Mirror Image (Capitol Chronicles Book 4)

by Shirley Hailstock

  Aurora appeared at the entrance to the kitchen. Both men turned to look at her. Her eyes were huge and bright. Her face looked pallid, and fear had returned to her body, making it stiff and hard to move.

  "It's gone," she said.

  Chapter 7

  For the space of a lifetime not one of them spoke. Absolute quiet seemed to roar through the kitchen. Duncan and Coop froze like ice figures. Then they all spoke at once.

  "Are you sure?" Coop asked.

  "Of course I'm sure," she snapped. "I put the case next to my jewelry box, and it's gone." She'd reached for it, knowing exactly where it would be, but it wasn't there. At first she'd refused to believe someone had taken it. Then reality set in and she began to shake. She couldn't scream, couldn't speak. Her heart clogged her throat. Whoever had sent the pearl necklace had returned for it. She hadn't been home and the necklace had lain about her neck, now more like a noose than a decoration. Breathing became difficult and she gasped in the silent kitchen.

  "How about anything else?" Coop interrogated. "Other jewelry items?"

  "Nothing, nothing!" she shouted. "He knew what he wanted and he came to get it." She stared at Coop as if he were the enemy.

  Duncan moved toward her and pulled her into his arms. Aurora wanted to crack, wanted to relax against him, and let him shoulder her worries, but she stiffened, refusing to allow anything to break her. If the tiniest sliver ate into her resolve, she'd shatter.

  "It's no longer safe for you to stay here. I think you should find another place until this is over." Aurora heard Coop's voice. It sounded gentler, as if he understood her pain. "Don't worry about the house. We'll keep it under surveillance, and I'd like to post a policewoman here."

  "Don't worry about her," Duncan said. "After this I'm taking her to my place."

  ***

  Aurora didn't know how she could expect sleep to come tonight. First her house, then the necklace case, and now she was imprisoned in a guest bedroom at Duncan's house. She should have insisted he take her to a hotel but she'd been too tired, her nerves too close to the surface to argue with him about where she slept. And she didn't want to be alone.

  She tried a bubble bath, then a slick satin gown she rarely wore. Climbing between the sheets in the comfortable, queen-size bed should have made her ready to blot out the world for the next eight hours, but her mind was active and she was wide awake.

  Barely a wall away Duncan slept. Images of his bronzed body in various stages of undress seeped into her thoughts and made the pit of her stomach ache. This was the worst mistake she'd made, coming here.

  Sitting up in bed she rested her head on her knees and tried to think of something else. Work, she thought. Then she remembered her conversation with Duncan earlier today. It seemed years ago now, though it had only been a few hours. Should she replace Marsha? Should she go before the cameras and interview Marsha's guests? Would it be difficult to ask canned questions, look and sound spontaneous?

  She knew the answers to those questions. She needed time to get used to interviewing and to giving an audience what they expected, and she knew she'd be nervous. What she didn't know was who would be there. Had the killer come to the studio? Had he been in the audience? Was he an employee with a score to settle? She rejected that one. No one at the studio would ever have mistaken her for Marsha. Unless—she stopped, her head coming up as she stared into the dark room— unless he wasn't at work that day. She rejected the theory. When he returned he would have discovered the truth, then stalked the real hostess. Knowing that the stalker had mistaken her for Marsha and was actively trying to get to her should make her refuse the offer. "But I'm the victim," she said aloud. He was making her the victim of this B movie, and she wouldn't be a victim. She'd seen victims, knew what they lost when they became the objects of someone else's program. Some of them needed therapy afterwards, years of therapy, and there was no guarantee of recovery.

  Sliding out of bed she went to the window and looked out on the yard below. Moonlight made it easy to see the rosebushes fringing the back fence. The decision had been taken from her tonight. She was already involved in the stalking whether she liked it not. If she were going to survive this and remain intact, she would have to admit she was already part of the teleplay. It would be better if she could set the scene and provide some of the dialogue instead of sitting back and letting other people try to keep her alive. She'd do it herself.

