by Meryl Sawyer
Nothing.
Nothing that really counted except his sister, Emily. And Trevor.
A high-pitched shriek brought him bolt upright, and he nearly tumbled out of the hammock. Bubbles McGee was calling to someone.
“Shaw … lay.” Shelly.
Son of a bitch. Shelly couldn’t be here, could she? He gazed out at the rippling water, asking himself why in hell he was so surprised. There wasn’t a lost soul who couldn’t find shelter under Trevor’s roof. No doubt, Shelly had appealed to Trevor’s sympathetic nature.
He slipped out of the hammock and picked up his bag. Turning to leave, he glanced into the house and saw Trevor go into the kitchen alone. Matt dodged a pair of pygmy palms, then walked through the open door into the kitchen, nearly stumbling over one of Trevor’s cats.
Startled by the noise, Trevor turned. “Matt, what are you doing here? I—I mean, I’m glad to see you, but I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Sorry to barge in like this.” For the first time since Trevor had told him about his split with his family, Matt didn’t know what to say. He valued Trevor’s friendship too much to yell at him for taking in Shelly. “I’ll find a place in town.”
Trevor looked like a dog who’d just been kicked by a master he adored. “You’ve seen Shelly.”
“No, but I heard Bubbles calling her name.”
“Shelly’s been through a lot. She isn’t going to bother you, Matt.” The quiet firmness in Trevor’s voice startled him. He’d known Trevor had that take-charge attitude, but he’d never directed it at him. In a way it made Matt feel like an outsider despite their years of closeness. Matt cursed Shelly for coming between him and his best friend. “Talk to her, you’ll see.”
“Forget it.” Matt turned to go. “I’m outta here.”
Trevor caught his arm. “Matt … do it for me.”
Matt opened his mouth to refuse, but a long-buried memory flashed into his mind. His first week at Yale. He’d been at home on the mean streets of Chicago, but he was totally unprepared for the snobs at Yale, whose first question was were you prepped. Except for Trevor. He’d befriended Matt when no one else would.
If it hadn’t been for Trevor’s help, Matt might have dropped out of Yale and missed the opportunity of a lifetime. He might never have enrolled in his first journalism class, which led to a career he loved as an investigative reporter. He might … aw, hell. There were too many might-nevers to count. Plain and simple, he owed Trevor—big-time.
“Okay … sure. Where is she?”
Trevor led him through the open air foyer toward the terrace facing the glistening sands of Half Moon Bay. Tables had been set up on the terrace and about two dozen people were standing around, sipping drinks and chatting. Off to one side stood a petite blonde with her back to them.
Shelly.
He wasn’t quite prepared for the hitch in his chest. The last time he’d seen Shelly, she had been hooked up to machines, her face wrapped like a mummy. It didn’t seem possible she would ever recover, he thought, his eyes skimming the near backless pale lavender sundress she was wearing.
Yet there she was, still with casts on her arm and lower leg and leaning on a cane, her blond hair shimmering across the back of her neck. Among the living again. He couldn’t help being proud of his part in her recovery.
“She’s talking to Clive Burroughs. I told you about him. He performed the reconstructive surgery.” Trevor stopped and spoke in an undertone even though no one was close enough to hear them. “He used biogenetically engineered skin and a new type of surgical glue instead of stitches. She won’t even have a scar.”
He was thankful to the doctor who had made Shelly normal again—without charging him—but he doubted her mind-set had changed. According to the experts, intensive therapy was the only hope for obsession disorders.
Almost as if she sensed him staring at her, Shelly slowly turned, leaning on a cane. Their gazes collided, hitting him like a sucker punch in the gut.
Her eyes were the same vibrant blue, yet they seemed closer to violet than he remembered, with a smoky, almost sultry look to them. She wore no makeup and had made no attempt to style her hair. It hung in tousled waves to her shoulders, as if she’d just rolled out of the sack with some guy.
