by Anne Stuart
“I wouldn’t.” He leaned closer, savoring the sweet temptation, when the shrill sound of the phone jerked him out of his erotic reverie.
He stepped back, reluctantly. “Do you want to get the phone or shall I?”
“I’ll get it.” She dashed from the kitchen, and he resisted the impulse to follow her. She was more than capable of handling any of the MacDowell clan, and at the moment he trusted her composure more than his own.
He waited as long as he could, then followed her out into the living room and the one downstairs phone that Sally would allow. She was sitting in a chair, a lost expression on her face.
“Who was it?”
“Uncle Warren.”
“I don’t suppose you called him ‘daddy,’ did you?”
She roused herself. “I barely thought about it,” she said, an obvious lie, but he decided to let it pass. “He’s been looking for me, he said. They found my car and they were worried. Patsy’s in the hospital. Some kind of drug reaction, apparently.”
“I can imagine,” he drawled. “Did she OD?”
“I don’t know. Warren said her children are with her.”
“And where is your dear papa?”
“Don’t call him that!” She shuddered. “He’s in Vermont, I assume. He’s trying to make funeral arrangements for Sally, dealing with Patsy’s hospitalization, and mad as hell that I’m not around to take care of the details.” She glanced up at him. “He didn’t ask about you.”
“Interesting. Either he no longer cares, or he already knows.”
“What did you two plan on doing when Sally died?”
Alex chuckled mirthlessly. “He was supposed to pay me off handsomely and I was supposed to disappear.”
“How much?”
He shrugged. “I don’t really remember, since I had no intention of taking it. Somewhere in the mid-six figures, I think.”
“Wouldn’t he be worried that you were planning on blackmailing him? Unless he’s figured out that you really are Alex.”
“Warren’s not that smart. Are you sure he was calling from Vermont?”
“How could I be?” she said in a cranky voice. “The phone is ancient.”
“Exactly. In this life you can’t be sure of anything.”
“Especially in this family,” she said bitterly.
“Of which you are well and truly a member. Finally,” he pointed out.
“I don’t think so.”
She’d managed to surprise him. “What do you mean?” He almost sounded affronted.
She looked at him. “I mean you’re well and truly a MacDowell, aren’t you, Alex, despite the fact that you have no blood tie to them. You’re a ruthless, handsome, self-centered liar, willing to do anything to get what you want in this life, no matter who you hurt. Sounds like the quintessential MacDowell to me.”
It shouldn’t have stung, but it did. “And you’re Miss Pure-as-the-Driven-Snow?”
“No. But I don’t put my wants in front of everybody else’s, and damn the cost. And I don’t lie.”
“You don’t lie? I guess we can add self-delusion to your list of sins as well,” he said. He didn’t trust himself to move any closer to her—leaning against the doorjamb in the back parlor kept him from touching her.
“I don’t lie,” she said fiercely, making the mistake of rising from her chair and coming toward him, too angry to realize her danger.
“What do you think of me?”
“Why bother to ask—you know perfectly well what I think of you.”
He managed an extravagant yawn. “Yeah, I know. You despise me, you think I’m lower than dirt, I’m a liar and a cheat and I didn’t even have the decency to tell the truth about being an imposter. I’m as rotten as I ever was, the bane of your existence, and you wish whoever had shot me had had better aim. Does that about sum it up?”
“That about covers it.” She came right up to him, a major mistake. “Except for one thing.”
“And what’s that?”
She had the absolute indecency to smile at him, a to-hell-with-you, in-your-face kind of smile. “When you figure it out, let me know,” she said sweetly, walking past him before he could put his hands on her.
THE HOURS IN THE old house dragged. There’d been a time when Carolyn had loved the house on Water Street with a wistfully possessive passion, wanting it with a deep, shameful longing. The house was like a prize in the MacDowell family—passed down through generations, it sat on North Water Street in elegant majesty, its wide porch overlooking the bay and Chappaquiddick Island, its graceful lines and history-rich furnishings a symbol of the grace and privilege of being a MacDowell. The siblings had fought over it, and even though Sally hadn’t been there in the last ten years, she’d never relinquished an ounce of her financial interest or control in the place.
Now it would be Patsy’s and Warren’s. Or possibly Alex’s, if he wanted it. He said he had no interest in his inheritance, but the man had been known to lie, she thought wryly. And who could turn down an inheritance of such magnificence as this house?
She could. She realized it with a sudden, liberating shock. She could turn her back on this huge, stuffy old house in Edgartown, with its history and its perfection, where even as a child she was told to behave herself, never to make too much noise, not to make a mess, do nothing to mar its pristine beauty. It was a huge house, built by a sea captain for his half-dozen children, but no child’s voice had rung out in the halls for generations, even when Alex and the rest of them were little. It was a dead house, and Carolyn found she could let go of it as easily as she’d let go of the MacDowells. It was a hard lesson to be learned in this life, and she was lucky she’d learned it by the age of thirty-one and not years later. The things you most longed for in life quite often turned out to be worthless and shallow.
