She found herself staring directly into Trev's.
His gaze held her transfixed, and the air around her seemed depleted of oxygen. She couldn't quite draw a breath. How long had he been standing there? Had he heard their conversation? What was he thinking behind that intense, unreadable stare?
Abruptly breaking eye contact, he strode past her to Christopher.
Jennifer grasped the opportunity to escape to the house. She used the solitude to calm herself, gather her composure and devise answers to questions Trev might ask. If he'd heard what she said to Christopher, he might wonder why she'd pretended not to understand sign language earlier. He also might wonder why she'd been presumptuous enough to butt into his family's affairs.
Or, worse … he might guess the truth.
Anxiety gnawed at her stomach. Surely he wouldn't assume that much from one conversation. She'd been careful not to say anything she couldn't reasonably deduce from what he'd told her. Any perceptive, caring individual could have assured Christopher that Trev loved him and wanted only the best for him.
Besides, Trev was too open and direct to hide a suspicion as momentous as Diana's return from the dead. He would confront her immediately. When she thought of the situation in that light, every moment that passed helped calm her fears.
Trev soon returned to the house with Christopher and Yvonne. Surprisingly enough, they stayed for a fairly long visit, including dinner. The men grilled steaks on the back deck, while Jennifer and Yvonne prepared salad, rolls, sautéed mushrooms and steamed vegetables. Jennifer found the younger woman to be friendly, soft-spoken and clearly intimidated around Trev.
The meal they shared on the seaside deck in the balmy evening breeze went a long way toward lessening tension. Both Trev and Christopher seemed determined to maintain an amiable truce, and drew the women into conversations about light, impersonal topics.
By the time the meal was over, Jennifer felt sure that she'd read too much into Trev's stare earlier, when he'd come upon Christopher and her. He'd shown no further signs of tension and seemed to accept the explanation she'd repeated for his benefit—that she understood only a few basic words of sign language, and grasped very little of what Christopher said.
She also came to believe that Trev was wrong in his assessment of Yvonne. Wasn't it just like a man to overlook her adoring glances at Christopher? Then there was the fact that she'd been studying sign language for a long enough time to be proficient in it. The poor girl had probably been secretly in love with Christopher for years. Of course, Trev, as busy as he kept himself, wouldn't have noticed his shy next-door neighbor's crush on his brother.
Christopher and Yvonne left shortly after dinner, in the rental car, headed for the airport and their wedding trip to the Virgin Islands. Jennifer wished them happiness with heartfelt sincerity, her voice barely quavering despite her tightening throat. She'd never see either of them again.
Trev, meanwhile, didn't acknowledge their upcoming nuptials at all.
Jennifer felt like prodding him with a discreet kick in the shins. Managing to resist the impulse, she waited until the couple had driven off before rounding on him. "Go ahead and be stubborn about this, Trev Montgomery, and you'll be sorry. They were waiting for you to say something, anything, that would let them know you've changed your mind about their wedding, and you deliberately withheld it."
"Because I haven't changed my mind."
"You'd have to be blind not to see that she loves him. And if her interest in him began only last month, how and why does she know sign language so well?"
"It's a ploy to sucker him in."
She buffeted his muscle-hard shoulder in exasperation. "She had to study and practice for months, maybe years, to be that proficient. She was probably too shy to use it with him until she got it perfect. She is shy, you know. You scare her half to death."
"That's ridiculous."
"But it's true. And if you don't welcome her into your family, you will lose a brother!"
He crossed his arms, leaned against his car and frowned at her. "You divined all that from this one short visit?"
"It wasn't difficult."
"You think you know my brother better than I do."
"Oh, Trev!" she cried softly, her exasperation giving way to concern that she wouldn't get through to him. "Maybe it's easier for an outsider to see what's going on. You care so much about your brother, you're afraid to let him go."
He stared at her with inscrutable eyes for a tense moment. "Maybe you're right," he finally whispered. "Maybe I do have a hard time letting go of people I love."
