by Anne Stuart
And then there were women like Carolyn Smith. At least, he presumed there were other women like her, though so far he’d been lucky enough to avoid running into them. She seemed to have no idea how exquisitely beautiful she was. In the few days in her company, he didn’t think he’d seen her make a single natural gesture. It shouldn’t have been the MacDowells who’d turned her into a repressed, rigid young woman—they didn’t care enough to exert that kind of influence. But something had made her as earthy and lively as a statue.
He wondered if she ever laughed. If she even knew how to kiss. She wasn’t a virgin. The information Warren MacDowell had gotten him had been very thorough, but as far as he could tell she’d never allowed herself to care for anyone but the goddamn MacDowells—who would abandon her at the first chance, if it suited their needs.
He’d been hoping to charm her, tease her into relaxing and accepting him. At least he’d hoped to get her to drop her armed warfare. He had too much going with the real MacDowells to spend his time being threatened by a poor almost-relation.
It had been a waste of time, but at least he understood her a little better. Knew just how hopeless it would be to try to seduce her into accepting him. She wasn’t going to—it was that simple.
He smiled faintly, staring out into the night sky. Nothing was really hopeless, particularly when it came to sex. It just depended on how much energy he was willing to expend in relation to benefit gained. Carolyn Smith wasn’t about to cause that much trouble, even if she wanted to. Her concern for Sally overrode her sense of justice. She wouldn’t throw a monkey wrench into his complicated scheme unless she was certain he would harm Sally. He really didn’t have to get her in bed to insure she’d be no threat.
There was, however, another very tangible benefit to seducing her. He just happened to have a case of unshakable lust—every time he looked at her, every time he heard her soft, clear voice, every time he smelled the clean, flowery scent she used. He wanted to shake her up. He wanted to see what Miss Priss looked like with her hair wild and loose and her cool eyes dazed with passion. He wanted to see what she looked like beneath those boring preppie clothes. He wanted to taste her skin.
He could hear the faint creak of the stairs, his ears preternaturally attuned to the sounds of the night. She hadn’t gone to bed after all, unless she was planning on sleeping in the downstairs bedroom, which he doubted. That had always been Sally’s palatial suite, and he sensed that Carolyn would never dare presume to sleep there, even with Sally in absentia, even if she wanted to get as far away from him as she could.
She was trying to be as stealthy as possible, but she wasn’t that adept at sneaking around. He could hear the almost imperceptible sound of the door opening beneath him, and he held himself very still. If she’d had any sense, she would have used the back stairs, the kitchen door. Unless she wanted him to hear her, to follow her.
He doubted it. Carolyn was singularly unused to trickery and deceit, despite her years amidst the MacDowells. She was straightforward, honest, and honorable. Just about everything he wasn’t. It was little wonder his very existence drove her completely crazy.
The moonlight had faded somewhat, but he could still see her quite clearly on the empty sidewalk in front of the house. She had an old cotton sweater pulled on for warmth, and she looked neither to the right nor the left as she crossed the street and headed down toward Lighthouse Beach.
She was walking slowly, steadily, a woman with a purpose. The beach was deserted, the tide was out, and a ring of seaweed and shells littered the sand. She walked all the way to the edge of the water, staring out over the inky vastness.
He couldn’t see her expression—she was too far away. He could only watch her slim, straight body, the tension in her narrow shoulders, the determined set of her head. Why had she gone down to Lighthouse Beach? What was she remembering?
He was half-tempted to scramble off the roof and go after her. To grab her arms and force her to tell him exactly what she had seen on that deserted beach, long summers past.
It would be a waste of time. She wouldn’t tell him, and if he put his hands on her he’d end up kissing her again. He could overwhelm her doubts and objections quite easily, but where would that get him?
He wanted to find out. He went through the window, down the darkened stairs, then froze. She was already back, opening the front door with belated stealth, closing it behind her.
“Have a nice walk?” he murmured from the landing.
She jumped. “Were you spying on me?”
“Honey, you left me sitting on the roof overlooking Lighthouse Beach,” he drawled. “Am I supposed to ignore it when some stealthy creature sneaks out of the house and wanders down there like a lost soul?”
“You’re supposed to pay attention to your own affairs and leave mine alone.”
“What were you looking for?” He took a couple of steps down. She held her ground, but he could see the wariness in her eyes even in the darkened hallway.
“What makes you think I was looking for anything? I wanted some fresh air, and I wanted to be alone.”
“You looked like someone visiting a holy shrine,” he said. “Or maybe that’s not entirely accurate. Maybe someone revisiting the scene of a crime.”
He’d managed to break through her icy calm. “What do you mean by that?” she demanded.
“Just what I said. Did something interesting happen down at Lighthouse Beach? Did you lose your virginity to some studly local on a hot summer night? Or was it something else?”
She’d frozen up again, in control once more. “I happen to like the ocean,” she said.
“There’s no ocean in Vermont. Why do you live there?”
“Sally needs me.”
“Not for long.”
