Stand-In Wife: Special Forces #2

by Karina Bliss

  Chapter Two

  To be nicknamed The Iceman by your peers in the SAS—one of the world’s elite military units—was a hard-earned accolade.

  And yet Ross Coltrane was close to surrendering his famed self-control. Not because he was under enemy fire. Not because his foe had a territorial advantage and knew how to play him. No, what brought him to the verge of losing his temper was his stepmother’s total disregard for civilian casualties.

  “It’s okay, mate.” Pitching his voice gentle, he picked up his baby nephew who’d unexpectedly scooted in on his butt from the lounge where he must have been playing. Tears welling in his big brown eyes and lower lip trembling, Harry looked between his grandmother and uncle. The child hated conflict.

  “No, it’s not okay,” Linda snapped. “It’s not okay for you to bully a fifty-nine-year-old woman with a heart condition in her own home.”

  Still smiling at Harry, Ross said softly, “You should have told me he was here.” He’d never have raised his voice if he’d known. Linda, of course, could justify any outburst by saying she was provoked. “What’cha got there, mate, a train?” Harry held it up. Yellow and green and covered in drool. His free hand tugged at his eyelashes. “This kid needs a nap.”

  “I know that.” Linda’s high color faded. “Come to Nana, darling.” A waft of expensive perfume, repellent through association, hit Ross as she took the baby. “Yes, that’s right,” she crooned when Harry pointed to Ross. “Naughty Uncle Ross was being mean to poor Nana…. His mother was supposed to be here forty minutes ago so I didn’t bother with his nap.”

  Was that actually defensiveness? Interesting. Normally Linda didn’t give a shit about what anybody thought. It was the only thing he could admire about her.

  Ross reached for Harry. “I’ll do it.” He wasn’t leaving until he got what he wanted and that meant getting the baby out of the line of fire.

  She spun the toddler away. “You’re not going anywhere in this house. God knows what else you’ll find that you suddenly decide is yours. Wait here while I put him down.”

  I’d like to put you down.

  She headed upstairs, all bone-and-gristle chic. He thought he’d worked through his hatred of this woman with her acid tongue, preserved face and remorseless jealousy. Ross resisted the urge to yell, “You’re sixty-one, sweetheart, the heart condition’s a scam and Dad’s been dead for four months…there’s nothing to compete over anymore.”

  Except there was. He looked at the faded sampler hanging above the black lacquered sideboard. Ross wished to God he’d waited for Charlie in the car last week instead of coming to the door. Then he wouldn’t have seen it, wouldn’t have felt the pressure build until he had to act.

  His thigh and knee started to ache, a sign he’d pushed himself too hard at training again. It had been seventeen months since a land mine in Afghanistan had broken the leg in two places. The damn thing should be doing better than this.

  Frustrated he paced it out. Linda was taking a long time…but then she’d always liked to make him wait. For acknowledgment for attention, for his turn.

  Ross stared at the sampler, picking out a line of bible verse, A time to get… Maybe he should just grab the damn thing and run. He scanned the hall for something to stand on, dismissing a decorative stool with delicately turned legs. Style with no substance. Like its owner.

  He turned at the sound of footfalls. Linda swept down the marble stairs, her gaze hostile as she tidied her gray-blond chignon. What the hell am I doing here? She’s not going to be reasonable. But he had to try. “Like I said, it has no value, except to me.”

  When his mother left it to him, Ross had given it to his father, but John had refused to accept it. Said it had been stitched 1924 and Yvonne was set on Ross having it. He’d finally agreed to look after it until Ross was old enough to appreciate his heritage.

  Guess he’d finally grown up.

  Now Linda didn’t so much as glance at it. “It reminds me of John. I can’t part with it.”

  Ross tried but failed to keep the scorn out of his voice as he said, “Don’t you have plenty of other things to bond with?” Linda had inherited everything under his father’s will and Ross hadn’t bothered contesting. His father had made his choice years ago, which family he supported.

  He’d ended up with a few of John’s personal effects—cufflinks, a watch, photographs—only because his half brother had forced them on him, Ross suspected behind Linda’s back.