The severity of his gaze, the gruffness of his whisper, made her think he was referring to something other than Christopher's marriage. Was he talking about Diana, and his memories of her? Or did he mean her, Jen—and the fact that tomorrow would be their last day together?
No, he couldn't have meant her. He'd never said a word to her about love. And if he were to broach the subject now, she wasn't sure she could keep from falling apart completely. The day had been too emotional; she could take no more talk about love or family or relationships. After tomorrow night, her life would be barren of all those things.
"I—I think I'll go in and read that play," she said, backing toward the house. "I've been dying to get started on it."
Trev nodded and watched her flee to the house. He remained outside, in the gilt-edged shadows of twilight, his gut tied in knots. Who was she? What was she, besides the woman he wanted to keep as his own? Oh yes, he wanted her. And not only in a sexual way, although his desire for her never completely left him. He also wanted to make his home with her. His life with her. Forever.
Under the circumstances, that couldn't be a sane desire, could it?
But she filled a terrible void in his heart, and in his family. Maybe it's easier for an outsider to see what's going on, she'd said. She hadn't been an outsider, though. She'd been emotionally involved from the very start. Before he'd had a chance to sort out his own rampaging emotions, she'd smoothed things over with Christopher and expressed the very feelings that Trev hadn't been able to communicate.
And Christopher, who usually guarded his emotions closely, had opened himself to her—a perfect stranger.
Doesn't Trev believe a woman can really love me? Trev hadn't guessed that Christopher suspected such a thing. He'd tear his own heart out and stomp it flat before ever purposely giving his brother that impression. His brother was one of the finest, strongest, most decent people he knew, and Trev had no doubt that a lasting love awaited him somewhere. And Jen had known that. She'd answered his heart-wrenching question better than he himself could have.
She'd behaved exactly as Diana would have … with loving warmth and an uncanny ability to read him. That had been one of the many things he'd missed so damn much—having Diana open his eyes to subtleties in relationships; turn him around when he headed in the wrong direction; relieve his mind when fears piled up regarding the people he loved.
And today Jen had relieved his mind the same way. She'd convinced him of the possibility that Yvonne really might love Christopher. Why hadn't he been willing to give her the benefit of the doubt? More importantly, how had Jen understood the intimate dynamics of his family so quickly?
But that led to thoughts that were even more disturbing. Why had Caesar gone nuts over her? Why had she cried what looked like happy tears? Why had she acted as if she couldn't read sign language when she first met Christopher? She said she knew only the basics, but he doubted that. How, then, had she recognized Yvonne's proficiency?
Questions rose in his mind at such an alarming speed that soon he doubted everything. Except for one absolute fact: Jen was no prostitute. He knew that with a certainty beyond reason.
Needing a long walk and fresh air to clear his mind, he retrieved Caesar from the fenced-in area of the yard and led him down the beach, allowing the sleek black-and-tan shepherd to roam in gleeful exploration. The setting sun tinged the sky and water with brilliant shades
of russet and gold, and a chill crept into the air.
Night would soon be upon him. His second night with Jen. He'd have her in his home tonight, and tomorrow night … but what then? Would she vanish into thin air, the way Diana had? That possibility pierced him like a knife. How could he lose the two women he wanted most in the world without even knowing why? Or was she, in fact, one woman—with a secret that would tear her away from him again? What kind of secret could possibly do that?
Had he lost his mind to suspect that Jen might actually be Diana? Probably.
Nevertheless, he thought back to everything Jen had said and done, and slowly, logical answers occurred to him for many questions that had been nagging. If she was Diana, she'd run from him in that hotel lobby because she'd panicked at the sight of him—the husband she'd deserted. She probably then made up the story of being a prostitute to explain her outrageous behavior. And she came to his room, made love to him, simply because she'd wanted to. The emotional turmoil he'd sensed in her must have sprung from whatever reason she'd left him. And her more recent fear of getting naked with him in the light was because he'd said he wanted to "see her" and "know her."
