Текст книги "Legacy"

Автор книги: Jeanne Stein

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Legacy
Anna Strong Chronicles – 4
by
Jeanne C. Stein

To my first writing partner and good friend, Miyoko Hensley, slaying her own demons with style and grace

To family, those related by blood and those related by the heart

To the writing community, critiquers, publishers, booksellers

And to readers, those who attend conference panels and those who write to say they love my books and those who simply buy the books and remain anonymous—

Anna and I thank you.

CHAPTER 1

WHEN I WAS HUMAN, I HATED THE HOLIDAYS. Hated the inescapable dirge of mindless Christmas songs. Hated being force-fed hope and joy. Hated the contrived joviality. To me, Christmas was a stark reminder that in a few days, my brother would be dead yet another year, killed in a senseless accident a few days after “the hap-happiest time of the year.”

Yet here I am this mid-December afternoon fourteen years later, a big dumb grin on my face, enduring a crush of smelly humanity for the chance to help my niece pick out a gift for my mother.

My niece.

I can say that now without the mental quotation marks around “niece.”

In a couple of months, Trish has become as much a member of my family as I am. Maybe more so since she’s human and I’m not.

I’m a vampire.

Another thing I have come to be able to admit (only to myself, naturally) without an internal shudder of disgust or shame.

I’m a vampire.

I accept it, like being blond or having green eyes. I wasn’t born a vampire. I was made one. I’ve adapted to the reality of the situation, and truth be told, can forget about it for, oh, minutes at a time.

“Aunt Anna?”

I love the sound of that. I can’t help myself. I respond by giving the beautiful, healthy thirteen-year-old girl at my side a hug.

She pulls away, but she’s grinning. “What was that for?”

“No reason. Did you decide?”

We’re in Horton Plaza, at Tiffany’s, a selection of earrings spread on a velvet mat in front of us. I am standing to the left of Trish, out of mirror range, since casting no reflection is one of the drawbacks of being a vampire who lives among mortals. I can also watch Trish unobserved and marvel at how far she’s come in the last three months.

When I first met her, Trish Delaney was a runaway. Her mother, Carolyn, showed up at my parents’ house one night and announced that Trish was their grandchild. Carolyn, whom we hadn’t seen since my brother died, concocted an elaborate story about not finding out she was pregnant until after my brother’s death and being too scared to approach my parents for fear they would react the same way hers had—demand she have an abortion. She came to us then because she was afraid Trish was in real trouble—involved in drugs and murder—and had nowhere else to turn. She also came because she knew what I did for a living. I’m a bounty hunter by trade and expert at finding people.

And we bought it.

Turns out, most of the story was a lie. Carolyn was the one who turned Trish over to her abusers, for money. She’s dead now, and the dirtbag directly responsible for what happened to Trish is dead, too. Three others are awaiting trial. We’re hoping they’ll plead out so Trish won’t have to relive the horror. Trish understands that they may not.

But for now, here she is—a long-legged thirteen-year-old teetering on the verge of womanhood who can smile and laugh and feel secure in the knowledge she has finally found a family that she does not have to fear. If the worst happens and she has to testify at a trial, she knows we’ll be right there with her. In the meantime, we’re going to enjoy the holidays.

As a family.

Trish has an earring in each hand. “It’s between these two. Which do you like better?”

One is a knot of gold, the size of a dime. The other, a delicate filigree hoop.

“The hoops. Mom likes hoops.”

Trish holds the chosen one up to her own ear and checks the mirror. “I like these, too.” She hands the earrings over to the salesperson. “We’ll take these, please.”

The saleswoman is a thirtysomething sleek-haired brunette wearing a shade of red lipstick that would brand me as a tart. On her, it looks regal. She smiles and slips the tray with our discarded choices behind the counter and nods to me.

I properly interpret the nod but defer to Trish with a shrug. “My niece is buying.”

One carefully shaped eyebrow lifts the tiniest fraction. “And how would you like to pay, miss?” she asks Trish.

Trish returns the smile. “Cash.”

The saleswoman nods and turns to ring up the purchase.

“Are you sure you have enough cash?” I whisper to Trish. “Because I can—”

Trish’s face glows. “I want to do this myself,” she says. “Without Grandma and Grandpa Strong, I don’t know where I’d be right now. I want to show them how much I appreciate everything they’ve done for me.”

