a place is archaic. I should have stopped sending money years ago.”

  “Why didn’t you?” It sure as hell wasn’t like her to dole out cash, charitable or otherwise, unless there was a return, either in good publicity, or, as in his case, a more intimate payback.

  Instead of answering his question, she walked to a glass-topped desk in the corner, opened a drawer, and pulled out a letter. “I want you to go to Erinville, meet this Farrell person, and tell her I have no intention of continuing my support for Mayday House. I expect when she hears that, she’ll go along with what I want and move on.”

  “And that’s what you want? For her to move on?” He was damn sure Dinah wasn’t telling him everything, but shrugged it off. Her business.

  “My loyalty was to Mary, not a creaky out-of-date refuge for women who let themselves be abused by men, or worse yet, don’t know how to take a god-damn birth control pill. The place should be shut down. What I want is for you to assess this woman, and do whatever you have to do to get her out of that house.” She gave him a thoughtful, amused look. “This might be a challenge for you, baby. Apparently Farrell is some kind of nun, so I doubt your particular talents”—she dropped her gaze to his crotch—“and generous attributes will help much.”

  Gus sucked up his anger, shot her a killing glance, and looked at his watch. Less than two hours and it would be bye-bye, Miami. Maybe, after thinking on it for ten years or so, he’d figure out how he’d come to actually like this woman—right now the reasons escaped him. “Why not answer the letter, tell her you won’t be sending any more money? Suggest she move on. Sounds simple enough to me.”

  “Because I don’t want trouble. And I don’t want negative press. We all know how these do-gooder types are, crying ‘poor me’ to the media when they don’t get what they want, making a public fuss. In the end I’d be the big bad wolf—or worse.” She shook her head. “No. I want you to take a firsthand look, assess the woman. If it
looks as though she’ll be difficult, tell her I’ll buy her out. That way she can set up shop somewhere else. I don’t want to, but I’ll pay over market for the house if I must.”

  “Generous,” he said. “And not normally the way you do business.”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Yeah, you usually do.” He finished off his drink, again glanced at his watch.

  Dinah’s expression hardened. “I want Mayday House closed. Boarded up. Or better yet, reduced to rubble. And I want it done as soon as possible.”

  She held the letter out to him. “Use your charm, your guile, or that intimidating scowl of yours to scare the woman to death. I don’t care. You’re the chameleon, Gus. Hell, you’ve made it an art. Just be who and what you need to be to get the job done— and get the Farrell woman out of there.”

  He looked at the letter in her hand—knew it represented a link between Dinah and himself he’d rather avoid. He also knew his reluctance was obvious.

  Dinah, impatient now, waved the letter in front of him. “I’m entitled to a last request, Gus, considering how long you’ve been in my—Let me see, what would be the right word?” She tapped an index finger on her chin. “Service? Yes, that’s it. My very personal service.”

  It was exactly the right word.

  When he still didn’t take the letter, she added, in a tone that was Oscar-award-winning sweet, “What was it you said, darling, about ‘owing me’?”

  “You might not make the grade as a kitten, Dinah, but you’ve got the bitch thing nailed.”

  “I certainly hope so. God knows, I try.” She laughed.

  Gus took the letter.

  Keeley slumped into a kitchen chair and opened the bottled water she’d taken from the fridge. She drank deeply, set the bottle on the table, and rubbed her hands over her face.

  A glance at the clock told her it was five minutes short of two A.M., which meant she’d been scrubbing and scouring since midnight. She felt like elephant droppings, beyond tired and into the realm of the living dead. But she knew she wouldn’t sleep, that if she went to bed she’d see them coming across the flat, dry earth. Hear the gunfire, the screams.

  When her hands started to shake, she flattened her palms on the tabletop and forced the memory into the black hole it came from. Bad enough it haunted her when she tried to sleep; she didn’t need it when she was trying to stay awake.

  A limp smile turned up her mouth. She was definitely in a no-win situation—or at least a no-sleep situation.

  Picking up the mop she’d propped against the table, she walked back to the bucket of hot soapy water. If nothing else, insomnia was productive. She’d done more in the last two hours than Bridget had accomplished in the last week. The girl made a snail look like a turbo-charged roadrunner, but Keeley knew depression dogged her, pulled her down. Losing a baby so close to term took a terrible emotional toll.

  What now seemed like a thousand years of nursing and religion had taught her that much.

  The phone rang, clattered into the room like dropped china, rattling her heart and sending a chill through her chest. Who would call at such an hour?

  She went to the old phone leashed to the wall near the kitchen door. “If this is a wrong number, you’re in trouble,” she said, in no mood to dispense a cheery hello.

  A man’s voice curled into the room. “Am I talking to Keeley Farrell?”

  “Yes, a very irritated Keeley Farrell.”

  “You’re up late.”

  “So are you. Whoever you are.” She didn’t attempt to hide her annoyance.

  “At two o’clock in the morning, names don’t matter much, do they? Except maybe yours.”

  Keeley stilled. “If this is some kind of obscene phone call, you’re wasting your sick breath, my friend. If you’ve got something to say, say it. In the next five seconds.”

  He laughed, and it slid through the phone line as mirthless as a hungry snake. “You’re Mary Weaver’s godchild or something like that, right?”

  Who was this man and how did he know about her and Mary? “Four seconds,” she said.

  “Tough little cookie, huh?” He sounded amused now. “Well, guess what, sweet cakes, I’ve got all the time in the world. Not so sure about you, though.”

  “Is that some kind of threat?” Keeley’s sleep-deprived mind staggered to full alert.

