Body Double

by Alane Hudson

  The butler, Sam, bustled around a corner and stopped short. “Welcome home, sir, and welcome to your new home, ma’am.” He went to the suitcases and began to gather them up. Blake took what Sam couldn’t manage.

  “Have a seat. I’ll be right back,” Blake said, and the two men carried them off, leaving Andrea alone.

  She looked around the living room at the Native American-style paintings on the walls and bric-a-bracs in the wooden curio cabinet, surprised to learn Blake had an affinity for Native American art. There was a wooden flute, a harmonica-like instrument made of bone, a pipe with feathers, and some beaded leather items.

  “You must be tired and hungry,” said a woman’s French-accented voice . “Why don’t you come with me into the kitchen, and I’ll fix you a snack and then start supper.”

  Andrea found Blake’s housekeeper standing with hands on hips. “Hello, Isabelle. Nice to see you.” She remembered to use the Southern accent, pronouncing nice as nahss. “I was waiting for Blake.”

  “Come, dear. This house isn’t so big that he won’t find you.”

  She followed Isabelle to the kitchen and accepted her invitation to sit on one of the tall bar stools at the island counter. “Don’t bother making a snack. I’ll wait for supper.”

  “Did you have a wonderful time in Hawaii?” Isabelle asked as she pulled a few items from the refrigerator and a pan and bowl from the cupboards.

  Andrea nodded. “We did. It was beautiful, and the people were so friendly.”

  “You’re sad to be home?”

  She didn’t know how to answer that question. “I’m sad the honeymoon is over. Things will be different now.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they will,” Isabelle said. “Enjoy being a newlywed while you can.”

  That would be difficult, considering the prenuptial agreement. She was drawn to Blake as if her bones were steel rods and his were magnets. When he was in sight, her soul yearned to be near him.

  “Was this your first journey to Hawaii?” Isabelle asked, yanking Andrea back to the present.

  “Yes, and hopefully not my last.”

  The housekeeper studied her for a moment before returning to her preparations. “I thought so.”

  Andrea cocked her head in confusion. “Why do you say that?”

  She put a pan into the oven and set the timer, then eyed Andrea contemptuously while she wiped her hands on a towel. “Because when I first met Dr. Gentry, she told me she’d spent a week in Hawaii for a conference and was excited to go back.”

  Andrea gaped at her. She knew.

  Isabelle scrutinized her with a suspicious glare. “Who are you?”

  Andrea couldn’t look into those intelligent brown eyes and lie. She had to hope that they could convince Isabelle to keep it quiet. “My name’s Andrea Lindholm.”

  “Where is Dr. Gentry, and how did you fool Benjie into thinking you’re her?”

  Blake walked into the kitchen. “Isabelle, what did I tell you?” he shouted. “How dare you interrogate my wife?”

  “She knows, Blake,” Andrea said. “I told her.”

  He turned his angry eyes on her. “What the hell, Andrea? You didn’t think to consult me first?”

  She stood, tempted to run from the room, but she had nowhere to go, no way to get home. “No,” she said, holding up her index finger. Her chin quivered, and tears welled in her eyes. “You do not get to yell at me, especially in front of other people. Did you stop to think that maybe it was an accident? That maybe I didn’t know Sarah had been to Hawaii before and that she mentioned it to Isabelle? That maybe Isabelle guessed I’m not Sarah? That maybe, just maybe, I didn’t want to flat-out lie to her face and tell her she was wrong?”

  Isabelle looked from one to the other with an expression of bewilderment, and then returned to the stove and busied herself with the food preparation as if to blend in with the furniture.

  Blake closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His lips moved like he was talking to himself. After a few seconds, his gaze and voice softened. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I jumped to conclusions, said the wrong thing, and I’m sorry.” Looking up at the ceiling, he grabbed two fistfuls of his hair. “I think I’m losing it.”

