Tangled Lies

by Anne Stuart

  Damn, little sister, he thought in a kind of exasperation. What the hell are you doing in my bed? I can't do this to you—you're too vulnerable. I don't want to hurt you any more than I have to, and God knows, if I wake up and find you in my bed, I'm not sure I can keep my hands off you. And even if I know it's not incest, you won't. And I'm not sure I could stop long enough to explain.

  He was off the bed in one fluid move, so fast and graceful that Rachel only stirred for a moment before sinking back into sleep. He stood there, staring down at her: the soft determined line of her jaw, the eyelashes that feathered across her tanned cheek, the thick braid of hair that was just beginning to come loose. Memory was returning to him slowly. It had to have been another one of his nightmares. It would be a long time before he would forget those months in that tiny cell, forget the sounds and screams in the night, the last time he had seen Delaney…

  And Rachel had come to comfort him. Somehow the thought brought him no comfort at all. She lay there in all her trusting innocence, ready to give him anything he wanted. If he were as big a bastard as he sometimes suspected, he could even get her in bed without telling her the truth. Little matter that she would think she was committing incest; that would be her problem, not his. He knew women well enough to know that she wanted him, even if she didn't quite realize it yet. But she would, sooner or later. And when she did, would she run away? Or would she begin to suspect that he might not be her brother after all?

  He couldn't take that risk. He'd taken too many as it was, letting her stay, opening up to her more than he'd opened up to a woman in years. Maybe he was getting confused too, he thought wryly. Maybe he was thinking Rachel Chandler really was his baby sister, come back to life. And then he dismissed the thought as swiftly as it had come. He knew full well that his feeling for Rachel Chandler was far from brotherly. And yet, damn it, it wasn't the simple physical desire he felt for Melea and dozens like her. Rachel was special; no matter how much he tried to deny it, that thought remained festering in his mind. If he didn't watch it, he'd find he was abandoning something he'd planned for over fifteen years. And all for nothing. Once Rachel Chandler discovered the truth, as she was bound to eventually, she'd feel nothing but hatred for him.

  Well, there was nothing he could do about it, nothing that could change the situation. He could enjoy it while it lasted, enjoy watching her move around the cottage with her long legs and small, high breasts and that half-shy, half-naughty expression that flitted back and forth over her expressive face. It wouldn't be much longer; it couldn't be.

  He saw the white-suited figure sitting on his porch as he walked slowly from the ocean. The early morning swim had done its customary job of clearing the cobwebs from his brain—the coffee he had started before going out would finish the job. He wasn't in the mood to deal with Harris Chandler this early in the morning, and his glare as he mounted the front steps of the cottage was distinctly unwelcoming.

  "What are you doing up so early?" he growled. Harris had appropriated the most comfortable chair, and he was now leaning back, a mug of coffee cradled in one slightly trembling hand, his usually ruddy face still pale around the gills, his eyes bloodshot, a grin lighting his face.

  " 'Morning, nephew," he said affably. "Would you mind not dripping all over me? I just had this suit cleaned. Don't you believe in towels?"

  "No." Collapsing into one of the weaker chairs, Emmett took the cup of coffee Harris proffered. It was pale beige and thickly sweet, when Emmett preferred it black, but he stayed put. Anything that got Harris Chandler out of bed before noon had to be worth hearing. "What are you doing here, Chandler?"

  "Such a welcome," Harris chided mournfully. "I heard some news last night, my boy. Quite fascinating news that I could barely wait to share with you. I have no doubt you'll be as interested as I was. Where, by the way, is the little sister?"

  "Rachel's still asleep," Emmett said briefly. "What news?"

  "I happened to notice her bedroom door was open and the bed empty," Harris continued, unfazed. "Where does she happen to be sleeping?"

  "None of your damned business."

  "Dear me, I hope you haven't forgotten yourself entirely, dear boy. Rachel is a very attractive girl, but she does happen to believe she's your sister. Unless you've been indiscreet enough to tell her otherwise."

  "She still thinks I'm her brother," he said tersely, choking on the thick, sweet coffee.

  "Thank heavens for that. Then where is she sleeping?"

