by Anne Stuart
“So I stole your room,” he said in his soft, husky voice. “And I stole your place as Aunt Sally’s caretaker. It’s no wonder you’re not welcoming me with open arms.”
“I’m not much for open arms in the best of circumstances,” she said.
“I bet not,” he murmured. “Though I have to admit it’s a shame. Are you going to help Uncle Warren prove I’m an imposter?”
“If you are.”
“And what do you think, Carolyn?” He was too close. He reminded her eerily of the real Alexander, and it disturbed her, confused her. Made her doubt the truth she’d never been quite sure of in the first place.
It was no wonder he had a powerful effect on her. Only someone who could successfully impersonate the real Alex would have attempted such a masquerade, and the imposter knew all the tricks. All the slight, sensual little habits Alex had had, to make her feel vulnerable, make her feel a strange, despicable kind of longing.
She stared at him stonily, fighting it. “I think that if you hurt Aunt Sally I’ll make you wish you’d never tried this.”
“Tried what?” His voice was soft, taunting. “What are you going to do to me?”
But Carolyn wasn’t going to fall for it, no matter how much he goaded her. She wasn’t ready to declare her outright enmity, even if he already recognized it.
“I think you’ll be very comfortable here,” she said, taking a small step back and moving around him with what she hoped was a politely casual air.
“Oh, I’m sure I will,” he said softly. He was deliberately letting her escape, and she knew it. She didn’t care—getting away from him was suddenly very important. “If you ever start missing your old room, feel free to visit,” he added.
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
“It’s a big bed. I don’t mind sharing.”
She jerked around, stung beyond endurance. “It’ll be a cold day in hell.”
He glanced out at the wintery landscape. “It already is, Carolyn.”
THE MAN CALLING himself Alexander MacDowell allowed himself a small, wicked grin as the door slammed shut behind the departing Carolyn. He’d been trying to get an honest reaction out of her since she’d first raced into Sally’s bedroom, but she’d been impressively, annoyingly controlled, unwilling to let her raging disbelief and disapproval surface no matter how he pushed her.
He wondered why. Affection for the woman who’d provided her with a home and a family might have something to do with it. For all that Carolyn Smith seemed to be a calm, slightly repressed young woman, she clearly had strong affection and loyalty for Sally MacDowell. Perhaps her one weakness.
He knew more about her than she could ever guess. He knew where she’d worked, he knew her friends, he’d even seen her apartment near Beacon Hill. He knew the names of every man she’d ever slept with. Since that list came to a grand total of three, it wasn’t a difficult feat, assuming his sources were reliable. So far they had been, but he was prepared for anything.
She looked at with cool dislike in her clear blue eyes, and it both annoyed and aroused him. He was going to need an ally in this rambling old house. He was going to need someone he could count on, someone he could use. Carolyn Smith was the obvious, perfect choice.
She wouldn’t be easy. But then, few things worth having came easily. If he could make cool, protective Carolyn believe in him, then no one would dare doubt him.
She hadn’t responded all that well to his attempts to be wryly charming. She had some unresolved business with the teenaged Alex MacDowell, and it probably had something to do with adolescent desires. Alex MacDowell had been the quintessential bad boy, raising hell with a mastery impressive for one of his youth. And very few women, particularly impressionable adolescent ones, could resist a wickedly charming black sheep. She’d had a crush on young Alex, and everyone in the MacDowell family had known about it.
The man who’d arrived back at the MacDowell compound in southern Vermont could raise a certain amount of hell himself. And he had every intention of doing so. He could be wickedly charming, and he intended to have Carolyn find him completely irresistible. Too much depended on getting her to believe in him. If he had Carolyn on his side, no one would dare question him.
The old lady wasn’t long for this world—he recognized that fact with calm assurance. He’d seen enough people die to know when someone was living on borrowed time. Sally MacDowell would be dead by summer—all her hundreds of millions of dollars couldn’t do a damned thing to stop the inexorable hunger of cancer.