  “Is that what this is about,” she said. “The will? You break your father’s heart by cold-shouldering him all these years and now you’re pissy because he didn’t leave you anything?”

  Ross refused to be baited. “All I want is that sampler—left to me by my mother—which Dad was safe-keeping for me. That’s all, Linda.” In retrospect he should have asked Charlie to make the case for him.

  “You’ve had your own house for five years and never came to get it. Now John’s dead suddenly it’s all-important. I wonder why?”

  “Call me sentimental.” The sampler was tacky and clichéd; a bible verse embroidered in the middle of a border of flowers and birds. Yet Ross couldn’t stand the idea of something so precious to his mother ending up with the woman who’d stolen everything else from her.

  And she knew that, yes, Linda knew that. She’d always been able to sense what was important to him and had taken it away. He’d only lived with her from the ages of twelve to sixteen when his mother’s death gave custody to his dad but she’d very quickly taught him to hide his emotions. God bless her, she was probably responsible for the grit and determination that had got him into the SAS. Certainly his father never had a backbone.

  “You don’t really want it,” she said bitterly. “You just don’t want me to have it.”

  A part of Ross could even understand her insecurity. His father had regretted his midlife fling and was talking reconciliation with Ross’s mother when his former secretary presented her trump card. She was pregnant. But both Ross and Linda knew John had really loved his wife.

  “Please,” he said.

  Surprise flashed in her hazel eyes. “John and I could have been happy,” she said. “If you hadn’t made him feel so guilty with your judgmental attitude. And my son would have fought for full custody if you hadn’t contradicted my advice. So you know what, Ross? Go to hell.”

  * * *

  The East Indian cabdriver whistled as he drew up outside Granny Coltrane’s two-story concrete monolith.

  “If the owner was a guy you’d have to wonder if he was compensating for something,” Viv commented, making him laugh. “Though, I have to give her credit for the front door.”

  Ten feet high and fire-engine red, it brought scale and color to the stark design. Shame the garden had the life topiaried out of it. She handed over the fare—embarrassed at not having enough for a tip. Fortunately tipping wasn’t common practice here. She’d have to borrow the fare home from Linda. It was too late to stop at a bank and exchange more U.S. dollars for Kiwi. “Now remember my advice, Sanjay.”

  “Leaving town isn’t running away from your troubles,” he quoted her. “It’s running toward new possibilities.”

  “Exactly. If you don’t want this arranged marriage, then go hide out with your cousin in Australia.”

  “Thank you, Vivienne, and I hope your sister’s surgery goes well. You wanted me to remind you—”

  “To be polite to her mother-in-law. I’m on it.” As she hurried down the sweeping circular driveway, Viv practiced. “Hello, Linda! So how about your saintly son cheating on my sister? Guess the apple doesn’t fell far from the topiaried tree.”

  Skirting Linda’s Range Rover—she could just imagine that small woman in a big 4WD terrorizing suburbia—she snagged Merry’s cardigan on the thorn of a rose and stopped to untangle it.

  The front door slammed, Viv pulled the cardigan free. “Linda, how nice to—” The platitude died on her lips as she recognized the powerfully built man bearing down on h
er.

  Her pulse gave a queer little skip even though it had been eight years since she’d hit on her sister’s brother-in-law. Eight years since she’d called Ross Coltrane chicken for turning her down.

  Time had sandblasted away whatever trace of softness he’d had, and there’d never been much. He was pale, tight-lipped and his gray eyes glowed like titanium after a rocket launch. Instinctively Viv stepped back and her heels sank into the garden mulch. “Are you all right?”

  “What do you care?” he barked.

  She blinked.

  Impatiently Ross gestured for her to get out the way of his car. “Save the startled fawn look for someone who’ll buy it.”

  “I can see you’re mad,” she said, perplexed. “But why take it out on me? I haven’t done anything.”

  Ross snorted. “What color do you call that new lipstick you’re wearing…scarlet? Suits you.” His lip curled. “And explains why you’re late picking up Harry.”

