OVER HER DEAD BODY: The Bliss Legacy - Book 2 (13 page)

When he walked in, she barely glanced at him. “There’s coffee in the pot,” she said, turning her attention back to her note-making.

He poured himself one, filled her mug, and returned the pot to its home unit. She muttered a thanks, glanced up at him, and frowned in what appeared to be annoyance. “So do you always look so good? Smell so good?”

As morning conversation, it wasn’t what he expected, nor did it look as if she expected an answer. He leaned against the counter and drank some coffee. “What are you doing?”

“Making a to-do list.” She studied him again. “And I came up with another chore.”

“Which is?”

“Get you some painting clothes. You can’t work in those … Calvin’s or whatever.”

Gus had never held a paint brush in his life; he didn’t intend to start now. “I don’t paint.”

“You do if you intend to stay here. Be a sin to let those muscles of yours go to waste, when there’s so much that needs doing around here.”

He set his coffee mug down. “I don’t paint,” he said again.

“Then how do you expect to earn your keep?”

“My keep?” He echoed, sensing he was hunkered down with a crazy woman.

“I’m not giving you bed and board for nothing.” He didn’t bother reminding her providing security had value. Instead he pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, dropped five one-hundred-dollar bills on the table.

”This cover it?” Putting his wallet back in his pocket, he added, “When that runs out, let me know.” She stared at the cash a moment, then picked it up and stuffed it in her pocket. “At the moment, Mayday House needs your energy more than your money.” She gave him the look of a disapproving schoolteacher. “But as the House can use a little help with financing right now, I gratefully accept your donation,” she said. “And if you want to sit around all day doing nothing, that’s fine by me. If you don’t, you’ll find some old coveralls by the back door.”

Before he could answer, Erica walked into the kitchen. “Morning.” She covered a yawn with her hand and headed directly for the coffeepot.

Gus’s glance in her direction had him thinking it was Erica Stark, wearing the legal minimum in nightclothes, who needed the damned coveralls. He didn’t miss that Keeley shot her the same disapproving look she’d just flayed him with.

“You should take it easy on the coffee, Erica,” Keeley said. “Too much caffeine isn’t good for the babies.”

Erica shot her an annoyed look. “I’ll remember that.” When she turned, coffee in hand, and spotted him leaning casually against the counter, her eyebrows damn near hit her hairline. Her gaze bounced between him and Keeley; she gave him a slight knowing smile. He knew what she was thinking—that he and Keeley …

Shit!
It shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did.

Keeley obviously caught her whiff of suspicion, too, but all she did was smile, a little too sweetly for his taste. “No, Erica. Gus and I did not spend the night together.”

“Hey,” Erica said, rubbing her tummy with one hand and drinking coffee with the other. “I’m not the one to talk about who sleeps with who. Sex makes the world go round, after all.”

“It’s love that does that, Erica. Not sex.” Keeley frowned at her.

“Whatever.”

“I repeat, we did not spend the night together.” She glanced at Gus. “But he will be staying with us for a time. He’s trying to buy a property in Erinville, so he’ll be in town for a while. I’ve offered him a room, in exchange for his kind offer to help with the Mayday renovations.” Her look turned devilish. “He tells me he’s quite a skilled handyman. Isn’t that right, Gus?”

Gus took his time studying her. She was trying to snooker him. He pulled up a smile and sent it her way, not taking his eyes off her. “Very skilled,” he said. “Depending on the job … This is a great old house, but she’s been alone a long time. Needs plenty of TLC. But with the proper handling and a few strokes in the right places, she’ll come … back to her old glory.” He paused, slanted another long gaze her way. “It will be fun to work on her.”

Keeley looked away first.

Erica, who’d followed the exchange avidly, refilled her coffee mug and looked at each of them in turn before settling her attention on Gus.”You’re my kind of handyman, Hammond.” She looked at Keeley then, adding, “That TLC he’s talking about? I’d go for it, if I were you.” She set down her mug. “I’m going into town this morning. If you need anything, let me know, and I’ll pick it up. Have fun, you two.” She walked out of the room.

Gus dumped the last of his coffee in the sink. “We need to talk.”