  “Nope. But a woman alone … in a big empty house makes a man think a certain way. Only natural.” Keeley’s gaze, as wild and unfocused as her thoughts, scanned the room, looking for nothing, expecting anything.

  Keep it together, Keeley. Keep it together.

  Gripping the receiver tightly, and raising her voice over the thud of her heart, she said, “Well think about this. I don’t frighten easily, and I’m not alone,” she bluffed.

  “Oh, yeah, the little blond parcel. A bit skinny, but usable.”

  His oily words squeezed her lungs like a pair of cold, clammy hands. “Look, gutter-mind, why don’t you go get yourself some help before I get it for you—in the form of a police siren.”

  He laughed before she heard his deep, raspy breathing coming down the line. His next words were lower, coarse and whispery. “I kind of like women with gumption. So much more fun than the dead kind.” He stopped. “As for those police you were talking about? A bad idea. A really bad idea. Wouldn’t do you any good anyway, because I won’t be calling again. Besides, you wouldn’t want them to find out about dear old Mary, would you?”

  “What are you talking about?” Confusion paired up with the crazy flutter in her chest. “What do you know about Mary?”

  “Everything I need to know and a lot you don’t. And most of it ain’t pretty.” He paused, and she heard him breathing again. Heavy, as though he meant for her to hear it. “Not as pretty as that bright red hair of yours. But, I have to say, that yellow scarf you’ve got tied around it? That’s a real bad color choice.”

  Click.

  Keeley’s hand flew to her head, the yellow scarf circling it, and at the same moment she heard the rumble of a car motor from the dark road beyond the fence. Her heart, wild as a dervish, danced up her throat.

  She dropped the phone and rushed to the window in time to see the ruby of a car’s tail lights disappear around the corner.

  Dolan James squeezed the receiver as tight as he squeezed his eyelids closed. “What the hell’s the matter with you? All you had to do was confirm she was there, not set her running, for God’s sake! … ‘Having a little fun’? You’re fucking crazy. Are you even sure you spoke to the right woman?”

  Dolan looked down the darkened hall, saw the sliver of light creeping from his father’s room. He spoke in a low, tight voice, struggling to keep fear from rooting too deep in his chest.

  “If you’ve botched this, Mace,” he said. “Neither of us will see a dime. Don’t you get that? …. I know, I know, I owe you. Christ, you remind me of it often enough. But no more ‘fun.’ We need to be sure about this Farrell bitch and what she’s doing there. Absolutely sure. And stop phoning this number. Call my damn cell like I told you to. You got that?”

  He heard the rustle of newspaper coming from the room, and added quickly, “I’ve got to go. The old man’s awake. Sit tight, will you? And for fuck’s sake, leave her alone until I can figure out what to do. We don’t want her calling in the damn police.” He hit the off button, fought the urge to slam the phone into its cradle—or better yet, against the damn wall.

  Jesus, it couldn’t get any worse than having Mace Jacobs involved. The guy was a goddamn pervert! Unpredictable as hell. Not that Dolan had any choice. Owing a guy a couple of hundred thou kept him interested—and close. Trouble was the asshole thought he was calling the shots. Well, he was goddamn wrong.

  “Who was that, calling at this ungodly hour?”

  Shit!

  Dolan, still reeling from the phone call, didn’t answer. His throat sand dry, and his mind dead numb, all he could do was grip the phone in his hand. If he’d had any doubts a
bout the validity of Mary Weaver’s last and unexpected call, Mace had laid them to rest.

  He dropped his head and rubbed hard at the back of his neck.

  This could not be happening. Mayday House was for real—exactly like the old woman said. And some woman named Farrell had moved in to run it.

  “Dolan? Are you there?” His father’s voice seeped into the hall along with the light from his bedside lamp.

  The man never slept. No change there. Old William considered insomnia, whether he was working his ass off and running all over the world, or dying, as he was doing now—although too slowly to suit Dolan—as added “productive time.”

  Workaholics. Had to love the bastards—and the irony. So damn busy in life making the big bucks they never had enough time to spend them, then at the end forced to leave their golden stash to those with nothing but time. At twenty-six, Dolan had time to spare.

  “I’m here, Dad.” He lifted his hand from the receiver he’d placed carefully back on the charger, tried to take his mind off Mace’s call, and sound as if his whole world hadn’t hit an air pocket and dropped him ten thousand feet. “And the call was nothing. A wrong number.”

  Dolan brushed his straight, sandy-colored hair off his face and straightened his jacket. The suit hung on his thin five-ten frame as if tailored for a man twice his size, and his blue eyes felt dry, feverish. He blinked, forced himself to calm down before he took the few steps to his father’s bedroom door.

  “It’s after two in the morning. Who would be calling anyone at this hour?” William James grumbled from his bed, the lines and hollows in his face looking like dismal smudges in the pale light from his lamp.

  “Who knows?” he said, keeping his tone casual. “But the teenage cell phone brigade never sleeps, so it was probably some kid.” He assessed his father, an activity that since the diagnosis had become routine. Fortunately, every day he looked worse than the last. It wouldn’t be long now. Hell, it couldn’t be long, not after what Mace had told him. Plus Dolan was running short in the time and patience departments. The idea of Farrell nosing around in that house, finding out stuff, the chance of her getting to William—before he could get to her—scared the crap out of him. “And they’re not the only ones who don’t sleep. You should be lights out by now. You need your rest.” He stopped at the foot of the bed, coiled his fingers around one of its four posts, and forced a smile.