grounds?"
"That I beat them."
"Did you?"
"No."
"Then you had nothing to worry about. If there was no sign of physical abuse, then they couldn't keep you away."
He just looked at her. "Maybe not. Unfortunately the jury didn't tend to think I'd be smart enough to figure that out. The prosecution painted me as a violent man, willing to kill my wife and children rather than let them leave me. There were other disappearances as well. The woman I'd been known to have an affair with disappeared around the same time, and the jury was ready to convict me of anything they could."
"Is it true? Are you a violent man, capable of murder?"
He rose then, and leaned across the desk, close enough so that he could smell the coffee on her breath, the scent of her perfume. Another erotic pulse throbbed. "You're going to have to figure that out, aren't you?" he murmured.
She stared up at him, mesmerized. "Why should I?"
"Because you're curious. You can't help yourself, Cassidy. You look at me and wonder whether I'm some kind of monster, who butchered his wife and children, or whether I'm just a poor victim of a crazy judicial system. Your heart wants to bleed for me, I can see it, and you want to believe me, but you can't quite bring yourself to do it. So you're torn. You don't know whether to comfort or revile me. Do you?"
He could see the faint flush of color on her translucent cheekbones, the aching warmth in deep green eyes. "Would you let me comfort you?" she asked, her voice hushed.
It was like a blow, ripping away the layers of protection, the defenses, so that she struck, straight to that dark, empty place that had once been his heart. He stepped back, away from her, away from the dangerous seduction of her compassion, away from the first real threat he'd come across since that night, endless nights ago, when he'd knelt in the pool of his wife's blood and watched her die.
"No," he said. And he turned and left her, almost running, suddenly, irrationally afraid.
"I'm not certain this was such a good idea after all," Mabry said from the open doorway.
Cass looked up from the neatly stacked files of papers on Sean's walnut desk. She'd been at it since Richard Tiernan had abruptly walked out on her—reading, cataloguing, inuring herself to horror.
The initial police report was there, and the coroner's report as well. Diana Scott Tiernan had died of massive blood loss, caused by a slashed aorta. The fetus was approximately seven weeks old, and had suffocated once Diana Tiernan's heart had stopped pumping.
There were signs of a struggle. She was bruised, with small traces of blood under her fingernails. Blood that had matched the scratches on her husband's arms. Scratches he insisted came from an encounter with a stray cat.
Cassidy had read it all with a kind of shocked detachment. These weren't people she knew, she told herself. If she could just manage to convince herself it was all a fiction, an Agatha Christie murder mystery, then the sick burning at the pit of her stomach would leave her.
She glanced up at Mabry's pale, perfect face. "Not a good idea?" she echoed. "Why do you say that? You're the one who got me up here in the first place."
Mabry grimaced. "Sean was determined that you should come and visit, and who can hold out against your father when he gets in his moods?" She drifted into the room with her unconscious, model's grace, deliberately avoiding the green leather chair. Cass wondered why.
"So he's not really been sick? Never has been?" she asked, leaning back.
"I don't know," Mabry said simply. "I do know he's actually gone to the doctor on several occasions, which would have been unheard of when I first met him. He's refused to let me come with him, and when I asked him what was wrong he simply told me it was constipation. And frankly, if there's one thing Sean isn't, it's anal retentive."
"Do you really think he's sick?"
Mabry shoved a slender hand through her perfectly straight hair. "I don't know.
"That I beat them."
"Did you?"
"No."
"Then you had nothing to worry about. If there was no sign of physical abuse, then they couldn't keep you away."
He just looked at her. "Maybe not. Unfortunately the jury didn't tend to think I'd be smart enough to figure that out. The prosecution painted me as a violent man, willing to kill my wife and children rather than let them leave me. There were other disappearances as well. The woman I'd been known to have an affair with disappeared around the same time, and the jury was ready to convict me of anything they could."
"Is it true? Are you a violent man, capable of murder?"
He rose then, and leaned across the desk, close enough so that he could smell the coffee on her breath, the scent of her perfume. Another erotic pulse throbbed. "You're going to have to figure that out, aren't you?" he murmured.
She stared up at him, mesmerized. "Why should I?"
"Because you're curious. You can't help yourself, Cassidy. You look at me and wonder whether I'm some kind of monster, who butchered his wife and children, or whether I'm just a poor victim of a crazy judicial system. Your heart wants to bleed for me, I can see it, and you want to believe me, but you can't quite bring yourself to do it. So you're torn. You don't know whether to comfort or revile me. Do you?"
He could see the faint flush of color on her translucent cheekbones, the aching warmth in deep green eyes. "Would you let me comfort you?" she asked, her voice hushed.
It was like a blow, ripping away the layers of protection, the defenses, so that she struck, straight to that dark, empty place that had once been his heart. He stepped back, away from her, away from the dangerous seduction of her compassion, away from the first real threat he'd come across since that night, endless nights ago, when he'd knelt in the pool of his wife's blood and watched her die.
"No," he said. And he turned and left her, almost running, suddenly, irrationally afraid.
"I'm not certain this was such a good idea after all," Mabry said from the open doorway.
Cass looked up from the neatly stacked files of papers on Sean's walnut desk. She'd been at it since Richard Tiernan had abruptly walked out on her—reading, cataloguing, inuring herself to horror.
The initial police report was there, and the coroner's report as well. Diana Scott Tiernan had died of massive blood loss, caused by a slashed aorta. The fetus was approximately seven weeks old, and had suffocated once Diana Tiernan's heart had stopped pumping.
There were signs of a struggle. She was bruised, with small traces of blood under her fingernails. Blood that had matched the scratches on her husband's arms. Scratches he insisted came from an encounter with a stray cat.
Cassidy had read it all with a kind of shocked detachment. These weren't people she knew, she told herself. If she could just manage to convince herself it was all a fiction, an Agatha Christie murder mystery, then the sick burning at the pit of her stomach would leave her.
She glanced up at Mabry's pale, perfect face. "Not a good idea?" she echoed. "Why do you say that? You're the one who got me up here in the first place."
Mabry grimaced. "Sean was determined that you should come and visit, and who can hold out against your father when he gets in his moods?" She drifted into the room with her unconscious, model's grace, deliberately avoiding the green leather chair. Cass wondered why.
"So he's not really been sick? Never has been?" she asked, leaning back.
"I don't know," Mabry said simply. "I do know he's actually gone to the doctor on several occasions, which would have been unheard of when I first met him. He's refused to let me come with him, and when I asked him what was wrong he simply told me it was constipation. And frankly, if there's one thing Sean isn't, it's anal retentive."
"Do you really think he's sick?"
Mabry shoved a slender hand through her perfectly straight hair. "I don't know.
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