Keeley, her face nearly as red as her hair, closed her spiral-bound notebook. “Yes, we do.” She stood. “And it’s best we do it in the office, where we won’t be interrupted.”

“Lead on.”

When they were in the office, she took the seat behind the desk, he the one in front.

“First”—she took a deep breath, clasped her hands together, and rested them on the desk—“I apologize for being so pushy.” She rushed the words into the room as if she couldn’t rid herself of them fast enough. “Sometimes, I forget that I don’t rule the world. I’m sorry. Of course you don’t have to paint, or do anything else that you don’t want to do.” She stopped as abruptly as she’d started, her discomfort painfully apparent.

“And I apologize for the innuendo,” Gus said. “Sometimes I do a little forgetting of my own.”

She nodded, her expression sober, then took another breath. “That being said, we need to talk about Mayday House.”

Gus rose from the chair. “Yes, we do.” He went to the window, turned and looked back at her. “Tell me what’s happened so far.”

“There’s been a delivery.”

“Explain.”

Before she could answer, there was a knock on the office door. “Keeley? You in there?”

“It’s Bridget,” Keeley said to Gus. “Come in,” she said to the door.

She opened the door a few inches and poked her head in. “Sorry, but this”—her hand came through holding a package—“says ‘urgent’.”

Keeley got up, went around the desk, and walked to the door. “Thanks, Bridget.” She took the parcel.

“I’m going into town with Erica,” she said. “See you later.”

“Yes, see you,” she said, unable to take her eyes off the package.

When the door was closed, she looked closely at the address label and muttered, “No stamp.” She tore open the package. It was a paperback novel; a string dangled from the pages. Keeley opened it to the twine-marked page, read quickly, and handed the book to him, her face strained and tight. Angry.

“That delivery I mentioned? You’re holding its twin. The first came a couple of days ago.” She nodded at the book now in his hands. “Read the highlighted part.”

Gus read:

“You’re not listening to me,” he said, pulling the twine tighter around her wrists, tighter again until it rutted deep in her delicate skin.

She ignored the burn of the rope, the pain shooting up her arm. “You hurt Trisha. You shouldn’t have done that. She had nothing to do with any of this. You’re a sick, evil bastard!”

He grabbed her hair, yanked her head back, and put his face so dose to hers his hot breath seared her nostrils. “And you’re the same stupid bitch you were when we started this game.” He gave her fiery red hair another quick, hard yank. Her eyes watered. “And the game is over, baby. You’ve got one last chance. Like they say, three strikes and you’re out.”

“Let me see the packaging,” Gus said. She handed it to him. He expected nothing and that’s what he got: brown wrapping paper from Anywhere, USA, Keeley Farrell written in bold black print, no return address, no postage. The package was hand delivered, which meant whoever was behind it was close by or knew someone who was.

He handed the book and wrapping back to her. “Anything else?”

“No. Just another like this and a phone call. A few nights back, not long after I got here.”

“Same get-out-of-town message?”

She hesitated. “No, that’s the strange thing. It was nothing like that. It was more like he wanted to confirm who I was.”

“A man.”

“Yes. It was late, and I was still cleaning, but whoever he was, he was nearby.” She touched her hair idly. “He knew I was wearing a yellow scarf.”

Gus’s gut knotted and he tugged on his earlobe. “Inconsistent.”

“What do you mean?”

He went to the window, watched Erica and Bridget get into a platinum Altima. “These creeps generally follow a pattern, stick to one means of communication. Big difference between a phone call and highlighted passages in a book.”

"What are you saying?”

“I’m saying they aren’t the same person.”

It was damned awkward, Erica thought, the girl latching on to her, because what she had to do, she had to do alone. So when Bridget said she wanted to buy Keeley some tulip bulbs, Erica seized the moment and lost her in the local weed-and-feed store. Telling her she needed some shampoo, she promised to meet her at the drugstore in half an hour. As if Erica Stark would use drugstore shampoo. Not in this lifetime.

God, this place was a burg!

When she reached the Jasper Inn, she spotted his rental car immediately, directly outside room eleven. She rapped sharply on the door, then turned her key in the lock.

She stepped in.

The day outside wasn’t bright, but still the dimness of the motel room took the shape of a dark tunnel. When her eyes adjusted, she saw him sitting on the edge of the bed, the room neat as a pin, his bag stowed on the stand near the blank television, a book open on the bed beside him.

