Her fingers crumpled the edges of the paper. The light at the window was stronger. So was the resemblance, except for his hair. John Harrison wore his hair combed straight back from his face. No wayward, rebellious lock softened his broad forehead. There was no mistaking those lean cheeks or that sharp nose, though. The black-and-white photo didn’t show the color of his eyes, but it was plain they weren’t brown. He looked unsmiling into the camera lens, as if impatient with the necessity of having his picture taken . . . as if he didn’t give a damn what other people thought.
That was what Max had told her. He didn’t give a damn.
But Max was a fantasy.
Wasn’t he?
Delaney folded the brochure into a square, creasing carefully so that the photograph remained flat. There had to be a logical explanation. Yes, there must be. She needed to calm down so she could think of it.
Max couldn’t possibly be John Harrison. Having an imaginary friend pop into her thoughts was one thing. She knew what that felt like. She’d done it throughout her childhood, as plenty of children did. Believing she’d suddenly begun interacting with a total stranger in her head for no apparent reason was something else entirely. It was simply beyond any rational possibility. Max had shared her nightmare, for God’s sake, and she hadn’t told the details about that to anyone except Dr. Bernhardt. What was more, Max knew things about her past that no one else could.
Therefore, whoever, whatever, John Harrison was, he couldn’t be Max. Believing he was would truly be insane.
Then why do they share a face?
“No, of course we don’t mind if you check in early, Mrs. Walt.” Helen’s voice echoed from the staircase. “An afternoon nap is a necessity in your condition.”
Delaney slipped the picture into her pocket and stepped into the hall.
Helen was leading a young couple up the stairs. The man, who looked to be in his mid-twenties, was carrying one suitcase in his hand and a smaller one tucked under his arm, leaving his other arm free to keep a steadying hand on the back of his wife’s waist. Delaney assumed she was his wife, since she appeared to be at least eight months pregnant, which explained Helen’s remark about the nap.
All this Delaney absorbed with a kind of numb detachment. She responded when Helen spoke to her and managed to say a polite welcome to the new guests, yet she wasn’t sure how she reached the stairs. She gripped the banister and paused to steady her breathing. In, out, in, out, just as she’d done that morning. This was turning into a habit.
The vacuum cleaner hummed from the dining room when Delaney reached the ground floor. Phoebe bobbed her head as she worked, her ponytail swinging in time to the wires that trailed from her earphones. She looked so blessedly carefree that Delaney wanted to hug her. She hugged her arms over her chest instead and went past the doorway to the table beside the front entrance.
It held a crystal bowl filled with potpourri and a philodendron that trailed gracefully over one side. On the polished surface between the plant and the bowl lay an assortment of brochures like the ones in the basket upstairs. Delaney forced her brain to focus on those.
There were rational reasons for the tourist brochures. While Helen’s primary goal was to encourage her visitors to spend more time in Willowbank, she also arranged for other local businesses to display her promotional material if she displayed theirs. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, a trade, and all very logical.
Delaney spotted the gallery’s brochure immediately. She picked it up carefully and checked the back to make sure it held the same photo. It did. John Harrison’s resemblance to Max seemed even more striking the second time around. It was a wonder she hadn’t noticed it sooner. She had done the polishing for Helen several times during the past week. She had moved around everything on this table in order to reach the surface. For all she knew, the photograph might have registered in her subconscious without her being aware of it . . .
She latched onto the idea like a lifeline. Of course! Not only had she polished and dusted, she had walked past this table countless times since she’d arrived in Willowbank. She could have seen the photograph of John Harrison every day in her peripheral vision. She would have seen it before her first encounter with Max in the backyard.
She continued to study the photo. The initial shock of seeing Max’s face was wearing off. The face of John Harrison was definitely memorable. Masculine, sexy, and brooding. She could easily picture him being the kind of man who slept in the nude. In fact, she likely wasn’t the only woman who might want to imagine him that way.