  “It’s not scarlet, it’s poppy-red.” Edging past the Range Rover, she held out her hand. “Can we start over, please? Long time no see.”

  Ross stared incredulously at her outstretched arm. “You’re joking, right?” He sidestepped her and went to the driver’s side, pulling car keys from the pocket of his jeans.

  It took a few seconds for Viv to find her voice. “When did you turn into such an asshole?”

  The Range Rover’s lights flashed as he deactivated the alarm. “About the same time you turned into a tramp.”

  She gasped.

  “What are you going to do,” he said, sneering, “go tattling to your big brother again? You know it really grinds my balls that I fell for that all-round nice girl persona you had going.”

  The penny dropped. He thought she was Meredith. Gentle, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly-or-fight-back Merry.

  “You bastard. Where do you get off talking to M…me that way?”

  “Yeah, keep playing the victim, you’re good at that.” Ross folded his arms, planted his muscular legs in a man stance. “Here’s an idea, Meredith. Suck it up and accept some goddamn responsibility instead of letting Charlie take the fall with your family.”

  “Wait a minute…you’re defending Charlie?” Next this Neanderthal would be telling her that if only Merry had made more effort in the bedroom, her husband wouldn’t have strayed.

  “Someone’s got to. He’s running himself ragged making sure the kids see him regularly and staying on top of his business.”

  “The only thing he’s staying on top of is Harry’s daycare teacher. Which broke up M…my marriage.”

  His expression hardened. “Is that how you’re going to play it in the divorce court? Make false allegations to try and swing full custody? Think very carefully before choosing that route, Meredith.”

  Viv felt like Bruce Banner must have on the verge of turning into the Incredible Hulk. “Are you threatening me?”

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my brother’s interests.”

  She raised herself to her full height. “And I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my…mine!”

  Ross made an impatient gesture and dropped his keys. Impulsively Viv stepped forward and kicked them under the car. That’ll make him think twice before bullying her twin again.

  He muttered something, but the blood was pounding so hard in her ears, she didn’t catch it. Spinning on her heel, Viv marched to the house. To think she’d once pined for that son of a bitch.

  She jabbed at the doorbell, once, twice. Thank heavens she’d never slept with him.

  “Get lost!” yelled a woman’s voice.

  “Relax, it’s not Ross,” Viv said as she turned the handle, feeling an immediate rapport with Merry’s mother-in-law. The huge door cantilevered open. Glancing over her shoulder she saw him kneeling awkwardly on the driveway to reach under the car. Remembering his injury, Viv squirmed.

  “You’re late.” Dressed in black pants, a silver silk shell with chiffon sleeves and black pearls, Linda stood on a spindly stool, straining to reach an embroidery that hung above the sideboard. “But I guess you’ve thrown away any sense of responsibility along with your marriage.”

  “It’s Viv,” she said, feeling her temper spark again. “Meredith’s been delayed.”

  “Brought in reinforcements, has she?” But Linda’s tone had softened. She liked Viv. Or rather her success. “Well, Harry’s having a nap so you’ll have to wait. I’ll make tea in a minute.” Linda tiptoed to extend her reach and the large diamonds on her outstretched fingers sparkled in the late afternoon sun. “I can’t reach the bloody thing.”

  “You want me to—?”

  “I’ve got it. Here, take these.” She thrust a tall aluminum vase of tiger lilies at Viv, who instinctively held out her hands in time to receive a dusting of orange pollen. “Be careful of your clothes, that stuff stains. Wash your hands in the bathroom through the door behind you.”

  Bemused, Viv placed the vase on the floor against the wall. “You’re spring-cleaning?”

  “Clearing out old junk.” Linda hauled herself onto the lacquered sideboard. From a kneeling position she unhooked the picture frame. “I am so going to enjoy burning this.”

  “Okaaay.” Viv went into the powder room, nudging the door closed for a moment’s respite. “Everyone’s crazy around here,” she muttered to her reflection. Twisting the space-age faucet, she began washing her hands. A thud reverberated through the wall. “Everything all right out there?”

  Silence. Viv shut off the water, reached for a monogrammed hand towel. “Linda?”

