Twice Kissed

by Lisa Jackson

  A needle of guilt pricked her heart. She’d married Dean McCrae on the rebound, told herself that she would learn to love him, that what she’d felt for Thane had only been child’s play, first love, the thrill of experimentation and exploration. Nothing more.

  But she’d been wrong.

  The love she’d felt for this solitary cowboy had never died, damn it, and even now, years later, trapped in a romantic hotel room, it didn’t seem to matter that they were here because of Mary Theresa, that the woman who had once broken them apart now drew them together, that all the pain of the past could oh-so-easily be relieved.

  “Don’t be dense, Thane,” she said, finishing her drink and casting caution to the wind by padding barefoot to the bar and pouring herself another stiff shot. “We both know that we can’t ever…that you and I…it’ll never work, and I’m not up for just a quick fling, okay? I’ve got too much on my mind.”

  When she turned he was beside her, and though he didn’t touch her, didn’t so much as brush a hand against her shoulder, she could feel him as surely as if they were naked and lying entwined, skin to skin, body pressed against anxious body.

  The scotch was already warming her blood.

  “I think we should talk about something.”

  His tone stopped her cold. “What?”

  “There’s something you’ve got to face, Maggie. Something important.”

  She took another sip before asking, “And that is?”

  “The fact that Mary Theresa may be dead.”

  “What?” She nearly dropped her glass. “No way.”

  “Think about it. She’s been gone almost a week now without a call or note or word of any kind. No ransom note, no demands, nothing.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t. What—what about her Jeep? Where is it?”

  “Maybe stolen. Or with her body.”

  “Don’t even talk like this! I won’t believe it. I can’t.”

  “Maggie—be reasonable, something’s happened.”

  “No.” She shook her head, walked to the windows and stared out at the night. “No.”

  “Maggie, listen, you’ve got to prepare yourself,” he said, his voice rough. “She could be gone.”

  Tears touched the back of her eyes and she was suddenly angry. At Thane. At Marquise. At the whole damned world. “I know she’s okay.”

  “How? Just because you’re twins—”

  Whirling, she nearly spilled the remainder of her drink. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You know something? And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I couldn’t.” Dear God, could she confide in him now—tell him all the truth? Did she dare? The scotch made her bold, the intimate room engendered the sharing of secrets.

  “What?”

  “Remember when I told you about the mental telepathy?”

  “Not something I’d easily forget.”

  “I suppose not.” She fortified herself with another swallow of fiery liquor.

  “Something else?”

  Oh, God. “You could say so.”

  He set his glass on the bar and shoved both hands into the front pockets of his jeans. Leaning his hips against the counter’s edge, he said, “Don’t tell me she’s been sending out messages again.”

  “No—I, um, haven’t heard from her since the last time—in the barn.”

  “Before I showed up at your ranch in Idaho.”

  “Yes,” she said, suddenly as cold as she had been on that very day. She wondered if she could trust him and decided it didn’t matter. It was now or never. Her hands were shaking as she crossed the room, forcing some distance between her body and his. She finished her drink and set her empty glass on the mantel. “The message she sent me that day was horrifying.”

  “She asked for your help,” he prodded.

  “But there was more to it than that.” She shoved both hands through her hair, dislodging the clip that had held it pinned to the top of her head. “I know you’re having trouble believing this—I did, too. I’ve been told by professionals that it’s impossible, that I’ve imagined it, that in all the cases they’ve studied of identical twins, they’ve seen nothing like this and since it’s so…erratic, I can’t prove it.”

  “We’ve been through this part before, Mag Pie. Why don’t you quit stalling.” His voice was low, nearly threatening.

  She froze. Oh, Lord, why had she opened her mouth in the first place?

  “You said she contacted you. What did she say?” he repeated.

  “The truth of the matter is that she said you were involved.”

  “Involved? In what?”

  “In whatever happened to her.”

  “What?” he whispered.

  “She…she said that you did it to her. Whatever she was talking about.”

