by Lisa Jackson
His gaze touched Maggie’s and all her newfound determination faltered. Without saying a word, he replayed the scene from the night before with just one studied, intense look. Her spine stiffened and she reminded herself that she wasn’t going to make the mistake she’d made last night again.
Oh, right, her mind threw back at her.
“Mornin’,” he drawled as a slow-spreading smile offered the glint of not-quite-straight white teeth.
“Don’t try to peddle any of your country-boy charm on me,” she grumbled. “I’m not in the mood.”
“No?” He had the gall to look surprised. “Why, Ms. McCrae, I thought I’d come back here and find you singing and laughing and ready to face the day.”
“And why is that?”
His mouth twitched as he unsnapped his jacket. “Because, darlin’, you sure were enjoyin’ yourself last night.”
She cleared her throat, and the back of her neck heated. “Well, yes. About that. I don’t think we should…well…” Come on, Maggie. A confident modern woman wouldn’t beat around the bush like this. Oh, Lord…even her private thoughts were part innuendo.
“Don’t think we should what?” Tossing his jacket over the back of a chair, he leaned one jeans-clad hip against the back of the couch.
She folded her arms over her chest. “Okay, wise-ass, I don’t think we should have sex, okay?”
“We didn’t.”
“That’s just a question of semantics, Walker. I’m not ready to play word games with you, okay?”
He lifted a shoulder, sat down in the chair opposite hers, and, after pouring himself a cup of coffee, plucked a green-tinged strawberry from the fruit cup and plopped it into his mouth with maddeningly little concern.
“I think it would be best if…we kept to our separate rooms. Maybe the idea of this suite isn’t such a hot idea. We could have regular hotel rooms or even separate hotels—now there’s an idea.”
“Or we could stretch a blanket across the middle of this room, like they did in that movie years ago—you keep to your side and I’ll keep to mine to protect our respective virtues,” he teased.
“Knock it off. I’m serious about this.”
He lifted one dark eyebrow in skeptical disdain. “Are you?”
“Very.”
The look he sent her fairly sizzled, and her heart thumped crazily, but she nodded stiffly. “Whatever you want,” he drawled, and she couldn’t stop the flush that warmed her cheeks. He knew what she wanted. They both did. That was the problem. Was sleeping with him worth the emotional risk or damage?
“No,” she said out loud, then felt like an idiot.
“I don’t think I asked you a question.”
“Private, one-sided discussion.”
“Let me know if you change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
His smile was downright wicked. “I’m countin’ on it, darlin’.”
“And don’t call me—”
“I won’t.” But his eyes glinted in pure devilment. She didn’t know whether to kiss him or strangle him, so she did the next best thing and ignored all the heated innuendos that seemed to thicken the atmosphere in the room.
Resting the heel of one boot on the cushion of a nearby chair, Thane tossed her one last don’t-bullshit-me grin, then picked up the folded newspaper and scanned the headlines. “Your sister’s still page one.” He looked over the article before handing the section to Maggie, who read it with interest but learned nothing new.
Thane found the sports page and snapped it open, then glanced at her notes. “You’ve got a list,” he observed. “Don’t tell me. People you plan to interview.”
“That’s right, but the first person on the list is you. Where did you go this morning?”
“Miss me?” he taunted.
“About as much as I’d miss a coiled rattler,” she retorted, then settled back in the couch and shook her head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” Sighing, she studied the depths of her coffee—dark and opaque. “I’m just worried.”
He set the paper aside. “You’re not the only one. Since you seem hell-bent to do your own investigation, I decided to jump-start it.”
“How?”
“I did some checking.”
She was surprised. “And what did you find out?”
“That Wade Pomeranian was out of town, as he said.”
“How do you know?”
