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“Why?”
“My brother told me all about you.”
“Nothing flattering, I’m sure,” he said lightly. His voice lacked the California softness—she couldn’t quite place his accent, which meant he was probably from the Midwest. It was the only clue that he didn’t belong in the sharklike environment where Jackson Meyer thrived.
“Depends how you define flattering,” Jilly said, wishing there was a way she could slip into her shoes without him noticing. He was already too tall as it was—she didn’t need the added disadvantage of being barefoot.
What had Dean called him? A pretty boy with the soul of a snake? It seemed accurate. He was pretty, indeed, though he lacked the feminine softness that usually went with such extraordinary good looks. She couldn’t tell whether he was gay or not, and she didn’t particularly want to know. Either way, he was strictly off-limits. Anyone connected with her father was.
Still, he was astonishingly easy on the eyes. Everything about him was perfect: the slightly shaggy, sun-bleached hair, the Armani suit, the Egyptian cotton shirt unbuttoned at the collar, exposing his tanned neck. He had a long, strong-looking body, like a runner. His eyes were hooded, watching her, so she couldn’t see either their color or their expression, but she had little doubt they were bright blue and frankly acquisitive.
She bent down and shoved her feet into her shoes, no longer caring that he was watching her, no longer caring that her silk shell probably showed too much cleavage. He wouldn’t be the type to be excited by cleavage. “I appreciate that you finally got around to me,” she said, “but it’s my father I wanted to see, not one of his minions.”
“I haven’t been called a minion in years,” he said with a drawl.
She straightened to her full height. Still a lot shorter than he was, but her high-heeled shoes made her feel less vulnerable. “Where is he?”
“Gone, I’m afraid.”
“Then I’ll just have to go over to the Bel Air house….”
“Out of the country. He and Melba left for a short vacation in Mexico. I’m sorry but I have no way of getting in touch with him.”
“I can see you’re devastated,” Jilly muttered, not caring if she sounded rude.
He didn’t seem to care, either. His smile was cool, unnerving. “Look, I’m here to help. If you’ve got some sort of legal problem I’ll be happy to look into it. A traffic ticket? Some problem with your ex-husband? The legal department can take care of things….”
“Can the legal department get rid of an interloper who stole my brother’s job?”
His eyes opened at that, and she got a shock. They weren’t blue at all, they were a dazzling emerald green. So green she figured he was probably wearing tinted contact lenses. And they weren’t acquisitive. They were calmly assessing.
“Is that what your brother told you? That I stole his job?” The idea seemed to amuse him, and Jilly’s anger burned even brighter.
“Not just his job. His father,” she said in a voice as cool as his.
“His father? Not yours? Jackson Meyer isn’t a sentimental man. I don’t think he gives a good goddamn about me or your brother. He just wants the job done well. I do it for him.”
“Do you?” she said in a silken voice. “And what else do you do for him?”
“Cold-blooded murder, hiding the bodies, anything he asks,” Coltrane responded offhandedly. “What are you doing for dinner?”
“I believe it,” Jilly muttered, and then his question sank in. “What did you say?”
“I said, what are you doing for dinner? It’s after seven and I’m hungry, and you look like you have at least another hour left in you of berating me for ruining your baby brother’s life. Let me take you to dinner and you can rip me apart in comfort.”
She was speechless at the sheer gall of the man. “I don’t want to go out to dinner with you,” she said, flustered.
“We can order something in, then. Your father keeps a caterer on call twenty-four hours a day.”
“And he’s not my baby brother. He’s only two years younger than I am,” she added inconsequentially.
“Trust me,” Coltrane said, “he’s definitely your baby brother.” There was no missing the faintly mocking admiration in his voice, but it only made Jilly angrier. She’d failed, her father was out of reach. As usual.
“I’ll talk to my father when he gets back,” she said coolly, reaching for her purse. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Coltrane.”
“Coltrane will do,” he said. “And you haven’t finished with my help. You can’t get out of here without me.”
“What do you mean?”
“The place has a top-of-the-line security system. No one can get in or out without the code once it’s past seven. It’s seven-fifteen, and I don’t think you have the code, do you?”
“No.”
“And where did you park your car? In the garage in the building, right? There’s no other place to park around here. You won’t be able to get in there without a different code. If you want to get home tonight you’re going to need my help.”