“You doing okay?” He walked to her and they embraced.

“I’ve been better.”

“Sit down, you look tired.”

She nodded and sat heavily in the chair near the door, grateful to be off her feet. “I’m too damn old for all this spy crap and much too pregnant.” She sighed as she settled back into the chair.

“What’s your sense of things so far?” he asked. “Do you think she knows anything?”

Erica had asked herself the same question, over and over. “Too early to tell but I’m guessing no. Not yet.”

“Christ, Erica, all this time and you’re still guessing?” His annoyance hit the room like a slap, and he started to pace. When he came back to stand over her, she knew he was holding back his temper. He always did.

For Paul, taking over their father’s business was one thing—and bad enough by his standards—but taking on his rages and violent outbursts was another, and completely unacceptable. Her brother, although smart as a sitting judge, worried nonstop and had enough tension bottled up inside that if you shook him, he’d shatter.

“Sorry,” he muttered, then added, “Are you going to tough it out?” He stepped behind her and kneaded her shoulders, his touch surprisingly gentle, considering the stress he was under—they were both under.

Erica thought that question would be better directed at him, but she didn’t go there. “You even have to ask?”

She heard him let out a long, resigned breath. “No, I suppose not.”

Straightening away from his comforting hands, she said, “But we’ve got trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The worst kind.” She patted her tummy, smiled thinly. “Man trouble. A guy named Gus Hammond has moved into Mayday House. And unless pregnancy is making me dumb as well as fat, I’m betting he’s after the same thing we are.”

Paul’s eyes widened. “Why? Who the hell would care, after all these years—other than us?”

She wanted to laugh out loud. Paul was so naive— which was amazing considering the business they were in. “Same reason as us, I suspect. There’s always money to be made from sex and murder, darling brother. You, of all people, should know that.”

“What are you going to do about him?”

“There’s nothing I can do—for now—except keep an eye on him.” Which isn’t the worst job in the world, she thought, when those sinfully deep eyes and his made-for-between-the-sheets body jumped to mind. “If I have to, I’ll take care of him.”

“Which is exactly where it gets dangerous.” He gripped the back of his neck with one hand, pulled his head forward, and resumed pacing. “The more I think about it—particularly now this Hammond guy has shown up—the more I think you should get out of there. This could get rough. We agreed, didn’t we?”—he stared at her, his expression determined—“we
do not
want anyone hurt.”

Erica ignored the last of his spiel, stood, and walked over to him. “No one will get hurt, but I’m staying until we find out what the hell happened in that house. Until we get what we need.” She shuddered theatrically. “Even if that ramshackle old place does creep me out.”

As to the not-wanting-anyone-hurt plan, that would depend on how things went. What they got out of the deal. She touched her tummy. Thanks to their asshole father being a useless, no-good lying bastard, and Paul being so adamant about her not giving up the babies—the hope for a new family line, he called them—she’d have a couple of brats to raise. She sure as hell didn’t intend to do it without nannies—twenty-four/seven. And that meant saving the family business, using any means available. There was a golden egg tucked away in Mayday House, she was sure of it, and one way or another, she’d find it. “Just a few more days. That’s all I need.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“But the babies—”

She restrained from puffing out her annoyance. The man never stopped fussing about them. “The babies will be fine. I’ll be fine. And I’ll make sure we stay
fine
.
” She went back to the chair and eased herself into it “If what that old woman told you was true, there’s money to made here—and it belongs to us.”

“We’re not sure, Erica. The woman sounded half crazy, going on about forgiveness, yammering on about a bunch of religious stuff.” Paul didn’t look convinced, but then Paul never looked convinced. She adored her brother, but he was one cautious cowboy.

“We’re sure enough to keep digging.” When her frustration rose, she tamped it back. “But damn it, there’s enough paper and files in that Victorian nightmare to sink an aircraft carrier. Stacks of them from the attic to the cellar. I’ve already sneezed my way through a barge load and come up empty. If we do have a sister, courtesy of Mayday House, it’s not going to be easy finding her.” Or her goddamn mother. And the way she saw it, the mother was the golden goose.