I give her shoulder a squeeze. Unfortunately, I do know where she’d be. Either with a truly miserable bitch, her real grandmother, or in a foster home. Hard to say which of those alternatives would have been worse.

Which is why I made the decision I did. Neither Trish nor my parents know that she is not really my brother’s child. DNA tests confirmed it, tests that I’ve buried. I’ll never be sure if Carolyn knew the truth or not. It doesn’t matter. Trish is where she belongs and if I have any say in the matter, where she’ll stay.

The saleswoman is back. “That will be $297.80,” she tells Trish.

Trish grins at me, pulls three one-hundred-dollar bills out of her wallet and hands them over. About the only good thing Carolyn Delaney did in her last months on earth was to take out an insurance policy naming Trish as beneficiary. Maybe she sensed that the mess she’d gotten them in would not end well. Maybe it was a pathetic attempt to tell Trish she was sorry when that end came. In any case, most of the money went into a college fund, but my parents thought Trish should use some of it on herself.

What Trish has done is use most of it on gifts for her new family.

The only thing nicer than Trish looking so happy that she can pay for the earrings herself is the expression on her face when the saleswoman comes back with one of those delicious blue Tiffany signature boxes. She slips the box into a matching bag and hands it to Trish along with her change.

Trish is beaming.

I feel like I must be beaming, too. At least until we ease our way back into the throng circling Horton Plaza. The shoppers have the look of hungry wolves. More desperation than inspiration on these less-than-happy faces. You’d think there were only two shopping days left before the big day instead of two weeks.

This many pulsing jugulars makes my own anxiety start to peak. The hair prickles on the back of my neck.

Time for a break. “I would kill for a cup of coffee,” I tell Trish, when in fact what I’m feeling is I’ll kill if I don’t get a cup of coffee.

“Starbucks?” Trish asks. “Or do you want to try the coffee bar at that new restaurant?”

Since that new restaurant belongs to someone I’d give up drinking coffee to avoid—my business partner’s ex-girlfriend Gloria—it takes me a millisecond to respond. “Starbucks.”

Definitely, Starbucks.

We reverse directions and head toward Broadway.

Usually, my senses are on high alert when I’m in a crowd. It’s natural and instinctive. The animal side of my nature scans the air like bug antennae for any sign of danger, for any vibration of impending doom.

This time, the internal radar fails miserably.

My breath catches in my throat.

It’s suddenly right in front of us.

As if conjured up from my worst nightmare, she’s slipped like a cockroach right past all my defenses.

I clutch Trish’s shoulders, ready to propel her in the opposite direction.

Too late.

A hand reaches out and stops me with a firm grip.

Trish is smiling, unaware of the peril.

“Hey, Gloria,” she says. “David didn’t tell us you were back in town.”

CHAPTER 2

I STARE. GLORIA IS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN TOWN. She’s supposed to be in Los Angeles or New York, doing whatever the hell supermodels do.

Shit.

Gloria aims her thousand-watt smile at Trish. “He doesn’t know yet,” she says. Then she puts a finger over her lips. “I want to surprise him so if you see him first, don’t spoil it, okay?”

Trish nods that the secret is safe. “We were going for coffee. Want to join us?”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

With all the obnoxious, rude teenagers in the world, my family has to end up with a nice, polite one. My insides curl into a ball.

I’m saved by a shake of Gloria’s auburn mane. “I can’t, honey. I do need a word with your aunt. Do you mind?”

Trish nods again. When Gloria doesn’t immediately launch into whatever it is she needs to tell me, Trish accepts that it’s one of those adult things and moves off to look at some decorations in a nearby store window.

I watch Trish, then turn reluctantly to fix my attention on my least favorite person, human or otherwise, in the entire world.

Gloria Estrella is a model and an actress. A well-known model and actress. Now, as we stand here in Horton Plaza, life seems to shift into slow motion as those passing around us cast one look at her and falter in their steps. Even though half-obscured behind oversize sunglasses, women recognize the heart-shaped face, the huge almond eyes, the artfully tussled mane of shoulder-length hair. Men recognize the tits and long legs. She has on jeans and a cashmere sweater and three-inch Ferragamo pumps, but men know what’s underneath. They see the Victoria’s Secret model prancing on TV ads in thong underwear and a push-up bra every damned day.

I hate her.

She hates me right back. Usually, we avoid each other like I avoid garlic. She’s noxious to my system.

