OVER HER DEAD BODY: The Bliss Legacy - Book 2 (19 page)

He nodded. “The men will be here until four. I’ll be back before they leave.”

“You’re leaving?” She mentally kicked herself for letting her question come out as if she were a wife being deserted for a barmaid.

He gave her that strangely guarded half smile he was so good at, again making her wonder what a full smile would do to his handsome face—and to her. “I don’t do paint, remember?”

“Right.” She brushed a leftover bed-head curl from her eyes. “Can I ask where you’re going?”

“Seattle,” he said. “To see Dinah Marsden.”

Keeley’s heart quickened. “Do you think she’ll tell you anything about Christiana?”

“Knowing Dinah”—he shook his head—“I can’t say. I’ll do what I can.”

Keeley had only a moment to wonder what that might be, before two more men showed up at her still-open door. “This Mayday House?” one asked. She nodded.

“We’ve got your dishwasher.”

Keeley shot a surprised look toward Gus, having no doubt at all who was behind all this charity.

“I don’t do dishes, either.” He grabbed his leather jacket from the coat stand. “See you later.” With that he was gone.

When Gus arrived at Dinah’s door, it was after eleven. Cassie stood on the other side, her bag and coat in hand. She gave him a quick, tight embrace. “We’ve missed you.” She gestured with her head toward Dinah, who was a couple of feet behind her. “Both of us.”

He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

“How come you always smell so good?” she asked, smiling.

“You flirting with me, Cassie?”

“As if it would do me any good—not to mention it would cost me my job.” She cast a glance Dinah’s way.

“Damn right it would. Now for God’s sake, woman, get going, will you? Gus and I need to talk.”

Cassie grimaced, winked at Gus, and started to put on her coat. He took it from her and helped her into it. Then, gripping her shoulders, he whispered close to her ear, “It’s Hagan who’ll cost you your job, Cassie. If you’re smart, you’ll realign your loyalties.” She gasped and spun, her mouth slack with shock. “Go,” he said quietly.

She went and Gus faced Dinah. No embrace from this quarter, just cold censure.

“You screwing the nun?” she asked, arms crossed, one finger tapping.

“She’s not a nun. Not anymore. And if I did get that lucky, you’d be the last to know.” He took off his jacket and tossed it on the sofa. “So how about we start over? How are you, Dinah?”

She walked to him, put her hands on his chest, and looked up at him. “I’d be better if you’d take me to bed.” She started to open his belt buckle. “I’ve been wet since you called me yesterday.”

“Not going to happen.” He stopped her hand, raised it to his mouth. “What brings me here is strictly business.” He kissed her knuckles, then released her hand. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

She stared at him a moment, then laughed. “You should give lessons in how to say no, Gus. You do it so well.”

He sat on the couch, leaned back, and slid his eyes over her perfect figure, shining skin, perfectly tousled hair—her work in progress body. “You don’t make it easy.”

“And you’re a good liar.” She turned her back on him. “Want a drink?”

“It’s barely eleven. I’ll pass.”

She poured herself something made of champagne and orange juice and joined him, taking a place at the opposite end of the long sofa. She sipped from her drink and set it on the table. “Tell me about the nun—excuse me—ex-nun.”

“She’s Mary Weaver’s godchild. She was born in Mayday and grew up there. She has no intention of leaving.”

“Born there?” She raised her brows. “You’re sure?”

“So she says.”

Her gaze flickered as if something registered. “That’s it. That’s all you know.”

“Yeah, which is a lot less than you do, obviously.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Tell me why you’ve supported that place all these years.” Gus watched her carefully and caught the first nervous drop of her gaze, the instant bold rally.

“I told you,” she said. “Mary Weaver was a friend.”

“You’ve given millions over the years. Hell of an expensive friend.”

She picked up her spiked orange juice and sipped. “You’ve been digging where I haven’t asked you to dig, Gus.”

“I’m a curious guy.” He took the glass from her hand, set it back on the table. “What’s going on here, Dinah? What the hell is Hagan after?”

After a long pause, she let out an irritated breath and got up. “You want to know about Mary and me, I’ll tell you. But it’s a damn boring story.” She eyed him. “I was born in Erinville.”

He shot up a brow. “You told me you were born in New York. That you hated the West Coast.”

