Dead After Dark Read online

  Claire was most definitely not married. Never had been, not interested, no thank you. Last thing she needed was some man with opinions about how late she stayed at the firm or how hard she worked or where they would live or what they would have for dinner. Eliza Leeds, however, was clearly of the you're-defined-by-what-was-sitting-next-to-you-in-pants set. So Claire had braced herself as she'd explained that, no, she had no husband.

  Miss Leeds had seemed daunted, but then she'd rallied, moving swiftly on to the boyfriend question. The answer was the same. Claire did not have and didn't want one of those and no, no pets, either. There had been a long silence. Then the woman had smiled, made a brief comment along the lines of "my, how things have changed," and that was where they'd left things. At least for the moment.

  Every time Miss Leeds called the office, she asked whether Claire had found a nice man. Which was fine. Whatever. Different generation. And the woman took the no's with grace--maybe because she herself had never been married. Evidently she had an unfulfilled romantic streak or something.

  If Claire was honest, the whole relationship thing bored her. No, she didn't hate men. No, her parents' marriage hadn't been dysfunctional. No, in fact her father had been a very supportive male figure. There was no bad fallout from a relationship, no self-esteem issues, no pathology, no history of abuse. She was smart and she loved her work and she was grateful for the life she had. The home and hearth stuff was just made for other people. Bottom line? She totally respected women who became wives and mothers but didn't envy them their burden of caretaking. And she didn't have a hole in her heart on Christmas morning because she was alone. And she didn't need soccer games or drawings on her refrigerator or homemade gifts to feel fulfilled. And Valentine's Day and Mother's Day were just two more pages on the calendar.

  What she loved was the battle in the boardroom. The negotiation. The tricky ins and outs of the law. The energizing responsibility of representing the interests of a ten-billion-dollar corporation--whether it was buying someone else or divesting assets or firing a CEO for having illicit eight-digit personal expenses.

  All of that was what juiced her and, as she was at the top of her field and in her early thirties, she was in a damn good place in life. The only trouble she had was with people who didn't understand a woman like her. It was such a double standard. Men could spend their entire lives devoted to work and they were viewed as good earners, not antisocial spinster-aunts with intimacy issues. Why couldn't a woman be the same?

  When Caldwell's span bridge finally appeared, Claire was ready to get the meeting over with, head back to her apartment on Park Avenue, and start prepping for the Technitron showdown on Tuesday. Hell, maybe there would be enough time to even go back to the office.

  The Leeds estate consisted of ten acres of sculptured grounds, four outbuildings, and a wall that you'd need rapelling gear and the upper body strength of a personal trainer to surmount. The mansion was a huge pile of stone set on a rise, an ostentatious display of new wealth erected during the Gothic Revival period of the 1890s. To Claire, it looked like something Vincent Price would pay taxes on.

  Navigating the circular drive, she parked in front of the cathedral-worthy entrance and set her cell phone to vibrate. Picking up her bag, she approached the house thinking she should have a cross in one hand and a dagger in the other. Man, if she had Leeds's money, she'd live in something a little less dreary. Like a mausoleum.

  One side of the double doors was opened before she got to the lion's head knocker. Leeds's butler, who was a hundred and eight if he was a day, bowed.

  "Good evening, Miss Stroughton. May I inquire, did madam leave the keys in the car?"

  Was his name Fletcher? Yeah, that was it. And Miss Leeds liked you to use his name. "No, Fletcher."

  "Perhaps you will give them to me? In the event your car must be moved." When she frowned, he said quietly, "I'm afraid Miss Leeds is not doing well. If an ambulance must come . . ."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. Is she ill or . . ." Claire let the sentence drift off as she handed over her keys.

  "She's very weak. Please, come with me."

  Fletcher walked with the kind of slow dignity you'd expect from a man sporting a formal British butler's uniform. And he fit in with the decor. The house was furnished in old-money style, with layer upon layer of art collected over generations choking the rooms. The priceless hodgepodge of museum-quality paintings and sculpture and furniture was from different periods, but it flowed together. Although what an upkeep. Dusting the stuff would be like cutting twenty acres of grass with a push mower--as soon as you were finished, you'd need to start again.