“Then I’ll come back to the water. When she dies,” Carolyn added, as if to prove that she could say the words out loud.
“Here?”
“No!” she said fiercely, blurting it out.
“Too many bad memories?” he persisted.
“The only bad memories I have are of Alexander MacDowell.”
“And what bad memories are those, Carolyn?” he asked in a deceptively gentle voice. “Do you remember the night I left? What did you tell Sally and the others?”
He looked down at her, and knew. Without a doubt she was hiding something, some knowledge of what had gone on in this house the night seventeen-year-old Alexander MacDowell had disappeared, and he suspected she had never told another living soul.
“I went to bed while Alex and Sally were fighting,” she said. “When I woke up the next morning he was gone. That’s all I know.”
“Sally said you were sick right afterward. That you were in the hospital with pneumonia, and that they were afraid you wouldn’t pull through. She said she didn’t know who she was more distraught about, you or me.”
“She was more distraught about her son.”
“Ah, but her son was gone. Run away like the spoiled little hellion he was. You were there, possibly dying. Don’t you think she would have been more concerned about you? After all, as far as she knew her son was alive and well, just off raising hell someplace, and presumably he was going to show up sooner or later. You were near death.”
Carolyn looked at him, not bothering to disguise the anger in her steady eyes. “I didn’t die,” she said. “But I don’t remember much of what happened the night Alex left. In the first place, I wouldn’t have been there; in the second, if I haven’t remembered in eighteen years I doubt I’m going to remember now.” He knew his faint smile was far from reassuring, but she held her ground. She was braver than the quiet little rabbit who’d spent her childhood in the shadow of the MacDowells. Warren had sorely underestimated her.
“Why did you walk down to Lighthouse Beach?” he asked again.
“To get away from you,�
�� she shot back, goaded beyond endurance.
He reached out and caught her shoulder, tightening his grip when she tried to squirm away. He wasn’t going to kiss her again, much as he wanted to. And he wasn’t going to get the answers he wanted, needed, from her tonight.
“Are you sure you really want to?” he asked.
But she had already wrenched away, disappearing into the back of the house before he could say another word.
Chapter Nine
HER DREAM CAME back that night, more vivid than ever, as she knew it would. It wasn’t the sulky, teenaged Alex who came to her room; it was his imposter. The man with the same lost eyes, the same sensuous mouth grown older and more finely drawn, watching her, calling to her. In her dream she could see him lying on the beach as the water pooled around him and his murderer stood over him, the blood pouring from him, draining the life from him. “Why didn’t you save me?” he said in a soundless voice. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
But it was the imposter’s voice, not the real Alex who called to her, and when she woke it was past dawn, and he was standing in the doorway, looking down at her.
“If you want to make the first ferry we have to leave in fifteen minutes,” he said.
She’d slept in an oversized t-shirt and she wasn’t about to jump from the narrow iron bed while he stood there watching her. “I’ll be ready,” she said. “If you go away.”
He was leaning against the open door, looking disgustingly well rested. He hadn’t been tormented by nightmares and memories of death. His dark blond hair was swept back from his face, damp from an early-morning shower, and he was dressed as usual in faded jeans and a dark green cotton sweater that turned his blue eyes greenish as well.
“Why are you sleeping back here?” he demanded lazily. “There are plenty of other empty bedrooms available. You don’t have to be the little matchgirl anymore.”
“It was the furthest I could get from you,” she said with deceptive sweetness.
It didn’t work. “Nice try,” he said. “I think you sort of like the idea of being the poor little orphan, ill-used by her rich benefactors.”
It was like a sharp blow to the stomach, so painful and unexpected in the shrewd truth of it that she couldn’t say a word; she could only stare at him. “Bastard,” she managed finally, with only a fraction of her righteous indignation.
“You deny it?”
“I don’t deny any of your high-flown fantasies. We’ll miss the ferry if you don’t get the hell out of my room.”
“I’ll wait for you in the car.”
“What about the house—?”
“I called Sally on the cell phone. Someone’s coming in to take care of things after we leave. Get dressed, Carolyn, or maybe I’ll go without you.”
He would, too, she realized with sudden dismay as the door closed quietly behind him. There was nothing that would suit him better than to have Sally all to himself, without her interfering presence.
She threw back the covers and dressed quickly, grabbing her running shoes and heading downstairs in her stocking feet. Alex was leaning on the porch railing, a mug of coffee in his hands.
She would kill for a cup of coffee, but she would die before she would ask him for anything. “You ready?” he asked, pushing away from the porch. “The portrait’s already in the car—I’m just waiting for you.”
He had a second mug of coffee in his other hand, and he clearly hadn’t missed the longing look in her eyes. “Want some?”
She wished she had the willpower to refuse. She didn’t. She reached out for it, but he pulled it away. “You have to smile and say good morning first.”
“You have to go to hell first.”
His faint smile was absolutely infuriating. “A social pleasantry in exchange for coffee. That can’t be so damned difficult, now can it?”
