The Best-Kept Secret

by Adrianne Lee

  Or maybe she was the one who needed reassuring.

  His head lolled back against her shoulder and his liquored breath fanned her face. Cuervo? She wrinkled her nose. Grant never drank tequila. His drink was gin. Besides a few bottles of expensive wine, it was the only liquor he kept in the condo. Where had he gotten it? A Christmas gift?

  He moaned, slowly waking to her touch.

  Feathering her hands across his smooth skin, she brought her palms to his chest and coiled her fingertips into the silken mat of hair. Something about this natural action struck a jangling chord deep within her grieving brain. She froze. Her eyes widened with the realization that what she was touching was not familiar. She yelped. Released him. This wasn’t Grant. “Who are you?”

  Scurrying to the opposite side of the sofa, her heart in her throat, Tia snapped on the end-table lamp. Terrified, she gaped at the man opposite her. Grant.

  He squinted, peering at her through slitted eyes. Grant. Same short blond hair. Same turquoise eyes. Same dimpled chin. Despite that, she realized his chest was dappled with soft blond hair. Grant waxed his chest. Even if he’d decided to stop that practice, hair could not have grown this densely in the one week she’d been gone. This was not Grant.

  Then who?

  An awful truth slammed through her, numbing her. It could only be…But he was dead. Wasn’t he?

  “Mac?”

  Chapter Two

  Mac pried one eye open, squinting against the glaring illumination. The Christmas-tree lights blurred in the background, but he could swear the angel from its top now sat opposite him. A raven-haired, green-eyed angel. She seemed somehow familiar. But he couldn’t connect the dots.

  “Mac?”

  Her voice rippled with horror. Why?

  Recall sliced like a knife through his skull. His brother was dead. Murdered. The shock felt brand-new again, but the ache in his heart gave way to a stronger emotion: self-preservation. No one must know Grant had died in his place. If the killer discovered he or she had murdered the wrong man…But how could he convince this woman he was Grant? This woman of all women? “Tia, I—”

  “If you’re alive, Mac, then wh—?” She jammed her knuckles against her mouth, but not before emitting a squeal of pain. Denial and grief swam through the tears in her eyes. “No, not Grant…”

  No, not Grant. It was what he’d been saying for hours like some baleful mantra. He touched his fingertips to his temples. His head ached from the liquor he’d ingested, but he felt as sober as if he’d drunk half a fifth of milk.

  Beside him, Tia cried. Heavy tears spilled down her cheeks.

  With every ounce of his being, Mac wanted to pull her into his arms, to hold to his heart the only other living person who understood his anguish. He reached a hand toward her, then pulled back self-consciously. His touch would only substantiate her identification of him. If he tried commiserating with her, he’d probably do or say the wrong thing. Women baffled him. Especially crying women.

  Grant would have known how to comfort her. Would have convinced her he was Mac. And even though he believed with all his soul that pretending to be Grant was the only way to protect himself, Mac hadn’t fooled Tia. Apprehension washed his gut. He likely couldn’t fool anyone.

  He wasn’t Grant. Wasn’t even like him in the ways that mattered. If he had been, this woman would have belonged to him and not to his brother. But that was the story of their lives. Grant always won top prize. He’d been talented, smooth, articulate, experienced.

  While, Mac…well, he was just a bushy-bearded, long-haired, four-eyed, toy-making nerd. How would he ever avenge Grant’s death—or save his company—if he couldn’t fool people into thinking he was his twin?

  Grant had been the sleuth, the master of disguise. He’d portrayed Mac so well…The thought choked him. He’d played me so well, it had gotten him killed.

  “Why?” Tia’s question scattered his dark thoughts. Her eyes were as green and wet against her pale face as grass through melting snow. “Why do you look so much like him?”

  Mac blinked. Tia knew he and Grant were identical twins. That wasn’t what she was asking.

  He lifted his hand to stroke his beard. His fingers grabbed empty air, bumped his bristled jaw. He dropped his hand to his lap, disconcerted, embarrassed at his inability to cover his dismay. Another omen that he was doomed to failure if he thought he could trick people into believing he was Grant “He…we…switched places. Last week.”

