by Anne Stuart
She stood there in shock, trembling all over, and then she moved, throwing on clothes with abandon. He’d taunted and teased and tormented her all her life. He wasn’t going to get away with robbing her as well, making up for it with a good-bye kiss that was everything she’d ever fantasized and more. By the time she reached the front sidewalk she thought she could see him heading toward Lighthouse Beach, and she started after him, silent, determined.
Running away from an island six miles off the coast of the mainland was not the easiest thing to do. Alex had tried it before, when he was fifteen, stealing a friend’s catamaran and disappearing for over a week. The police had found him in Boston and brought him home, unrepentant and hostile and enticingly experienced.
Whose boat was he planning to steal this time? Or was he going high-tech and planning on taking one of the small private planes parked at the island airport? Sally had paid for flying lessons for his sixteenth birthday, and she’d regretted it ever since.
But he was heading toward the beach, not the airport, and if she could only see where she was going she could catch up with him. Threaten to scream at the top of her lungs if he didn’t give her back the charm bracelet.
He could have the rest, with her blessing. She was willing to pay almost anything to get him out of her life, and he was right. The MacDowells were more than generous with their checkbooks, if not with their emotions. If he were gone she could have Sally to herself, with no wicked, beautiful bad boy to distract either of them.
The light from the quarter moon was fitful, and there were dark clouds scudding across the sky, obscuring it. She slipped on the loose stones that led to the beach, going down on one knee, and she could feel the bite of the broken shells through her jeans. She didn’t care. She scrambled back to her feet, keeping his tall, straight back firmly in sight.
She wasn’t afraid of him, she told herself, over and over again, for all that he’d taunted and tormented her during the years he’d been an almost-brother to her. She wasn’t worried that he could try to silence her by force.
If she started screaming for someone to stop him from leaving, he’d probably just shrug his shoulders and grin.
And disappear.
The tide was high that night; the sea was rough from the remnants of a late-summer storm. He came to a stop at the edge of the beach, staring out across the narrow channel of water to Chappaquiddick, then turned and looked back toward Water Street and the old house.
Without thinking Carolyn ducked down, out of sight behind an overturned dinghy. She hid there, trying to catch her breath. Silly to be so panicked, she told herself furiously. She started to rise, to go after him, when she heard the voices.
He wasn’t alone out there at the edge of the water. She should have known that—he wouldn’t be planning to swim off the island. He must have arranged to meet someone.
They were arguing, she could tell that much and nothing more. Cautiously she raised her head, peering over the boat. The clouds had covered the moon now, and the two figures were in shadows. Much of the same size and the same build, she couldn’t even tell which one was Alex. Whether the person he was arguing with was male or female, young or old, stranger or almost-relative.
“Fuck you!” Alex’s furious voice carried on the night air, and he shoved the other person, turning away and starting down the beach.
It happened so quickly Carolyn thought she’d imagined it, staring in frozen horror as ghastly images danced in her mind. The moonlight glinting off a gun. The sudden, swift move of the dark, anonymous figure, the explosion of sound in the night, a sound that could have been a car backfiring but wasn’t.
And Alex’s recoil and his crumpled body lying on the sand. Even from a distance she could see the dark circle of blood pooling around him from the hole in his back, and she tried to scream, but the only sound she could make was a faint moaning noise.
She sank back down, shivering, unable to catch her breath as wave after wave of horror washed over her. She had to move, had to go for help, but her body was frozen, rigid. Her breath caught in her chest, strangling her, and she had to struggle to stay conscious, to fight the merciful blankness that wanted to overtake her.
She had no idea how long she sat there, fighting for breath, fighting for calm. By the time her gasping sobs had shuddered to a stop, by the time she managed to scramble to her knees and peer over the side of the dingy, it was too late.
The beach was deserted. The clouds had passed, and the sliver of moonlight lit the empty sand.
There was no sign of footprints. The tide had risen up to the rocks, and whoever had walked on the sand had left no trace behind.
The tide had washed the blood clean. It must have carried Alex’s body out to sea. With the fierce storm currents, he might not be found for days or weeks. Maybe never.
She had to get help. It might not be too late—she’d lost all sense of time, but it could have been only a matter of minutes since Alex had been shot. Maybe he wasn’t really dead, maybe the bullet had missed his heart. She started to rise, then sank down again in panic.
Someone was standing at the edge of the path, waiting. Watching. The streetlight was far enough away that she could only see the silhouette, but she knew without question that it wasn’t Alex. It was the man or woman who’d shot him. And he was waiting to make sure there weren’t any witnesses.
It was cold and damp. The t-shirt she wore was soaked with dew, and the wind off the ocean was bitterly cold against her skin. She curled up in a ball, wrapping her arms around her body in a vain effort to keep warm. She hadn’t been seen, she was sure of that. Whoever had killed Alex was just being careful.
She didn’t even know that Alex was dead, not for certain. He’d been shot, and she’d seen him fall, seen the blood on the sand. But she hadn’t actually seen him die.
She closed her eyes, burying her head against her bony knees, breathing hard, seeking warmth in her damp breath. She just had to wait. As soon as the coast was clear she’d run back to the house on Water Street and wake Aunt Sally, and tell her . . .
