by Lisa Jackson
Run! She tried to yell. Get away! Her voice was still. Save yourselves!
When they didn’t move, she walked forward. Take me, she silently cried to the fire. Take me and leave my boys!
She felt the heat. The flames touching her legs.
Her sons turned to face her.
She gasped.
Buddy’s face was blue, his hair wet, and he staggered, gasping as the rain drenched him, forcing him to the ground, where he flopped like a fish on the land.
She cried out.
Chase’s features were burned off his face, his eyebrows gone, his skin charred, his hair aflame. His body buckled and he fell, the scent of burning flesh filling her nostrils.
Brig, leaning on a crutch, faced her. Then the crutch changed, morphing into a woman, Cassidy Buchanan, who stood beside her husband’s brother, her shoulders holding him up, as if she belonged with him. Brig leaned hard against her.
“You did this!” he yelled at his mother, his voice booming through the heavens. He pointed an accusing finger at her. “You killed my brother!”
Tears fell from Sunny’s eyes. Fell to the flames at her feet.
Fire and water.
I loved my boys. I would not hurt them. Nor you, son, she tried to say, but her tongue wouldn’t move, and to her horror, appearing in the smoke and flames was Chase’s killer, a dark shadow on the prowl, a person she recognized, moving silently, determinedly, ever closer to Brig.
Sunny’s heart froze.
The murderer’s face was horrible, lips pulled into a cruel smile, eyes that glittered like a snake’s, features that were the embodiment of evil.
No! Sunny tried to scream as terror ripped through her soul, but her lips were mute, her tongue unable to form words, and she shuddered with a fear so cold she didn’t realize the flames from her small campfire had caught on the hem of her dress. She dropped to the ground and rolled, her legs burned, her heart heavy.
There was little she could do.
She was considered crazy. A lunatic. A witch.
The police wouldn’t believe her.
Rex would dismiss her notions.
Even Brig would doubt her if she told him the truth.
It seemed that all of her sons were doomed.
Forty-four
“I can’t live a lie.” Cassidy stood in the doorway, her suitcase packed, the keys to her Jeep clutched in fingers that didn’t seem to feel. The news conference had been an ordeal, telling her parents had been worse. All the while she knew that she was lying about Brig. And Chase. Upon learning that Marshall Baldwin was really Brig McKenzie and that Brig was dead, Rex had sworn, Dena had made comments about good riddance to bad news and Cassidy had felt the biggest hypocrite on earth. Since first talking to Laszlo two days before, she’d told more lies than she could count to the police, her family, her peers and her friends.
She needed time to think. Time to put her life back together. Time to grieve for Chase and time to accept Brig as…what? He couldn’t pretend to be her husband forever. Someday, and soon, they would have to come clean and then the truth would be out: she’d been living with her brother-in-law, been his lover, while hiding the fact that her husband was dead.
Life with Brig was far beyond complicated. The future seemed murky—her goals confused. He’d lied to her. Over and over again. He’d used her. Pretended he was her husband. Made love to her.
Angry and hurt, she reached for the handle of the door.
“So you’re really leaving.” Brig’s voice stopped her cold. She turned and found him walking toward her, his limp still noticeable, his jaw set and firm. Clean shaven, with only trace lines of his scars, Brig was rugged and handsome, as strong and unapproachable as the mountains in Alaska where he’d lived in his own private hell for seventeen years.
The phone rang, but they ignored it. More reporters. She laughed at the irony of it. How many times had she been on the other end, fingers crossed, praying that her source would pick up so that she could confirm or deny? It seemed so impersonal now.
“Why?” he asked, motioning to the suitcase in her hand.
“I feel like a prisoner here.”
“With me?”
“With the lies.”
“It won’t be much longer,” he said, his eyes as clear as a summer’s day.
“How do you know?”
His gaze shifted from her face to the corner of her mouth. “I know.”