“I called around, found out who his agent is, and phoned the guy at home. He wasn’t too happy, but I got the name of the photographer who did the shoot, then gave him a buzz. Our boy Pomeranian was, indeed, in Salt Lake on the day Mary Theresa disappeared.” He yanked open his paper again, but Maggie snatched it from his hands.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “Last night you were dead set against me snooping around, and now you’ve taken up the cause like it’s your new life’s goal.”
“Maybe it is.”
“What’s going on, Walker?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him and wishing she could read his devious and untrustworthy mind.
“A simple case of employing the ‘if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em’ theory. It’s obvious that you’re not going to give this up, so I decided I’d rather work with you than against you. Though I’m sure the police will do a more-than-exemplary job, they seem to think I might have somehow been involved in Mary Theresa’s disappearance. Maybe I should take a more active hand in finding out the truth.” He took a long swallow of coffee, his eyes appraising her over the rim of the cup. She wanted to trust him. And she wanted her sister home again and her child to reach out to her.
If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride, she reminded herself, even though it would be so much easier to have Thane on her side rather than harbor all these doubts. Just because she’d received a silent message from her sister—or had she? now she wasn’t certain—she was second-guessing herself, but it didn’t mean that Thane had anything to do with Mary Theresa’s disappearance. So what if the police thought he might be involved; they always looked to family first, especially estranged ex-husbands, didn’t they? And just because he’d shown up in Idaho, on her doorstep, protesting his innocence, didn’t necessarily mean that he had another agenda, a secret ax to grind.
He reached for a scone, and a small smile tugged at his lips. “So what’s on the slate for today, Mary Theresa?”
“Very funny.” She eyed her list. “And the name’s Marquise.”
“I keep forgetting.”
“Try to stay on track,” she teased, knowing that he was sharper than cut glass. “What I need from you is to drive me to the car-rental agency.”
“I thought I’d drive you—”
“We discussed this, Thane. I already ordered the rental. So either take me there, or I’ll call a cab, or have the car delivered. Your choice.”
His smile disappeared. “Not so fast. What if Mary Theresa was kidnapped? What if this is more dangerous than you think? Don’t you think you might be the next target?”
“Why?”
“Who knows? That’s just the point.” He was dead serious. He finished his scone, brushed his hands, and stood, his boot heels making impressions in the thick mauve carpet. “I don’t know what we’re up against here. Do you?”
“No.”
“Then let’s sign up for the ‘better safe than sorry’ plan.”
“I’ll be careful.” He looked about to argue, so she added, “I’m a grown woman, Walker. Lived my life without you for most of my years. I think I’ll be fine. Now, I plan to visit KRKY about the time the show airs, then talk to her secretary, her other ex-husband, and her psychiatrist.”
He scowled, but put whatever argument that was brewing aside. “I’ll check with her attorney, the yard-work people, her trainer, and some of her neighbors and friends.”
“Good. We’ll meet back here tonight.”
“Take my cell phone.”
“I don’t need it.” She wanted his help, but didn’t need to be
treated like a baby.
“Unless you want me stuck to you like glue, you’ll take the damned phone.” His eyebrows had slammed together and his expression was suddenly harsh as a Wyoming winter. He wasn’t going to budge.
For once she didn’t argue. They didn’t have much time. Marquise’s program was set to air within the hour, and Maggie was determined to check out the dynamics of KRKY.
After picking up a late-model Ford Taurus, she wheeled into the parking lot of the television station. The studio was located beneath the ground level of a red-brick tower bearing the station’s name. She was greeted by an open-mouthed receptionist, who stared at her as she gave her name. “Maggie McCrae.”
The receptionist was dumbfounded. “Forgive me,” she said, flushing to the roots of her short brown hair, “but…you look just like one of our staff, the cohost of Denver AM!”
“I’m Mary Ther—Marquise’s sister. Her twin.”
“Oh. Geez. I didn’t know. But it doesn’t surprise me. Well, sign in here—line thirty-six.” She scribbled in the time, then slid a logbook under a protective glass window. After the formalities, including a name tag, she was escorted by a petite woman who walked almost as fast as she spoke on their way to the station manager’s office.