  Emmett met his red-rimmed gaze blandly. "In my bed. Any more questions?"

  Harris had run into that tone of voice before, and being a devout coward, immediately backed down. "Very well, my boy. It is, after all, your business. I just hate to see Rachel hurt any more than she needs to be. She hasn't been particularly lucky in love. Too trusting, I suppose. I hate to see her trust betrayed again."

  "You're part and parcel of that betrayal, Chandler," Emmett snapped. "I'm asking you again, what news?"

  Harris hesitated for only a moment. "Emmett Chandler's been seen on the island. The real Emmett Chandler."

  He was immediately alert. "By whom? Is the source reliable?"

  "The most. Apparently there's a priest who—"

  "Good morning, Uncle Harris." Rachel stood in the door, sleep-tousled and cheery in the early morning sunlight. There wasn't a trace of embarrassment or unease in the bright, loving smile she flashed at Emmett. "What's all this about a priest?"

  Chapter Nine

  « ^ »

  Harris Chandler greeted his niece affably, not a shadow crossing his florid complexion. "Good morning, darling. I must say, you're looking entirely fetching this morning. Hawaii must agree with you."

  Rachel smiled, moving across the porch on her long, tanned legs to sit on the arm of Emmett's chair. "Being with my brother agrees with me," she corrected cheerfully. "The coffee's terrible again," she informed Emmett. "How anyone can brew something so ghastly in the land of Kona coffee is beyond me. And yesterday's was so nice. I thought you'd turned over a new leaf?"

  He smiled up at her lazily. "My new leaves don't last very long, kid. Maybe you'll have to get up earlier and make the coffee yourself."

  Rachel shuddered dramatically. "A decent cup of coffee isn't enough to make me rise at the crack of dawn. Maybe I'll buy some instant."

  "Now, I am offended," Emmett drawled. "No matter how bad my coffee is, it's certainly better than instant."

  "A matter of opinion," she returned, leaning back against his shoulder. "So why are you up so early, Uncle? I thought you had the Chandler weakness for sleeping late."

  "I think my relatives are less than respectful," Harris mourned. "That's exactly how your brother greeted me this morning. I don't always sleep until noon."

  "You would if you could," Emmett said lazily, drinking in the scent of the jasmine that lingered in the tangled mop of chestnut hair that grazed his face. "Harris was just trying to convert me. He hasn't been to Mass in probably twenty-five years, but he still thinks I should return to the Mother Church. I've told him to mind his own business, but he ignores me."

  "It would be one thing, Rachel dear, if he were just an agnostic." Harris leaned forward, warming to the tale. "But after all those years of pagan religions—ashrams in India, chanting in the jungle, South American rituals—the boy's soul is in a lot more mortal danger than someone who simply hasn't gotten around to church in recent years."

  "The boy will be just fine without your interference," Emmett stated. "I don't want to go to church, I don't want to meet this priest, I don't want to do a damn thing but lie on the beach with my kid sister."

  Harris glared at him, but Rachel was too busy smiling beatifically down at Emmett to notice. "I've met Father Frank, if that's who you're talking about," she said. "He's really very nice; he's the one who dropped me off here."

  "Really?" Harris was suddenly more alert. "That's quite interesting. Where did you meet him?"

  "On the plane from Oahu. He said he'd
stop by and visit eventually. He was very interested in my prodigal brother, but I guess he hasn't had the time yet. I thought I might drive over there and see him. I promised him I'd keep in touch."

  Emmett and Harris exchanged bland glances. "That sounds like an excellent idea, Rachel," her uncle said. "As a matter of fact, I've come to fetch your brother for the day. There are various legalities we have to work on. Boring stuff, I'm afraid, and nothing that concerns you. Why don't you take the Land Rover and visit this priest, maybe do a little sight-seeing, and then meet us for drinks at the hotel bar around seven?"

  "Oh, I don't mind coming along with you," she protested. The last thing she wanted to do was leave Emmett. She had had him for so short a time now, she wasn't ready to surrender him for even a few hours if she could help it. "Father Murphy can wait; I'm sure the island grapevine has let him know I'm just fine."

