Winter Roses Part 11

She laughed, as she was meant to. "All right," she said after a minute. She didn't mind being guided at the moment. She was worn. He picked up the jewelry box and put it in her hands.

"Her boyfriend will say these belong to him," he said. "But he's not getting them without a fight. We'll put them in a safe-deposit box for the time being."

"That's a good idea," she agreed. "He may not have killed her, but he helped her get where she is now. He shouldn't profit from her death."

"I agree."

On the way to the hotel, he stopped at a bank where he obviously had an account and asked for access to his own safe-deposit box. They deposited the jewelry box in it. He asked to speak to one of the vice presidents of the bank, who came out of his office, smiling, to motion Stuart and Ivy into it. Stuart asked him about funeral parlors in the city and was referred to a reputable one. The bank officer gave Stuart the number.

When they were back in the limousine, Stuart dialed the number and spoke to one of the funeral directors. He made an appointment for them later that afternoon to speak about the arrangements. The funeral home would arrange for transport of Rachel's body when the medical examiner released it. Then they went by Ivy's hotel and picked up her suitcase. Stuart, despite her protests, paid for the room.

"We can argue about it when we're back home," he told her.

His hotel room made hers look like a closet. It was a penthouse suite, one of those that figured in presidential visits, she guessed. Stuart took it for granted. He phoned room service and ordered food.

"You should have asked for more than that," he said when she was through a bowl of freshly made potato soup.

"It was all I thought I could eat," she said simply. "It hasn't been the best day of my life." She put down the spoon. "I don't think it's. .h.i.t me yet," she added solemnly. "I feel numb."

"So did I, when my father died," he said, putting down his fork. He poured second cups of coffee for them both before he spoke again. "I was sure that I hated him. He'd spent his life trying to force me to become what he couldn't. But when it happened, I was devastated. You never realize how important a parent, any parent, is in your life until they're not there anymore."

"Yes," she agreed. "n.o.body else shares your memories like a parent. My father was bad to me. He always preferred Rachel, and he never tried to hide it." She sighed. "Maybe it's a good thing that I know he didn't believe I was his child. It makes the past a little easier to bear. I wish I knew for sure, though."

"We'll find out. I promise you we will."

She stared at him across the table. "You must be letting deals get by while you're up here with me," she said.

He shrugged. "There's nothing any of my managers can't handle. That's why I hire qualified people, so that I can delegate authority when I need to."

She smiled. "I'm very glad. I could have done this by myself. But I'm glad that I didn't have to."

He finished his coffee and put his napkin on the table. His pale eyes caught hers from the other side of the table. "I'd never have let you go through this alone," he said quietly.

The words were mundane, but his eyes were saying things that made her heart jump up into her throat. A faint wave of color stained her cheeks.

He smiled slowly, wickedly. "Not now," he said in a deep, slow drawl. "We've got too much to do. Business now. Diversions later."

The blush went nuclear. She got up from the table, fumbling a little with her coffee cup in the process.

He laughed. She was as transparent as gla.s.s to a man with his experience. It made him feel taller to see that helpless delight in her face. He was glad he'd come to New York. And not just because Ivy needed help.

They sat in the funeral director's office, going over final arrangements for Rachel. Ivy decided on cremation. It was inexpensive, and Stuart had already mentioned that he was flying his own twin-engine plane home. There wouldn't be any problem with getting the urn containing Rachel's ashes through security.

She picked out an ornate black and gold bra.s.s urn. "I can have our local funeral director bury it in the s.p.a.ce next to Daddy," she told Stuart.

"Some people keep the ashes at home," the director remarked.

"No, I don't think I could live in the house if Rachel was sitting on the mantel," Ivy said quietly. "My sister and I didn't get along, you see."

The director smiled. "I have a brother I couldn't get along with. I know how you feel."

They went back into his office and Ivy signed the necessary papers and wrote a check for the cost of the expenses, despite Stuart's protests.

Later, in the limousine, he voiced his disapproval. "You've got enough to do supporting yourself," he said curtly. "Rachel's funeral cost is pocket change to me."

"I know that," she replied. "But you have to understand how I feel, Stuart. It's my sister and my responsibility."

He caught her hand in his and held it tight. "You always were an independent little cuss," he mused, smiling at her.

She smiled back. "I like the feeling that I can stand on my own two feet and support myself," she replied. "I never had a life of my own as long as Rachel was alive. She was even worse than Dad about trying to manage me."

He pursed his lip. "Do I detect a double meaning?"

She laughed. "No. Well, yes. You do try to manage me." She stared at him curiously. "And I don't know why. You were just going around with some beautiful debutante. There was a photograph of you in a tabloid two weeks ago," she added and then flushed because that sounded like jealousy.