Tell her what? Her only child was dead? Murdered by someone, and she couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman? And that Carolyn had done nothing to save him? She lifted her head to stare out at the sea. The waves were rough, surging in toward land. There was no way even a strong swimmer could survive for long in that rough surf, and certainly not someone who’d just been shot. It was too late to go for help.
The figure was still standing there, facing the horizon, waiting with seemingly endless patience, and there was nothing Carolyn could do but wait as well, shivering in the cold.
The sound of the children woke her. Squeals of delight, as a nanny brought her charges down to Lighthouse Beach to feed the seagulls. Carolyn tried to move, but she felt encased in ice, her bones and muscles frozen.
It was a sunny day, even in the early morning. Overhead the seagulls wheeled and screeched in pleasure, and the tide was already going out again, taking with it all trace of the boy who was once Alexander MacDowell.
It took all her strength to pull herself to her feet. She felt battered, beaten, and she moved back up the pathway like an old woman. The children looked at her strangely, and their German nanny herded them quickly out of harm’s way.
The house on Water Street was still and silent. No police cars parked outside, no lights on. She could see movement in the apartment over the garage, but even Ruben and Constanza had yet to begin their day. She crept in the back door, into the silent and deserted kitchen, shaking with the cold. She climbed up the back stairs, back to her bedroom, and collapsed on the narrow bed, pulling the covers tight around her. She should strip off her wet clothes, but she didn’t have the energy. She needed to get warm. She huddled deeper beneath the pile of blankets, shivering so hard she could hear the creak of the old bedsprings beneath the new mattress. She lis
tened, remote, removed, and then closed her eyes.
She’d almost died. When the rest of the house had stirred and discovered that Alexander had taken off with every piece of loose cash or jewelry he could lay his hands on, full panic had set in. Someone must have checked to make sure Carolyn was asleep in her bed, bundled beneath a surprising amount of heavy blankets, but then she’d been forgotten in the hubbub, the police, the FBI, the panic and anger and recriminations. By the time Constanza realized she hadn’t been seen all day, Carolyn’s fever was one hundred and five and her body was shaken with convulsions.
They didn’t tell her Alexander had disappeared until she was released from the hospital some five days later. Sally had stayed with her the entire time, sleeping in a chair by her hospital bed, her once-beautiful face ravaged by grief and worry. It wasn’t until later that Carolyn knew that she’d remained by her side rather than go in search of her spoiled, errant son. Sally really did love her after all, and she never spoke Alex’s name out loud. Her son had failed her, and in her hurt and anger she simply ignored his existence, turning instead to Carolyn.
It wasn’t until years later that Carolyn remembered anything at all, when she woke up screaming with a nightmare, and the horrifying night came back to her full force.
Alexander MacDowell was dead, she remembered that much. Someone had shot and killed him. Beyond that, dreams mixed with memories that sent her into a mindless panic. She’d learned not to think about it. Not to question.
The dreams had eventually stopped, and she’d pushed them all away, into the forgotten past. Sally had never asked if she knew anything about that night, and as the years passed and she began to long for her missing son, she never thought to question Carolyn, and Carolyn had never wanted to take away her hope. It was easier to forget that summer night so long ago, pretend it hadn’t happened.
She didn’t have that luxury anymore. Not with a stranger, a liar, a criminal trying to worm his way into Sally’s good graces and into her fortune. Not with the dreams coming back to rip her from her sleep.
She should have told the truth years ago, even though it would have shattered Sally. But she hadn’t. She was unwilling to dredge up her own imperfect memories, unwilling to bring that much pain to the person she loved most in the world.
She could hardly come up with the truth some eighteen years later. She could only keep her mouth shut and her eyes open, and wait for him to betray himself.
And hope the dreams wouldn’t keep coming back.
PATSY MACDOWELL looked younger than her son George, and only marginally prettier. Which was only to be expected, given that her fifty-eight-year-old face and body were a work in progress, an ongoing testament to the wonders of cosmetic surgery, compulsive exercise, and every fad diet known to womankind. She was a perfect shade of golden bisque, a combination of seventy-five-dollar-an-ounce makeup and state-of-the-art tanning machines. The MacDowell brown eyes stared up at Carolyn with their usual vague disinterest, and she lit a cigarette with practiced grace.
“How are you, Carolyn?” she said with her patented greeting. She had absolutely no interest in Carolyn’s response, but that didn’t keep Carolyn from telling her the truth.
“Disturbed,” she said flatly.
Patsy’s response was less a smile than a grimace. “Aren’t we all? Where is the mysterious missing heir? I didn’t disrupt my schedule and drag myself all the way up here to sit around and waste time.”
She was stretched out on the sofa in the living room, her perfect legs crossed decorously. It was no accident that she reclined on a rose-colored sofa that accented her pale beige suit. Patsy knew how to choose her accessories, even when it came to which furnishings she graced.
“I haven’t seen Alex this morning,” Carolyn said, omitting the fact that she had done her best to avoid him since his appearance in Vermont some three days ago. “When did you get here?”
