Aquamarine

by Catherine Mulvany

  “Like Skeeter,” she said.

  He nodded. “Despite the age difference, Kevin and Kirsten were very close. Closer than many blood siblings.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. I’m an only child.”

  “Me too,” he said as he maneuvered the boat into its berth in the boathouse at Strawberry Point.

  “The Raineys own this boathouse too?”

  Teague nodded. “The Griffins live in the apartment above the one on the island. I live here. Want to take a look around before I drive you back to the lodge?” The real Kirsten would have made herself at home, conned him into fixing her dinner, then seduced him over dessert.

  Shea’s gaze locked with his. Her color rose as if she’d read his mind. Then she shook her head, breaking off eye contact. “Give me a raincheck.”

  “Sure.” Her blush proved she wasn’t completely indifferent to him. Good news, since he was far from indifferent to her.

  And it wasn’t, he told himself, as they drove back along the lake to Liberty, just because she looked like Kirsten. After spending a week in Shea’s company, he recognized the differences between the two. Both were bright and stubborn as hell, but Kirsten had been manipulative where Shea was not.

  Shea was more independent too. Kirsten had had no interest in furthering her education or doing anything beyond charity work. Shea, on the other hand, had worked her way through college and built a career in the corporate world. In Ohio, he reminded himself. And she wasn’t the type to abandon all her hard-earned junior-executive perks to follow a man, either. Especially not a man who was still struggling to get his own fledgling business off the ground. Teague sighed.

  There were other differences too. Kirsten had been a born flirt. She’d known all the courtship rituals by heart and practiced them religiously. By contrast, Shea didn’t play any games at all.

  And though he could tell she was attracted to him, she wasn’t the type of woman to accept a man at face value. Kirsten had been as open and trusting as a puppy, but Shea hadn’t made up her mind about him yet. Teague understood, even approved of, her wariness. Trust didn’t come easily for him, either.

  He pulled into the parking lot of the Liberty Lodge, removed his sunglasses, and tucked them above the visor.“I know the big reunion was hard on you, but seeing his ‘daughter’ again did Jack a world of good. When I spoke to him after lunch, he seemed better than he has been in weeks.”

  “That’s good,” she said to the dashboard.

  “Shea?”

  She looked at him. Her expression was neutral, but she was as aware of him as he was of her. Little things gave her away—the faint flush along her cheekbones, the increase in her respiration rate, the way she twisted her purse strap between her fingers. A strand of hair had worked loose from the ponytail at the nape of her neck. He was tempted to hook it back behind her ear. Any excuse to touch her. But he didn’t. He smiled instead.

  Shea’s color rose and she broke off eye contact. “Cynthia asked me to come back in the morning. She thought going through old pictures might help to restore the gaps in my memory.”

  “You don’t have to go back if you don’t want to. Jack’s seen you now. His mind’s at rest. I can fob her off with some story. I’ll be out there tomorrow anyway. My crew and I are scheduled to start work on a new project.”

  “No, I …” She flushed. “Cynthia’s expecting me.” She met his gaze. “Tell me about your project. It’s a landscaping job, I take it?”

  “There’s an old gazebo on the promontory, used to be Kirsten’s favorite spot on the island, but the trees and shrubs have grown so tall, they’ve blocked the view. Jack got it in his head that he had to restore the spot to its former glory. He hired us to clear out brush, add some plantings, put in a brick path.”

  “So you’ll be on Massacre Island all day?”

  “Most of it. I can take you over in the morning if you want. Or, better yet, why don’t I show you how to run an outboard? Then you can take yourself across whenever you feel like it.”

  “That makes sense.”

  A freckle-faced girl with carroty hair scooted past on a skateboard. When Shea turned to watch, Teague studied her profile: perfect nose, full lower lip, stubborn chin. He wanted to touch her. Hell, he wanted to drag her into his arms and kiss her until she was breathless and panting his name, but he didn’t have the right. She wasn’t really Kirsten. She wasn’t really his at all.