“The last part’s true.” She looked out the suite’s window at Seattle’s stunning autumn day and shuddered. “Bloody rain forest.”

“Go on.”

“I met Mary when I was … I don’t know, maybe eleven or twelve. I guess she would have been late-twenties, thirties.” She shrugged. “Her Dad had died the year before, and she’d just lost her mother.” She stopped, then smiled without mirth.

“Something funny?”

“No, I’m just getting to the dysfunctional childhood part and wondering how boring to make it. I think I’ll go for the condensed version.” She dropped the smile. “I was an only child who’d come late into my parents’ lives. Looking back, I don’t think they knew what to do with me, and I didn’t help.” Her shrug was casual, her expression pained. “I was the kind of kid who did what I wanted, when I wanted. Not easy. All of which”—she looked at him with a challenging smile—“probably comes as no surprise to you.”

She was right, but he let it go. Waited.

“By the time I met Mary, I was drifting around Erinville on my own. Happy enough to be left alone and get the hell away from that stupid farm my parents ran. Chickens and pigs. Can you believe it? God, what an awful place!” Her brows knit, and for a moment she was lost in her own thoughts. “As a family, we were like three sick people forced together in a hospital ward.”

“How did you meet Mary Weaver?”

“In church. Or, to be more accurate, the St. Ivan’s church front yard. They were having some kind of sale, old things, clothes, home baking, stuff like that. Fundraising crap.” She smiled at him, as if the memory amused her. “I stole a pie.”

When she didn’t go on, he urged, “And?”

“It was Mary’s pie. She saw me take it, and she followed me. Found me eating it behind the church in the old graveyard.” She paused. “I thought she’d be mad—and before she could say anything, I swore at her and threw the pie at her shoes.” She winced, then smiled. “Made a hell of a mess.”

“What did she do?”

“Nothing.” Dinah picked up her glass and went to the bar to refill it, this time with straight orange juice. She returned to her seat on the couch. “Then she invited me to dinner.” She again looked amused. “She thought I was hungry.”

“Weren’t you?”

“No, the pie looked good, and I wanted it.” She smiled. “Like I wanted you when I saw you trying to hustle yesterday’s prepackaged sandwiches from that gas attendant.” Her gaze raked him.

“I
was
hungry.”
And so was Josh.

She took in a breath. “I’ll never forget that night, taking you and Josh home. You were so gorgeous, you took my breath away.”

“I didn’t come here to talk about me or Josh. I came to talk about Mary.” He hated thinking about those days. The gas guy had said no to the sandwich deal, so Gus had said yes to Dinah’s sex-for-money deal and gotten into her dark blue Mercedes. He wasn’t the first of Dinah’s young men, but it turned out he was her last. The next day that same Mercedes took him, and Josh, to something resembling security—and protected him from a bogus murder charge that had hung over him like stink.

He shoved the past aside. “If you don’t talk to me, Dinah, you’ll be talking to Hagan, or some PI he’s hired to make mincemeat out of your life. Take your choice.”

“What I’ve told you is about it. I had dinner with Mary that night. And after that, I started to hang out at that big old empty house of hers.” She shook her head.”Weird, too, because Mary was such a prig. And I was—-well, let’s say I was anything but. But we got along. She was like a big sister in some ways. She might have been a pain in the ass a lot of the time— especially when she got preachy on me, but I liked her. And she liked me.” Her expression touched on wistful. “About the time she started taking in unwed mothers, battered wives, and the like and warning me about the perils of”—she made quote marks in the air—“‘immoral behavior and the sins of the flesh,’ I took off to somewhere I could find exactly that.”

“How old were you?”

“I don’t know … early teens maybe.” She shuddered dramatically, then got up from the sofa. “God, I couldn’t wait to get out of that awful town.” She looked down at him, her eyes curious. “A story not unlike your own, I’m guessing?”

He’d never told Dinah about his life before their gas station meeting, and he didn’t intend to. It was nothing at all like hers. Hell, he and April would have traded for her boring existence in a small town in a heartbeat. “Did you keep in touch with her?”

“Off and on. I’d call, she’d try to talk me into coming back, I’d say ‘no way.’ It got tiresome, so I stopped calling. Erinville was ancient history to me. I had no wish to revisit it.”

“And the money. When did you start sending the money?”