  She looked at him hard, wondering how this could be the same Blake Thomas she’d spent the last two weeks with. His behavior, his voice, his entire demeanor had changed almost the moment they stepped off the plane. Even in the days leading up to the wedding, when he’d learned his fiancée was a lesbian, he hadn’t been this tense or angry. Something had happened. Something he wasn’t telling her.

  She mentally donned her social worker hat and took him by the hand. “Let’s go somewhere and talk.”

  He led her to a room with double doors that was furnished as a combination office and TV room, decorated with red and gold sports memorabilia and photos of himself and others in military uniform. The notion of a man cave came to mind. At the far end of the room was a staircase with the same ironwork and wood banister as the twin staircases in the front of the house. “I’m sorry,” he said, shutting the doors. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t have told Isabelle without a good reason.”

  They relaxed on a plush loveseat, their bodies turned so they could look at each other comfortably.

  “Don’t you trust me, Blake? We spent twenty-four hours a day for two solid weeks together. We’ve shared our childhood stories, first love stories, and made memories that will last forever. I’ve seen you when you’re hurt, angry, happy, and sad. I feel like I know you, and this snappishness—it isn’t you.” He’d been loving on the plane, and solemn but affectionate standing at baggage claim. His gloominess had begun with Harold’s phone call. That had to be the source of his foul mood. “What did Harold say that has you all knotted up?”

  Blake searched Andrea’s eyes for a moment as if to judge her trustworthiness. Something came over his features, like resignation. In a quiet voice, he said, “He threatened to tell my mom about my father’s affair twenty-two or twenty-three years ago.”

  “Oh.” Whatever she expected him to say, that wasn’t it. So that was his real motivation for marrying Sarah—to keep his dad’s secret and avoid hurting his mom. “How long did it last?”

  “Just one night when he was out of town on business. He got drunk, some hot blonde came onto him, and he screwed her. That hot blonde turned out to be someone else’s wife.”

  Andrea nodded, encouraging him to go on. And then a horrible thought occurred to her. Could that someone else have been Harold Gentry?

  “Anna Gentry.”

  “Oh, my God. Sarah isn’t...” The notion was too terrible to voice.

  “My half-sister? No. Dad swore to me it was only the one time, and he never cheated on my mom again.”

  Thank goodness for that. It would’ve been awful to know she’d participated in some twisted half-sibling marriage to satisfy Harold’s lust for revenge. Twenty-three years was a long time to hold a grudge.

  “I figure Sarah had to have been five or six at the time,” he said.

  A memory tickled Andrea’s mind. I almost had a baby brother when I was six, but his birth was difficult and he didn’t make it. “Blake, there was a baby,” she whispered.

  “What?” Blake said, alarm in his face.

  “Sarah told me her mother was pregnant with a baby boy, but he died in childbirth.”

  “Oh, hell no.” Blake stood and started pacing, stiff-legged and hands curled into fists. “No, no, no.”

  “What’s wrong? The baby didn’t make it.”

  “Yes,” Blake said fiercely. “He did. Damn it to hell.”

  Could Sarah’s baby brother have survived after all? Could Harold have forced Anna to give him up for adoption?

  “Sarah wasn’t interested in running her father’s business, and so Harold took in a protégé, Richard, a guy in his early twenties. I met him at the same party where I met Sarah. He stood out in my mind because...” Blake shook his head slowly in disbelief. �
��...he looked like he could be my brother. He looked like a young version of my dad with green eyes.”

  Andrea felt sick. “Surely Harold wouldn’t have kept tabs on his wife’s illegitimate child all those years, only to bring him into the fold as an adult to use against your family. Nobody’s that devious.”

  “Harold Gentry is.” He collapsed back onto the loveseat, let his head fall back onto the cushions, and draped one arm over his eyes. “This is never going to end. Ever.”

  Blake had no answers. He saw where this was going—Harold would spring this half-brother on him at some pivotal moment for the business, maybe even attempt to use Richard as some kind of leverage to gain controlling shares of Clarity Telecom stock or a position on its board of directors. The business Blake Sr. had spent his life building would be stolen by the dread pirate Harold and his parrot, Richard.