Which makes her desire to talk to me that much more puzzling. As far as I know, we have nothing to talk about. Gloria used to date my partner, David. Used to, being the operative phrase. Gloria hasn’t seen David in two months. I had begun to believe I’d never have to see her again. It was a wonderful, liberating fantasy.

I shift from one foot to the other. “How did you know I was here?”

Gloria slips the glasses off her face. “I saw you in Tiffany’s.”

Terrific. Remind me never to shop in Horton Plaza again. “What do you want? Can’t be about David. Last I heard you’d broken up.”

She tilts her head. “Why would you think that?”

“Why? Maybe because David was shot and you didn’t bother to call to see how he was doing.”

She drops her eyes. “Oh, that.”

Oh, that? David was laid up for two fucking months. He had been shot by a psycho hit man who held us responsible because we got his guy into custody before he could make good on a contract. Gloria didn’t call or come by once during David’s convalescence. I know. I took care of him myself.

“I have to talk to David. In fact, I planned to go by your office this afternoon. I can explain it to him. I can make it up to him.”

Her faltering tone implies she’s not as confident as she pretends. Good.

I narrow my eyes at her. “I wouldn’t bother if I were you. David hasn’t mentioned you once. I think he’s over you. Finally. For good.”

She bristles at that and the bitch shines through. “Don’t kid yourself, Anna. David still loves me. He’s left me dozens of messages. Got one this morning, in fact. Do you want to know what he said?”

I’m shocked at this bit of news. So shocked my traitorous body reacts with an involuntary start. David never tried to contact Gloria when I was around. I can’t believe he went behind my back. A flush of anger creeps up my neck.

Gloria catches the reaction and smiles.

Damn her. “Whatever you have to say, make it fast. Trish and I have more shopping to do.”

She looks over at Trish. “She’s a beautiful girl. Do you think she’d be interested in modeling?”

After what Trish has been through, the last thing my family wants is to have her exposed yet again. There are two reasons I don’t jump down Gloria’s throat right now for suggesting it. Trish really isbeautiful enough to be a model, and Gloria doesn’t know what happened to her. Hopefully, she never will.

It takes effort, but I moderate my anger and reply gruffly, “She’s only a freshman in high school. She’s too young to be subjected to that kind of life.”

My tone clearly implies that what I mean by “that kind of life” is nothing good and that it’s directed at Gloria, but surprisingly, she doesn’t bite. In fact, she doesn’t pursue the subject or the insult.

The muscles at the base of my neck tighten. This is not Gloria. I study her more closely. For the first time, I notice frown lines at the corners of her mouth and faint dark circles under her eyes. Through the makeup, her perfect face is shadowed by what? Worry? Grief?

I stifle the urge to clap my hands and do a happy dance.

However, doing that would imply I care. The truth is, if it wasn’t for what she said, that David has been in touch with her, I’d be out of here in a heartbeat. As much as I dislike her, I care for David more. He finds something in Gloria that touches him. I can’t see it but evidently, he’s not over her the way I’d thought.

“You didn’t stop me to talk about Trish. What do you want?”

Her gaze pulls away from Trish. “I need your help.”

“With what? Your Christmas shopping? If you think I’m going to waste my time helping you get back in David’s good graces, you’d better think again. I have more important things to do.”

Gloria doesn’t respond. She shifts uneasily from one foot to the other, her hands in fists at her sides, her eyes darting over the crowd like a rabbit ready to bolt at the approach of a fox. When she looks at me again, there’s no mistaking the emotion clouding her eyes.

“I may be in trouble,” she says finally. “Big trouble.”

In that instant, I know what she says is true. Her irritation and anger are gone, swept away by a more powerful emotion. An emotion my vampire nature can pick out of the air like a bad smell.

Fear.

CHAPTER 3

FEAR UNLEASHES THE SAME REACTIONS IN A VAM-PIRE that it does in humans. Flight or fight. Only in vampires, those reactions are exaggerated. Right now, the vibe rolling off Gloria makes me want to get as far away from her as I can. I haven’t heard Gloria’s story. I don’t know or care what her problem is. From what I’m picking up, my instincts are screaming that to be standing with her in this public place is dangerous.

Not for me.

For Trish, one of the humans I care about more than my own life.

I listen to my instincts.

I hold up a hand. “I won’t do this with Trish here. I’m taking her home. I’ll be back in an hour. You want to meet at the office? Or at David’s?”

She shakes her head. “I have to go to the restaurant. Will you meet me there?”