“Brig—” She caught herself. She’d tried hard to keep referring to him as her husband, rarely by the name Chase—that was too deceitful and somehow disrespectful to him—but she was afraid that she would slip. It was so obvious to her that he was Brig, the differences between him and his brother weren’t so much physical as mental, but sooner or later someone would guess the truth.
His jaw worked. His hands opened and closed. His voice, when he spoke, was rough—raw with the internal battle he waged within himself. “I want you to stay.”
The house seemed close and silent. The heat from the day had settled in and his gaze shifted to the pulse at her neck—the same pulse that was pounding through her brain.
No! Living with him, under the same roof, would be impossible. She had to get away. While she still could. “I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about. No one will suspect anything anyway. It was pretty much common knowledge that my marriage to Chase was falling apart. This will look only natural, that I stuck by you until you were healed and then we decided to split up.”
“Except that we’re not married, that part will come out as well.”
“Eventually.”
“Soon.”
She stared into his eyes and wished their lives weren’t so complicated—so wrapped in lies. There was a part of her that still loved him, had always loved him, would probably love him until the day she died, and there was a part of her, a purely female part, that responded to him as a man, in the most primal of ways. That part couldn’t be trusted. Staying with him would be begging for disaster. She had no choice but to leave. “I just need to sort things out.”
“You’ll be back?” He didn’t bother hiding the hope in his voice.
Her heart nearly broke. “I don’t know. I hope so.”
She opened the door, intent on leaving for…where? Her parents’ home? A fleabag of a motel in a big city where she could rethink her life and stare at the ceiling? An old friend’s home in Seattle? Selma’s apartment by the river? One of the houses her father owned on the West Coast? She didn’t know. Because, for the second time in her life, she didn’t belong. Not in Prosperity. Not with Brig. Now without him.
Somewhere in the distance a dog barked loudly, and farther away a siren wailed.
“Good-bye, Brig.” She shouldered open the door, but he caught her arm.
“No!” Whirling her to face him, he held her fast. “Don’t go, Cass.” His throat worked. Emotions from long ago filled his eyes. “I lost you once, I don’t want it to happen again.”
“But—”
“Oh Jesus. Don’t you get it? I love you.”
The words ricocheted through the house and reverberated through her mind. Love. How long had she waited to hear him say that he cared? A lifetime. “You don’t even know me,” she whispered.
His fingers clamped down hard. The suitcase tumbled from her hand and thudded against the floor. “I love you as I’ve never loved a woman, as I never could love another. I love you as no man has a right to love a woman.”
“Oh, Brig, you don’t mean—”
The look in his eyes was dark and serious. Determined. “I do, Cass. I mean it. I’ve loved you forever and I’ll never stop.” Pride angled his chin. “Oh, hell—” Yanking her close, he kissed her roughly. Refusing to be denied. His arms surrounded her and dragged her close, and any protest she felt died on her tongue. Firm, sensual lips, filled with purpose, molded over hers. His hard body felt so right, rigid angles and planes pressed unyielding to hers as he backed her against the wall. Their hips
fit snugly. Through the denim of his jeans his erection pressed anxiously against her mound. Her breasts were crushed, the air lost in her lungs as his fingers yanked out the band holding her hair away from her face.
Her keys clattered against hardwood, and she wrapped her arms around him. His kiss deepened and the sensual beast deep in the most feminine part of her stirred and awakened, sending out pulses of heat, creating a moist, hot whirlpool between her legs.
It had always been like this between them. Hot. Needful. Lusty.
With a groan, he lifted his head and stared deep into her eyes. His smoky gaze burned to her very soul. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered roughly, his thumb tracing her jaw. “Cass, please, don’t ever leave me.”
“Brig—” She couldn’t think as he kissed her again, over and over again. She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear, all she could do was feel. Dear God, she was weak where he was concerned. So damned weak.
With a groan, he lifted his head. “Damn it, Cass,” he whispered, “I can’t, I won’t lose you again. Ever.” His fingers curled in her hair, drawing her head back and he brushed his lips against her throat and lower still. She shivered with want as he kissed her between her breasts, on the front of her blouse, leaving a wet impression. She arched closer to him, her body so willing, her mind losing hold fast.