  Unless Richard wasn’t willing to be used as a pawn in Harold’s revenge fantasy. The question was how much did he know?

  “Blake?”

  He startled, returning to the present moment. “I need to talk to Richard and find out how much he knows about his parentage. If I can appeal to him as a brother, maybe I can make him an offer that will trump anything Harold has tempted him with.”

  “You don’t mean buy him?” she asked.

  “No, not buy him. Embrace him. Instead of pretending he never existed, connect with him. He’s my blood. Maybe that’ll mean as much to him as it does to me.”

  She took his right hand in both of hers. “It’s a shock, finding out you might have a half-brother, but you don’t have to decide anything right now.”

  “Might have? You said Anna was pregnant with a boy—”

  “And she told Sarah the baby died. If Sarah and I can look this much alike without being related, it’s possible Richard’s resemblance to your dad is coincidental too. What if Harold chose him specifically because he looked like he could be a cross between his wife and your dad? You don’t know either way. It’s dangerous to just assume this Richard guy is the surviving baby.”

  He snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “You’re right. I need to get a DNA sample from him and find out.”

  Andrea giggled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I just had a mental image of you offering Richard a soda while you talked, and then fishing the empty can out of the trash with a pencil like the detectives on TV do.”

  “How else am I going to find out if he’s my half-brother?”

  “You could ask him about his childhood and his parents. Most adults know whether they were adopted. He might volunteer that info, especially if you bring up your shared good looks. You noticed that he looks like he could be your brother, so chances are good he did too. If he asks why you’re curious, you could speculate whether your uncle might be his biological father if you don’t want to show your hand completely.”

  He slipped one hand around the back of her neck, leaned forward, and kissed her squarely on the lips, lingering for a moment to enjoy their softness. “You’re brilliant. How did I ever get along without you?”

  The smile fell from her face, and she covered her mouth with her fingers. “You’re not supposed to do that anymore, remember? Prenup?”

  Aww, hell. “You’re right. Sorry. I forgot.” Over the last two weeks, touching and kissing her had become so comfortable and natural, he did it without thinking. If he couldn’t even kiss her, the next few days were going to be hell. “We haven’t set any ground rules. Obviously, we can’t make love anymore, but can I hug you? Hold your hand?”

  She pursed her lips in thought, making him want to kiss them again. “Whatever two friends would do should be fine. Hugs are acceptable.”

  “Friends kiss each other,” he said with a grin.

  “Now and then,” she conceded. “On the cheek. And unless they’re consoling each other, friends don’t hold hands.”

  “In some parts of the world, they do.”

  Andrea smiled, so sweet and sexy, whetting his appetite for still another kiss. “Yes, that’s true, but we’re Americans living in America, where such things are not done.”

  “I move that we make an exception for holding hands. And spooning,” he added.

  Her eyes flew wide, and she laughed. “Spooning is dangerous, and besides, friends don’t spoon.”

  “Let’s just amend the prenup to say that the exception to the no-lovers rule applies until Sarah gets home.”

  She answered with a mouth skewed in doubt. “If you’re going to bend the rules whenever it suits you, why bother having them at all?”

  “Damn, Sheriff. You’re tough.”

  Andrea pretended to pinch the brim of a hat and tip it. “Just doin’ my job, sir.”

  The telephone on the desk beeped. “Benjie, supper will be ready in five minutes,” Isabelle said over the intercom.

  “Thanks, Isa.”

  When the speaker clicked off, Andrea asked, “Why does she call you Benjie?”

  “Short for Benjamin, my middle name. It was my dad’s idea. He called me Ben, but my mom never did. Isabelle was always partial to Benjie for some reason. I didn’t mind when I was a kid, but I can’t seem to break her of it.”

  “She’s worked for your family a long time, then.”

  “Thirty years,” he said. “She’s like a second mom to me. I owe her an apology too. I’ll go patch things up with Isabelle while you wash up. You can use the bathroom down the hall or my bathroom upstairs. Your choice.”