  Shea turned back to him. “When can you show me how to run the boat motor?”

  He glanced at his watch. “I have a few errands, but I can swing back by to pick you up about seven. That would give us a couple hours of daylight to mess with the boat.”

  “Sure.”

  She didn’t look sure, but she didn’t turn him down, either, which, he figured, qualified as a step in the right direction. His direction.

  With mixed feelings, Shea watched Teague’s pickup drive off. The man was tall, dark, and growing more dangerous by the minute. He smiled and her brain shorted out. He touched and her hormones went berserk. What had she let herself in for?

  Inside the lodge’s rustic lobby, the desk clerk handed over her key, then placed an envelope on the counter in front of her. “This came for you.”

  Shea took the letter, then turned it over to study the typewritten address. Despite the fact that no one back home knew where she was, the letter was addressed to Ms. Shea McKenzie in care of the lodge. She frowned. Who could be sending her letters?

  The return address was conspicuous by its absence. She checked the postmark. It had been mailed locally, which told her—what?

  “Thanks,” she told the desk clerk, stuffing the envelope into her purse. She left by a side door and took the path along the lake.

  Most of the guests were out on the water or enjoying the lodge’s recreational facilities. The grounds were almost deserted. She met no one on the way to her room except for a family of quail, mama and babies, marching down the shredded-bark path in a straggling line.

  The phone was ringing as she let herself into her room. She tossed her jacket on the bed and grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”

  There was no response at first, though she could hear someone breathing. Oh, great. A crank call. Just what I need.

  “Hello?” she tried again, louder this time.

  “Go back to where you came from.” The voice on the other end was as dry and whispery as dead leaves rustling in the wind.

  “Who is this?”

  “A friend. Did you get your mail?”

  “Who is this?”

  No answer. The line was dead.

  She hung up the phone with trembling fingers, then dug in her purse for the letter the desk clerk had given her. She ripped it open to find a yellowed newspaper clipping and a single page of white bond.

  The clipping was a brief account of Kirsten’s disappearance. The accompanying note was typed. Its author hadn’t believed in wasting words. Its message was short, if not sweet:

  History has a way of repeating itself.

  Shea huddled in a wingback chair, toying with her locket. The whispering voice on the phone had claimed to be a friend, though he—or she—hadn’t sounded particularly friendly. She fingered the clipping. According to the article, Kirsten Rainey had disappeared without a trace, and the FBI reported no new leads. Nothing there she hadn’t already known. Which brought her to the note itself. History has a way of repeating itself. Warning or threat? That’s what she couldn’t decide.

  Dammit, she needed to talk to her mom. Only she couldn’t. Her parents weren’t due home for another three weeks. And it wasn’t as if they were on a group tour with a planned itinerary. Shea knew they intended to spend some time in Scotland trying to trace her stepdad’s ancestors. And she also knew her mom was determined to visit Pompeii. But as to when they’d be where, she had no clue. They probably didn’t know themselves.

  Shea jumped nervously at a tap on the door. Teague already? She glanced at her watch, surprised to disco
ver that it had been forty minutes since he’d dropped her off.

  She frowned, debating with herself whether or not to tell him about the unsettling crank call and anonymous note. Too risky, she decided. What if he insisted on calling off the charade? She wasn’t ready to leave Liberty yet, not until she had the answers to a few questions of her own.

  Stuffing the note and the news clipping in her purse, she got up to let him in.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked as soon as he saw her face.

  “Nothing. I’m just hungry. I was too nervous to eat much at lunch.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Want to go grab something before class?”

  “Class?”

  “You remember. Boating 101.”

  She forced a smile. “I vote for class first, then food.”

  Teague looked puzzled. “But a second ago you said you were hungry.”

  “Let’s just say I’m a big proponent of delayed gratification. You know, the longer you wait, the more you appreciate it.” Which might be mistaken for sexual innuendo, though she hadn’t meant it that way. Shea’s cheeks grew warm. “Shall we go?”