  "The island grapevine, as you call it, is very effective," Harris said grimly.

  "Not effective enough," murmured Emmett. "I think you ought to go visit this Father Murphy. Maybe if you put in a good word for me he'll save my soul in absentia."

  "That kind of flippant attitude won't get you very far in the Catholic Church, Emmett," she warned.

  "I'm counting on your good graces, kid," he drawled. "But you'd better put on something a bit more demure—I don't want you distracting the good Father from his holy vows."

  Rising, she stretched against the sunlit sky, unaware of the almost painful hunger in Emmett's eyes. "I don't think I'm likely to do that; Father Murphy is a pussycat, but not what you'd call a sex symbol. I think we'll manage to keep our hands off each other. Are you sure I can't go with you?"

  "Positive, kid. You'd be bored silly. Just be sure to watch the sun if you go out on the beach. You may have several layers of tan, but you could still get quite a nasty burn if you don't watch out."

  "Yes, sir," she murmured docilely, leaning over to kiss him lightly on the cheek. The skin was warm beneath her lips, smelling faintly of lime-scented shaving cream and the ocean, and she could see his eyelashes close for a moment. "See you at seven."

  The two men watched her move back into the cool confines of the cottage, both intent on their own thoughts. Finally Harris spoke. "Do you think that was a particularly wise idea, my friend? Sending her into the lion's den, so to speak?"

  Emmett stretched out his legs, staring thoughtfully at the ocean. "Was it the lion's den? Apparently this priest has seen Emmett recently? Emmett, not your humble servant?"

  "That's the word. He's not talking, of course. Sealed by the confessional and all that. But the cousin of the bartender works at the church, and he heard the priest talking to some man called Emmett. Tom Moko saw the man, and said it wasn't the haole who meets me occasionally in the bar. Though he did look like you, I guess."

  "And you can trust the bartender?" Emmett was very calm. Something had finally happened. He could have wished it had happened sooner, before Rachel Chandler had appeared to complicate his life, but he wasn't about to be distracted at this late date.

  "As well as I can trust anyone," Harris replied, draining his coffee with a shudder. "You know, she's right. This coffee is ghastly."

  "Tough. And I think sending Rachel over there was a very good idea," he added as an afterthought.

  "You do? Why?"

  Emmett swiveled around in his chair to stare at Harris. "We do want to find the real Emmett, remember? I think Rachel might do a very good job of flushing him out."

  "You're a cool customer, aren't you? I thought you were beginning to care for your kid sister."

  "She's okay," Emmett snapped. "Money's better."

  "You could have fooled me. And if it's the money you're so concerned about, and I assume it is, then have you ever stopped to consider that it might be better if Emmett Chandler never makes a reappearance? If he's still alive, he must have his reasons for lying low. It would make things so much easier if you died a nice cut-and-dried death. No hassle with a seven-year waiting period to have the real Emmett declared dead, no hassle with trying to convince an aging hippie that the money should go to his relatives and not some home for Krishna consciousness? Maybe we should drop our inquiries, continue on as if you're the real Emmett, and send you over a cliff in a few months?"

  "No." His voice was adamant.

  "Why not? It seems an admirable solution to all our problems. Particularly since you don't seem to have any qualms about sacrificing Rachel."

  "It's too late for that decision. There's no longer any question as to whether Emmett Chandler is really alive. He's sent Rachel birthday presents for the past fifteen years; he's been seen recently. He's going to make an appearance, Harris, and we'd better be ready for him."

  Harris looked doubtful. "Perhaps. You forget, I knew my nephew, you didn't. I'm not convinced he's going to show up, not convinced at all. He's just as likely to stir up a bit of trouble, just to spite us all, and then disappear."

  The front legs of Emmett's chair slammed down on the porch. "If he knows about us, don't you think he'll know his sister is here too? In our evil clutches? Don't you think that will make him show his face?"

  "I doubt it. I told you, the Chandlers don't put themselves out for their relations, and Emmett, much as he disliked the idea, was very much a Chandler. I think he'll be just as willing to sacrifice Rachel as we are."

