Sinister Intentions & Confiscated Conception Read online

  “Kit? Are you with me?”

  “Yes. Yes. The last eight years,” she murmured, leaning back. “I went to college. I graduated. I went to New York. I started writing.”

  “Sounds very simple for eight years,” Justin commented.

  Kit shrugged. “It was a simple life.”

  “You forgot to mention that you had a child,” he reminded her.

  “Oh, yes. Mike. Well, I suppose that’s obvious,” Kit murmured, suddenly fascinated by her coffee cup. She looked up at Justin and smiled. “Mike made my life very simple. I worked, and I took care of him.”

  “You never remarried.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “No.” Kit hesitated. It was her turn to ask questions now. “What about you?” she murmured at last.

  “Oh, I murder someone every few years,” he said dryly.

  “Justin!” Kit snapped. “That’s not amusing!”

  “But that’s what you meant, isn’t it?”

  His accent was growing stronger, a sure sign of simmering anger. Too bad, Kit decided irritably. She wasn’t going to watch every word she said—especially since no one ever received any answers that way.

  “All right,” she said evenly. “Maybe that was what I meant to say. Want to talk about it?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Justin...”

  “I said not particularly. But if you’ve got questions, go ahead and ask them. God knows I’ve answered enough already.”

  “Well, it does seem strange,” Kit said defensively. “Your fiancée has been dead just over a month, but you hardly appear to be grieving.”

  He watched her for a long moment, his features expressionless. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. “I remember a certain time, Mrs. McHennessy, when your husband hadn’t been dead all that long, but you certainly weren’t behaving like a woman in mourning.”

  The blood rushed to her face, and her palm itched to slap the patrician arrogance from his features. “You knew damn well that I was grieving!”

  He shrugged, lifting a hand absently. “Well, it was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”

  She should have said something dismissive, should have shrugged off the incident. Instead, her words carried a defensive tone.

  “I was drugged, and you’ve admitted that you know it. I’d never have—”

  He was suddenly leaning across the table, his eyes dark and probing. “Wouldn’t you?” he asked in a harsh whisper.

  “I—” Her voice broke, and her face flamed. She felt as if he could look through her, as if he sensed the devastating sensual effect he had on women. On her. “No!” she snapped.

  It might have been the best joke Justin O’Niall had heard in ages. His laughter rang out loud and true, and the smile that remained to light his eyes was open and honest.

  “I don’t know who you think you are,” she told him flatly, lowering her voice as she remembered that her son was somewhere around, possibly within earshot.

  Justin brought his sparkling eyes close to hers. “Don’t you?” he asked musingly. “Imagine. You ran away, and I let you go. I should have scoured the earth for you.”

  She didn’t like his whimsical tone; she couldn’t tell if he was mocking her or not. “I was very young, and very hurt,” Kit told him, trying very hard to keep her voice low and her temper in check. “You were older, experienced, and well aware that something wasn’t right. You—”

  She broke off, because he was laughing again. She had never seen such genuine amusement.

  “Kit! When you find a very attractive woman smiling away in a bubble bath, as naked as the day she was born, it’s difficult to ignore the situation. But I did. Until...” He shrugged. “Still, I was above reproach for a laudable amount of time. Then you threw your arms around me. You dragged me down. You insisted.”

  “But...” she said weakly.

  “I think it’s rather like hypnotism, don’t you? If it wasn’t something you wanted to do...”

  “Justin!”

  “Well, there won’t be any drugs this time, will there?”

  The question was soft, but there was still a trace of laughter in his voice, and Kit still had no idea if he was serious or not.

  “There won’t be a next time.”

  “I think there will—and so do you.”

  Her throat felt suddenly dry. She lowered her eyes, afraid that he would see that she was protesting too much. Protesting the truth.

  “Justin,” she said softy, sitting very still, “listen to me, please. I don’t deny that I felt an attraction to you.” God help me, she added in silence, I still do. “But I loved Michael very much. I wouldn’t have betrayed his memory like that—and I think you know it. And that’s why I ran, Justin. I was too young, too confused—too everything—to deal with the situation. I’m still confused. Why would someone do such a thing? Why would someone drug my tea?”

  He reached across the table, and his fingers played gently over her palm. “Kit, I’m sure no one meant to harm you.”

  “Molly gave me the tea.”

  He nodded, obviously not surprised. Molly had treated Kit like a daughter all during that sad time, and had greeted her tonight with tears. “Molly would never hurt you. She adored you.”

  “I know that. But maybe there was something in the tea meant just to relax me.”

  “I thought of that. I even asked her about it, but she said she knew nothing.”

  “And you let it rest?”

  “Aye, Kit, I did. No one meant you harm. Someone meant only to ease your spirit.”

  “Oh, Justin, you’re so blind!”

  He hesitated, then stared at her so piercingly that she felt a cowardly quivering begin to take root deep in her abdomen. “No, I’m not, Kit. I keep telling you that.”

  “Justin, you should be concerned—”

  “I am concerned.”

  “About the murders!”

  “I’m hardly involved, am I?”