She would have said this was all some evil plan on the part of fate, but she didn’t tend to think fate had that much interest in one Jilly Meyer. She stared at Coltrane, her eyes narrowed as she considered her alternatives. She could call Dean, but he often ignored the telephone. Besides, he might be too drunk to answer, and she certainly didn’t want him driving to pick her up. God knew where Rachel-Ann was. And it had been so long since Jilly had been to the Meyer building that she no longer knew anyone who worked there who might be able to help her, with the exception of the draconian Mrs. Afton, and even Coltrane was preferable to the gorgon.
“I’d like to leave,” she said in a steady voice. “Now.”
“And you’d like my help? Pretty please?”
“Yes,” she said, hoping there was a special place in hell for men like him.
“My pleasure.” He flicked off the lights, plunging them into unexpected darkness just as she started toward him, and she almost slammed into him in her hurry to get out of there. Some blessed radar stopped her seconds before she did, but she was close enough to brush against his jacket, to feel his body heat in the enclosed area. It was unnerving.
But she had learned years ago not to let her unease show, and she stopped, following him at a more reasonable pace, determined to keep her distance. Trust Jackson to put her at a disadvantage, she thought sourly. Not only did he ignore his daughter, but he sent The Enemy to deal with her. If she hadn’t been 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. I’d take it slow, I wouldn’t strip her gears.”
Her expression was priceless. “Mr. Coltrane, if you drove her with the same deftness that you’re using in coming on to me then she’d stall out before you could even put her into gear,” she said. “You’re not driving my car or me. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” he drawled. A week, he figured. A week before she’d lie down for him, two weeks for the car. “I don’t suppose you’d give me a ride home.”
“Where’s your car?”
“In the shop. I was supposed to take one of the company cars but I got distracted up there and forgot to get the keys.”
“You can go back up and get them.”
He shook his head. “The door has a time lock. Once the last person leaves no one can get in until morning.”
“What the hell does my father keep up there, the Fort Knox gold?” she said irritably.
“Just private files. Your father’s involved in some highly complex, sensitive business arrangements. It wouldn’t do for just anyone to walk in and have access to them.”
“Just anyone like his daughter? Who’s obviously far too simpleminded to understand the great big complexity of his sensitive business affairs,” she mocked him.
He ignored that. “I live near Brentwood. It’s not that far out of your way.”
“How do you know where I’m going?”
“You said you were going home. You live in that old mausoleum on Sunset with your brother and sister. I’m right on your way.”
“Call a taxi.”
“My cell phone’s dead.”
“Use mine.” She was rummaging in her purse now, obviously determined to get rid of him. A moment later she pulled out a phone, holding it out to him.
“Why do I make you so uncomfortable?” he said, making no effort to take it.
“You don’t,” she said. “I have a date.”
Two lies, he thought, and she wasn’t very good at lying. Unlike the rest of her family. Dean Meyer seemed almost oblivious to the truth, whereas his father used it as he saw fit, mostly to manipulate people.
But Jilly Meyer couldn’t lie with a straight face, and that was oddly, stupidly endearing. Coltrane wasn’t about to let that weaken his resolve.
“Then you’ll probably want to go home and change before your big night out, and my apartment’s on your way,” he said in his most reasonable voice.
“Get in the damned car.” She shoved her phone back into her purse and headed around toward the driver’s side. He wondered whether she’d chicken out, try to drive off without unlocking the passenger door to let him in. She wouldn’t get far—the garage doors wouldn’t open without the right code.
But she slid behind the wheel, leaned over and unlocked the door, pulling back when he climbed in beside her. The Corvette was beautifully restored, perfectly maintained, and he had a sudden moment of sheer acquisitiveness. He wanted this car.
He didn’t want a car exactly like this. He could afford to buy what he wanted on the exorbitant salary Jackson Meyer was currently paying him, and in L.A. you could find anything for a price. He didn’t want a 1966 Corvette. He wanted the one that belonged to Jilly Meyer.
She was strapping the metal-buckled seat belt across her lap, and she threw him a pointed look, but he made no effort to find his. “I like to live dangerously,” he said. Her short skirt had hiked up even higher in the low-slung cockpit of the car, but he’d decided the time for ogling was past. She’d gotten the initial message, he could back off now. At least for the time being.