High cheekbones and a patrician nose offset lips that were—he kicked himself when he realized what he was thinking—kissable. Her lower lip was a little too full for perfection, but the hell of it was—that’s what made her mouth so appealing.
“That’s not Rochelle Ralston,” he told Trevor. “I don’t know who in hell she is, but that woman is not Shelly.”
“Of course it’s Shelly. Clive couldn’t help himself. He trimmed her nose and gave her cheek implants to improve the contours of her face. All he does these days is cosmetic surgery. He’s an expert at making women beautiful.”
Beautiful wasn’t the word for what the cosmetic surgeon had achieved. Stunning better described the woman with the lavender-blue eyes and a smile that seemed almost shy.
Her gaze shifted suddenly, veering away from him to Trevor, and her smile became radiant, no longer suggesting the least hint of shyness. Irritation surged through Matt as he saw Trevor return her smile with equal warmth.
Her effortless sensuality took him by surprise. The Shelly he remembered had tried too hard to be sexy; this woman didn’t bother with makeup or fixing her hair, yet she was damn near irresistible.
For a second he’d imagined this babe chasing him around the way Shelly had, and letting her catch him. He’d have that sundress off her in no time. The sway of her breasts as she turned had told him that she wasn’t wearing a bra. He hadn’t detected a panty line either.
He gazed at the sandy beach glistening in the moonlight, and his pulse kicked up another notch. He wanted her naked body beneath his on the soft sand. He wanted her hot breasts in his palms. He wanted her mouth opening for him. He wanted …
Christ! When was the last time he’d been laid, he wondered. He hadn’t thought about sex much—until now.
“That woman is not Rochelle Ralston.”
Not only did this beauty look entirely different, his gut reaction was alarmingly intense. Not even the first time he’d met Shelly, when she’d been dressed in a slinky black number, had he experienced the emotional equivalent of an earthquake.
No way was this the same woman.
“Clive is a master with the scalpel,” Trevor said with unmistakable pride. “He’s made Shelly into a new person.”
“Bullshit, look how—”
“No, Matt, you look.” Trevor took his arm and led him to the side of the compound, where Trevor’s private suite looked out on the starlit sea. He opened the middle drawer of his writing desk and pulled out a stack of photographs, then handed them to Matt.
“Where did you get these?” he asked as he began shuffling through them. By the time he’d hit the sixth picture, he knew what the rest would be like. They were candid shots of him taken with a telephoto lens. What kind of person did something like this?
Someone with a deranged mind, like Shelly’s. He hadn’t recognized her new face, but these photographs left no doubt about her true identity. Once he’d caught Shelly stalking him and shooting pictures. Now he knew there had been other times when he hadn’t seen her.
He cursed himself for the depth charge of sexual attraction he’d felt a few minutes earlier. His usually infallible sixth sense had told him the gorgeous blonde wasn’t Shelly. Obviously, he’d been mistaken.
“Shelly gave them to me. She’s terribly sorry about the way she behaved.” Emotion underscored Trevor’s words in a way that deeply disturbed Matt. Trevor was much too involved with this psycho. “The accident has changed her. Shelly’s a new person.”
“Yeah, right.”
His cynical response snuffed the light from Trevor’s eyes, and he regarded Matt with searching gravity. “Shelly has more guts than a dozen men. Do you know what it’s taken her to make it this far? Courage. Commitmen
t. She swore to me she isn’t going to bother you.”
Like hell—Matt stopped before he could utter the words, sensing this was a defining moment in his relationship with Trevor. Why argue with a close friend over a woman like Shelly?
“I wanted to spend some time here … with you,” Matt said. “If Shelly’s around, that’ll be impossible.”
“You do? I—I mean, I assumed—” Trevor paused, confused. “I don’t know what I thought, Matt. You quit your job so unexpectedly, saying you wanted to kick back. Then you left here—”
“I didn’t want to go, but I needed to get away from Shelly.”