  “Yes.” She nodded, obviously already deducing this. “But…why?”

  Her tone implied that twins switching identities was childhood stuff, a teenage prank—not something grown men pulled.

  Mac leaned forward, dropping his head into his hands. God, where did he begin? It seemed a lifetime ago. Had only seven days passed since his life had begun this downhill slide into hell?

  “I hired Grant to find the spy in my company.”

  She swallowed as though she had an orange stuck in her throat, and he’d have sworn he saw alarm flit through her eyes. “The s-spy?”

  Yes, spy. Even now he couldn’t believe it—not of one of his handpicked employees. No! That wasn’t true. He hadn’t wanted to believe it. Not even when Grant insisted it must be true, not even when Grant insisted switching places was the only way to ferret out the mole. He shook himself, mentally shaking off the last vestiges of denial. A Judas walked amongst his most trusted. A murderer.

  He sat back on the sofa. The leather felt cool against his bare skin, and he realized he was half-naked with his brother’s fiancée, a woman he’d fallen in love with long before he’d introduced her to Grant She’d been so great with the kids at the shelter. She’d owned his heart within the first week of their meeting.

  He’d been too shy to act on his feelings. Besides, she hadn’t ever given him a bit of encouragement. Then Grant had swept her off her feet.

  Mac winced. He’d vowed to forget his feelings for her. To stop loving her.

  If only his heart would listen.

  The foolishness of falling for someone who would never return his affection embarrassed him, but the inappropriateness of those feelings—in light of Grant’s death—shamed him. It was disloyalty at its worst. How could he even think about Tia—especially now—as anything more than a friend who shared his grief?

  He found his shirt stuffed between the cushions that separated them. Heat warmed his ears as he grabbed it and tugged it on. “The toy we’re about to launch,” he said, shoving his hands through the armholes, grunting out the words, “I think someone sold its plans to an Asian competitor.

  “A big manufacturer in Taiwan.” He finished this last as his gaze cleared the neckline of the T-shirt.

  Tia was swiping at her damp cheeks. Her glorious eyes gleamed like emerald ice melted at the edges. “What makes you think someone sold the plans?”

  He forced his gaze from her face. It landed on the Christmas tree, on the gaily wrapped presents beneath. Some, he supposed sadly, were for Tia. He noticed a small box on the coffee table, the tag clearly marked, “To Grant from Santa.” His heart clutched as much from grief as from the reminder of the present he’d received ten days ago. “I got a gift from Santa.”

  “What?” She tensed as though he’d made a tasteless joke.

  But he was serious. “The box sported the logo of a Taiwan toy manufacturer, a company with a reputation for manufacturing ripoffs. It contained a sprig of holly berries.”

  Her smooth forehead puckered in a frown.

  He rushed ahead. “‘Holly Beary’ is the name of the Christmas teddy bear we’ve designed and are launching next week.”

  Her eyebrows rose and something odd flew through her gaze. Alarm? Guilt? He couldn’t tell. Had he imagined he’d seen one of those? Or both?

  She said, “S-someone stole your patent?”

  “I didn’t want to believe it, but Grant—” He broke off. “I was wrong.”

  His throat felt dry. He glanced at the tequila bottle. God,
he didn’t want any more of that. All it had given him was an incredible thirst and a dull headache.

  As though she’d read his mind, Tia lurched off the sofa. “Why don’t I make us some coffee?”

  As she stood, Mac couldn’t help noticing how her airline uniform hugged her lush curves, how her thick black hair swished seductively across her shoulders and framed her alluring face. He reined in the onslaught of yearning that heated his blood. He would not shame them both with his inappropriate feelings. “Coffee sounds great. Thank you.”

  SOMEHOW THE TASKS of grinding beans and filling the drip coffeemaker with water, filter and some of Seattle’s Best brought Tia the first sense of normalcy she’d felt since seeing Mac’s photo on the airport television.