He could make it through that time with no difficulty whatsoever. He was used to manipulating people, to having them do what he wanted. He had a talent for it. Sally would die peacefully, her long-lost son by her side. Carolyn would get her teenaged romantic fantasies fulfilled in the bed she’d unwillingly abandoned. And when he left, all his questions would be answered. He could go back to being plain Sam Kinkaid, alone in this world and liking it just fine.
Probably the safest thing might have been to keep his distance from Carolyn Smith. She was a smart woman—he knew that more from looking into her clear blue eyes than from the reams of information passed to him. It didn’t matter that she’d graduated from Bennington with honors. All she had to do was look at him with that guarded, withering expression and he had the sense not to underestimate her.
He’d been carefully primed for all the people he’d find in the Vermont house, but his informant had failed when it came to describing Carolyn. Beneath the conservative clothes, the neatly coiled hair, the quiet, seemingly demure manners, lurked something unexpected.
Something fierce and passionate, carefully repressed.
She’d been brought into the MacDowell family when she was a two-year-old, and twenty-eight years later she was back at Sally’s side when everyone else had left. What had brought her back to Sally MacDowell? Money? Loyalty? Greed?
He had a healthy respect for greed. It was a powerful motivator, one that could be used to his advantage.
He knew why Sally loved her, why the MacDowells approved of her. She was essentially an unpaid companion, loyal, unquestioning, willing to go to any lengths for her unofficial family.
And she had the one thing all the MacDowells considered of primary importance.
She was beautiful.
Odd, how physical beauty was of such value to the extended MacDowell family. To start out with, they’d been blessed with extraordinary genes and generous health. And they’d bred wisely. There were no dogs in the MacDowell family—even on her deathbed, Sally was a gorgeous creature, with papery-fine, pale skin and dark, beautiful eyes.
Carolyn had been a fitting complement to the glorious MacDowells. The photo albums had traced her development from a solemn, delicate toddler through a coltish adolescence. Now she seemed muted, like a fine painting seen through bad lighting, the colors dim and faded. Her clothes were classic, uninspired, hanging on her body with tailored severity that nevertheless seemed to hide her.
He moved over to the window, staring out over the snow-covered landscape. He hadn’t been in Vermont in years—he’d forgotten what a late-spring snow could be like. He couldn’t have timed his reappearance better—the turmoil of the weather paralleled the unsettling effect of the prodigal son’s return.
He was a man who was more alert than most—he heard the footsteps in the hall outside his door and knew immediately who they belonged to. Ruben’s tread was soft soled and discreet; Constanza’s footstep was sturdy. And there was no way Carolyn was going to come back to this room without an exceptionally good reason.
Alex stretched out on the bed, staring up at the beamed ceiling. It was a comfortable bed, big enough to fit his frame and room to spare. He didn’t move when the knock sounded on the door.
“Come in, Warren,” he said lazily, contemplating the cracks in the ancient beams.
“SORRY TO INTRUDE, young man,” Warren said pompously, moving into the room and eyeing him with disapproval. “But I thought you and I might take this chance to get a few things clear.”
Alexander glanced over at the tightly shut door. “Cut the crap, Warren,” he said lazily. “This isn’t ‘Mission: Impossible.’ The room isn’t bugged; no one is listening to us talk.”
Warren’s elegant face creased in dislike. “One can never be too careful,” he said, and Alex half expected him to sniff in disdain.
“The only one doubting me is Carolyn, and I’ve seen to it she’ll keep her distance, at least for the time being.”
“I warned you she’d be the hardest one to convince,” Warren said. “She’s quiet, but she’s sharp. And she was closer to the real Alexander MacDowell than I was.”
The man on the bed smiled lazily. “I’m not worried about it. I think she was half in love with Sally’s son when he left. It shouldn’t take much to rekindle that feeling.”