She stroked her throat, took a pause as if to think. “When I had some. My first husband was both old and generous.” She walked back to the bar but didn’t pour herself another drink. “I figured I owed her.”

“You owed her?” he repeated. “That’s it? Somewhere in your twenties, years after leaving Erinville, you up and decide to start sending Mary Weaver money—lots of money. That’s what you want me to believe? What you expect Hagan to believe?”

“Believe whatever you like. I do and it works for me.” Dinah shrugged her cashmere-covered shoulders. “But that’s it, lover. No big conspiracy, no under-the-table dealings, nothing—”

“No illegitimate daughter.”

She stared at him as if he’d spilled maggots from his mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Gus rose from the sofa, walked toward her. “Dinah, you were young, you made a mistake. It happens. Your best bet is to level with me—before Hagan finds out.”

“Hagan!” She spit out the name. “So that’s his game, is it? Concoct some miserable story to get back at me, for taking his goddamn money.” She raised her chin and glared at him. “And if I did have a daughter, what of it? It won’t change anything except to give a few people something to chatter about. In a couple of months it will go away.” Wrapping her arms around herself, her eyes going hard and dark, she said, “Hagan can go to hell.”

“He probably will,” Gus said.

“Besides, if I did have a daughter, which I’m not admit—”

“Dinah, for Christ’s sake, cut the crap, will you?”

“If I did have a daughter,"
she repeated. “She’ll never be found. Never.”

Gus stared at the arrogant, stubborn woman in front of him and took a shot to the gut, equal parts guilt and sympathy. Who the hell was he to poke at someone else’s facade when his own was black glass? For Dinah, image, saving face, meant everything. It defined her. He’d always known that behind her beautiful face, beneath the luxury homes and lavish lifestyle, lay the soggy ground of the path she’d taken to get them.

Dinah was one big con.

It took one to know one. He’d trodden that soggy ground himself, and he wasn’t her judge, but like it or not, Dinah was the route to his sister. He needed to know what she knew—and he needed to know it now.

“Well, baby,” he said, “the thing is that daughter you ‘don’t have’ has been found—and she’s found Mayday House.” He ran a finger along his scar, took a moment. “And she’s looking to find out about her mother—”

Dinah’s eyes, stark and shot with fear, met his.

“—and why Mary Weaver killed her birth father.”

Mace pulled the truck to the shoulder about a hundred yards up the road from Mayday, got out of the car, and propped the hood open. He made a show of studying the motor.

He glanced around at the flat farmland surrounding Erinville. Gusting out a breath, he cursed. He was fresh out of patience. The blond had left—at least that was one down, but the Erica bitch hadn’t shown her face all day.

It was Stark’s ass he was after.

Damn country, gave him no cover at all. He’d have no more than half an hour to tinker under this hood before either some do-gooder insisted on helping him, or got suspicious. He didn’t want either. He’d already switched up between two rental cars, and spent hours risking his ass, watching for Stark.

This time he’d been smart enough to rent an open pickup, the most innocent vehicle on the road, but even that wouldn’t hold them off forever. Country people were born nosy.

He checked his watch. Three forty-five.

He watched Mayday from under the protection of the hood. A silver Jag came from the opposite direction and turned in the driveway. Hammond. He didn’t knock, Mace noticed, just walked right on in. Right at home.
Not for long.

The door was barely closed when it opened again and three guys came out and piled into the white van that had been there all day. When it lumbered out of the driveway, the door opened again.

Bingo!

Mace stood back from the hood, wiped his hands idly on a cotton cloth, and watched Erica Stark ease her bulk into a platinum Altima. Damn woman was big as a house. A looker, though.

She headed back the way Hammond had come. Mace slammed the hood down, tossed the towel onto the passenger seat, and followed.

Erica was hot, exhausted, and irritated. She hadn’t intended to come back to the Jasper Inn so soon, but to add to her stress, Paul was second-guessing every damn thing. Going on about how they’d find the money some other way—maybe get out of the business entirely. He’d flipped to negative, a bad place to be.

Yes, they’d made some crummy low-grossing films, the internet was cutting their market … yada, yada. So what? All they needed was one hot project, some solid foreign sales—which she’d already lined up, thank you very much—and they were back in business. She was going to make another
Getting A Long,
rake in a bundle.