Was it possible that her subconscious had given John Harrison’s face to the adult Max?
Her reasoning made sense. Actually, it made more sense than believing she had created the face of the adult Max out of thin air. No wonder he appeared so real. She’d based him on a real man.
In a way, the idea was comforting. At least this aspect of her delusion had a rational explanation.
The hum of the vacuum cleaner cut off. Phoebe appeared in the hall, dragging the appliance behind her. She plugged it into the outlet across from the table, then grimaced when she saw what Delaney was holding. She pulled out her earphones and sidled up to her. “He would make a good Heathcliff, don’t you think?”
Delaney swallowed a relieved laugh. Well, this confirmed that Phoebe saw the same photo that she did, so she hadn’t imagined John Harrison. “Do you know who he is?”
“Are you kidding? Harrison’s practically a legend in Willowbank.”
“The brochure said he was famous. Have you seen his art?”
“I’ve seen pictures of it. I don’t like it that much; it’s too intense, and it costs a fortune. But that’s not his main claim to fame.”
“Oh?”
“He learned to paint while he was in prison.”
She thought of Max’s face. No, John Harrison’s. His go-to-hell attitude, the toughness he strove to project. No, that was Max’s attitude. It didn’t necessarily apply to the real man. “Do you know why he was there?”
Phoebe leaned closer and lowered her voice. “From what I heard, he tried to beat his mother to death with a belt.”
The words bounced around in her head a few times before she could completely grasp them. When she did, she felt sick. Max wouldn’t have done that. She was absolutely certain of it. He wasn’t bad or mean or . . .
Stop! They weren’t talking about Max. “That’s horrible.”
“I was a baby when it happened, but I remember how upset people were when he moved back here.”
Delaney tamped down the urge to deny what Phoebe was saying. It was only the artist’s resemblance to Max that made her want to defend him. “He’s successful now, though. It seems to me as if he managed to turn his life around.”
“Sure, but you wouldn’t catch me walking past his place at night.” She gave a theatrical shudder. “Geez, I wonder if he was the creepy guy in the woods.”
Delaney started. She returned the brochure to the table and slid her hand into her pocket. Her fingers closed over the folded paper. It wasn’t Max’s face she touched, she reminded herself. It wasn’t Max they were talking about, either. He had disappeared before Phoebe and Pete could have seen him. Not that anyone else would have seen him anyway since he didn’t exist. “Why would John Harrison be in our woods?”
Phoebe grimaced again. “Sorry, I guess you didn’t know he’s your neighbor.”
TWELVE
“THE LAMB LOOKS GOOD. WHAT DO YOU THINK, ELIZABETH?”
Elizabeth paused as if considering Alan’s question, then gave her head a restrained shake and handed her menu to the waiter. “I’ll have the grilled sole.”
Alan took a hefty swallow of his scotch as the waiter left. “I thought you didn’t like fish.”
“I’m quite fond of the way they do it here.”
“You only ordered it because you didn’t want to go along with my suggestion.”
He was right. On principle, she didn’t let anyone make decisions fo
r her, regardless of how minor. Enough minor concessions could quickly lead to a loss of control, but she was hardly going to admit that to him. “Don’t sulk, Alan. It doesn’t suit you.”
“I’m not sulking, I’m pointing out a fact.”
“This isn’t about my menu choice, is it? You understand why I had to assign Tirza to assist you on the condo project, don’t you?”
“My mood has nothing to do with business.”
“I think it does.” She reached across the white linen tablecloth to touch her fingertips to his knuckles. “The project was running over budget. We need to maintain the confidence of our investors, and Tirza has a proven track record. You could learn a lot from her.”
“She’s a ballbuster.”
Elizabeth withdrew her hand to pick up her Perrier. “I wouldn’t have expected a comment like that from you, Alan. If Tirza had been a man, you would be extolling her business acumen rather than stooping to a locker-room slur.”
