But if Aunt Lucinda wasn't going to leave Davencourt to Roanna, then it just wasn't fair that Webb should get it! Aunt Lucinda might not think that Webb had killed Jessie, but Corliss had her own opinion, and it was even stronger after the look she'd seen on his face that afternoon. She had no doubts that he could kill. Why, for a minute she'd thought he was going to kill her, and over a little joke she'd been about to play. She'd only been thinking about slamming the door, she hadn't actually done it. But he'd grabbed her and hurt her neck, the bastard.
Someone slid onto the stool beside her.
"You look like you need another drink," a smooth masculine voice purred in her ear.
Corliss cast a dismissive glance at the man beside her. He was good-looking enough, she supposed, but way too old.
"Get lost, Pops."
He chuckled. "Don't let the gray hair fool you. Just because there's snow on the roof doesn't mean there's no fire ii) the furnace."
T_
"Yeah, yeah, I've heard it all before," she said, bored. She took another draw on the daiquiri.
"You may be too old to cut the mustard, but you can still spread the mayonnaise, Big deal. Beat it-and you can take that any way you like.," "I'm not interested in fucking you," he said, sounding as bored as she had.
She was so shocked by the bluntness that she looked at him then, really looked at him. She saw the thick hair that had gone mostly gray, and a body that was still powerful and in shape even though he had to be in his fifties. It was his eyes that riveted her, though; they were the bluest eyes she'd ever seen, and looking into them was like looking into a snake's eyes: flat, totally devoid of feeling. Corliss shivered, but couldn't help feeling fascinated.
He nodded at the parasols littering the bar.
"You've been pouring the booze down pretty fast. Have a bad day?"
"You don't know the half of it," she said, but then laughed.
"Things are looking up, though."
"So why don't you tell me about it," he invited.
"You're Corliss Spence, aren't you? Don't you live out at Davencourt?"
That was often one of the first questions people asked when meeting her for the first time. Corliss loved the distinction it gave her, the sense of being someone special. Webb was going to take that away from her, and she hated him for it.
"Yeah, I live there," she said.
"For a while longer, anyway. 91 The man lifted his glass to his mouth. From the color of the liquid, it looked like straight bourbon. He sipped it as he stared at her with those cold blue eyes.
"Looks to me like you'd already be hauling ass out of there. It must be pretty uncomfortable living with a killer."
Corliss thought of Webb's hand biting into the back of her neck, and she shivered.
"He's a bastard," she said.
"I'll be moving out soon. He attacked me today for no reason!"
"Tell me about it," he urged again, and held out his hand.
"By the way, my name's Harper Neeley."
Corliss shook hands with him and felt a little thrill of fascination. He might be an old guy, but there was something about him that gave her the shivers. For now, though, she was more than willing to tell her new friend anything he wanted to know about how hateful Webb Tallant was.
Roanna wished she hadn't succumbed to the nap that afternoon. It had helped immeasurably at the time, but now she faced another long night. She had come upstairs at ten and gone through the ritual of showering, putting on her nightgown, brushing her teeth, getting in bed, all for nothing. She had known immediately that sleep would be a long time coming, if at all, so she had gotten out of bed and curled up in her chair. She picked up the book she'd been trying to read for the past two nights and finally managed to get interested in it.
Webb came up at eleven, and she snapped off her reading light while she listened to him showering. She watched the splash of light from his room, wondering if he would back between it and the windows so she could see his shadow on the veranda. He didn't; his light went out, and there was silence from the other room.
The light from her lamp attracted mosquitoes, so Roanna always kept her veranda doors closed while she was reading, and she wasn't able to hear if he opened his own doors that night. She sat quietly in the dark, waiting until he'd had time to fall asleep, hoping she might become sleepy herself. She watched the fluorescent hands of her clock move past midnight; only then did she turn her lamp back on and resume reading.
An hour later she yawned and let the book drop into her lap. Even if she couldn't actually sleep, she was so tired that, she wanted to lie down. She glanced outside and saw that an evening storm was building; she could see the red are of lightning, but it was so far away she couldn't hear any thunder. Perhaps if she opened her doors and got into bed, the storm would sweep nearer, bringing the sweet rain with it. Rain was the best sedative, soothing her into what was usually her most restful sleep. 245
She was so tired that it was a long moment before she realized that lightning wasn't red. There was no storm. Someone was on the balcony, his darker form barely discernible in the shadows.
He was watching her. Webb.
She recognized him immediately, so swiftly that she didn't have time to panic at the thought of a stranger on the veranda. He was smoking, and the cigarette glowed in a red arc as he lifted it to his lips. The fiery end burned even brighter when he inhaled, and in the brief flare she could make out the hard outline of his face, the slash of his high cheekbones.
He was leaning against the veranda railing, just outside the frame of light from her windows. A faint, silver light gleamed on his naked shoulders, cast from the stars dotting the night sky. He was wearing dark pants, perhaps jeans, but nothing else.