  Emmett closed his eyes for a long, pained moment. "Poor Rachel," he murmured.

  "She'll survive. She's survived worse in her time," Harris said coolly. "How long will it take you to get ready?"

  The look of disgust Emmett flung at him would have penetrated even his thick hide if he'd happened to see it. But Harris was too busy flicking an imaginary piece of dust from his spotless white jacket. "Don't worry about it, Emmett, my lad. Your tropical idyll isn't over yet. Rachel will doubtless find another innocent excuse to crawl into your bed again, and then you can decide how gentlemanly you really want to be. I must say," he continued, sauntering down the front steps, "I'm surprised at my little niece. I wouldn't have thought her capable of that sort of perversity. She always seemed like such a sweet, shy creature. I don't know what Ariel would have—" Harris's spotless figure went sprawling into the sand, his mouth filling with the wet grit. Emmett stood over him, his face an expressionless mask that was far more frightening than any look of rage would have been.

  "Don't you ever," he said in a deceptively mild voice, "say anything like that about your niece again." There was no threat following the statement; there was no need for one. Very carefully Harris Chandler picked himself up, spitting sand from his mouth. His freshly laundered suit was a mess. He brushed at it with ineffectual hands.

  "How very clumsy of me," he murmured, his eyes shifting away from the man standing dangerously close to him. "I'll meet you at the car."

  Emmett stood there for a long moment, watching Harris's now-rumpled figure shamble across the sand toward the large, air-conditioned Lincoln that served him as transportation around the island. Slowly he unclenched his hands, taking several deep, calming breaths. It had been a long time since he'd been that angry, a good long time. The intensity of his fury surprised him, surprised and disturbed him. There was no room for that kind of uncontrolled passion in his undertaking. He'd have to remember that, or risk everything. And he'd come too far to risk it all for a pair of brown eyes and the sweetest mouth he'd ever tasted. Somewhere he was going to have to reassume his usual cold-blooded attitude. Unfortunately Rachel Chandler had a disturbing facility for heating up his usually icy hemoglobin.

  He moved silently into the house, hoping not to disturb Rachel. His bedroom was empty, and he threw on clean clothes swiftly, keeping his gaze averted from the rumpled bed, in his mind's eye still seeing Rachel lying curled up against him.

  Without a backward glance he turned and ran down the front steps to the ostentatious car. There was no room for second thoughts, no room for Rachel Chandler, not now, not ever. He'd better remember that.

&nbs
p; Harris leaned out the passenger's window. "You drive, my boy. I'm a little shaken up."

  Emmett grinned then, a feral, almost frightening smile that failed to reassure Harris even a tiny bit. "Good," he said, sliding into the driver's seat. "Stay that way." And he backed away from the cottage.

  Chapter Ten

  « ^ »

  "This is one of the oldest churches in the islands." Father Frank surveyed the ancient, whitewashed structure with justifiable pride. The church was small, plain, and underrated, and yet Rachel felt closer to God there than she had in a long time. "It's been rumored that Father Damien spent time here before going to the leper colony on Molokai. I'm very lucky to be here," Father Frank said simply.

  Rachel smiled. "I think I agree with you. It's very peaceful here."

  "Are you in need of peace, Rachel?" he questioned softly. Father Frank was looking much as she had last seen him, his round face florid in the heat, his rounded stomach pushing against the plain black shirt, his bald dome glistening with the sheen of perspiration.

  Rachel laughed, a small, uneasy laugh as she pushed a hand through her hair. She'd made the mistake of letting it hang down around her shoulders, and her neck was suffocating. "How did you guess?"

  "It's my job to be observant. You looked more troubled than when I last saw you. Are you?"

  "Perhaps." There was a sudden, furtive movement toward the back of the church, and Rachel broke off, startled. "Who was that?"

  "Just one of my helpers," the priest said blandly. "Why don't we go out into the garden, where we can have some privacy? Unless you want to make your confession?" He gestured toward the confessionals with one small, plump hand, and Rachel shook her head hastily. She doubted she was ready for quite the intensive soul-searching confession would require of her.