Matt knew he should tell Trevor what was going on. He didn’t want to discuss his problems. Right then he had a slight headache. He prayed it wouldn’t become a migraine. He’d never had one, and he sure as hell didn’t need one now.
“How long do you plan to stay?”
Matt shrugged, conscious of the unspoken questions in his friend’s eyes. “I don’t have any plans right now.”
“You’re welcome here. You know that.” Trevor leaned against the counter, studying him intently. “It’s too late tonight, but tomorrow I’ll find someplace else for Shelly to recuperate.”
Trevor deserved to know what was going on. He’d imposed on him enough, asking him to take care of Shelly, then disappearing, only to suddenly reappear.
“Let’s walk along the shore,” Matt suggested. “There’s something I want to tell you, and I don’t want to be interrupted.”
They left the house and walked across the side terrace, away from the party. As they silently crossed through the sea oats, the wild grass rippling from the motion of their legs, music drifted over the water from Key West. The lights glittered in the distance, and Matt could see one of the big cruise ships docked at Pier A and lit up like a floating hotel.
When they reached the sand, Matt took off his shoes and left them near the band of sea oats lining the shore. Trevor was barefoot, and he waited silently. It wasn’t an awkward silence; he and Trevor didn’t need to talk. They understood each other, or they had until now. Matt wasn’t positive Trevor would accept his decision.
Emily certainly hadn’t.
They strolled along the tide line, gentle waves rushing over their bare feet until they came to a neighbor’s dock. Matt swung up onto the wooden platform and sat with his legs dangling down, his toes skimming the water. Trevor positioned himself beside him.
“I’ve always been on the fast track,” Matt hedged, backing into the disturbing truth. “Just recently I realized that the top of the ladder is really the end of the plank. Know what I mean?”
“Remember the night I was in the hospital and they had called my father?”
“Yes, I remember.” They had been at Yale then. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but who could forget that night? Or Graham Adams—the heartless bastard.
“That night changed the direction of my life. I could have gone into the family business. Instead, I’m doing what I want to do.”
It suddenly struck him that Trevor had a house full of misfits who counted on him. It didn’t seem right to dump anything more on his friend. Instead of telling Trevor the whole truth about his troubles, he just said, “Now I’m going to do what I want to do.”
“Like what?”
“Like … like …” What in hell was he going to do? Given his situation … chilling out for a while was his only plan.
“You don’t have to decide right now. Take your time. Life’s too short not to enjoy it.”
“That’s for damn sure.”
Chapter 10
The timeless tryst of sugar-fine sand and moonlit water was more beautiful than she had ever imagined. Tranquil. Eternal. It made her problems seem small, insignificant. The retreating tide lapped at her toes as she stood leaning on her cane and gazing across the waterway at the lights of Key West. Fearful of the gentle surf, Jiggs waited at a safe distance.
“What’s Matthew Jensen doing here?” she whispered to herself. “He didn’t seem to realize I’m not Shelly. Did we look enough alike that he thinks cosmetic surgery accounts for the changes?”
The soft night closed in around her without bringing an answer. The only response was the sound of rock and roll drifting over the water from Key West’s rowdy Duval Street, and it was almost lost in the night air.
The light-headed sensation had diminished—a little—but she still had to take a sustaining breath each time she thought about meeting Matt’s eyes. Granted, he possessed a virility that she didn’t quite know how to deal with, but there was so much … more to Matt.
He’d appeared in her dreams with an intensity that was haunting, bewildering. She knew better than to indulge in fantasies about him, but he invaded her thoughts with disturbing frequency. It wasn’t a good sign, considering her need to concentrate on getting well and coming up with a plan for dealing with Dexxter Foxx.
Yet each time she’d gazed into the mirror, she wished she could see Matt again. What would he think of her now? she had often wondered.
Of course, he didn’t know what she looked like before, so it was a ridiculous thought. Yet she couldn’t help herself. She was positive that Matt wouldn’t have been like most men. He would have met the gaze of a disfigured woman head-on.