  “Justin, what happened with your fiancée? I’ve heard that you had a terrible fight just before she was murdered.”

  He wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was gazing across the hall at the fire. He answered distractedly. “Aye, that we did.”

  “Why? What was it about? Did she want to break the engagement? Or did you? What was going on?”

  He glanced at her sharply. “You’d do just fine were you to join the police, Mrs. McHennessy.”

  She didn’t flush, and she didn’t back down. “Justin, please, answer me.”

  He shrugged. “Why not? I’ve answered everyone else. We fought over the newspaper.”

  “The newspaper?”

  He looked at her steadily, a rueful smile playing over his mouth. “You don’t understand my lack of undying grief, do you? Of course it hurt when I heard Susan was dead. But I never asked her to be my wife.”

  Kit shivered at the familiarity of it all. Hadn’t she once heard him deny that he had known Mary Browne intimately?

  “But you were...you were...”

  “Involved with her, yes. I met Susan in London, while I was working on a project there. She was a very lovely woman. I was attracted to her.”

  “But you weren’t interested in marriage. Just...an affair.”

  He laughed. The sound was brittle, like crackling leaves. “You’re thinking like a soap opera. Was I to spend my life pining for you to return? I never married because I never met the woman with whom I wished to spend my life. And yet, I’m fond of the weaker sex.”

  “Would you stop that, please?”

  “What?”

  “Sounding so... Irish!”

  He looked startled, and then he smiled. “You don’t mean ‘Irish,’ do you?”

  “No! I mean like some ancient lord and master. But please excuse me. Go on.”

&n
bsp; “All right. As I was saying, I met her in London. We were together frequently, and I asked her to come here and spend a week with me. We arrived separately—I had to stop in Dublin overnight on business. I saw the announcement of my engagement in the paper, and when I got home, Susan was in the process of refurbishing my house. She had also acquainted herself with a number of the townspeople.”

  “And?”

  “We had a fight. A serious one.” He grimaced. “I liked Susan. She was fun; she had a passion for life. But she could also be cruel, vindictive—and spoiled. She liked to play with people. I think I was part of a collection to her. The idea of adding an Irishman to her string of suitors appealed to her. She’d been dating a Belgian trapeze artist before she met me—haven’t you read that anywhere?”

  “No, I hadn’t,” Kit said. “But I didn’t think the papers said everything anyway.” She stared into his eyes. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

  “The American way,” he said, a little bitterly. “Give a man a fair shake.”

  “If that’s the way you want to see it.”

  He shrugged. “Well, then, you’ve gotten your answers. Susan couldn’t believe that a man wouldn’t choose to fall down on his knees in gratitude if she deigned to marry him. She was also quite convinced that men made more than adequate punching bags. She slapped me, leaving a couple of very nice scratches along my cheek.”

  “And?” Kit queried, swallowing hard.

  “And later she was murdered. But not by me.”

  Kit looked at him steadily, but she said nothing.

  “Do you believe me?” He still sounded amused.

  “Yes. I—I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” Was that the truth? Or was she there only because he had asked her, because he had beckoned? Would she follow him blindly to the brink of death just because he possessed such a raw—and fatal?—attraction? She didn’t want to think so. She wanted to believe that she was interested only in the truth.

  He smiled, lowering his eyes.

  “So who murdered her?” she asked at last.

  An oath of irritation escaped him. “How would I know? Do you think the murderer is going to come to me with a full confession? Maybe the Belgian trapeze artist—I don’t know. Susan was capable of acquiring enemies.”

  “Justin! How can you ignore things? Another girl was murdered eight years ago, on the same night Michael died.”

  He sighed. “And you’re quite certain the two are associated?”

  “Yes, I am—and so is half the world.”

  He was silent for a moment. Then he said coldly, “You should go home, Kit.”

  “You just gave me the key to the cottage.” He didn’t reply, so she went on. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that you owned the cottage?”

  He shrugged. “What difference does it make? I own half the land around here.”

  It makes a difference, she wanted to scream. It makes a tremendous difference.

  Kit shivered suddenly. The wind outside had risen abruptly, and now it sounded like a hundred women moaning in the night. Here along the cliffs, where the air never seemed to be still, it was easy to see how legends about banshees had grown.

  She didn’t believe in banshees, but she couldn’t escape the chill as she gazed at Justin. His features had been cast into shadow by the flickering blaze in the hearth, and his eyes were dark...bottomless.

  Kit swallowed fiercely. She didn’t believe in banshees or spirits. But something was going on.

  “More coffee?” Justin asked.

  She nodded. She needed something warm.

  He walked around to the coffeepot, which had been left at the far end of the table. Kit watched him as he moved. His hands looked very strong. In general, he was a powerful man, well over six feet, trim but broad-shouldered, and fit. Physically he could have performed any or all of the murders.

  She jumped when his hand came down on her shoulder, and she couldn’t help the fear in her eyes when she looked up at him.

  She saw his features tauten, his mouth compress, but he said nothing as he set the steaming cup down in front of her. Then he refilled his own cup and sat down again. His eyes were cold when they fell on her. “You can run again...if you’re frightened.”