  Weren't those the same words she'd told the women she counseled? They had to take charge of their own lives and not allow anyone to make them victims. It was easy for her to sit behind her battered desk and spout words that had no experience backing them up. Now it was her turn to prove the truth of her rhetoric.

  She hoped she was right.

  ***

  Aurora logged about two hours of sleep the entire night—in fifteen-minute intervals. Her head felt heavy and fuzzy at six a.m., when she dragged herself to the shower and tried to make herself look as if she carried no worries and today was just another work day.

  She knew it wasn't.

  She also knew she couldn't stay here another night. The thought of returning home made her shudder with anger. She'd been forced to flee, and returning there—although better than trying to sleep in the same house with Duncan—was not an option. She'd have to find another place.

  She had plenty of friends but rejected the idea of calling any of them. It was enough that her life had been uprooted by a stalker. She didn't feel it fair to possibly endanger someone else. They no longer had the shore house. Her father had received that in the divorce settlement and immediately sold it. It wouldn't have mattered, anyway. The house was in Cape May and too far away. Her drive to the studio each day would take hours. Her only option seemed to be a hotel. She couldn't afford to stay there for long. The nursing home expenses took most of her funds. She prayed Coop would find the stalker soon and life would return to normal.

  By seven-thirty Aurora was ready. She'd taken care with her personal grooming, then packed everything into her suitcase. Maybe she could find some coffee in the kitchen. By the time Duncan rose she wanted to be ready to defend her reasons for refusing his hospitality without telling him the truth.

  She smelled the coffee before reaching the kitchen. It was old coffee, burning. She wrinkled her nose as she took the pot off the burner and dumped it into the sink. Methodically she cleaned it and searched for fresh coffee. She found it in the third cabinet she opened and brewed a fresh pot.

  As the hot liquid reached her stomach it protested her lack of proper attention. She hoped Duncan wouldn't mind her making some breakfast. Finding his refrigerator stuffed with food, she wondered if he had a housekeeper. Unwilling to wait for anyone to come in and fix her food, she pulled bacon, eggs, and milk out and set them on the counter.

  She was busy orchestrating strips of bacon for the microwave when Duncan spoke from the doorway.

  "Smells good in here."

  He smiled, still wearing a bathrobe. His face had a day's growth of beard and his eyes looked tired, but Aurora had never seen a sexier looking man in her life. She was glad she wasn't breaking eggs, or they'd surely be on the floor.

  "Would you like some breakfast?"

  "Do I have time for a shower first?"

  She nodded and turned to pick up a mug. The magnetism between them was strong as hydrogen bonding. Pouring him a cup of coffee she handed it to him, remembering he hadn't taken any sugar or cream the previous time she'd seen him drinking it.

  "Twenty minutes," she said as his hand brushed hers.

  "Thanks." He turned to leave but turned back when he saw her suitcase. He looked at it, then back to her. Aurora followed his gaze. She'd hoped she'd have more time to think about what she would say, but Duncan had come in before she expected.

  "Duncan...I... I want to thank you for letting me stay here last night. Today I'll have to find someplace else."

  She wanted to drop her gaze, not let him see any weakness in her eyes, but sh
e kept her head level.

  "Not a problem," he said and left her.

  Aurora sat down and let her breath out. Was that all he had to say? Obviously, her presence had no effect on him. She wanted to kick herself for the sleepless night she'd spent, for the hours she'd given in thinking of him only a room away.

  Getting up, she beat the eggs into a yellow froth. She hadn't even asked if he liked his eggs scrambled. As she beat them harder she said, "I don't care. He'll eat them as they are or I'll force them down that velvet-voiced throat."

  ***

  The shower head spewed cold needles, stinging Duncan's skin. He needed that. His mind went back to Aurora in the kitchen. Did she have to look that good in the morning? Did she have to make him think of sharing breakfast every day, waking up to the same woman, making love throughout the night and feeling like he wanted to do nothing more in the daylight than make love to her again?