  She was amazed she could stand, surprised her knees weren’t wobbly. Shock, she supposed. The aroma of brewing coffee mingled with the soft scent of pine. Her heart felt shriveled and dark, a lump of coal left by a punishing Santa in some naughty child’s stocking.

  For the past seven days she’d done nothing but worry about whether or not she should marry Grant. Now he was dead. None of her concerns mattered any longer. Not her secret. Nothing. Except the fact that Grant had died because one of his brother’s employees was a thief.

  There were many kinds of thieves. Bitterness swelled inside her and grabbed her stomach with biting claws.

  Trying to shake it off, she opened the cupboard and stared at the mugs she and Grant had bought last summer in Pike’s Place Market. Each had a different photo of the Space Needle, the sight of their first date, emblazoned on its side. She set the mugs on the counter, recalling Grant’s suggestion that they start buying pairs of mugs to commemorate their favorite outings.

  Guilt dug the claws more deeply into her stomach. The overhead light glinted off her ring. She lifted her hand and stared at the diamond that was supposed to have symbolized their love. Her throat constricted. A mere hour ago she’d been prepared to return it to Grant. She’d felt it was the right thing to do. The only thing.

  She wasn’t worthy of him.

  And even his death didn’t change that.

  Why hadn’t she told him about herself as soon as she’d found out? Why had she held her silence for four long weeks? Why had she let him think she could spend a lifetime with him buying matching mugs? It was a lie.

  The ring felt heavy on her finger, the diamond large and flawless, like a huge wedge of ice that might have been chipped from her frozen heart or her arctic conscience, her frigid guilt. If her love for Grant had been pure and honest, would he still be alive?

  “That coffee done yet?” His voice sliced through her. The tone was Grant’s, but somehow different.

  She jerked toward him, stopping as suddenly as her gaze collided with his face—so familiar, the turquoise eyes, the strong straight nose, the even white teeth, the dimpled chin. It was like looking at Grant in a mirror, as though everything was somehow opposite or backward. It was Grant’s face, but it wasn’t. Something bitter, yet sweet, squeezed her chest, rattled her nerves.

  She grasped the coffeepot handle with a trembling hand. Concentrating, she filled the mugs. She didn’t want to lose control. Not again. She could confront her private demons when she was alone. Now she needed to make sense of this. And Mac had the answers. “Are you sure the Taiwan toy company actually has the plans for Holly Beary?”

  “As sure as I can be without raiding their factory.” He accepted a mug and took a drink. “Trouble is, to sue them means waiting until the release of their bear Until then, I can’t sic my lawyers on them. Or file suit. Not that I want to do either. Proving I’m right could take years—and wipe out whatever profit the toy might have brought.”

  He shook his head. “Coy Toys hasn’t had a profitable toy in two years. I’ve been operating a heartbeat away from the red the last three months. I really need this toy to hit.”

  Pain flashed across his eyes, and she guessed he was thinking of Grant paying the ultimate price for a toy—a teddy bear of all things, the symbol of comfort and love. Before he could launch a litany of explanation, she raised a palm to him. “It was an accident. You can’t blame yourself.”

  “Can’t I?”

  “No. Your concerns for your company are legitimate.” She understood his concern more than he would ever know. “Grant is—was—a private investigator. You needed someone to investigate.”

  “Need.”

  “What?”

  “You said ‘needed.’ Past tense. But Grant’s death hasn’t ended my need to unearth the spy. If anything, it was meant to slow me down. To let my competitor beat us to market with Holly Beary.” He snapped his fingers. “Good God, I’ve got to move up the launch date. We’ve been working seven days a week. I think we can have the bears ready to ship by Friday. That gives us five days.”

  Tia cradled her mug in both hands. She leaned a hip against the counter and studied Mac’s face long and hard. If he was under such a time crunch to launch this Christmas toy, what was he doing here hiding out in Grant’s apartment? Wearing Grant’s clothes, drowning his sorrow in tequila—instead of correcting the world’s mistaken belief that he was dead? “Why does everyone still think you, and not Grant, died at Coy Toys today?”