She glanced across the room to Alex. He was stretched out on the wicker chaise, a remarkably uncomfortable chair in Carolyn’s opinion, though he didn’t seem to mind. His eyes were closed, but she had no illusion that he was sleeping. Still, it gave her the time to look at him at her leisure, and she knew with dark certainty that this might be the last time.
Worthless and shallow. Most certainly he was, as well as beautiful and dishonest and pathologically self-centered. He was also what she had longed for most in this life, more than family, more than to be a real MacDowell, more than this perfect mausoleum of a summerhouse.
She still wanted him. Ached for him, like a stupid, hormone-riddled adolescent. She looked at his long, lean body, his ripe mouth, his Cossack eyes, and she burned.
He wasn’t ever going to know it. Oh, he might guess. After all, he was an intelligent enough man, and wise in the ways of women. He knew perfectly well she lusted after him, just as he knew she could keep her lust firmly under control.
What he didn’t know was that she still loved him, deeply, passionately. And most likely always would, since time and the harsh truth and sorrow couldn’t touch her feelings.
She wasn’t about to end up a bitter old woman, mourning a lost love—she had too much sense for that. Once she broke free of the MacDowells she’d get on with her life, find someone kind and good to marry. She’d have babies, babies that she’d never give up to a rich old woman willing to pay the price. And only on certain hot summer nights, or maybe on cool, crisp autumn ones, would she think about Alexander MacDowell and remember the man she loved.
“Do you ever get the feeling that someone is watching you?” Alex’s voice drifted toward her, startling her. He hadn’t bothered to open his eyes, but he must have been far too aware of her perusal.
“So sue me,” she said.
Then he did open his eyes, looking at her with veiled amusement. “I didn’t mean you. Of course you watch me, just as I watch you. Whether you admit it or not, we’re both suffe
ring from a case of terminal, mutual lust, and even if we manage to keep our hands off each other, we can’t stop watching.”
“Terminal lust,” she echoed. “What a charming way to put it.”
“Do you deny it?”
“Lust is not how I’d describe my feelings for you,” she said dryly.
“I won’t bother arguing with you about it. I was talking about this house. I’ve always had the feeling that someone was watching me. Maybe it’s all the windows looking out over Water Street.”
“It’s off-season. No one’s walked by in hours, and the traffic is minimal.”
“So why do I get the feeling someone is spying on me? Or am I being paranoid?”
“You’re probably being paranoid.”
“Probably?”
“I’m feeling it, too.”
He sat up swiftly, the ancient wicker chaise creaking. “Maybe they’ve gotten here sooner than I thought.”
“Who?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. We can rule out Patsy, I suppose, since she’s in detox.”
“And her children, since they’re by her side. Which leaves Warren.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not.” He rose. “I’m going outside to see whether we might have any unwanted visitors.”
“And leave me alone in here? Forget it.”
“You mean you expect me to protect you? I’m touched, Carolyn. I didn’t think you were about to accept anything from me.”
She glared at him. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that, Alex?”
“I know that. Why don’t you go upstairs and lock the door while I scout around and make sure the house is secure?”
“How could it be? This is an old place—if anyone was determined to break in I’m sure they could with very little difficulty.”
“There’s also a state-of-the-art security system I can turn back on.”
“Which any member of the MacDowell family could easily circumvent.”
“Not if I change the password,” he said airily. “A simple enough matter if you know what you’re doing. Go upstairs and wait for me. I won’t be long.”
“You want me stripped and bathed and properly scented?” she said in an acid voice.
He didn’t rise to the bait. “I want you any way I can have you.”
She didn’t bother with a response. She stomped upstairs, making a great deal of noise as she went, just in case some murderous intruder had managed to get in through the back way. She wasn’t in the mood to confront anyone at that moment, least of all Alexander MacDowell and his lust.
A week after their last visit the moon was waning, but still bright over the water. The trees were covered with leaves now, obscuring a great deal of the street, and already there were more lights across the bay. By early May the place was beginning to come alive.
He’d already dragged a mattress into the front bedroom, pushing the double bed up against the windows to make room for it, though he hadn’t bothered with anything as civilized as sheets. She wasn’t about to make it up for him, either. She stripped off her jeans and climbed into bed, keeping her bra and panties on underneath her t-shirt. She probably should have kept her jeans on as well, not to mention adding layers for extra protection, except that she knew all the clothing in the world wouldn’t keep Alex MacDowell away from her. She had to rely on her own wayward sense of self-preservation.
She turned out the lights and curled up on the high bed, pulling the duvet around her. The room felt stuffy, with the musty smell of a closed-up house, and she opened one of the windows a crack to let in the cool spring air.
It was fresh and damp and oddly comforting. She bundled deeper into the duvet and willed herself to sleep before Alex could come along and tempt her.
HE’D LIED TO HER, of course, but lying to Carolyn Smith was second nature to him by now. He could reprogram the security system, but there were no guarantees that it would keep any determined MacDowell from entering. They knew this place too well.