“Don’t be absurd!” Warren protested. “She was thirteen years old. She may have had a crush on him, but it was hardly serious. She was far too young to be interested in boys.”
“From what you’ve told me, Alex MacDowell wasn’t just any boy. And don’t underestimate the hormonal urges of puberty. She was probably lusting after him.”
“Disgusting,” Warren said, and this time he did sniff.
“You think I can’t do it?” Alex said calmly.
“Oh, I have every confidence in your abilities,” Warren murmured. “I expect you’ll end up convincing everyone you’re Alexander MacDowell. I just think you’ll have an easier time tricking Carolyn than seducing her. I don’t think she’s a woman who has much use for the opposite sex.”
There was a faint, unexpected undertone of pride in Warren’s voice, and Alex thought he could understand why. Sexual indifference was a matter of power to a man like Warren MacDowell. A power Alex had no intention of cultivating, at least not in this lifetime.
“We’ll see,” he said. “If I can get her to trust me enough to sleep with me, then we should have no problem whatsoever. Unless Patsy decides to be difficult.”
“Leave my younger sister to me,” Warren said. “I know how to handle her. She doesn’t waste much time thinking about anything other than her own interests. The family business holds little charm for her. She’s more concerned about her own greedy pursuits.”
“But won’t my sudden reappearance put a dent in the funds she uses for those pursuits?”
“I can handle her,” Warren said again. “She’s married well—three times—and she trusts me. We’re actually quite close. If I accept you, she will.”
“And her children?”
“They might not be so easy,” Warren conceded. “But then, I never would have gotten involved in this charade if I didn’t think you were the man capable of pulling it off. Once you manage to convince Carolyn, the others should be a relatively simple matter if you watch your step.”
Alexander surveyed him out of half-closed eyes. He had no illusions about his coconspirator. Of all the celebrated MacDowells, Warren had the strongest sense of self-interest, coupled with a useful lack of morality. When he’d first come up with the crazy idea of passing himself off as the missing heir, Warren had been the obvious choice for a partner in crime.
He’d considered other possibilities before approaching Warren, discarding them quickly. Constanza and Ruben were too loyal, Patsy too caught up in her endless quest for pleasure to make an effort to ensure she could continue to pay for it.
And Carolyn Smith. She would have been his first choice. After years on her own she was living with Sally MacDowell, taking care of her during her final illness. She knew more about the MacDowell family than anyone else—with her help no one would dare stand up to him.
But some sixth sense had sent him in Warren’s direction instead, and now he basked in his customary good luck. Carolyn would never have tolerated such deceit—she was obviously cursed with a strong sense of morality.
“You think Sally has any doubts?” Warren asked after a moment.
“Not a one. She needs to believe in me. She’s dying, and she doesn’t want to leave this life without finding her son again.”
“Just make sure she doesn’t start agreeing to things like DNA tests and the like. There’s a limit to what we can do, who I can bribe.”
“Don’t worry, she won’t,” Alex said with calm assurance.
Warren stared at him for a long moment, then nodded, satisfied. “I won’t deny it’s gone extremely well so far. The next few days will be the test.”
“The next few days will be simple,” Alex murmured. “If you do your part.”
“I’m the one with the most to lose,” Warren said huffily.
“I doubt it. If I get unmasked you’ll just insist you were taken in like everyone else. I’m willing to bet there isn’t a shred of proof tying us together. Is there?”
“You think I don’t trust you?”
“I think you don’t trust anyone. Neither do I.” Alex sat up, turning to look at him. “Don’t worry about it, Warren. I’m not going to get caught. If I am, cover your ass and don’t worry about me. I’m very good at getting out of tight places.”
“I’m supposed to believe you won’t betray me?”
“If you don’t believe that, why did you get involved in this?” Alex countered smoothly.
“Because you look eerily like him,” Warren said after a moment.
“And because I showed up on your doorstep and offered you a chance to get your hands on all that lovely money,” Alex said bluntly. “Don’t forget that.”
