Shadows At Sunset. Anne Stuart
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pissed off before she was pissed off now.
The place was completely deserted, an astonishing circumstance. Jackson Meyer encouraged his employees to work long and hard, and he usually matched them in overtime. But there didn’t appear to be a soul left in the building as she followed Coltrane past the ghostly forms of neat desks, empty offices, echoing cubicles.
She had no idea what the people who worked at those desks actually did, any more than she knew how her father made his money. Meyer Enterprises had been her grandfather’s company. He’d started out in real estate in the 1940s, buying huge tracts of land, derelict factories and ruined mansions. The place where Jilly lived with her two siblings was one of the old man’s last acquisitions before he died in the early 1960s, the only building that hadn’t been razed and redeveloped to benefit the endless coffers of Meyer Enterprises.
And it never would be if Jilly had anything to say about it. It was one of the few things temporarily beyond her father’s greedy reach. Jackson Dean Meyer and his mother had had a falling out, and while Julia Meyer hadn’t been able to deed La Casa de Sombras to her three grandchildren outright, she’d still managed to keep Jackson away from it. It belonged to the three of them, Jilly, Dean and Rachel-Ann, for as long as even one of them wanted to live there. The moment the last one moved out it would revert to Jackson, and he’d have it torn down.
He’d been trying to get them out for years. Threats, bribery, anger had made Dean and Rachel-Ann waver. But Jilly was made of sterner stuff than that, and she’d kept the others firm.
Coltrane punched in a row of numbers on the security keypad by the door, too fast for Jilly to read them, then pushed the door open, holding it for her. She walked past him, too close again, and gave him her cool, dismissive smile. “Thanks for your help, but I can take it from here.”
“The elevator won’t come without the security code,” he said. “We’re on the thirty-first floor, it’s a hell of a long walk down, and when you get to the basement you’ll find the door is locked and you’ll just have to climb back up again. Besides, there’s the little problem of the parking garage.”
“I’ve got my cell phone—I can call a taxi.”
“You’ll still have to come back here for your car sooner or later. Unless you want to just go buy a new one with Daddy’s money.”
His easygoing contempt startled her, and she glared at him. “I’m surprised you don’t know that I don’t live off my daddy’s money, as you so sweetly put it. Maybe you’re not as involved in his affairs as Dean thought.”
Coltrane simply smiled. “It’s your choice, Jilly. You want to spend the night wandering up and down thirty-one flights of stairs, or do you want my help?”
Being trapped in a stairwell seemed vastly superior to being stuck with Coltrane in one of the bronze, art deco elevators Jackson had brought to the Meyer Building, but she wasn’t about to say so.
“Call the elevator,” she said, resigned. She was back in the tumbrel again, heading toward Madame La Guillotine.
He punched another rapid set of numbers on the keypad, and the doors opened immediately. She had no idea why the elevator would already be on their floor, but she wasn’t about to ask. It was going to be hard enough to step into that bronze cage with her brother’s nemesis.
She didn’t like heights, she didn’t like enclosed spaces, and she certainly didn’t like men like Coltrane. Tall, gorgeous, self-assured men who knew just how intimidating they could be. It was a subtle, sexual intimidation, the worst sort, and Jilly was usually invulnerable to that sort of thing. But for some reason she still didn’t want to get in the enclosed cage with him.
She had no choice. He waited, watching her, and she could no longer see the expression in his eyes. She walked into the elevator, hearing the jeering crowds of the angry peasants. He followed her in, and the doors slid shut with a subtle hiss, as Jilly steeled herself to ride to her doom.
2
Jackson Meyer’s daughter was scared shitless of him. It was a fascinating realization, and Coltrane wished he knew a way to slow the rapid descent of the elevator, to stall it completely, anything to keep her with him for just a little bit longer.
He’d watched her while she slept, absolutely astonished at how far off the mark he’d been about her. He’d let his opinion of Dean influence his expectations about Meyer’s other children; that, and stories he’d heard about Rachel-Ann’s voracious appetite for drugs and sex. He’d assumed Jilly Meyer would be cut from the same self-indulgent, self-destructive cloth. He hadn’t met Rachel-Ann yet but Jilly was as different from Dean Meyer as he could have possibly imagined.
In a land of California blondes she was dark, with an unfashionable mane of thick brown hair, a big, strong body and endless legs. She was no delicate flower—she had a physical presence that was both aggressive and arousing, even as she tried to make herself disappear into the corner of the elevator. He wondered if she was scared of heights or of him.
He wouldn’t have thought she’d have the sense to be frightened of him. He’d done his absolute best to present himself as a laid-back and easygoing, slightly unscrupulous Southern Californian. No one had the faintest idea how dangerous he really could be.
Except for Jilly Meyer, who looked like she wanted the floor of the elevator to swallow her up. Her linen was rumpled, her hair was tangled, and she looked sleepy, wary and hostile. It really was an irresistible combination.
He allowed himself the brief, graphic fantasy of slamming his hand against the emergency stop button, shoving her against the elevator wall and pulling up that too short skirt of hers. Those long, strong legs would wrap around his hips quite nicely, he could brace her against the wall while he fucked her, and she’d stop looking at him like she wondered whether he was a scorpion who’d wandered in from the desert. By then she’d know that was exactly what he was.
The doors slid open on the basement level with an audible sigh, and Coltrane’s fantasy vanished, unfulfilled. He punched in the garage code and the door buzzed. He pushed it open, and she walked through, brushing past him, and he wondered if she was going to take off in a run. He might enjoy stopping her.
But she was too well-bred for that. She held out her slim, strong hand to him. Silver rings, he noticed. Elegant and plain. And he took it, touching her for the first time.
His hand swallowed hers, and he used just enough pressure so that she couldn’t keep ignoring him. She glanced up at him through her thick lashes. “I’m not biologically equipped for a pissing contest, Mr. Coltrane,” she murmured.
He released her hand. “Where are we going for dinner?”
“I have no idea where you’re going. I’m going home.”
“Can you cook?”
“Not for you.”
He was baiting her deliberately, to annoy her. He still wasn’t quite sure why he wanted to—she was easy to get to. Far easier to get on her nerves than to seduce her.
Or maybe not. He intended to find out.
There was only a handful of cars in the deserted garage. He wondered whether she owned the red BMW convertible or the Mercedes. And then he saw the classic Corvette—1966, he guessed, lovingly restored, a piece of art as close to an antique as Los Angeles could boast.
He didn’t make the mistake of touching her again, he simply starting walking toward the car, knowing she was going in that direction. “Nice Corvette,” he said.
She cast a wary glance up at him. “What makes you think it’s mine?”
“It suits you. Are you going to let me drive it?”
He might just as well have suggested they act out his elevator fantasy. “Absolutely not!”
“She’d be safe with me. I know how to drive—I’ve had a lot of experience. I’m good with a stick shift.