  Andrea pointed with her thumb over her shoulder at the stairs that led to his bedroom. “Up there?”

  “Yeah. Believe it or not, this room is part of my bedroom. The stairs go straight into the room—no hallway or door. See that iron gate in the corner? That’s for the elevator.”

  “An elevator,” she said in shocked disbelief. “In your house.”

  “For when I’m too feeble to climb the stairs.”

  “You? Feeble? Never.”

  He chuckled and stood, then offered a hand to help her up. “You’d be surprised. Sometimes after a grueling leg workout, climbing the stairs is agony.”

  Andrea glanced warily at the stairs once more. “I’ll use the one down the hall. Your bedroom frightens me.”

  “Why would it frighten you?”

  “Because the pleasures I would find there are forbidden.”

  There was that smile he loved so much, which, combined with her reference to their lovemaking, made his blood flow south. The temptation was strong to take her into his arms and kiss the hell out of her. “There’s still time to amend that prenup.”

  “Ha ha.”

  He caught her hand as she started to leave. There was something he needed to tell her, words that made his heart bleed to even think. “Listen, Andrea, I’m sorry for yelling at you earlier. I do trust you. You can’t know what it means to me that you understand, that you’re on my side and, hopefully, that you forgive me.”

  “Of course I do, hon.” She laid her hand lovingly against his cheek. “I trust you too.”

  He followed her to the door, adjusting the front of his pants on the sly and hoping Isabelle wouldn’t notice the bulge.

  After a delicious supper of roast chicken and potatoes with wine and a few bites of cheesecake for dessert, Andrea followed Blake up the right side of the curving twin staircases, letting her hand glide up the wood banister that topped the wrought iron railing. They walked past room after room, each furnished with a king-sized bed, bedside tables, dresser, and armoire as if he were running his own hotel. “Do you have a lot of guests?”

  “Between relatives, college and high school friends, and Army buddies, plus their spouses and kids, yeah. I have a few visitors almost every month.”

  “This is an awfully large home for a single man.” Even the hallway was big—wide enough that they could easily walk side by side.

  He cocked his head and gave her a funny smile. “I’m married. Have you forgotten already?”

  She poked hi
m playfully in the ribs. “You weren’t married when you bought this house, now were you? Smart aleck. Which room is mine?”

  He put his arm around her neck, pulling her into him and trapping her in the crook of his elbow. He kissed the top of her head. “Whichever you like, but I recommend the big one on the end.”

  She wrapped an arm around his waist. “That one’s taken.”

  He stopped in front of the last door before the double doors at the end of the corridor. “If I can’t talk you into sleeping with me, then this one’s the next best thing. It has its own bathroom.”

  Big enough to be a master bedroom in most homes, the room had a king-sized four-post bed dressed in a burgundy and gold brocade bed spread, with gold curtains, burgundy accents, and a fireplace in the middle of the room. The furniture was dark cherry designer stuff, much prettier and higher quality than her own department store press-board-and-veneer collection. Even the walls were decorated with artwork that fit nicely with the room’s color scheme.

  She sat on the bed and bounced once, testing its firmness. “Memory foam in a guest room?”

  “Yeah, that’s what makes this room the best. The others have traditional mattresses.”

  “No wonder people like to visit. Gorgeous home, comfy beds, delicious food, fabulous company. You treat your guests well.”

  That put a smile on his face. “I’m right next door if you get lonely.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” She looked around but didn’t see her luggage. “Where did you and Sam put my bags?”

  “In my room. One sec. I’ll get them.” He went down the hall and into the darkened master bedroom.

  She peered in from where she stood outside the guest room but could only make out a few odd shapes. They were dark against the night sky that she saw through the windows—windows that appeared to be a wall of glass overlooking what she was willing to bet were perfectly-manicured grounds.

  He brought her luggage and set it on the floor beside the bed in her guest room. “If you toss your dirty clothes into the chute, Sam can get the laundry started.” He lifted his chin toward a small, square door set into one wall at waist height.