Was she worried that he'd recognize something about her?
Would he?
It was then that he remembered the butterfly. A tiny, jewel-tone butterfly with wings spread in flight, tattooed on Diana's abdomen—just beneath her bikini line. If he saw Jen naked, would he find the butterfly?
Or had he fallen into a delusional obsession of the very worst kind, fueled by desperately wishful thinking?
He had to know.
* * *
9
« ^ »
Nestled against the cushions of the living room sofa after a soothing, fragrant bath, Jennifer sipped a comforting cup of hot chocolate and lost herself in the story she'd written so long ago—a wonderful escape from emotions that had grown too intense. She soon found herself fighting the compulsion to edit and revise the prose. She had to actually grit her teeth to stop from picking up a pen.
To avoid temptation, she resolutely closed the manuscript and set it on the table beside her. Only then did she realize how dark it had grown outside. And Trev hadn't yet returned from his walk. She'd watched him lead Caesar down to the beach over an hour ago.
It frightened her to think of him out there in all that darkness. The dark didn't bother Trev, though, as it bothered her.
Was he angry with her over their argument? She should be hoping he was, and that he'd drive her back to her apartment and wash his hands of her. Wasn't that the result she'd been aiming for? Somehow she'd lost sight of that goal. Every moment she spent in his company, in his home, made the prospect of leaving him more excruciating.
But she would have to leave him, and break all contact. Her father's enemies were no less dangerous now than they'd been seven years ago. She couldn't endanger Trev by involving him in her life.
A stifling sense of despair filled her at the prospect of leaving. How could she bring herself to do it? And how could she spend another night sleeping apart from him? She longed to touch him, hold him, kiss him … while she still could.
You'll be risking too much, the voice of reason warned. He might already be suspicious of you. Don't give him the chance to recognize—
Footsteps thudded on the back deck, and she heard the door open. "Jen?"
Despite her inner battle, the sound of his deep, familiar baritone warmed her. "In here, Trev."
He appeared in the doorway of the living room, broad-shouldered and ruggedly appealing in a soft denim shirt and jeans, his tawny hair tousled by the breeze. Although he no longer seemed angry, she sensed a peculiar tension radiating from him. "If you hear anything in the garage, don't be alarmed. Caesar's bedding down out there. He's too wet and sandy for the house tonight." His gaze flickered over her mauve silk robe, which concealed a matching nightgown. Unmistakable need sparked in his golden-dark gaze, inciting her own irrepressible desire. And yet, she sensed resistance in him. He didn't want to want her.
Why? But then, she'd given him so many reasons.
Needing to ease the tension, she gestured toward the leather portfolio on the table beside her. "I've finished reading the play."
He ambled nearer, bringing with him the scent of forest, wind and ocean. "So, what's your verdict? Who's the murderer?"
"Elementary, my dear Watson." After a pause for dramatic effect, she announced, "The murderer is Bertram Pickworth."
He wedged his large, tan fingers into the pockets of his jeans, leaned against the doorway and regarded her with suddenly veiled eyes, a look reminding her of his earlier stare—the one that had disturbed her. "No, it's definitely not Pickworth. It's either Marie Van Hagen or Ross Kincaid."
Jennifer blinked incredulously. "Don't be ridiculous. Marie was confronting her husband's lover at the time of the murder, and Ross Kincaid is the protagonist. The killer is definitely Pickworth."
He shook his head. "I don't think so." With a slight shrug, he then turned away. "I'm going to take a shower."
Jennifer shot up from the sofa in pursuit, as he sauntered toward his room. How could he be that blind when it came to solving mysteries? "Trev, you're not going to write the last act with Marie or Ross as the murderer, are you?"
"Ross, I think," he called over his shoulder.
"Ross! But that's ridiculous." Grabbing his arm, she forced him to a halt in the doorway of his bedroom. "If you make Ross the murderer, the play is ruined. Don't even bother finishing it, if you can't do better than that."
"Thanks for your opinion, Jen." He aimed a rather patronizing smile at her. "I'll take it into consideration."