Ron Bishop was waiting. A portly man who smelled faintly of cigars and whose hair had given way to a neatly clipped horseshoe that ringed his head, he rounded a battle-scarred oak desk and extended a hand. When she clasped his fingers, he placed another over the top and gave her palm a vigorous shake. “Ron Bishop. God, you look just like her. I…we…none of us knew about you. I mean we knew that she had a sister of course, but not a twin. Would you like to go on the news with a plea to her or whoever’s holding her hostage?” he asked, as the thought entered his head, and the wheels, oiled by the idea of soaring ratings, started turning.
“I’ll think about it,” Maggie said, eyeing the surroundings. A stuffed marlin shone and arced above the desk, and the other three walls were adorned with awards and eight-by-ten glossy pictures of the manager shaking hands with celebrities he’d met over what appeared to be a span of thirty-odd years in the business. A television was mounted in the corner. Denver AM was already in progress.
She glanced at the set where Craig Beaumont, all blond hair, tanned skin, and blue eyes was interviewing a local Martha Stewart wanna-be. Wearing jeans, a plaid shirt, and a know-it-all expression, the petite woman was explaining about making bird feeders out of things from the kitchen cupboard. Peanut butter, seeds, and other grains were molded into various shapes and displayed on a table for the camera to pan.
“Hell,” Ron said, showing off teeth that glinted with gold fillings as he considered all the implications of Maggie’s resemblance to her sister, “you could even co-anchor her program, at least for a segment, or so.” Behind thick glasses his eyes started to gleam in anticipation. He reached into a humidor for a cigar, though he didn’t light it. “We’d advertise it on the five o’clock and eleven o’clock evening news, then again in the early morning at six.”
He was pushing too hard, too fast, and Maggie didn’t like the feeling. She didn’t trust this man, though she’d barely met him. She was starting to feel like Thane—unable to trust anyone. “I’ll have to think about it,” she said, sizing the station manager up and wondering whether he had a sincere bone in his body. “I’m only here because I’m looking for my sister, trying to find out what happened to her.”
“Of course, I understand, and you have the station at your disposal. No one would love to find out what happened to Marquise more than I,” he added, seeming sincere. He leaned back in his chair, letting his suit coat drape open, his fingers still running over the smooth surface of the cigar. “I won’t lie to you, Ms. McCrae, there was a little trouble, well, not really trouble. Let’s just call it a difference of opinion between Craig and Marquise on which direction their show should take, but I can assure you that everyone here at KRKY is only interested in your sister’s welfare. We were the first to start looking for her, you know, and rival stations might make a bigger story than there is about some disagreements between the two hosts, but that was mainly just industry gossip and envy. Denver AM has been consistently at the top of the ratings.”
“Until recently,” Maggie prodded, and the large man lifted a dismissive shoulder.
“It’s true, there had been a bit of a slump this past year, but we’re taking care of that.”
I’ll bet, Maggie thought callously as, after a quick commercial, Craig Beaumont explained to the audience again that the reason he was hosting the program solo was that Marquise was missing. A still picture of her was flashed onto the screen as he asked anyone who had any information as to her whereabouts to call in. The following segment was dedicated to her and showed clips of the few movies she’d been in and a few of the most humorous or poignant moments of Marquise with her guests on the Denver show.
Maggie, silent, watched the screen, and a million memories washed over her. Her eyes misted as she saw her sister laughing, talking, or flirting with a guest. A huge lump formed in her throat and she bit her lip as Mary Theresa as Marquise winked into the camera or tossed back her head and laughed. Where are you? Maggie wondered, and had to clear her throat. Marquise had hosted the show alone for the first four years—she’d been the pioneer behind it. Craig had come along two years ago and had, over time, become more and more important, and, according to Mary Theresa, more demanding.
“He wants it all, I tell ya,” Mary Theresa had confided in one phone call. “Blondie would like it if I just disappeared.”