“Should I call David?” It galls me to ask, but David just recovered from one bad situation. If there’s another brewing, he damn well should know.

“No.” The answer is abrupt. “I need to talk to you alone first.”

If I’d been alone, I would have grilled her about that. I’m not alone. Without another word, I turn away from her and beckon to Trish.

Trish raises an eyebrow when I explain that I’ll have to take her home. Still, she doesn’t argue or complain. Not the way a “normal” teenager would react to disappointment. Trish’s life has been far from normal, and the therapist she’s been seeing says it will be a while before she can express any negative feelings. She’s still too afraid we’ll send her away.

It makes me incredibly sad.

On the ride back to my parents, I let her prattle on with a steady stream of excited, cheerful banter about the coming holidays. I join in, but my mind is on Gloria. I’ve never seen her like that—subdued, solemn, scared.

Whatever’s going on with her must be big.

Trish leaves her packages with me and starts up the steps to the house. My mom is at the door to let her in before she reaches it. Mom’s dressed in sweats, her hair pulled back, a flour-stained apron tucked around her slender frame. She waves a jaunty hand and gestures for me to come in.

For a moment, I’m plunged into the depths of a memory. My brother and I coming back from a shopping trip and finding Mom in the kitchen, wearing a holiday apron decorated with another smear of flour, the sweet aroma of sugar cookies filling the house.

I suddenly want more than anything to join them. An ache in the middle of my chest, a visceral, physical longing, is strong enough to make me reconsider my promise to Gloria. What kind of trouble could she be in?

The kind of trouble that brought her to her worst enemy to ask for help.

Reluctantly, I roll down the passenger-side window and explain that I can’t join them because I have an appointment. I see them in the rearview mirror, Mom and Trish, their arms entwined as I pull away.

To deny me this time with my family makes my resentment of Gloria grow. If her life wasn’t in serious danger before, it is now.

“Glory’s” is the too cute name Gloria and her business partner, Rory O’Sullivan, came up with for the restaurant. By the time I arrive, it’s five in the afternoon. Too early for the dinner crowd, but not the TGIFers. The bar is hopping. The restaurant is at the Broadway end of Horton Plaza. It attracts clientele from nearby retail stores as well as lawyers and judges from the two courthouse facilities a couple of blocks away and bureaucrats from federal and city offices next door. In my jeans, blazer and Nikes, I’m the only non-suit in sight.

It draws attention. I don’t know what men think when they look at me, but I know how they act. As I push through the happy-hour crowd, more than one restraining hand and questioning smile is directed my way. Under different circumstances, I might pursue it, an opportunity for a night of unencumbered fun and games. Being a vampire is liberating in that sense. But not tonight. Tonight I’m here for a reason. For Gloria’s sake, it had better be a good one.

I ignore the smiles and invitations for drinks and head for the door at the back of the bar. I knock once and push it open.

Gloria is seated behind a desk, staring out the window at the caterpillar of lights on Broadway heading down toward the waterfront. She doesn’t turn at the sound of the door opening. I don’t think she knows I’m in the room.

“Gloria?”

She jumps, nearly out of the chair, and whirls to face me.

The look on her face, as if I’d done something wrong by coming in, makes me want to turn around and march out. “You told me to meet you here, remember? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Her expression loses its edge, becomes apologetic. “Sorry.”

Gloria apologizing to me? It’s the end of the world as we know it.

I park my butt on the corner of the desk. “I’m here. You have two minutes to tell me why I should stay.”

Gloria’s eyes cloud. “I’m in trouble.”

“I heard that the first time. What kind of trouble?”

I’ve known Gloria for five years. Never has she looked at me the way she’s looking at me now, with something other than condescension or malice in her expression. I wish she’d stop. I’m much more comfortable with the old hate/hate relationship. She looks scared and it’s unnerving. “Well? You’re down to ninety seconds and counting.”

Suddenly she starts to cry.

Cry.

I jump up. Then I remember. She’s an actress.

But those are real tears running down her cheeks, and there’s real snot running out of that five-thousand-dollar nose job. Her face is red and blotchy.

This is not theatrical crying. This is for real.

I’m so stunned, I don’t know how to react. In spite of the sobs shaking her shoulders, I can’t bring myself to put a consoling arm around her. This is Gloria, my arch nemesis, after all. I do the only other thing I can think of. I grab a box of tissues from the credenza under the window and shove it at her.