  She and Fletcher took the massive, curving staircase up to the second floor and went down the hallway. On both sides, hanging on red silk walls, were portraits of various Leeds, their pale faces glowing against dark backgrounds, their two-dimensional eyes following you. The air smelled like lemon polish and old wood.

  Down at the end, Fletcher knocked on a carved door. When there was a weak greeting, he opened the panel wide.

  Miss Leeds was propped up in a bed the size of a house, looking as small as a child, as fragile as a sheet of paper. There was white lace everywhere, dripping from the canopy, hanging to the floor around the mattress, covering the windows. It was a wintry scene complete with icicles and snow banks, except it wasn't cold.

  "Thank you for coming, Claire." Miss Leeds's voice was frail to the point of a whisper. "Forgive me for not being able to meet with you properly."

  "That's quite all right." Claire came forward on tiptoe, afraid to make any noise or sudden movements. "How are you feeling?"

  "Better than I did yesterday. Perhaps I have caught the flu."

  "It has been going around, but I'm glad you're on the mend." Claire did not think it would be helpful to mention she'd had to go on antibiotics for something like that herself. "Still, I'll be quick and let you get back to resting."

  "But you must stay for some tea. Won't you?"

  Fletcher piped up. "Shall I get the tea?"

  "Please, Claire. Join me for tea."

  Hell. She wanted to get back.

  Client is always right. Client is always right. "But of course."

  "Good. Fletcher, do bring the tea and serve it when we're through with my papers." Miss Leeds smiled and closed her eyes. "Claire, you may sit beside me. Fletcher will bring you a chair."

  Fletcher didn't look like he could handle bringing over a footstool, much less something she could sit in.

  "That's okay," Claire said. "I'll get one--"

  Without taking a breath, the butler easily hefted over an antique armchair that looked as if it weighed as much as a Buick.

  Whoa. Bionic butler, evidently. "Ah . . . thank you."

  "Madam will be comfortable in this."

  Yeah, and maybe madam will drive it home if her car doesn't start.

  As Fletcher left, Claire put her butt on the throne and glanced at her client. The old woman's eyes were still closed. "Miss Leeds . . . are you sure you don't want me to leave the will with you? You can review it at your leisure and I can come back to notarize your signature."

  There was a long silence and she wondered if the woman had fallen asleep. Or, God forbid . . . "Miss Leeds?"

  Pale lips barely moved. "Have you a gentleman caller yet?"

  "Excuse--er, no."

  "You are so lovely, you know." Watery eyes opened and Miss Leeds's head turned on the pillow. "I should like you to meet my son."

  "I beg your pardon?" Miss Leeds had a son?

  "I have shocked you." The smile that stretched thin skin was sad. "Yes. I am . . . a mother. It all happened long ago and in secret--both the deed and the birthing. We kept it all quiet. Father insisted and he was right to do so. That was why I never married. How could I?"

  Holy . . . shit. Back then, whenever it was, women did not have children out of wedlock. The scandal would have been tremendous for a prominent family like the Leeds. And . . . well, that must be
why Miss Leeds had never made any mention of a son in her will. She'd left the bulk of the estate to Fletcher because old mores died hard.

  "My son will like you."

  Okay, that was a total no-go. If the woman had had a baby when she was in her early twenties, the guy would be seventy by now. But more than that, the client might always be right, but there was no way in hell Claire was going to prostitute herself to keep business.

  "Miss Leeds, I don't think--"

  "You will meet him. And he will like you."

  Claire assumed her most diplomatic voice, the one that was ultracalm and ultrareasonable. "I'm sure he's a wonderful man, but it would be a conflict of interest."

  "You will meet . . . and he will like you."

  Before Claire could try another approach, Fletcher came back pushing a large cart with enough silver on it to qualify as a Tiffany's display. "Shall I serve now, Miss Leeds?"