“Stay with me forever.” He lifted her from her feet. Damning herself for her weakness, she clung to him, kissing and touching, exploring and knowing that this time, she was making love to Brig.
With trembling fingers, he stripped her quickly, laid her on the bed she’d shared with Chase and came to her. He kissed her breasts, her navel, her thighs, and she writhed for more, crying out his name, wanting more…so much more. All doubts fled as his fingers played magic upon her skin and she welcomed him—into her bed and into her heart. This is right, her body screamed. Giving in to the feel of him, she knew that this night was theirs, but as soon as this one ultimate act of lovemaking was complete, she’d walk out of the door, closing it on this man pretending to be her husband.
“I’ll be back late,” Derrick said. Felicity and the girls were in the family room, watching television—though, from the looks of it, they weren’t too interested in the program. Felicity was studying the newspaper in her lap so intently that a deep furrow marred the space between her perfectly plucked brows. Linnie was on the phone, yakking with a friend as always, and Angela, her black thick-soled boots tucked beneath her long legs, was curled in the corner of the couch and wearing a pouty look that he’d seen too many times before. Alternately glancing at a rerun of Roseanne or sending a hate-filled look at her mother, Angela sent out vibes that she’d rather be anywhere other than trapped in the house. She and Felicity weren’t getting along these days, but then no one was. Felicity had been in one bitch of a mood ever since the interview between Bill Laszlo and Chase.
“Where ya goin’?” Angela asked, arching a dark brow that reminded him of her namesake
“To meet with a client.” He shrugged into a jacket and Felicity didn’t bother looking up, just gnawed at her lower lip thoughtfully.
Angela leaned forward, suddenly interested. “How old is this client?”
What kind of a question was that? “Hell, I don’t know,” Derrick replied, patting his pocket to make sure he had his cigarettes.
“What sex?”
“Excuse me?” Derrick said, then caught the mean little glimmer in his daughter’s eyes. So much like Angie.
“Is your client male or female?”
“Last I heard, Oscar Leonetti was decidedly male. I don’t think he’s had an operation to change that.”
“So where’s the meeting?” she asked innocently.
Felicity looked up from the paper she’d been reading and stared at her husband.
Derrick wanted to squirm under his daughter’s calculating stare. “In Portland. At the Heritage Club.”
“I can reach you there?” Felicity asked, and Derrick nodded. The members and staff of the Heritage Club always covered for him—as they did for everyone. If anyone in the family was bold enough to phone him, the staff would call him on his mobile and he’d get back to his wife within fifteen minutes. She’d never suspect a thing.
“Does Lorna work for the Heritage Club?” Angela asked.
Felicity’s face was suddenly pale.
Derrick’s heart jolted. Don’t panic. “Don’t know. She could be a waitress or a hostess. They come and go.” How the hell did Angela know about Lorna? Coincidence? He didn’t think so—not if the nasty little gleam in his daughter’s eye could be believed.
“Oh. Well, you might want to look her up, ‘cause she called earlier today. Said she had a package for you.”
“A delivery?” Derrick said, thinking fast. Lorna was getting desperate. And bolder. Calling the house was dangerous, stupidly so.
“Photographic equipment, I think she said.” Angela smiled at her father then tossed her hair from her eyes. She knew what she was doing and it made him sick inside. Somehow his daughter had found out about him.
“I’ll be damned.” Felicity’s eyes closed for a second and she shook her head.
Derrick was in a panic. She knew, too.
“I can’t believe no one else has figured it out.” Felicity’s face was taut, white lines of rage rimming her lips.
“What?” Angela asked, delight etched in her pretty young features. “Figured out what?”