Of course, given the amounts of money at stake, whoever was behind all this could always simply hire a professional to take care of them. But he didn’t think they would. He could still see the outline of the person who stood and shot him on the beach at Lighthouse Beach, even though the face eluded his stubborn brain. But it had been a face he had known, of that much he was certain.
There were times when he’d wondered whether it was Sally herself who’d followed him down to the beach and tried to kill him. He’d been a trial and a terror, and once he knew she had no biological cause to love him, he had to accept the possibility that she was the one who’d tried to get rid of him.
He’d known the moment he returned that it hadn’t been her. But somehow in the few weeks since he’d been back he was no closer to an answer.
The only thing he was closer to was Carolyn Smith.
She was curled up in a cocoon of covers on the high double bed, her back toward him, shutting him out. The moonlight streamed in the open window, spreading a silver glow throughout the room, and he wondered what she’d do if he climbed on the bed beside her.
He didn’t. He’d learned to survive by his instincts, and his instincts told him their enemy was close at hand. He couldn’t allow himself to be distracted by the very real temptation of the woman he loved.
It was a terrible mistake, falling in love with her, but then, it was nothing new. He’d wanted her for as long as he could remember, and even during his time in self-imposed exile he’d still dreamed of her.
He didn’t bother taking off his clothes, he simply dropped down on the mattress and stretched out. The breeze from the open window was cool, a fact he welcomed, because he was hot. Outside he could hear the water lapping against the docks, a soothing, gentle sound, and he wondered if he dared let himself sleep.
And then he did.
Chapter Twenty-two
CAROLYN WASN’T sure what woke her. The room was very dark—only the faint silvery moonlight illuminated it, and she guessed it was somewhere around two or three in the morning. She lay very still on the high bed, listening, all her senses immediately alert. And then she realized that Alex was awake as well.
“Alex?” Her voice was little more than the breath of a whisper on the night air.
“Yeah?” he said after a moment, making no movement.
She rose on her elbows and looked down at him. He lay stretched out on the bare mattress, fully dressed, no covers, no pillows. If he’d slept at all it hadn’t been much—even in the dim moonlight he looked haggard, lost. “Alex,” she said again, not knowing what she was asking, not knowing how to ask.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
He closed his eyes in despair. “Don’t look at me with those big eyes of yours, don’t curl up next to me and cry, don’t tell me you’re lost and hurting. For God’s sake, Carolyn, leave me alone.”
She gathered the covers and began to climb off the bed. “I’ll just go in another room—”
He caught her bare ankle in his big, strong hand. “No, you won’t. Lie down and go to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“And I can’t be your sleeping pill.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this is hard enough for me, without having to dispense celibate comfort as well. I’m hurting. And I need you. I’m doing my damnedest to respect your wishes and keep my hands off you, but it would help if you wouldn’t look at me out of those damnable eyes of yours and . . .”
She was suddenly quite calm. “I just wanted to ask you a question.”
He sighed, obviously trying to control his temper. “What?”
“Does this bed really squeak?”
For a moment he sounded confused. “Yeah. See for yourself.”
She moved, and the bed squeaked noisily. She moved again, settling onto the mattress beside him. “Do you really need me?” she whispered, putting her hands on his face. His skin was warm against her cool hands, and she could feel his sudden sharp intake of breath.
“I need you,” he said roughly.
“Good,” she whispered. And she leaned forward and kissed his mouth, with such gentle sweetness that he had to have guessed that she loved him.
But she knew men weren’t the most observant creatures in the world, which had to be a mixed blessing.
He took her kiss as it was offered, sliding his hands up her back, cradling her. And then he kissed her back, a slow, languorous kiss, unlike any he’d ever given her before. He’d kissed her in a white-hot passion. He’d kissed her in fury and revenge and uncontrollable lust. He’d never kissed her with such sweet, simple pleasure.
She felt the desire curl in the pit of her stomach, spiraling up to her breasts. When he moved her onto her back she went willingly, closing her eyes as his mouth trailed hot, stinging little kisses across her cheekbones, her eyelids, the side of her mouth.
And then he sat up, and she felt bereft, her eyes flying open in the darkness. He was looking down at her, and she couldn’t even begin to read his expression.
“I thought you said you needed me,” she said.
“I do. I’m just not certain I want a martyr in my bed.”
She laughed. “I wonder if Sally dropped you on your head when you were a baby,” she said, half to herself. “Trust me, I really don’t mind if you force me to have exquisite sex. I’m willing to make such a noble sacrifice.”
“‘Exquisite sex’?” he echoed, making no move to touch her.
Some of her amusement was fading. She’d been so sure she’d been safe enough, offering herself to him. That he wanted her, at least on a physical level, as much as she wanted him. Now she wasn’t so certain.
“Are you about to offer me anything more?” she asked.
He didn’t move, watching her for a long, thoughtful moment. And then he pulled his sweater over his head, flinging it across the room, and his chest was white-gold in the moonlight. “Yes,” he said.