She gave him a sickly sweet smile. “Good morning, Alex. I hope you had a lovely night’s sleep. Yes, I’d adore a cup of coffee; how thoughtful of you to offer.”
If he’d pulled it out of her reach again, she would have knocked it all over him, but the imposter had a strong sense of self-preservation. He’d won this round; he was smart enough to settle.
“Get in the car,” he said.
“I haven’t finished my coffee yet.”
“Bring it with you.”
She couldn’t come up with another argument. She drained the mug, set it down on the porch railing, and headed for the car.
If it wasn’t a companionable silence, it was at least a relatively peaceful one, and she slid down in the seat, ready to nap her way northward.
He seemed willing enough to let her. Once they were parked on board the ferry, he reclined his seat as well, closing his eyes peacefully.
Carolyn’s eyes flew open in the dimness of the ferry’s belly. There was no way she was going to lie beside him and sleep.
But one small cup of coffee and a restless night’s sleep proved too much for her. Up on deck she could have more coffee, lots of it, while she watched the island disappear into the mist. All she had to do was unfasten her seat belt and slip from the car.
She couldn’t do it. She was just too damned tired. Alex seemed to have fallen asleep the moment he closed his eyes—his breathing was deep and even, and he seemed off in another world. He wouldn’t bother her.
She was crazy to stay there. But she was too tired to do anything else. And for some inexplicable reason, trapped in a car with a liar and an imposter, she felt safe, at least for the moment. Safe enough to give in to the shades of sleep falling down around her. Safe enough to trust him. At least for the moment.
HE WATCHED HER. She slept like a baby, curled up on the front seat, half facing him, her hand tucked beneath her face. She probably sucked her thumb when she was a kid. He scoured his memory, but that piece of information eluded him.
All her life she’d been old before her time, a miniature adult, looking out for her adopted family. She’d been brought into the family at age two, and already she’d known she was living on borrowed time. She’d been a somber, well-behaved young child, and she was a somber, well-behaved adult. Except where he was concerned.
The teenaged Alexander MacDowell had always been able to rile her. The man who sat next to her in the car seemed to have the same wicked ability.
She needed to be riled more often. And he was definitely the man to do it.
But not right now. She was exhausted, with faint purple smudges beneath her eyes, and she didn’t even stir when the ferry landed and he started the car engine. For a moment he wondered whether she was faking it, trying to shut out the necessity of making polite conversation.
But then, Carolyn didn’t bother with manners as far as he was concerned. He suspected he was the only person she had ever been outwardly rude to, and it must have been absolutely liberating for her.
She shifted beneath the constricting seat belt, murmuring something beneath her breath. He couldn’t quite make out what she said, but he figured it didn’t matter. He was oddly content to let her sleep as he drove northward through the thinning traffic. There was a certain amount of trust in her ability to sleep so soundly. She’d never admit to that trust, but he knew it was there, and it moved him.
Was she attracted to him? It was a strong possibility, despite her obvious hostility. He didn’t know whether it was wishful thinking on his part, or whether he’d really tasted the beginning of a response last night on the porch roof.
Did he want her? Completely. And he had every intention of taking his time with her, spending long, slow, endless hours in bed with her, with no ghosts, no almost-family members breathing down their necks, watching them, as they always seemed to be watching.
It would make sense to wait until all this was over. Until Sally died, until everything was settled. Then there’d be nothin
g between them, no lies, no pretending, no family.
The problem was, he wasn’t sure he had the self-discipline to wait.
They were within half an hour of home when she woke up, although she tried to pretend she hadn’t, rather than have to make conversation with him. If he had a generous streak in his body he would have respected her reluctance. He didn’t.
“Pleasant dreams?” he inquired.
She didn’t move, obviously trying to decide whether she could fake it or not. She wisely realized it was a lost cause, and her eyes opened, still slightly dazed from her long sleep. “Pleasant enough,” she said. “You weren’t in them.”
“It sounds as if I was before. Have you been dreaming about me? Erotic dreams?”
“Not likely,” she said with an unflattering shudder.
He grinned. “Did you dream about me when you were a teenager?” He waited for her usual hostility, but she seemed too weary to bother.
“I used to have nightmares about Alex after he left,” she said slowly. “They lasted for years, until I finally did something about them.”
“What did you do? Have him exorcized?” He deliberately used the word “him.”
“I saw a therapist in college. She helped me figure out what was fantasy and what was memory.”
“And what did you remember? What haunted you?” His casual tone of voice was sharpening, but he could only hope she was still too sleep-drugged to notice.
She turned to look at him, and her eyes were absolutely clear and steady. “I dreamed he died. I dreamed I saw someone shoot Alexander MacDowell and throw his body into the ocean.”
She’d managed to silence him. “Quite a dream,” he said after a moment. “And you didn’t do anything to stop it? You must have really hated him. No wonder you can’t stand to be near me. Or is it a guilty conscience?”
“I couldn’t have saved him.”
“But you didn’t try.”
“But he didn’t die, did he?” she countered with swift irony. “After all, you’re here, alive and quite disgustingly healthy.”