  “I’m not afraid of you, Justin.” Was she lying? She didn’t know.

  His look said clearly that he doubted her words. Kit reached nervously for a cigarette. She watched him as he lit it for her, then tried to put her nebulous feelings into words.

  “Justin, you have to be concerned. Two women have been murdered, and I believe that Michael was murdered, too. He wasn’t stupid. I just can’t see him falling off a cliff.”

  “There was an autopsy, Kit. There was no sign that he had fought with anyone. His death has a perfectly logical explanation. He wandered out on the cliffs. It was dark. He didn’t know the area, and he fell.”

  “I’m not the only one who thinks he was murdered,” Kit murmured resentfully.

  “Oh? Who else?”

  She probably shouldn’t have spoken, but she met Justin’s eyes squarely. “Constable Barney Canail from Bailtree believes the same thing.”

  “Does he now?” He appeared to be only vaguely interested.

  Kit rose, stubbing out her cigarette, then carried her coffee cup as she wandered over to the mantel. She stared into the fire as she spoke again. “Haven’t you noticed that it’s only women associated with you who are murdered?”

  When he replied, his voice rang out harshly behind her. She was startled to see that he, too, had risen and followed her.

  “You’ve just told me that your husband was murdered, and he wasn’t a woman ‘associated’ with me. If it’s accusing me of murder you are, then do it and be done with it.”

  For a second, she couldn’t speak. “I’m not accusing you of anything, Justin; I just can’t understand how you can be so unconcerned.”

  “Unconcerned? By God, woman, you do sound daft! My home’s been prey to every constable, sheriff and bobby this side of the Atlantic, not to mention private detectives and sniveling reporters. I’m concerned, all right. I’m just a wee bit weary, that’s all. I never did see your husband alive, Mrs. McHennessy. And I had no association at all with young Mary Browne. I had no help for anything the girl chose to say. Now, if you think I’m a madman, the door is open.”

  Kit swallowed and turned back to the fire, watching the flames dancing before her. “I don’t think you’re a madman. But someone is.”

  “That’s why you should go home.”

  “Justin,” Kit began a little weakly, “I think it has something to do with All Hallows’ Eve. That’s when Mary’s throat was slit. That’s when—”

  “Give it up, won’t you? All Hallows’ Eve is nothing but a picnic in the hills. A bonfire. Men play their pipes, and they drink themselves out cold. The time is coming; you’ll be able to see for yourself. We Irish are the ones who are supposed to be hung up on the old legends, not you Americans. You’ve been reading too much, girl. Seeing too many movies.”

  That could be true. She couldn’t deny that the subject had preyed on her mind, so much so that she saw demons where men stood, and was ready to find evil in a village of kindly farmers.

  She turned to face him, feeling frustrated. “Justin, don’t you understand? You’ll never be in the clear—not until the murderer is found.”

  He ran his hand through his hair. “Kit, don’t you think we’ve been through it all a hundred times? Liam and old Barney and I, turning it over and over in our minds. There aren’t any answers. None that we can find, anyway.” He grinned at her. “Not unless the ancient druids are risin’ up from the earth.”

  “That’s not funny, Justin.”

  “Ah, surely, Kit, you canna take such things seriously.”

  “Then this murderer will never be caught.”

 
“Not unless he strikes again.”

  “Do you think he will?”

  Justin’s eyes narrowed. “You’re asking me? There are some as think I should know.”

  “Why did you give me the key to the cottage? Why, when you’ve already told me to leave?”

  “If you’re going to be here, I want you near. I told you that. I can reach the cottage in ten minutes from here.”

  “But do you want me to stay, Justin? Or to go?”

  He shrugged, but his gaze never faltered. “I would rather you left—for your own safety. You see,” he said lightly, mockingly, “this time I will find you.”

  Why? The word seemed to scream inside her mind, but she swallowed it back, because she didn’t have the nerve to ask the question.

  Kit watched him as he came toward her. It was a matter of only a few steps, and then he was standing before her, his hands on her shoulders. Her bones felt very delicate beneath them. She looked up into his eyes, so full of secrets, and the flames danced and crackled, sending shadows over his features. Her heart was beating quickly, but she couldn’t have said whether she was frightened or excited.

  He smiled slowly, a secret smile, a little bit arrogant, a little bit amused. He knew the effect he had on her, he knew that he frightened her, and sometimes that amused him. He also knew that she was attracted to him, and that, too, amused him.

  Kit felt humiliatingly weak. If he had asked her into that bed that minute, she would have obliged him, then wondered later why she had.

  “I think you should go,” he told her. “I want you to stay.”

  Kit cast her head back, cocking it slightly. “You should be a grieving man, Justin,” she said softly.

  “I wasn’t in love with Susan.”

  “Nor are you in love with me.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted in what might have been a wistful smile. “I might have been. Had you stayed.”

  She needed to answer him. To say something that would break the spell he had cast over her. Justin was a man who needed no illusions. She was certain that he could meet any attractive woman, assess her, and decide in moments if he wanted to make love to her or not. For him, it would be that simple. The message would be in his eyes, and Kit was certain that most women would respond to it.