  “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You believe that I…oh, hell.” His fingers curled into fists. “Son of a bitch. Son of a goddamned—” In three swift strides he crossed the room and grabbed her shoulders. “Listen to me, Maggie, I don’t know what you or Mary Theresa are trying to pull here, but I didn’t do anything to harm her. You understand?” His fingers dug deep into her shoulders.

  “Pull?” she replied. “You think I’m trying to put something over on you?” She couldn’t believe her ears. After all the time they’d spent together, after kissing and touching and…Dear God, how could he possibly think she would lie to him? But you don’t trust him, do you? Not completely. Be honest, Maggie. “That’s…that’s ridiculous.”

  “Any more ridiculous than trying to make me believe that you and your sister, from whom you’re practically estranged, are involved in some kind of mental telepathy and that she…she is trying to blame me for her disappearance?”

  “I know it sounds crazy but—”

  “Holy Christ, it is crazy, Maggie.” He stared at her with harsh, unforgiving eyes. “What the hell is this?”

  “You tell me, Thane.” She glared up at him. “You’re the one with the secrets.” Shadows shifted in his eyes and she sensed a lie. “Damn you, Walker, why can’t you be straight with me?”

  “Probably for the same reason you can’t with me.” His gaze drifted from her eyes to her lips. “You never said a word about Mary Theresa pointing some kind of mental finger at me. And now all of a sudden—”

  “It’s true, damn it. Why would I make it up? Why? You think I want you to think I’m a looney? For God’s sake, Thane, for once in your life, trust me.”

  “Why?” he demanded, and she nearly slapped him.

  “Go to hell.”

  “Too late, darlin’,” he said roughly as he dragged her so close she could smell his heat, “’cause I’m already there.” With that his lips crashed down on hers and kissed her long and hard, sucking the breath from her lungs, causing her blood to ignite. One hand slipped beneath the lapel of her robe to cup her breast.

  She closed her eyes as rough fingers grazed her nipple.

  Don’t do this, Maggie, she warned herself. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t! But she couldn’t stop, and when his tongue pressed against her mouth, her lips parted willingly. One hand worked the knot of her robe, the other shoved the terry cloth over her shoulders and suddenly she was naked, sagging against him, and he was on his knees, kissing her breasts, touching, suckling as goose bumps rose on her flesh. Her fingers plowed through his hair as he kissed her navel, his tongue rimming the small indentation, his hands lowering to her buttocks, where they held her fast against him.

  She melted inside and moaned and he kissed her intimately before she sagged into his waiting arms and he carried her to the bed. Stop, Maggie, she told herself as she looked up at him looming over her, a dozen questions in his gaze. But the warning fell on deaf ears and she turned off the denials racing through her brain as she found the buttons of his shirt, pushed the cotton fabric off strong shoulders and down long, sinewy arms.
She tossed the shirt to the floor. Anxiously her fingers found the button fly of his jeans and with one tug, the fasteners gave way. She should stop, right now. Before things went too far. But she couldn’t. Deep inside she felt a yearning, a need that pulsed between her legs and pounded in her heart.

  “Maggie,” he whispered as she, scooting lower on the bed, forced the jeans over his slim hips and down long, rock-hard thighs. His skin sheened with perspiration, and, as she ran her fingers along the length of his spine, he sucked in his breath. She kissed the soft hair on his thighs, traced the dark line of down that arrowed from his waist to his crotch, then gently, looking up at him with eyes she knew were luminous, touched his erection with the tips of her curious fingers. “God, Maggie…” He kicked the Levi’s to the carpet, dragged her upward, and spread her legs with his knees. “You make me crazy,” he growled, propped on his elbows, staring down at her with lust-glazed eyes. “You know, woman, you always have.”

  “That…that works two ways, cowboy.” Oh, Lord, she wanted him, more than she’d ever wanted a man, more than any woman should want a man. She trembled with the wanton need that awakened in the deepest center of her womanhood and licked, like flames on dry kindling, through her blood.

  He glanced at her mouth, leaned down to kiss her again, and then, as his arms entrapped her, he closed his eyes and swore under his breath. “Maggie, I just don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Then don’t,” she said, desire throbbing through her. “Don’t—” Just love me, Thane. For once, love me. Not my sister, but me!