“My sister’s dying,” Warren said. “She’ll die happy if she thinks her son is back—”
“You don’t give a shit whether your sister dies happy or not. You only care that she dies with her estate settled, not tied up for years proving that the real Alexander MacDowell is dead.”
“What if he’s not?” Warren said suddenly. “What if the real one does suddenly appear?”
“He’s dead, Warren,” Alex said in a low, cool voice. “Trust me, he’s not coming back.”
CAROLYN HAD probably had to suffer through worse dinner parties in her life, but at the moment she was too miserable to remember them. A table had been set up in front of the bay window in Sally’s room, and Sally even managed to sit in her wheelchair, the bright color of happiness in her pale cheeks. Alex sat beside her, attentive, charming, and Warren was surprisingly expansive. Carolyn sat across from the interloper, quiet, saying little, eating even less, listening to the liar as he spun his web.
Not that he reminded her of a spider, she thought objectively. He was too golden and glorious for that, with his slanted blue-green eyes, his sun-streaked hair, his tanned skin stretched taut over his high cheekbones. He had the same slightly Slavic look that the real Alexander had had, which was probably what made the deception work.
His mouth was what fascinated her. It was the mouth of a satyr, cynical, voluptuous, utterly and completely sexual. He smiled, he laughed, showing perfect white teeth; he talked with lazy charm, holding the rest of them spellbound. Holding Carolyn spellbound, even as she fought it.
He was good. He was beyond good—he was masterful, enchanting Aunt Sally, charming Uncle Warren, telling old tales of a childhood he hadn’t lived. Someone must be helping him, Carolyn thought, plastering an expression of polite interest on her face as her brain worked feverishly. Some of the little bits he was coming up with would only be known to members of the family. Someone must have told him about the time Alex had gone skinny-dipping at South Beach on Martha’s Vineyard and the police had caught him. Someone must have told him that Alex was dangerously allergic to shrimp.
He glanced at her across the dish of scam
pi, a faint, knowing gleam in his eyes. “Did you suggest the menu, Carolyn?” he murmured, making no attempt to serve himself.
“I have a weakness for shrimp,” she said lightly.
“So do I,” Alex said. “A fatal weakness.”
“Oh, my heavens!” Sally said in a shocked voice. “I’d forgotten, darling! You’re allergic to the stuff. Carolyn, how could you have done such a thing?”
“It’s been eighteen years.” Her calm voice didn’t betray her unexpected flash of guilt. Not for endangering the imposter. But for troubling Sally. “I’d forgotten as well.”
“So you weren’t trying to kill me?” he asked gently.
She toyed with her wineglass, then gave him a cool smile. “It wouldn’t have been a very effective way to do it, now would it? After all, the shrimp is quite recognizable. If you were someone who knew he was allergic to shrimp you simply wouldn’t touch it.”
Her barbed statement went over Sally’s head.
“Don’t talk to Carolyn of murder,” Sally said brightly. “She’s an expert on the subject.”
“Oh, really?” His eyes were deceptively languid. “How many people have you murdered?”
“No one,” she said. She smiled at him. “Yet.”
“She loves reading trash,” Warren explained broadly. “Murder mysteries, all that sort of garbage. She fancies herself an expert on modern crime because she’s read a few whodunits.”
“Hardly.” Carolyn managed to keep the irritation from her voice.
“You’d better think twice before committing a crime, boy,” Warren went on. “Carolyn’s the type to catch you red-handed. She’s a regular Miss Marple.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Warren,” Sally said with surprising vigor. “I read spy thrillers and I’m not about to join the CIA or the KGB. What do you read, darling?” She turned to Alex with an almost flirtatious smile.
“I don’t have time to read,” Warren announced loudly.
“I wasn’t asking you,” Sally said. “And anyone with any sense finds the time to read, or their brain atrophies and their soul shrivels.”