"Come sit down, and I'll show you, in black and white, every clue that points to the murderer. And you'll see for yourself that neither Ross nor Marie could possibly—"
"Jen." He gripped her shoulders, surprising her into silence. "You're not upset about this, are you?"
She stared at him in sudden dismay. Yes, she was upset. It had taken her years to craft that story. The wrong ending would destroy it. The play would be a joke. She cringed at the very thought! But, of course, she couldn't admit that.
And his gaze, she now realized, was far too searching. As if her passion over the script had raised questions in his mind.
"No, of course I'm not upset." She pushed back a heavy wave of hair that had fallen into her face and struggled to regain her poise. "But you said you wanted the play to be produced to honor Diana's memory. If you write it with the wrong ending, it won't be produced at all."
"Then write the ending for me. Any way you think it should be."
Oh, the temptation of it! The tormenting, agonizing temptation! But her writing belonged to her old life, not her new. And if she showed any aptitude at all for mystery writing, he'd definitely have cause to suspect.
"I'm going to take a shower now." His gaze drifted over her face with renewed intensity. "Any chance you'd join me?"
"No, thanks," she whispered, shaken by her longing to end the emotional turmoil of the day with a night of hot, hard loving. Her defenses had worn too thin. She felt as if she were hanging on to her self-control by a mere thread. "I've already showered. I—I think I'm going to turn in early."
Clear, strong desire burned in his stare, and her heart lifted and leaped in response. But then he turned away without another word and strode into his bedroom. Moments later, she heard the shower running in the master bath.
Deviled by the urge to climb into his bed and wait for him, she strode directly to the guest bedroom and purposefully locked the door—as if the lock would prevent her from leaving the room, if her weaker half won the battle. She wanted to make love to Trev, sleep with him, hold him in her arms all night. Ease her heart and soul with his passion. But she couldn't take that risk.
He might look at her body too closely—and she didn't believe she could survive the trauma of having to face him as Diana, not to mention starting life over again under yet another alias. Mo
re troubling still was the danger he'd bring upon himself if he learned the truth and tried to "save" her. He was simply too protective for his own good.
Regardless of how much she wanted to go to him tonight, she had to resist the temptation.
Safely alone in the guest bedroom, she doffed her robe, kicked off her slippers and retrieved her contact lens kit from her suitcase. She then peered closely into the dresser mirror and removed her blue lenses. Her eyes felt more sensitive than ever tonight, after a full day of fighting back tears. Blinking in relief at the absence of the nonprescription lenses, she switched on the bedside lamp and turned off the overhead light, casting the room into a cozy golden glow.
How she wished Trev were with her!
To distract herself from thoughts of him, she turned on the small television in the corner. Lulled by the familiar murmur of sitcom dialogue and canned laughter, she turned toward the bed, intending to prop up on pillows and snuggle beneath the covers.
But before she reached the bed, the television went silent.
And the lights went out. All of them. Darkness, thick and black as a spider, pounced on her.
Terror struck through to her very heart. She couldn't even catch her breath enough to scream. Breathe, she told herself, staring wide-eyed into the frightening abyss. She could see nothing. Nothing! Panic churned within her, and her fingernails bit into her palms. Just as she felt faintness overtake her, her lungs kicked into action, and she began to pant.
"Trev!" she cried, groping the air as she searched for the door. "Trev, where are you?" Terror sounded in her voice, and with the part of her mind that hadn't shut down, she realized she couldn't afford it. She couldn't afford the terror, couldn't scream for Trev, or run to him in panic.
She couldn't admit being afraid of the dark. He would know, then. He would surely know. Diana had been terrified. It would be too coincidental if Jen was, too.
But she had to find him. In her blind search for the door, she tripped over her suitcase, fell against the wall, then desperately felt along the surface until she found the door and unlocked it. She wanted Trev. Wanted him now. But she couldn't let him know of her fear.
INTIMATE STRANGER Page 15