“It seems like hours ago, darling,” Patsy said with a delicate yawn. “Dear George drove me up—he’s always been the best son. But even so, the whole thing is too exhausting, don’t you know? Find Alex for me, will you, and tell him his devoted Aunt Patsy is positively dying to see him again. Not to mention his cousin George. The two of them were the same age, and dearest friends when they were children.”
“They’re still the same age, and they could never stand each other,” Carolyn pointed out. Patsy ignored her, always ready to revise family history to suit herself.
Things had gone from bad to worse. Patsy and Warren were bad enough—George Clarendon, better known through youth as George the Pig, was the final straw. An elegant, beautiful, sneering young man, he always seemed to be watching everyone, making a mental list of their failings.
“I think Alex is off with Warren again. The two of them seem to have hit it off,” she said coolly.
Patsy stared at her. “How astonishing!” she murmured. “I wouldn’t have thought Alex and Warren were the type to cozy up. Of course, eighteen years have passed. People change.”
“Yes.”
“Still,” Patsy continued, “I find that very interesting indeed. If Warren accepts him completely then I don’t suppose I have any reason to doubt that it’s the real Alex. After all, Warren is far more observant and distrusting than I am—he’s always telling me so. I suppose I should take his word for it that he’s the real thing.” Carolyn said absolutely nothing, a fact that wasn’t wasted on Patsy. “Sally believes it’s him, doesn’t she?”
“Absolutely,” Carolyn said.
“And what about you, dear Caro?”
Carolyn hated being called Caro, and she suspected Patsy knew it. She managed a cool smile. “I have a suspicious nature.”
Patsy shrugged. “I suppose I’ll have to make up my own mind.” She glanced out the window. It was a gray, chilly day, and the recent snowfall still lingered on the flat brown landscape. “Not the best time of year for a family reunion. Tessa and Grace are arriving today as well, but at least I talked Grace out of bringing her obnoxious offspring. Children give me hives.”
Carolyn hadn’t realized things could still get dramatically worse than they already were, but the imminent arrival of the rest of Patsy’s grown children was the final blow. “I’ll talk to Constanza,” she said, whirling around, desperate to escape and go kick something.
“No need, dear,” Patsy said with a languid wave of her hand. “I’ve already warned her. Though I gather you’ve been sleeping in the room Tessa usually uses. You don’t mind vacating, do you? She is so particular about her surroundings, and if she has to share, she’d much rather share with Grace. You can understand that, can’t you?” She smiled sweetly.
“I don’t mind,” Carolyn said numbly.
“It’s a good thing Sally had this place renovated a few years back, or you’d be stuck in the servants’ quarters with Ruben and Constanza. Not that there’s anything wrong with that—Sally spoils them dreadfully. But then, she’s always been a soft touch.” She gave Carolyn a gracious smile.
It took Carolyn a moment to realize that her fingers were tingling. Her hands were clenched so tightly she’d cut off all feeling in them. She forced herself to relax, to meet Patsy’s pampered smile with one of her own. She’d known Patsy all her life, and she knew just what was pure malice and what was simply the by-product of determined self-interest.
“I’ll go move my things,” she said. “When do Tessa and Grace arrive?”
“Oh, at some point,” Patsy said airily. “Find Alex, will you?”
“Of course,” she said, lying through her teeth. The last person in the world she was ready to face was the phony Alex MacDowell. Though running up against George the Pig was a close second.
Naturally Alex was waiting in the hallway, just outside her room.
“You look ready to kill someone,” he said lazily. He was leaning against the wa
ll, watching her, his eyes hooded, his expression unreadable. He was wearing faded jeans that fit his lanky frame, a thick cotton sweater, and running shoes.
She paused, looking at him with a critical eye. “You don’t dress like a MacDowell,” she said abruptly.
“That doesn’t even wound me, much less kill me,” he said. “And just how does a MacDowell dress?”
“Didn’t your research tell you that?”
He made a clucking noise with his tongue. “Harsh, Carolyn. Why do you refuse to trust me?”
“You figure it out.” She pushed past him, into her room, slamming the door behind her. He caught it, moving inside and closing it very quietly behind him. Closing them both in.
She ignored him, yanking open a drawer and pulling out her neatly folded clothes. He stood there watching her. “Is this what a MacDowell wears?” he asked curiously, leaning forward to pick up her neatly ironed khaki slacks. “Looks pretty boring to me.”
“If you want to know how to dress you can watch your cousin George.”
“He’s coming?” Alex made a disgusted noise. “Is he still a little pig?”
“No,” she said. “He’s here already, looking for a touching reunion with his favorite cousin. If you’ll excuse me, I have to vacate this room for his sisters and I don’t have time for small talk.”
“They’re kicking you out, too? You can always come back and sleep with me.”
It was the final straw in a series of long, horrible days. Without thinking she reached out and slapped him, the sound loud and shocking in the stillness of the room.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. His blue-green eyes hardened for a moment, and then his wickedly sensual mouth curved in a smile. “A mistake, dear Carolyn,” he murmured.
“On your part or mine?” She was horrified at herself. She’d never hit another human being in her life, and yet there he stood, the imprint of her hand red against his golden skin.