  How could he have ever thought she reminded him of Marsha Chambers? The two were nothing alike. Aurora did look like her but she had a beauty of her own, and that was what Duncan saw when he looked at her. It was also why he had to get her out of his house.

  Duncan had never had problems sleeping. He'd slept through thunderstorms, his college roommate's excessive snoring, and Cooper Dean's personal filibusters on some obscure point of law. Yet last night his script failed him. If he could have fallen asleep he might have passed the night without incident, but he hadn't been able to fall into that dark, warm cavern where day and night met, joined, and exchanged vows.

  At two o'clock in the morning he'd swung his feet to the floor and stood up. He'd spent the balance of the night in his office drinking coffee and working while he tried not to fantasize over the woman in his guest room. He'd been unsuccessful. Then he'd heard her moving about the kitchen and nothing could keep his mind on schedules, set preparation, glitches in guest appearances, or any of the hundreds of details he had to deal with on a daily basis.

  The only thing he'd thought of was getting her either into bed or out of his house. Then he'd seen her in the domestic setting.

  Why that should affect him he hadn't a clue, but it did. He'd seen her before in her own kitchen, up to her elbows in flour, but this was his house, and he liked what he saw. He liked it too much to keep her there. Staying with him was not an option. He couldn't function with her this close. If she accepted the job as substitute hostess he didn't want anyone implying that his choice was based on anything other than her talent.

  Duncan hadn't decided how he would tell her they'd have to find another place for her to stay. Then he'd seen the suitcase. Luckily she'd already made the decision.

  But he didn’t feel lucky.

  ***

  Joyce was kind enough to let Aurora use her office to make some phone calls. Aurora spent most of the morning there. Every place she thought was decent proved to be above her price range. Finally she'd called a friend in the nearby town of Lawrenceville. At least she had someplace to go when she left the studio tonight. She'd worry about the rest of it later.

  Walking into the film room she took her place at the editing machine and had switched it on when she saw the pink message slip. The room was open without offices or cubicles. It held several stations and afforded no privacy. The message was from Duncan, asking that she come to his office. His handwriting was strong and sure. He'd been here personally leaving it for her, not calling and having someone else relay the message.

  She went to his office and was waved right in by his secretary.

  "Hello," he said. He looked every bit the television executive, but there was a tenseness about his smile, as if the secret of them spending the night in the same house had been broadcast to the staff and the story now had more flavor to it than the actual truth. She sat down in the chair he indicated.

  "You should know that I've decided to accept the substitute hostess job." She thought she'd get it out as fast as she could. Then this interview would be over and she could leave his office. The space was too small, just as his kitchen had been, and even his huge house. The electricity around them simmered and she was not sure when it might burst into flame.

  "I think it's the right decision," he added in a businesslike manner. "You'll find it will probably do wonders for your career."

  The words I don't want a career didn't come quite as quickly as they had in the past. She already knew television paid well, and as long as she had her mother to support she'd need the money. Maybe she'd grow to like being a talk show hostess. She wasn't sure she could do the job, but she'd give it a try.

  "That's not why I asked to see you," Duncan was saying.

  "It isn't?"

  "I want you to do the show." He sat forward behind the desk. "Since you've decided that, it does make things easier to explain around here."

  Fear gripped her heart. Had someone discovered she slept at his house?

  "On the grounds we have a house which we sometimes use for guests of the show. Not always. Most guests stay at one of the area hotels. They like the amenities hotels offer. However, there are times when glitches happen—we forget to book a room, or there's a change in schedule. During those times we use the guest house. I've made arrangements for you to stay there."

  Aurora sat stunned. "This is a sort of isolated location."

  "There are twenty-four hour guards. You'll be safe here."

  "Thank you," she offered in a tiny voice. She was so thankful that she wanted to hug him but she sat still in the chair. Duncan had saved her from having to stay at her friend's house. She didn't want to bring anyone else into the mess that comprised her life. Staying at the studio was the best idea, and it was affordable.