  Teague raised an eyebrow. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “Not bad.” Teague nodded approval. “Just remember not to come roaring up to the dock full throttle. You don’t want to skin up the boat. Or the dock, either.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze when she brought the little Seaswirl gliding in next to the mooring. “Yeah, I think you’re getting the hang of it.”

  “Finally.” Shea grinned and a dimple flashed in her right cheek.

  Kirsten had had an identical dimple.

  “What is it?” she asked, and he realized he’d been staring.

  “You look so damn much like her. It can’t be coincidence. Somewhere along the line you must have Rainey blood.”

  “Not that I’m aware of. You know what they say. Everyone has a double somewhere in the world. I guess I just happen to be Kirsten’s.”

  Her explanation was a little too glib. Her gaze slid away from his.

  Shea McKenzie was hiding something. He’d bet a month’s income on it. She wasn’t Kirsten, but she had some connection with the Raineys. With Jack.

  It wasn’t, he remembered, until after he’d shown her the pictures of Jack that she’d agreed to impersonate Kirsten. At the time he’d thought compassion for a dying man had sparked her sudden change of heart. But what if compassion hadn’t been the motivating factor? What if seeing Jack’s photographs had stirred a darker emotion?

  Who was Shea McKenzie, anyway? An illegitimate daughter? One Jack didn’t even know about? If so, maybe her presence in Liberty wasn’t a coincidence, after all. Maybe she’s after the money. The nasty suspicion slithered through his head, poisoning his thoughts.

  Dammit. Had he been paying more attention to his hormones than his common sense? A smart man would have asked Sheriff Carlton to run a discreet background check on Ms. Shea McKenzie a week ago when she first turned up. And maybe he’d do that too. First thing tomorrow.

  Teague stepped onto the dock, stretching out a hand to help Shea. Her fingers were warm, her palm a little moist, as if she was uneasy, as if he made her uneasy. She glanced up at him with a nervous smile. “Thanks,” she said, her voice a breathless whisper.

  Oh, hell. First thing tomorrow. Tomorrow afternoon. The day after.

  He thought about kissing her, dragging her down on the worn boards of the dock and kissing her long and hard until she was as sick and dizzy with wanting as he was.

  Had she read his mind? A flicker of fear lit those pale Rainey eyes. And unless he was mistaken, a flicker of excitement too.

  Neither of them spoke. Water lapped against the pilings. A breeze rustled through the pines. Out on the lake a trout broke the surface with a plop. In the gathering dusk, Shea’s skin looked pale, almost luminous against the backdrop of trees and water. She would feel like silk against the roughness of his callused palms. Feel like silk and taste like honey.

  He wanted her. God, but he wanted her. Her warm, spicy scent teased his senses. She was so close, close enough to touch. All he had to do was …

  A mosquito whined past his ear, then nailed him on the forearm. He swatted at it, and the prosaic action snapped the thread of heightened awareness linking them. He frowned at the dark hump of Massacre Island in the distance. Damn, what was his problem? He was thirty-two years old, for crying out loud, not some horny teenager.

  Turning abruptly, he led the way to the boathouse and showed her where the extra key was kept. “Just in case you need to use a boat sometime when they’re all put away. Hungry?” he asked without making eye contact.

  “Starved.” She sounded so normal, so unconcerned, he glanced over at her. Had he imagined that golden moment on the dock?

  “We could run into Liberty, grab a pizza or something, or you could cash in that raincheck. I do a mean omelet,” he said.

  She smiled an innocent, let’s-be-friends smile, but her lower lip trembled just a little. “Right now I’m so hungry I’d accept a dinner invitation from the devil himself.”

  That’s right, he told himself. Keep it light. Keep it casual. He lifted an eyebrow. “I suppose you know that remark just earned you the dishwashing detail, McKenzie.”