But he only smiled. "That photo was taken four years ago. G.o.d knows where they dug it up."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The photograph was taken years ago. See this?" He indicated a tie tack that she'd given him for his birthday three years ago. "I always wear it with my suits. Look in the photo and see if you see it."

In fact, she hadn't seen it in that photo. It amazed her that he prized such an inexpensive present. And that he wore it constantly. "You like it that much?" she asked, diverted.

Instead of a direct answer, his hand slipped to her collar and dipped under it to produce a filigree gold cross that he'd given her for Christmas three years past. "You never take it off," he said, his voice deep and slow. "It's in every photo of you that my sister takes."

"I...it's very pretty," she stammered. The feel of his knuckles against her soft skin was delightful.

"Yes, it is. But that isn't why you wear it, any more than I wear the tie tack because it's trendy."

He was insinuating something very intimate. She stared into his pale eyes as they narrowed, and darkened, and her breath began to catch in her throat.

"We're both keeping secrets, Ivy," he said in a deep, soft tone. "But not for much longer."

She searched his pale eyes, looking for a depth of feeling that matched her own. He was familiar, dear. When she and Merrie were in high school, she'd felt breathless when he walked into a room. She hadn't realized, then, that the feelings she got when he was around were the beginnings of aching desire.

He traced the outline of her soft lips with his forefinger, making her tingle all over. He smiled, so tenderly that she felt she could fly. Any idea she'd had that he was playing a game with her was gone now. No man looked at a woman like this unless he cared, even if only a little.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

IVY felt as if the ground had been pulled out from under her as she stared into Stuart's pale eyes. His gaze dropped to her soft, full mouth and lingered there until she thought her heart would burst out of her chest. She stared at his hard mouth and remembered, oh, so well, the feel of it against her own. The need was like a desperate thirst that nothing could quench. She started to lean toward him. His hand contracted. His face hardened. She could see the intent in his eyes even before he reached for her.

And just then, the car lurched forward as the traffic light changed, separating them before they'd managed to get close.

Ivy laughed breathlessly, nervous and shy and on fire with kindling desire.

He c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. "You're safe," he murmured, although he still had her hand tight in his. "But don't get too comfortable."

She only smiled. His eyes were promising heaven. It seemed impossible that they'd been enemies for so long. This familiar, handsome, compelling, s.e.xy man beside her had become someone she didn't know at all. The prospect of the future became exciting. But even as she felt the impact of her own feelings for him, she remembered why she was in New York City. Dreams would have to wait for a while.

They went back to Rachel's apartment to arrange things. Stuart went down to talk to the apartment manager. Ivy stayed in the apartment and began going through drawers again.

She found a photo alb.u.m. She sat down with it on the couch and opened it. As she expected, the photos were all of Rachel. There was one of their father, sitting on the porch swing at his house. There were a few of their mother. There wasn't one single picture of Ivy anywhere in the alb.u.m. It stung. But it wasn't unexpected.

She put the alb.u.m aside and picked up a letter, addressed to Rachel and marked Private. It was trespa.s.sing. She felt guilty. But she had to know what was in the letter, especially when she read the return address. It was an expensive stationery, and the return address was that of a law firm in Texas.

Just as she started to open it, she heard footsteps. They weren't Stuart's. She stood up and slipped the letter into her slacks' pocket just as the door flew open.

Jerry Smith walked into the apartment as if he owned it. He was somber and angry. His narrow eyes focused on Ivy with something like hatred.

"What are you doing here?" Ivy asked coldly.

He shut the door behind him and smiled. The smile was sleazy, demeaning. He looked at Ivy as if she were a street-walker awaiting his pleasure.

"So, it's the little sister, come looking for buried treasure, is it? Don't get too comfortable here, sweetheart. Everything in this apartment is mine. I paid for all this." He swept his arm around the room. "Mustn't steal things that don't belong to you," he added in a sarcastic undertone.

She would have backed down even a year ago. But she'd spent too much time around Stuart to cave in, especially when she knew he was nearby and likely to return any minute. This sleazy drug dealer didn't know that, and it was her ace in the hole.

"Any photographs and quilts and paintings in here are mine," she returned icily. "You don't get to keep my family heirlooms."

"Quilts." He made the word sound disgusting. "Rachel thought they were worth a fortune, because they were handmade. She took them to an antique dealer. He said they were junk. She tried to give them away, but n.o.body wanted them. She used them to pack her crystal in, for when she planned to move next month." He shrugged. "I guess she won't be moving anywhere."

Her relief at knowing the quilts weren't trashed disappeared when he made that odd statement. "Rachel never said anything about moving. Where was she moving to?"