  She turned the handle but the door only partially opened before it hit something solid. Viv ducked her head through the gap. “Lin—” The name caught in her throat.

  The older woman lay on her back, arms outstretched, water from the overturned vase soaking her trouser hem. Her chignon had come loose and a thin ash-blond ponytail snaked over her mouth. Wiggling frantically through the gap, Viv crouched beside her and lifted the foil of hair. Linda’s eyes were closed, her skin the color of putty.

  With a moan, Viv laid her cheek to the thin chest but heard nothing except the pounding of her own heart CPR… She could never remember the number of compressions to breaths. Through her panic, she heard the starting roar of an engine. All SAS troopers were advanced paramedics. Shoving to her feet, Viv stumbled outside. “Ross!”

  His attention was on the rearview mirror as he reversed the Range Rover down the driveway. Waving and yelling, Viv tore after the car. “Ross!” The radio must be on; he didn’t respond. He was going to leave. At the end of the driveway he spun the wheel in a tight turn.

  Accelerating into a sprint she dived over the hood, glimpsing Ross’s startled face as he slammed on his brakes. In her sister’s cashmere cardigan, Viv slid across the sun-warmed metal, rolled off the other side and landed on the road with a soft “Oomph.” The driver’s door flung open.

  “What the—”

  “Linda’s not…breathing.” Viv scrambled to her knees. “Help…her.”

  He ran, leaving the door open, the engine idling. Viv switched off the ignition and followed him, her breathing a sobbing hiccup.

  She found Ross crouched over Linda, checking for a pulse. Sunlight sparkled off the spilled water at her feet and the pearly luster-painted toenails under the black stockings. The tiger lilies lay scattered over the pale marble, their long green stems releasing a faint swampy odor. “Call an ambulance.” Tilting Linda’s head, Ross pinched her nose closed and began CPR. Viv watched Linda’s chest expand.

  “Go!” he ordered between breaths, jarring her into action. It took three failed dials before Viv remembered New Zealand’s emergency code was 111 and she had to run outside to check the letter box because she’d forgotten the street number. By the time she returned to the hall, Ross was starting chest compressions.

  There was something terrible about those powerful interlocked fingers punching into Linda’s fragile sternum. Viv lifted her gaze to his face and saw his foc
us. If anyone could save her, Ross could.

  The thought steadied her, allowed her to think. Spying a toy-covered quilt on the carpet in the lounge, she shook the toys clear then wiped the water away from Linda’s feet and laid the dry half across her legs.

  “Heart attack?” Ross didn’t look up.

  “No…at least… I don’t think so.” Viv hugged herself. “I was in the bathroom and heard a thud….I think she fell.”

  Dazed, she glanced around for the stool. It had skittered through the open sliding doors leading into the lounge.

  Ross kept up compressions. “Check the back of her head.”

  Viv recoiled. “What?”

  “Feel for a contusion.”

  Swallowing hard, she settled behind the unconscious woman, fighting the urge to cry. Linda Coltrane was a cantankerous woman but she was helpless…needing help. Tentatively she slid her fingers through the silky blond-gray hair. Ross stopped compressions and laid his fingers against the pulse in Linda’s neck. His expression was grim. “Well?” he asked.

  Because she was looking for lumps and bumps it took a few seconds for Viv to realize what she was feeling was soft and spongy. Cold sweat popped out on her forehead. She closed her eyes, fighting nausea. “Her skull is shattered,” she heard herself say. Carefully she withdrew her hands.

  Ross sat back on his heels. “Oh, God. Charlie,” he rasped.

  But Viv wasn’t listening. She was staring at her blood-covered palms. Helen Mirren. Yes. Helen Mirren had played Lady Macbeth on Broadway last year. All those phony blood capsules…

  Only, with the wail of sirens, the smell of iron, this was real…too horribly, horribly real.

  “‘Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?’” she quoted, Ross staring at her.

  Viv’s eyes rolled backward and she fainted.

  Chapter Three

  Sunlight refracted off a chandelier, throwing rainbow splotches of blue, red and green over the ceiling. Pretty, thought Viv.