He would not have thought her attractive. Now surgery had radically improved her looks. She was pretty, like her mother, but she was still unaccustomed to her new face. She’d been out of the clinic three days and living in a paradise called Half Moon Bay. Each night she’d awakened, sweating and trembling with dread from a dream she couldn’t quite remember.
Was she still The Beast?
She would rush into the bathroom and flick on the light to check her new face. The horrid birthmark was truly gone. Yet The Beast would always be with her, trapped somewhere inside her head.
Tonight when she’d turned and had seen Matt she couldn’t help noticing the slight narrowing of his eyes as he gazed at her. For one heart-stopping moment she thought the game was over, but he didn’t walk up and accuse her of impersonating Shelly the way she’d expected.
According to the journal she’d read, their affair had lasted over a year, enough time for Shelly to fall hopelessly in love with the man. Her behavior was unforgivable, but on some level she understood. Matthew was the type of man who would break a woman’s heart, driving her into a deep depression, or worse.
They had known each other intimately. Any little thing, something so insignificant she might not realize it, could expose her. If her face hadn’t given her away, it would only be a matter of time before something did.
She had to leave. Tomorrow she must strike out on her own—despite her injuries.
“Shelly … Shelly.” The name floated toward her on the breeze, so softly spoken that she might have imagined it except the sound came again, louder and closer this time. “Shelly.”
Jiggs trotted up to her for protection as she turned around. Matthew Jensen emerged from the shadows of the terrace. Her body stiffened and she tried not to lean so heavily on the metal cane.
Had he called the police and told them she was an impostor?
She marshaled her thoughts as he approached. Barefoot, wearing khaki shorts and polo shirt open at the neck, he was bigger than she’d remembered, more powerfully built. He was taller than average, but not exceptionally so. It was something about the way he carried himself that made him seem taller, powerful.
Intimidating.
He stopped in front of her, towering over her and gazing at her with such intensity that she had to force herself to look him in the eye and try to appear calm. The pit of her stomach churned as she prayed he believed she was the new Rochelle Ralston. A cosmetic surgeon’s miracle.
He analyzed every inch of her face with incisive blue eyes like shards of ice. Then his gaze scorched a trail across her bare shoulders, down to her breasts, then roved lower and lower until he reached her sandals. He inspected her body with the thoroughness of a man who h
ad undressed more than his fair share of women. No doubt he was mentally picturing her stark naked.
It took all her self-control not to gasp. Men rarely looked at her, and certainly not like this. A rush of heat flooded the good side of her face, while the other side with the bioengineered skin felt chilled.
She told herself to be flattered, to be thrilled a man was looking at her in an unmistakably sexual way. To him she was not The Beast. On one level she was excited, yet there was something insulting and degrading about the way he was scrutinizing every inch of her body.
This was not the way she remembered Matt. This was not the way she’d expected him to behave. Perhaps he was suspicious and was checking to see if she was Rochelle Ralston.
The sensual line of his mouth tilted upward as he lifted his hand and brushed his fingertips across her cheek, tracing the curve of her face. Her heart hammered foolishly while her mind scrambled any coherent thought she might have had.
If Shelly and Matt were still in love—the way the journal had described them—he might try to kiss her … or something. Then what would she do? She had absolutely no sexual experience. She’d never trick him into believing—
“You’re one hot number now, aren’t you, Shelly?”
Sarcasm underscored each word, leaving her trembling inwardly. Hot number? No one had ever said such a thing. Deal with it, she mentally told herself. Be thankful he believes you’re Shelly.
“What do you mean?” she heard herself ask in an unsteady voice.
His fingertips touched the fine wisps of hair at her temples, then sifted through the scraggly hair she’d been unable to properly brush. It was an alarmingly intimate gesture, a shattering reminder that no man had ever touched her like this. While the real Shelly would have known how to handle it, she was completely out of her league.
“Not only did you have the doctor repair the damage, you had him fix your nose and raise your cheekbones so you’d be drop-dead gorgeous.”