"Back to your little hick town, apparently," he said. "She owned a house there."

"She didn't," Ivy returned, and felt guilty as relief flooded her. Rachel had planned to come home and let Ivy be her personal slave. "She sold the house two years ago."

"Whatever. She didn't remember much. I warned her about that d.a.m.ned meth. I don't even sell it, because it's so dangerous, but she got hooked on it and wouldn't quit."

"Did you kill her?" Ivy asked curtly.

"I didn't have to," he muttered. "She stayed comatose half the time, ever since she lost that big part she'd just landed in a play that's starting on Broadway in a couple of months. Her lover's wife knew the producer. She had him drop Rachel, then she called and told her all about it. She promised Rachel that she'd never get a starring role ever again. That was when she hit bottom."

"They're doing an autopsy."

He shrugged. "They usually do, when people die suddenly. I didn't kill her," he repeated. "She killed herself." He looked around, his eyes narrowing. "Don't take anything out of here until I have time to go through her things."

"I've already taken her jewelry to a bank for safekeeping," Ivy returned.

"You've what?" He moved toward her, his hands clenched at his sides. "That jewelry is worth a king's ransom! She wheedled it out of that old man she was sucking up to!"

"Which means it belongs to him," Ivy replied.

"You'd really give it back to him, wouldn't you?" he taunted. "G.o.d, what an idiot you are! Tell you what, you give me half of it and I'll forget where it went."

"You can only bribe dishonest people," she said quietly. "I don't care that much about money. I only want to make a living."

"Rachel would have kept the lot!"

"Yes, she would have. She took and took and took, all her life. The only human being she ever cared about was herself."

"Well, you're not blind, are you?" He moved into the bedroom and opened drawers while Ivy hoped that Stuart would come back soon. Seconds later, Jerry barreled out of the bedroom. "Where is it?"

She blinked. "Where is what?"

"The account book!"

She frowned. "What account book? There wasn't any account book here!"

He went white in the face. "It's got to be here," he muttered to himself. He started going through drawers in the s.p.a.cious living room, taking things out, scattering them. "It's got to be here!"

She couldn't understand what he was so upset about. Obviously there would be some sort of record of rent and other expenditures, but who kept a journal in this day and time?

"Wouldn't it be on the computer?" she asked, indicating the laptop on the dining room table.

"What? The computer?" He turned on the computer and pulled up the files, one by one, cursing harshly as he went along. "No, it's not here!" He stared at her over the computer. "You took it, when you took the jewelry, didn't you?" he demanded. "Did you get my stash, too?"

He strode into the bathroom. Loud noises came from the room. He appeared again with some small bags of white powder. "At least only one is missing," he said, almost to himself. He stuffed the bags into his pants pockets. He glared at Ivy. "I don't know what your game is, but you'd better find that journal, and quick, if you know what's good for you."

"What journal?" she demanded. "For heaven's sake, my sister just died! I'm not interested in your household accounts!"

He glared back.

"Did she have any life insurance?" she asked, forcing herself to calm down. "A burial policy?"

"She didn't expect to die this young," he returned. "No, there's no life insurance." He smiled coolly. "You can leave the apartment and its contents to me. Now take whatever you want of her 'heirlooms,' and then get the h.e.l.l out of this apartment."

She wanted to argue, but Stuart would be here soon, and after Jerry got his comeuppance, he wasn't likely to let her back in again. She retrieved the quilts out of the closet, leaving the crystal stacked neatly on the floor. She took the photo alb.u.m, although the photos were mostly of Rachel. She took none of the dresses or gowns or shoes or furs. Rachel's whole life boiled down to frivolous things. There wasn't a single book in the entire apartment.

Clutching the quilts and the photo alb.u.ms, she moved back into the living room, where Jerry was still pulling open drawers, looking for the mysterious journal.

He seemed surprised when he saw what she had. "There were evening gowns in the closet. Weren't you interested in them? You and Rachel were almost the same size."

"I can buy my own clothes," she replied. It was a sore spot. Just once, when she was sixteen, she'd asked to borrow one of Rachel's gowns to wear to the prom. Rachel had asked why, and Ivy had confessed that a nice boy from the grocery store had invited her to the prom. So when he came to the house, Rachel had flirted with him and before he left, Rachel had teased him into driving her to Houston to see some friends on the same night as the prom. Then Rachel had mocked Ivy about borrowing the gown, adding that she hardly needed one since she no longer had a date.

"Did Rachel send you anything to keep for her?" Jerry persisted.

"Rachel only phoned me when she wanted me to send her something," she replied. "She wouldn't have trusted me with anything. She never did."

"Yeah, she said you stole her stuff when she was living at home."