  “Christ, I should be hung for this,” he growled, before his lips claimed hers again, strong arms held her hard and possessively. His entire body tensed and he groaned savagely, thrusting deep, penetrating the deepest part of her. She gasped, he withdrew, then delved again with a desperate surrender that brought tears to her eyes. “Maggie, sweet, sweet…oh, God.” His voice was ragged, his breathing raspy, his hair dark with sweat. Eyes held hers as his tempo increased, and the veins on his neck bulged. She moved with him, danced the intimate dance of lovers, her fingers digging into the flesh of his back. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, saw only the man above her in a cloudy haze. Faster and faster—the room spun wildly until she bucked upward, convulsing, hanging on to him as he tossed back his head and stiffened, pinning her to the bed, claiming her as his own, joining with her as man and woman have joined for millennia.

  “God help me,” he breathed, spilling into her before collapsing and drawing deep, irregular breaths.

  God help us both, she thought, as he held her. Exhaustion and frustration had taken their tolls. She closed her eyes and told herself it didn’t matter that she’d made love to him, that whatever happened they needed this time together, and she refused to give in to the dark doubts that crowded around the corners of her mind. Instead she snuggled against Thane and relaxed, sighing as he drew the cover over her. Snuggling close, she listened to the steady, comforting beat of his heart. There was enough time for recriminations tomorrow.

  “Cover for me, would ya?” Jenny begged as she pulled her hair through the neck of her turtleneck. The lights were out, Uncle Jim and Aunt Connie had gone to bed, and Jenny was planning to sneak her car away from the house to meet her boyfriend, Kevin, a twenty-two-year-old with hair dyed black, several nose rings, a goatee, and a permanent scowl. Becca thought Kevin was cool; he even played drums in a local band, but she didn’t like having to do the lying for her cousin. From the moment Becca had dropped her duffel bag in Jenny’s closet, Jenny had been asking her to do a lot of “covering” for her, and Becca had the vague suspicion that she was being used.

  Jenny’s clock was a wooden Elvis, painted to look like the King. The face of the clock was inserted into Elvis’s torso, but his hips swung free, keeping time to the seconds that were ticking away. Right now, the clock didn’t seem quite so whimsical and cool, but it did tell Becca that it was nearly midnight. Uncle Jim, a businessman who woke up at 5 A.M. so that he could jog five miles before driving to work, had been in bed since ten. Aunt Connie had rattled around the kitchen and had been on the phone until nearly eleven, then she, too, had turned in. No doubt they were both sawing logs, but Becca didn’t want to be left holding the bag if they woke up. “Let me come with you,” she suggested.

  “Oh, yeah, right!” Jenny rolled her expressive eyes. Along with the black turtleneck sweater, she was dressed in tight black jeans. A huge belt with a gold buckle accentuated her tiny waist. She straightened the buckle, then reached into her top drawer and pulled out a few bills from a jewelry case she kept beneath her bras. Her secret stash of money—over two hundred dollars that she’d saved from her allowance. Tucking the bills into a pocket, she said, “Haven’t you ever heard the expression ‘three’s a crowd’? Kevin and I don’t need a baby-sitter, if ya know what I mean.”

  Becca got it all right. But it bugged her. “So what am I supposed to say if your mom comes in?”

  “I don’t know. That…that I got restless and went out to take a walk, or to get something to eat, or something. Anything but that I’m with Kevin, okay? Mom would probably have a coronary, right here in the middle of the room. She thinks Kevin is a…wait a minute, I think the direct quote is, ‘a low-life punk who’s probably on drugs and will never get anywhere.’”

  Jenny wrinkled her nose and pursed her lips in an impression of her mother’s persnickety expression that was dead on. Becca couldn’t help but giggle.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Okay?”

  It wasn’t, but Becca muttered, “I guess.”

  “Good. Tomorrow we’ll go to the mall, I promise.”

  Becca hated the mall.

