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

Because if it was true hard work was good for the soul, she needed all she could get.

Gus Hammond paced the plush carpet in bare feet, his white linen slacks wrinkled from the heat, his black shirt still crisp from Rodina’s meticulous ironing—his state of mind somewhere in between. He used both hands to shove his thick, sleek hair—nearly as black as his shirt—behind his ears. When this was over, the first thing he’d do was get it cut and buy some goddamned jeans. The
GQ
model look, always Dinah’s choice, was history.

He poured himself a JD neat and walked to the window, a wall of glass twenty feet high and probably three times as long. He stared for a moment at the horizon, a sharp sunlit line where a diamond-bright ocean met a shimmering blue sky, a sky deepening slowly into early evening.

Gus glanced down at the view of South Beach far below, the old neon-lit hotels; the blue of the Colony, the hot pink of the Boulevard. Throngs of people cut through the heat, out for a night of salsa and sex—the women wearing barely enough to stay legal. Miami Beach, where the perfect body hunted the perfect checkbook—and generally found one.

As he had.

From his vantage point, the street action was so far below, the scurrying people were ant-sized, too insignificant to matter. Exactly how Dinah liked them.

The penthouse, Dinah’s latest acquisition and decorating work in process, boasted the best views in Miami. A guy could see forever, if there was anything out there he wanted to see.

He drank his whiskey slowly, thinking how he couldn’t wait to leave this place behind, get back to Seattle where he could do what needed to be done. Hands on, goal in his sight line, with the added bonus of having Josh close by again. Damn, he missed the kid.

“Mr. Hammond?”

He turned. “Uh-huh.”

Rodina, the housekeeper, had taken a step or two into the room and stood silently with her hands clasped in front of her. “Mrs. Marsden is on her way up. She’d like a gin and tonic,” Rodina said. “I’d do it, but she said—” She looked momentarily timid.

“She said, tell Gus to do it.”

She nodded.

He moved automatically to the bar. “Thanks, Rodina.”

She’d barely left the room when the elevator doors opened and Dinah Marsden entered. Tall, slender, and attractive in the high-toned, casually sophisticated way she favored, she looked at least a decade or two younger than her fifty-eight years, the feat a combination of good genes, a rigorous fitness regimen, and the best cosmetic surgery money could buy. In Dinah’s case, her money bought a lot.

Oh, yeah, and sex. Dinah believed great sex, and lots of it, was the real fountain of youth.

The sex was Gus’s contribution, or had been, until he’d developed a chronic headache.

Dinah dropped her tote and a couple of logoed bags on the pure white leather sofa. The massive room had two colors, white and a blue so pale it barely registered as a contrast. The bags, one silver colored, the other black and gold, slid from the sofa to the carpet like a dark stain. Dinah ignored them and walked toward Gus.

Taking his face in her hands, she kissed him hungrily, and he let her, out of habit, enfolding her in his arms. She pulled back, touched his mouth with a long crimson nail. “I’ve missed you, baby,” she whispered, running a finger along the jagged scar that ran from below his ear, along his jawline, almost to his chin.

He didn’t bother mentioning it was her call to spend the whole goddamn day at the spa. No doubt because she knew what was coming. He picked up her G&T from the bar and handed it to her. “We need to talk,” he said, setting down his glass.

She immediately looked wary, then kicked off her shoes and took a seat on the sofa. “I can think of other things that are a lot more fun.” She undid the top two buttons of her shirt, stretched out her long tan legs, and looked at him from under her lashes.

“Kittenish isn’t your thing, Dinah.”

“I know, but it was worth a try.” She laughed then, pulled her legs up under her, and took a sip of her drink. “God, it’s miserable out there today. Hades hot and the humidity’s thick enough to drown in.” She took another drink “Thank God for air conditioning. Did Peter call about the tapestry for the bedroom?”

“No idea. I didn’t answer the phone.”

“Why not?”

“I was busy.” He took the chair across from her, leaned back, and perched one ankle on the opposite knee. He gripped it tightly instead of gritting his teeth at her latest attempt to divert the conversation, escape the inevitable.

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?”

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.