  Joyce dropped her at the guest house directly after lunch. It was more like a guest mansion. The grounds were extensive, with gardens and flower beds that had been prepared for winter. A few hardy roses still bloomed in the cold October sunlight.

  The house couldn't be seen from the studio. The studio itself was built on the outskirts of Princeton Township, and Aurora could tell the house had stood for at least a century. Inside, everything was twenty-first century. The kitchen could fill any gourmet chef's wishes. Copper pots she could see her reflection in hung from a frame against one wall. A granite-topped center island gave plenty of space for laying out ingredients. However, the room had the feel of being little used. The living room covered one side of the house. Its furniture was modern and done in soothing colors of blue and cream. She felt comfortable. The windows were huge and bowed, providing a curved window seat where she could sit and look through the old-world system of panes. Aurora imagined the wooded yard under the cover of snow and smiled.

  Upstairs the house had six bedrooms. The master suite boasted a king-size bed with white lace coverings and a plethora of rose-colored pillows. The carpet, also white, sank deeply where she stepped on it. The bathroom seemed the size of a small city, with a shower that had six heads completely circling the octagonal structure, colored lights that changed and its own sound system.

  The place was fit for a queen. Not even Marsha Chambers could find fault living here. Aurora unpacked her meager belongings and returned to the living room.

  Duncan had announced to the studio staff that Aurora would try the hostess spot just before she and Joyce returned from the house. People congratulated her. She smiled, accepting them, yet she doubted her ability to pull off the job with the ease Marsha Chambers portrayed. Aurora requested tapes of past programs and Duncan had sent them over. Her afternoon would be spent reviewing the tapes, watching interview techniques, body language, and generally absorbing the workings of the talk show.

  By five o'clock she'd watched four shows and was glad she had a little experience in the editing department. Cueing the fifth show into the big screen television, Aurora listened to the familiar music. Marsha walked through the audience and brought the mike to her mouth. The pad and paper Aurora had used to write down what she saw lay at her feet. Last night finally caught up with he
r. Her eyes drooped.

  It was the last thing Aurora remembered before the phone rang.

  ***

  Duncan dropped the phone, already rising from his chair. His watch read seven p.m. Aurora should have been there half an hour ago. He ran through the facility and out the back door. Crossing the compound, he headed for the guest house. His feet echoed on the lighted path. He hadn't seen one guard in his rush to get to the house. Where were they? Had something happened to Aurora, and on the compound grounds?

  Banging on the door he shouted her name. Shaking the doorknob, he found it locked. "Aurora!" he shouted, continuing to wrench the door. Aurora opened it and he nearly fell forward.

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "Are you all right? You didn't answer the phone."

  "I didn't know where it was," she explained. "I was going toward the sound when it stopped ringing."

  Duncan slumped against the doorjamb. He'd thought the worst. "You were supposed to meet me in the studio."

  "I'm sorry. I was watching the shows and I fell asleep."

  Duncan wanted to laugh. His heart was returning to normal and he could feel the night air. As he closed the door he'd left open, they faced each other. Then he grabbed her and pulled her against him. He'd tried to fight this feeling. Last night he'd spent the entire night trying to forget how she felt against him when she'd gone into his arms. But now, after the adrenaline had pumped into his system, he was sapped of any restraint. She smelled good, perfumed, and womanly.

  He should push her back, he told himself. He promised himself he'd do that in a moment. He'd just hold her for a little longer and then he'd push her back. He wouldn't turn his head and press his lips into her hair, the sweet smelling, heavy mass that framed her face. He wouldn't slide his mouth to her forehead, and down her jawline, and find her mouth. He knew her lips would be soft, wet, and waiting for his possession. He wouldn't squeeze her into him, press her shape against his as if the two of them could merge. He wouldn't do any of that. He held himself back, telling his mind to push, telling his body to stop the rapturous feelings that coursed through his system.