  Biting her lip nervously, Jenny carried her black shoes in her hands, and Becca slid lower in the bed. “Here.” Jenny picked up the remote control that had been left between the brushes and CDs on her dresser, then tossed it to Becca. “You can watch Letterman.” Opening the door a crack, she gnawed on her lip and scouted the hallway; then, with one final glance at her cousin, she slipped through the opening, closed the door softly behind her, and slid noiselessly down the hall.

  Becca was sweating. She strained to hear any sound through the open window. A cat mewed quietly from a hiding spot in the backyard, a few cars passed on the road in front of the house, and far away a horn honked. Then she heard it, the sound of an engine turning over as Jenny, who always parked her Jetta on the street, started the car and, without the tiniest squeak of tires, took off.

  Becca ran to the window and peered through the slats of the blinds in time to see the red taillights of the Jetta disappear around the corner. The night was eerie, blue light from the streetlamps glowing through the palm-tree fronds and branches of the grapefruit trees that shaded the garage. Becca’s heart was thudding, pounding so loudly she was certain Aunt Connie, three doors down, could hear it.

  Swallowing hard, Becca wondered why she’d ever wanted to come here. At this moment she hated L.A. and couldn’t help but feel alone, betrayed, and abandoned. Jenny was a turd, and Aunt Connie and Uncle Jim acted funny, always asking her questions about her life in Idaho, about her mother, about how she felt about living so far away, about how her mother spent their money. There had been a few quiet inquiries into her mother’s health and job, and Becca got the feeling something was up—something she might not like. When she’d asked Jenny about it, her cousin had just shrugged.

  “They’re always uptight, and with Grandpa in the nursing home, it’s been worse. They’re gonna drag you to see him, you know, because he’s about a goner and they’re all worried about his will. Something about trust funds, I don’t really get it.” She’d rolled her eyes and gone back to filing her nails.

  Now, Jenny and her Jetta were long gone, and Becca turned away from the window to flop down on the bed and fight the stupid feeling that she was going to cry. Here in L.A., where she was supposed to be having so much fun, she felt miserably alone. And scared. If Aunt Connie found o
ut that Jenny’d taken off, she’d have a stroke. And probably blame Becca somehow. In the few days she’d been here, Becca had already sensed that she was not just a guest, but kind of a burden. Aunt Connie not only resented her, but was blaming her for any kind of trouble that happened.

  The seconds ticked by, and Becca’s heartbeat finally slowed. The house remained still. Throat dry, Becca finally let out her breath, clicked on the television, the volume muted and low. As she switched through a billion stations, she caught a glimpse of her mother’s face—no, wait, it was Aunt Marquise. She stopped channel-surfing and caught the news out of Denver, that her aunt was still missing, and the police were beginning to suspect foul play.

  What? Foul play?

  Her heart hammered. What exactly did that mean? Foul play? Murder? Oh, man, she hoped not. Kidnapping? Rape? All those horrible things that she saw on the news or in those police-drama shows? Geez, not Marquise. No way. Anxiously, Becca listened to the report, learned nothing new, and was suddenly worried sick. Something big was going on, more than she had ever imagined. She snapped off the set and pulled the covers over her head. Where was Marquise? Nobody could really hurt her, could they? Hadn’t Aunt Connie said that Becca’s mother had called earlier, when she and Jenny had been at a movie? Had she been calling about Aunt Marquise? Oh, man, oh, man, this was bad.

  It was just a dumb news report. She couldn’t let herself get freaked out by it.

  And yet she started to shake. She thought about her favorite beautiful but wild aunt, who looked so much like her mother but was ten times cooler.

  Becca blinked against a sudden, stupid wash of tears. Swallowing hard and feeling a thick lump clog her throat, she realized how badly she missed her mom and her dad. Tears threatened her eyes, and she set her jaw to combat them. Why had her mom decided to divorce her dad? She’d never really gotten a straight answer on that one. And, crap, why had he ended up dead? That old dull ache, the one that throbbed in her chest for months after her father’s accident, started up again, and she hugged her pillow close to her body. She missed him. So much. And now she missed her mother. Something she’d have sworn was never possible.