“Nothing.” But Felicity, newspaper in hand, was on her feet and she headed for the den. “I think you should see this,” she said out of the corner of her mouth and Derrick had no choice but to follow. That was the problem with his marriage. Felicity insisted on running the show and she was forever leading him around, nagging and telling him what to do. Calling him spineless. Forcing him to go to boring parties. Inviting friends of her father’s and his over for dinner and a rousing political discussion which he hated. It was as if he had a damned ring in his nose attached to a chain that Felicity could yank at her whim. He thought of Lorna with her big, soft tits. Right now they were a turn-off, and he realized she’d been setting him up for months, offering up her daughter as bait, planning his seduction and videotaping it. And he’d fallen for it.
Felicity closed the door to the den behind her and Derrick waited, knowing the bomb was about to be dropped. Maybe that was for the best. It was time to quit hiding and lying.
“Chase isn’t Chase,” she whispered, her eyes bright.
“What?” Now what was she talking about? Again his heart threatened to give out on him. He rubbed his thumb nervously against his index finger.
“I knew something was wrong,” she said, almost to herself, as if she were plotting again. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I picked up on it right away during that damned interview. Cassidy looked like she’d seen a ghost and Chase…well, he wasn’t himself. Chase is dead. He’s got to be.”
“Hey—wait a minute,” Derrick said, not following her reasoning, but relieved, that for now, she didn’t appear to know his dirty little secret. “You’re talking in circles. What do you mean Chase isn’t Chase?”
“I can’t believe you’re so blind. Everyone’s so damned blind!” Shoving the newspaper under his nose, she said, “See for yourself. Marshall Baldwin might have been an alias for Brig McKenzie, but now he’s got a new one. That bastard is impersonating his brother.”
He was starting to understand. “You think Chase is really Brig?” God, she’d really flipped.
“Yes! Yes! Just look!” She wagged the paper under his nose. “I knew it!” A smug smile crossed her lips. “Damn but it’s good to be vindicated.”
Derrick snatched the newspaper from her outstretched fingers and stared at the pictures in disbelief. Of course there was a resemblance, but it seemed she was making one helluva leap. “How would you know? They looked so much alike.”
“But they weren’t twins, for God’s sake. Sure they looked the same, and their speech patterns and voices
were similar, but their attitude was different. The way they walked or looked at you or the rest of the world for that matter. At first I thought it was because of the fire—that Chase was talking a little differently because of all the surgery to his face or seeing things in a new perspective because he had a near-death experience that really shook him up, but that didn’t explain the attitude. That cocksure son-of-a-bitching attitude that I’ve noticed lately.
“And Cassidy. She’d done a one-eighty. Remember, right before the fire, she was going to walk, divorce Chase and never look back? Remember how Chase never gave her the time of day in the last couple of years? At first I thought that your dear little sister had a change of heart or felt some guilty feelings of obligation because her husband nearly bought it—or it was possible that she was just trying to save face so the whole town wouldn’t think she was just a cold-hearted rich bitch who would divorce a cripple. That explained why she was sticking around. But it’s more than that. She’s not filing for divorce because she’s with Brig and I told you she always had a thing for him. I’m surprised I didn’t see it right away,” she added angrily, obviously furious with herself.
Derrick stared at the pictures in the paper. Deep in his bones, he felt it—that tiny drop of dread that told him Felicity was right.
“I just wish I’d figured it out earlier,” she rambled on, “but I didn’t really understand what was going on until I saw him talking with Laszlo. He was too cool. Too relaxed. Not even bothering with a tie. That wasn’t Chase—not pinstripe and button-down Chase McKenzie. I knew it, damn it!” She seemed pleased with herself for her cleverness, and Derrick had to hand it to her, she’d always been sly and perceptive. Hadn’t she managed to trap him? “Why do you think Baldwin is always pictured with a full beard, hmm? It was a damned disguise—just in case!”
“I’m not sure—” Derrick lied, sick to his stomach. If what Felicity was saying were true, all hell was about to break loose.
“Look, for Christ’s sake!” she said, ripping the newspaper from his hands and placing it on the desk. She pointed a brightly tipped nail at the picture of Baldwin. “It’s Brig, goddamn it! And Cassidy’s protecting him. Just like before.”