He drained his drink and signaled the waiter for another. It was brought promptly, which seemed to mollify him.
Alan likely thought the attentiveness of the staff was due to his authoritative manner rather than the generous tips she signed for whenever she entertained here on the Grayecorp account. “In fact,” she continued once the server had left, “I’m doubly disappointed, since what you say about Tirza could very well apply to me. Is that how you think of me, Alan? That I’m a ballbuster?”
“I don’t know, Elizabeth. It’s been a while since you had anything to do with my balls. Why don’t we skip dinner and go back to my place so you can remind me how you handle them?”
“Is that supposed to be funny?”
He curled both hands around his glass and rolled the bottom along the tablecloth. “I don’t know what it’s supposed to be. I don’t know what we’re supposed to be.”
This was dangerous ground. She needed to massage his ego but not inflate it. “I thought we were friends.”
“I thought we were lovers.”
She touched his hand again. By nature, she wasn’t comfortable with this kind of casual physical contact. That was the way she’d been raised. Her nannies and later her governesses had been staff, and one never, never hugged staff. As for her mother, well, hugs would have wrinkled her clothes, and her father had more subtle ways of expressing his emotions. She knew it was important to Alan, though, because he wasn’t the most subtle of men. “I understand how you might feel you’re getting mixed signals. All I can hope is that you’ll bear with me. For both our sakes, I can’t afford to give anyone grounds to claim favoritism with respect to your role in the company. Especially not yet.”
“Not yet?” he repeated.
“We’re still in a period of readjustment.” She stroked his wrist. “Losing my father has been difficult for me, both personally and professionally. I feel it’s my duty to preserve the legacy he left.”
“Grayecorp is a profitable legacy.”
“Yes, as long as it continues to be guided by a steady hand.”
“Yours?”
She didn’t bother to reply to the question in his voice, since the answer was obvious to both of them. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be with her. She leaned closer, as if she were about to impart a confidence, but her real purpose was to expose her cleavage to his view.
Predictably, his gaze dropped.
“It’s a time of transition,” she said. “Which makes it also a time of great opportunity for people who share my vision.”
He was too busy studying her breasts to grasp her words immediately. She could pinpoint the moment when he did, though. His lips, which had been lax from the scotch and his pout, firmed to a flat line. He lifted his head. “What kind of opportunity, Elizabeth?”
“I can trust you, can’t I, Alan?”
“You know you can.”
“I would like to give you more responsibility. My father always thought you had great potential.”
The dual lies had the desired effect. His gaze glinted with the first spark of genuine interest he’d displayed that evening. If she could see through the table to his lap, no doubt she’d find that his pants were tenting. Yes, nothing got Alan excited quite like the prospect of advancing his career. His ambitiousness was far too transparent. It made him easy to manipulate.
“Stanford was a brilliant man,” he said.
Brilliant enough to understand why you tried to romance me in the first place, she thought. “Yes, he was. And he knew how to reward loyalty.”
The word hung in the air between them. A muscle flickered in his cheek. “What have you heard, Elizabeth?”
“Very little, which is why I suspect there must be something that I should be hearing.”
Alan lifted his drink. He took a moderate sip this time. He appeared to need time to think more than he needed the alcohol. “There is something.”
She toyed with the pearls at her neck, drawing his gaze back to her chest. She didn’t want him to think too much. She needed him to commit to aligning himself with her for the upcoming showdown with the board. And she knew there would be one. Every instinct told her it would be soon, too. “Yes?”
“A lawyer contacted me the week before last. He insisted on speaking with me outside the office.”
“Whom did he represent?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
That made sense. Whoever was making the move wouldn’t want to show their hand before they could be sure they held a winning one. “What did he want?”
“He asked about your behavior at the office, whether your grief over your father was impeding your business abilities, things like that.”
“Excuse me?”
“I told him you were doing a great job.”