  "After the papers, please." Miss Leeds reached out a veined hand, the nails of which were trimmed perfectly and polished pink. Maybe Fletcher had his beauty license, too. "Claire, will you read to me?"

  The changes were not complicated and neither was Miss Leeds's approval--which made the trip feel utterly unnecessary. As that frail hand curled around Claire's Montblanc and drew a shaky approximation of "Eliza Merchant Castile Leeds" on the last line, Claire tried not to think of the four hours of work time she'd lost or the fact that she couldn't stand coddling people.

  Claire notarized the signature, Fletcher signed as witness, and then the documents went back into the briefcase.

  Miss Leeds coughed a little. "Thank you for driving all this way. I know it was an inconvenience, but I do so appreciate it."

  Claire looked at the woman lying in the sea of frothy white lace.

  This is a deathbed, she thought. And the Grim Reaper is standing close by. Tapping his foot and checking his watch.

  It was hard not to feel like a heel. Man, she was a certified, cast-iron, career bitch, worrying about a couple of lost hours when it seemed as if Miss Leeds had so few of them left.

  "It was my pleasure."

  "Now the tea," Miss Leeds said.

  Fletcher wheeled a brass cart over to the chair and poured what smelled like Earl Grey into a porcelain cup.

  "Sugar, madam?" he asked.

  "Yes, thanks." She hated tea, but the sugar hit would make swallowing it palatable. When Fletcher presented the stuff to her, she noticed there was only one cup. "You aren't having anything, Miss Leeds?"

  "None for me, I'm afraid. Doctor's orders."

  Claire took a sip. "What kind of Earl Grey is this? It tastes different than I've had before."

  "Do you like it?"

  "Actually, I do."

  When she finished the cup, Miss Leeds closed her eyes with something that seemed oddly like relief and Fletcher took away the empty cup.

  "Well, I think I'd better go, Miss Leeds."

  "My son is going to like you," the old woman whispered. "He's waiting for you."

  Claire blinked and called on all her tact. "I'm afraid I have to head back to the city. Perhaps I can meet him some other time?"

  "He needs to meet you now."

  Claire blinked again and heard her father's refrain in her head: The client is always right. "If it's important to you, I could . . ." Claire swallowed. "I, ah . . . I could . . ."

  Miss Leeds smiled a little. "It will not be so bad for you. He is like his father. A lovely beast."

  Claire rubbed her eyes. There were two Miss Leeds in the bed. Actually, there were two beds. So did that make four Miss Leeds? Or eight?

  Miss Leeds looked at Claire with disarming clarity and a detachment that was discomforting. "You mustn't be afraid of him. He can be quite gentle if he's in the mood. I wouldn't try to run, though. He shall only catch you, after all."

  "What--" Claire's mouth felt dry and fuzzy, and when she heard a noise to the left, it was as if the sound came from a vast distance.

  Fletcher was taking the silver tray off the brass cart and putting it on a bureau. When he came back to the cart, he extended a hidden panel out at the foot of it so the thing became like a stretcher.

  Claire felt her bones loosen, then collapse altogether. As she slid into the side of the chair, Fletcher picked her up and carried her to the cart, just as easily as he had brought over the heavy chair.

  He was laying her flat when her vision started to slip. Desperately, she tried to hold on to consciousness as she was wheeled down the hall into an old-fashioned brass and glass elevator. The last thing she saw before she passed out was the butler pressing the button marked "B" for basement.

  The lift lurched and she sank with it, falling into oblivion.

  2

  Claire rolled over in her bed, feeling velvet under her hands and smooth Egyptian cotton against her cheek. She moved her head up and down on the soft pillow, aware that her temples were pounding and she was vaguely nauseated.

  What a strange dream . . . Miss Leeds and that butler. The tea. The cart. The elevator.

  God, her head hurt, but what was that wonderful smell? Dark spices . . . like a fine men's cologne, only one that she'd never smelled before. As she breathed in deep, her body warmed in response and she ran her palm over the velvet duvet. It felt like skin--

  Wait a minute. She didn't have velvet on her bed.