  She hadn’t been kidding about being hungry, he thought as he watched her polish off the last of her omelet and a second roll, then eye the apple pie with a predatory expression. “You’re definitely not Kirsten,” he said.

  “So I’ve said. Repeatedly. What finally convinced you?”

  “Kirsten ate like a bird, was always on a diet, always worrying about her weight. She used to irritate the hell out of me. We’d go out to dinner and she’d order the most expensive thing on the menu, eat two bites, then say she was full. You, on the other hand, take a much less inhibited approach to food.”

  She laid down her fork and studied him from between narrowed lids. “Meaning what? I suck it in like a vacuum cleaner?”

  He laughed at the outraged expression on her face.“Relax. It was a compliment, not an insult.”

  “Oh,” she said, her cheeks turning a delicate pink.

  “Got room for some pie?”

  Her eyes sparkled and her lips curved in a smile. “Yes, please.”

  He cut her a generous piece.

  She paused, the first bite just inches from her mouth. “Aren’t you having any?”

  The truth was, he’d rather watch her eat. She did it with such gusto, such obvious pleasure. “Maybe later,” he said. “I had more lunch than you did.”

  She nodded, then closed her eyes as she savored the taste.

  “I couldn’t eat. That visit was so nerve-racking. It didn’t help to have Ruth Griffin glaring at me through the entire meal as if she thought I might slip poison into someone’s food.”

  “She’ll warm up. Give her time.”

  Teague watched in fascination as she licked a flake of crust off her fork. Before meeting Shea, he hadn’t realized what a turn-on it could be just watching a woman eat.

  “Teague?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  He laughed in surprise. Ghosts? Talk about your non sequiturs. What was going on in that head of hers? “No. I think when you’re dead, you’re dead, and that’s it. Finito. Caput. The end. Why do you ask?”

  She stabbed a slice of apple as if she had a grudge against it. “I know this sounds crazy, but today, out on the island, a couple of times I knew things I shouldn’t have. Like somebody was filtering information into my brain.”

  He studied her face closely. Was she setting him up for some con? “Give me an example.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “Like when I knew Cynthia had decorated Kirsten’s room.”

  “Decorating is what Cynthia does best. In the fifteen years or so she and Jack have been married, she’s redecorated the cabin at least four times. I probably mentioned something about it when I briefed you on the family.”

>   “That’s my point. I don’t remember your touching on the subject.” She frowned slightly, biting her lip. “I don’t know, though. Maybe you did.” She didn’t sound convinced.

  “Okay, what’s your theory? That Kirsten’s haunting you? Planting her memories in your brain?”

  “I told you it sounded crazy.”

  “Not crazy, exactly.”

  She squared her jaw and pressed her lips together in a firm line. “Don’t patronize me, dammit. I know it sounds nuts, but I also know I’m not imagining all the weird little anomalies. There have been too damn many of them for coincidence.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as how did I know Kirsten called Kevin ‘Skeeter’? The nickname wasn’t mentioned in the diaries. I’m positive. And later, when we went to see Jack, I ‘remembered’ where Kirsten’s old Nancy Drew collection was shelved. Not to mention …” Her eyes glazed over as if she were listening intently to the murmur of distant voices.

  “What?” The fey expression on her face made him nervous.

  “The crystal.” She shivered, even though the room was warm.

  “The aquamarine cluster in Kirsten’s room?”

  She nodded.

  “What about it?”

  Shea frowned at a spot on the wall just over his left shoulder. “I’m not sure. But when I touched it, I had the eeriest sensation. A communication, I think, but it came so fast, I couldn’t make sense of it.”

  “In that case, you can count Kirsten out. According to Glory, the rock’s one of Beelzebub’s treasures. No connection to Kirsten at all.”

  “There’s a connection,” she said flatly. “You didn’t feel what I felt.”

  Teague took her hand between his. She vibrated with tension. Bizarre as her ideas sounded to him, she believed what she was saying. “If it bothers you that much to visit the island, don’t go back.”