  He flinched as though she’d struck him, his eyes glistening with anger and grief. “Because whoever killed Grant—”

  “K-killed?” Hot coffee sloshed onto her finger. She grimaced in pain and set the mug aside. She gaped at Mac.

  No. Her insides felt gelid. “You think Grant was m-murdered?”

  “That virtual reality simulator might have given someone a shock, but it wouldn’t have killed anyone with a heart as physically sound as Grant’s.” His voice choked with rage. “Yeah, I think he was murdered. In fact, I’d stake Saint Nick’s eight reindeer on it.”

  She blinked at the flippancy of his last words. It was something Grant would have said, not Mac. She supposed he’d used it to add weight to his accusation. To convince her. But his expression convinced her. Fear burned hot in her ice-clogged veins, sending a stinging sensation through her. “Are the police investigating?”

  “They decided it was an accident. A frayed cord. I have no intention of trying to change their minds just yet.”

  A morass of unpleasant memories swelled in her brain. She knew the difficulty of changing a policeman’s mind once it was set on a course. But this time was nothing like that time. No one had died then. No one could blame her for Grant. “Why not now?”

  “Because they’ll find out soon enough.” Frustration spiked his words. “Too soon to suit. Then I won’t be able to get rid of them.”

  Her mouth dried. She, too, knew how hard it was to get rid of the police once they got involved in a case. But even she knew they needed to be involved in this right now. “So they don’t even know about the spy?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” She was incredulous. “Won’t they realize something suspicious is going on when they discover Grant is wearing a wig and a false beard?”

  Mac shook his head. “He didn’t choose to fake my look. Instead, he donned some glasses and told everyone he’d decided to cut his hair and shave. I had to do that, in case someone came here expecting to find Grant.”

  “And none of your employees thought that was suspicious?”

  “Not that I know of.” Mac lifted his hand to the bridge of his nose, an unconscious gesture of someone used to nudging glasses back into place. But he wasn’t wearing glasses.

  He caught himself, looked momentarily disconcerted, as he had earlier when he’d reached to touch his beard. His missing beard. The tops of his ears reddened, and a thread of sympathy for this self-conscious man wound through her heart. She couldn’t recall ever seeing Grant ill at ease. How could two men who looked so alike be so different? “So you didn’t go to the police when you suspected you had a spy?”

  “No. Grant said it would be better if we—he—sniffed the culprit out. Once we had proof, we’d take it to t
he police and let them handle it. But now…” He cleared his throat, carried his cup to the sink, dumped the contents and deposited the cup among the other unwashed dishes. His shoulders were slumped as though they carried the weight of the world. When he turned to face her, she read torment in his eyes. “I’ve been wrestling the problem all afternoon—trying to figure out how Grant would want me to handle it.”

  Suddenly she understood his dilemma. “When the police discover they have a murder case, they’ll all but shut down the factory to investigate, and your wonderful toy won’t meet its launch date. Is that it?”

  “I know it sounds crass to put a toy—especially one that could make me extremely wealthy—above finding out who killed my brother, but actually it’s not. Grant wanted Holly Beary launched. If I don’t do this—”

  “The killer wins on all counts,” she finished for him. “You’re right. Grant would never have forgiven you for that. And I suppose negative publicity could destroy the toy’s chance of being a success.”

  “Yes.” His relief at her understanding was palpable. “Besides that, the minute I confess I’m really alive, I’ll be the prime suspect. The police always suspect relatives first.”

  Not always, Tia thought with a shiver. She set her mug in the sink beside his.

  “I didn’t kill Grant,” he said.

  “Oh, God, I never thought you did.”

  The sadness in his eyes reached inside her, locking onto a chunk of her heart with such a possessive grasp it sent a shock of heat to her toes. The kitchen seemed to shrink, grow smaller, more intimate, as though they were the only two people left in the world after a nuclear holocaust. She had never given Mac much thought. He’d always worn his blond hair long, pulled back at the nape with a leather thong, kept his eyes obscured behind utilitarian glasses, hid his classic jaw and its intriguing dimple beneath a scruffy beard.