“Here,” I command gruffly. “Clean yourself up. Tears are murder on cashmere.”

She pulls a couple of tissues from the box and dabs ineffectually at her face, leaving a trail of mascara and eye-liner to mark the path of her tears. Now she looks like a deranged raccoon.

It takes great effort on my part not to mention it.

I wait for Gloria to compose herself. I’m only going to ask what’s wrong once more. If I don’t get an answer, I’m out of here.

“If this is about smoothing things over between you and David, you can’t believe how wrong you were to come to me. I’ve been deliriously happy to think he’d dumped you. You’ve done nothing but try to undermine our business relationship for as long as I’ve known you. Don’t think for one minute I’d plead your case—”

I’m getting warmed up when Gloria throws me another of those unfathomable looks. A plea? For what? It stops me cold.

She pushes back from the desk and stands up. “You know who my business partner is?”

I could be living in a cave and I’d know who Gloria’s business partner is. Rory O’Sullivan is second only to Donald Trump in notoriety. He’s a billionaire. A collector of high-end real estate, art and classic cars. He inherited a modest fortune and parlayed it into a megafortune. I think he’s listed as the fifth or sixth richest man in America.

All this flashes through my head in the time it takes me to say, “Yes, I know who your business partner is. What about him?”

Gloria has crossed to the wall opposite the windows. She studies her reflection in a huge gilt mirror. I take a careful step out of mirror shot as she wets a tissue with the tip of her tongue and carefully wipes away the ruined makeup.

Only when she’s finished does she square her shoulders and walk back to the desk. “Please sit, Anna. I need to tell you something.”

That sounds more like the Gloria I know and hate. The “please” is uttered as a formality. It’s an order from the queen. Still, she has piqued my curiosity. I don’t take a seat but lean against the far wall, crossing my arms and nodding at her to go ahead.

“What I’m about to tell you has to stay in this room,” she begins. She doesn’t wait for me to agree or disagree. As usual, she assumes her word is the world’s command. “Rory and I went into business together to start this restaurant. It was simply another business deal for him. For me, it was much more. It was a chance to ease my way out of the beauty business and into something different.”

She flashes a deprecating smile. “You have no idea how stressful the life of a celebrity can be. You see only the glamour and the clothes and the prestige . . .”

She lets her voice drop as if waiting for me to confirm. Truth is, the only thing I see when I look at Gloria is arrogance and conceit and ego. The trifecta of the self-indulgent bimbo. I shrug at her to get on with it.

She misinterprets the gesture as concurrence but does continue, which is, after all, what I want.

“Rory seemed the perfect partner. He had experience in the restaurant industry and the clout to attract a top chef. He oversaw all the details from furnishing the place to stocking the bar to hiring the help. We invested equal amounts of money, but really what he wanted from me was image and contacts. Show up here when I’m in town and get my show business friends to patronize the place when they are.”

She stops, breathless from the exertion of telling the story. She glances back at me, her lips trembling. She’s about to start crying again.

“Gloria, this is old news. What’s your point?”

She pinches the bridge of her nose between a thumb and forefinger as if to stop the renewed threat of tears. She draws a deep breath. I wait, counting. If she hasn’t picked up the narrative by the time I get to ten—

“Yes, there is a point.”

She made it under the wire. I was up to eight.

“Rory is blackmailing me.”

The obvious questions spring to my lips. “Why? What did you do?”

This time the old Gloria flashes through. “How like you. To assume I did something. Why is it so hard for you to see me as a victim?”

At least she didn’t say “innocent” victim. I lean toward her. “There aren’t enough hours in the day to answer that.”

She frowns, and for a minute, I think she’s going to lash out. Once again, she surprises me by backing down. “I understand why you might feel that way, but you have to believe me; I’m not to blame for this.”

Her tone is sincere, she’s not fidgeting, her eyes don’t slither away from my gaze. Could she actually be telling the truth?

I try a different tack. “Rory O’Sullivan is a prominent man. If he’s ready to risk jail by blackmailing you, he must have a powerful reason. He’s not doing it for money. What does he want?”

“What do you think?” Gloria’s tone is peevish, the tone of a spoiled child, the tone of one who thinks the answer to that question should be obvious.

It’s not obvious to me.

“I’m not going to play twenty questions with you, Gloria. What does he want?”

She heaves a long, deep sigh. “He wants me to sleep with him.”

A pause. This time the eyes do slide away.

“Again.”