“The last quarterly report could have told him that.”
“It didn’t sound as if he was taking a financial slant with his questions. It was more personal.”
“This lawyer questioned you about my personal life?”
“I’d say it was more that he was questioning your mental competency.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Leo Throop.”
She heard a faint, grinding squeak. It was the sound of pearls rubbing together. She released her grip on her necklace before she broke the string. “You’re certain it was Throop?”
“Do you know him?”
“He works for my father’s widow.”
Alan’s upper lip bulged as he ran his tongue over his teeth. It was a particularly unattractive habit. “That’s interesting.”
“Who else did he speak with?”
“As far as I know, everyone at the office.”
“And what did they say?”
“I don’t know that.”
“Find out.”
“Elizabeth . . .”
She banged her fist on the table. “I want details. Names. I need to know who’s on my side. If that bitch thinks—” She broke off when she saw several nearby diners turn their heads.
Damn the woman. Elizabeth had expected an attempt to oust her, but she hadn’t expected Delaney would be behind it. She’d never demonstrated interest in the company when Stanford was alive. Wasn’t it enough that she had stolen her childhood home and her father’s fortune? She must be hoping to take away her career, too. Why else would she send her flunky to nose around Grayecorp, questioning Elizabeth’s competence?
Alan passed her what remained of his whiskey. “I’ve never seen you so passionate, Elizabeth. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
She tipped the glass to her lips, enjoying the fire that burned her throat. “You’d be surprised what I’m capable of, Alan.”
THIRTEEN
THE PAINTING WAS A DEPARTURE FROM MAX’S RECENT work. It lacked the violence of the nightmare piece, both in subject matter and in technique. The brushstrokes were gentle, feathering one area into the next to give the impression of dreamy inevitability. The glass palette that lay on the table beside him was dotted with pools of sienna and c
erulean blue softened with heavy doses of titanium white. He blended them on the canvas, keeping his wrist supple as he followed the vision in his head.
Normally, he didn’t do portraits anymore. That hadn’t been the case when he’d started out. For the group shows where he’d first displayed his work, he’d stuck to easy-to-grasp, representative pieces like landscapes and portraits because there had been money in them. He’d been desperate to support his habit, so he’d done anything that would sell. The important paintings, the ones that were based on subjects only he could see, he’d kept private. He’d believed they were therapy, not art.
He’d been wrong about that. Following his instincts had propelled him to a level of success that he couldn’t have conceived possible in his wildest dreams. The group shows had led to his first commissions, which had brought more exposure and opened the doors to more prestigious exhibitions. Within only a few years, his reputation had snowballed to the point that galleries were contacting him and not the other way around. Critics used words like raw and primitive to describe his paintings, and some had even mentioned genius. Not that he bought into the hype. He painted what he felt like and considered himself lucky every time he cashed a check. Fortunes could change in the blink of an eye, and he didn’t take anything for granted.
He probably wouldn’t sell this painting, though. Not right away. It would be a while before he finished it to his satisfaction.
He put the horsehair brush into a jar of water to keep it from drying out and picked up a sable. He stepped closer to the easel, using his left hand to steady his right as he defined the rim of Deedee’s ear.
Her own imagination had served as her backdrop: her left side was in front of the white cloud where she’d called up the butterfly. The scarred side was in front of a smoldering fire. He was trying to capture the contradictions in her character, but he wasn’t there yet. She wasn’t the kind of woman he could portray in one sitting.
He lowered the brush to add a gleam to her shoulder. It was bare, apart from the thin strap of her satin nightgown. He’d posed her half-turned, so that she was looking toward him while her body was almost in profile. The burns that snaked across her right shoulder and curled around her arm didn’t detract from her beauty. To him, the contrast only enhanced it. Everyone had scars on one level or another. He admired the way she had accepted hers. He dabbed another highlight on the ridged tissue above her elbow, then used his thumb to blend the paint over her breast.
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