  She opened her eyes . . . and stared into a candle. Which was on a nightstand that was not her own.

  Panic roared in her chest, but lethargy prevailed in her body. She struggled to get her head up, and when she finally lifted it, her vision swam. Not that it really mattered. She couldn't see beyond the shallow pool of light that fell on the bed.

  Vast, inky darkness surrounded her.

  She heard an eerie shifting sound. Metal on metal. Moving around. Coming toward her.

  She looked to the noise, her mouth opening, a scream rising in her throat only to get tangled on the back of her tongue.

  There was a massive black shape at the foot of the bed. A huge . . . man.

  Terror made her break out in a sweat and the shot of adrenaline cleared her head. She reached around for anything she could use as a weapon. The candle, with its heavy silver holder, was the only thing. She grabbed for it--

  A hand clamped on her wrist.

  Mindlessly, she tried to scramble back, her feet wadding up the velvet duvet, her body thrashing. It made no difference. The hold was iron.

  And yet uninjuring.

  A voice came through the dense darkness. "Please . . . I shall not hurt you."

  The words were spoken on a long breath of sadness, and for a moment, Claire stopped fighting. Such sorrow. Such pervading loneliness. Such a beautiful male voice.

  Wake up, Claire! What the hell was she doing? Sympathizing with the guy who had a death grip on her?

  Baring her teeth, she went for his thumb, ready to bite her way free and then knee him where he'd feel it most. She didn't get a chance to. With a gentle surge, she was turned onto her stomach and her arms held carefully at the small of her back. She wrenched her head to the side so she could breathe and tried to buck free.

  The man didn't hurt her. He didn't touch her inappropriately. He just held her loosely as she struggled, and when she finally exhausted herself, he let go immediately. While panting, she heard the chains being dragged into the darkness over to the left.

  When her lungs stopped pumping wildly, she grunted, "You can't keep me here."

  Silence. Not even breathing.

  "You have to let me go."

  Where the hell was she? Shit . . . that dream of Fletcher had been real. So she must be somewhere on the Leeds estate.

  "People will be looking for me."

  This was a lie. It was a holiday weekend and most of her firm's lawyers were taking work to their summer homes, so there was no one to miss her if she didn't come into the office as she'd planned to. And if folks tried to reach her and got voice mail, they'd probably assume she'd finally gotten a
life and was taking some time off for Labor Day.

  "Where are you?" she demanded, her voice echoing. When there was no response she wondered if she hadn't been left alone.

  She reached out for the candle and used the weak glow to look around. The wall behind the carved wooden head-board was made of the same pale gray stone as the front of the Leeds mansion, so that confirmed where she was. The bed she was on was draped in deep blue velvet and sat high off the floor. She was wearing a white robe and her underwear.

  That was all she could ascertain.

  Slipping off the edge of the mattress, her legs wobbled and she fell as her knees gave out. Wax spilled on her hand, burning her skin, and the stone floor bruised her ankle. She caught her breath and dragged herself up by the bed's duvet.

  Her head was bad, aching and scrambled. Her stomach felt like it was filled with latex paint and thumbtacks. And panic made both of those happy problems worse.

  She stuck her hand out and shuffled forward, keeping the candle as far in front of her as she could. When she made contact with something, she shrieked and jumped back--until she realized what the irregular, vertical pattern was.

  Books. Leather-bound books.

  She put the candle forward again and moved to the left, patting with her palm. More books. More . . . books. Books everywhere, organized by author. She was in the Dickens section, and going by the gold inlays on the spines, the damn things looked like first editions.

  There was no dust on them, as if they were cleaned regularly. Or read.

  Some countless yards later, she ran across a door. Angling the candle up and down, she tried to find a knob or handle, but there was nothing to mark the old wood except black iron hinges. To the right of it on the ground there was something the size of a bread box, but she couldn't guess what it was.

  She straightened and pounded on the door.

  "Miss Leeds! Fletcher!" She kept up the hollering for a while and threw in a good long scream, hoping to alarm someone. Nobody came.