“Ms. McCrae—” Ron Bishop’s voice brought her back to the present, and she had the uneasy feeling that he’d asked her a question.
“Oh, sorry—what did you say?”
“That I’d give you a tour of the station if you want one.” He glanced at his watch. “I think we just have time.”
“Sure.” She needed as much information about her sister’s life as she could amass.
They talked a while longer and he showed her the newsroom, where desks were joined together in a hub, with only soundproof panels separating them. Reporters typed stories on their computers, researchers collected data, a news board was ever-changing, and televisions tuned in to every station in Denver were suspended overhead. Another soundproof room was the studio where the news was filmed. Computer-directed cameras faced a curved, bleached desk where the news team worked each shift. In another room several computers were hooked up to the news department’s web site.
Bishop introduced her to several people, including J.R. Alexander, the assistant news director. An energetic, quick-witted man of about forty, with steel-rimmed glasses and a smile that was as quick to flash as vanish, he moved from one computer station to the next, answering questions, giving advice, and generally riding herd over the hubbub.
“Want to cohost the show?” J.R. asked, giving Maggie the once-over. “I bet the viewers would never know the difference.” Behind his glasses, his brown eyes gleamed as he thought of the possibilities. “Ever done television?”
Before she could answer, he was called away.
Ron guided her into a maze of back hallways. “J.R.’s been with us a little longer than your sister and was the executive producer of Denver AM before we promoted him into management. Here’s where we do our film editing…” He gave her the grand tour, introducing her around.
With each new person Maggie met, curious glances were cast her way. She heard the whispers behind her back, though she ignored them.
“My God, I thought she was Marquise!”
“Can you believe the resemblance?”
“It’s weird. Creepy. I wonder if she’s the same kind of self-serving, raving bitch.”
“Oh, Jesus, let’s hope not. One is enough for a planet this small.”
Laughter and sniggering followed her, but she ignored it. After Denver AM had finished taping and the studio audience had filed out of the building, Ron led her down a l
abyrinthine hallway to a small office occupied by Craig Beaumont.
Marquise’s cohost was reaching for his coat, which hung on a hall tree near the door to his tiny office. He did a quick double take at the sight of her. “Marquise! My God, you nearly gave me a heart attack. Where the hell have you been? You…you look great.” He hesitated, as if he sensed something different for the first time, and he glanced at the beaming Ron Bishop. “Wait a second—”
“This isn’t Marquise. It’s her sister. Maggie McCrae, Craig Beaumont.”
“Hey, is this some kind of joke…” he said before realizing the truth. “For the love of Jesus. Look at you. You and Marquise—you two are identical, right?”
“Nearly.” She nodded, and his blue eyes took in every inch of her, as if validating what his ears were being told.
“I can’t believe it.” Still holding his coat, he sat down on the corner of his desk. “Wow.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Ron Bishop was all business. “Now, listen. J.R. was half-kidding when he brought this up, but I think it would be a nifty attention-getting angle to put her on your show, you know, act like she’s Marquise during the lead-in, something like, ‘Is this Denver’s most celebrated missing person?’ We’ll check with Tess O’Shaughnessy”—he turned to face Maggie—“she’s now the executive producer of the show—”
Maggie wasn’t going to be bullied into anything. “Wait a minute.”
“—but it would be something along those lines, then you start interviewing her, not as Marquise, but as her twin. Wouldn’t that generate a helluva lot of interest? People are already curious, and the viewing public has a fascination with twin stories—they’re all over the miniseries and soaps. And here we’ve got it all rolled into one. A bona fide mystery and a twin deal and, of course, it could help us all find out what happened to her. That’s the most important facet, the real reason for the impersonation. The more people who watch the show, the more likely someone will call in with information.”
Craig was starting to warm to the idea. “Later in the show, we could have other twins come on—or twins separated at birth, that sort of thing. Explore what they have in common, why with different parents they still have the same mannerisms and interests and tastes.”
