Aquamarine (12 page)

While Teague conferred with Jack, Shea leafed through the rest of the albums but found nothing to interest her.

Retrieving the album she’d set aside, she flipped to the picture of her mother with Jack and his first wife. Teague had suggested the existence of a black-sheep twin, but Shea didn’t buy it. She remembered the way Jack’s face had changed when she’d shown him the photograph.
Nobody special … I don’t recall her name
.

Jack Rainey was her father. She was convinced of it. And her mother knew he was alive; the postcard proved it, which maybe explained why her mother had never
wanted to travel to the western part of the United States. Too many skeletons buried in them thar hills.

The question was, did Jack know of Shea’s existence? She pulled the postcard of Liberty from her purse. Obviously Elizabeth had known Christine well enough to drop her a line, and equally as obvious, her mother had known the Raineys had a daughter.
Our Kirsten continues to thrive
.

She frowned. But what was the rest of the message about?
If ever you need anything—anything at all—don’t hesitate to contact us.
It wasn’t the sort of message a woman sent to her husband’s lover. Hadn’t Elizabeth known about Jack’s affair with Christine?

Shea pressed her fingertips to her forehead. The uncertainty was driving her crazy! Sighing, she sat up straight. She couldn’t get the story from her mother—not until her mom and stepfather returned from Europe, anyway—but she could ask Jack Rainey, and she intended to, as soon as possible. She was sick of pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Masquerading as a dead woman had seemed like a kindness at first, but in the long run, wasn’t it better if she told them all the truth—that she was Jack’s daughter, all right, just not the daughter they thought?

Unfortunately, when she stopped in to see Jack, he looked terrible, and she decided that today was not the time for upsetting revelations.

“I’m okay,” he said in response to her concerned look. “Just tired after all the excitement yesterday.” She took the hint and didn’t stay long.

Feeling tired herself, Shea went in search of Cynthia to say good-bye.

She finally spotted Kirsten’s stepmother on the deck near the pool. She started through the sliding glass
doors, then pulled back as she realized Cynthia and Kevin were in the midst of a heated private discussion, not a good time to interrupt. She was about to slip away when something Kevin said caught her ear.

“Disinherited? Over a stupid accident that wasn’t even my fault?” His handsome face was flushed with anger, his voice a bellow of rage.

“Not disinherited, honey.” Cynthia spoke calmly, but the nervous movements of her long, pink-tipped fingers betrayed her. “What your father is considering is a trust. You’d still have the income.”

“But I couldn’t touch the principal until I was thirty!” Kevin shouted. “That’s unfair, Mother, and you know it.”

“Yes, darling, I agree.”

“Dad’s just using the fender bender last night as an excuse to screw me out of my fair share of the inheritance.”

“Don’t blame your father. Blame Kirsten,” Cynthia said.

Shea clutched the edge of the door so tightly, the tendons in her hands stood out like the ribs of a fan.

“Kirsten?”

“She always could wind her father around her little finger.” Cynthia spoke bitterly. “But don’t worry, Kevin. Nobody’s going to cheat my children of what’s rightfully theirs. Especially not the long-lost daughter.” Cynthia’s voice was scarcely more than a whisper, but it frightened Shea as no shout could have.

Shea slid the door shut quietly. Her fingers felt numb from having gripped it so tightly. She flexed them a time or two to restart the circulation, then turned back into
the room, only to be brought up short by the sight of Ruth Griffin standing a few feet away.

A nasty, malicious, and distinctly un-Christian smirk twisted her plain features into a gargoylelike mask. “Eavesdroppers seldom hear any good of themselves,” she said.

Shea brushed past her. “Tell my stepmother I had to leave.”

The gloating sound of Ruth’s laughter followed her from the room.

Teague took Shea to La Paloma, his favorite Mexican restaurant. She eyed the dingy cinder-block exterior with suspicion but seemed to relax once inside.

“Piñatas!”
she said in delight, pointing to the colorful assortment hanging from the rafters.

As usual, the place was packed. “You
do
like Mexican, don’t you?” he asked belatedly.

She blinked. “I guess so. Taco Bell counts, right?”

“Close enough.” Teague caught the attention of the plump, middle-aged hostess.

She smiled and nodded in recognition, setting her long silver earrings jangling. “Senor Harris. Reservation for two, no?”

Teague nodded.

“Follow me, please.” The woman moved quickly, dodging between the crowded tables, deftly avoiding collisions with the numerous white-shirted waiters. She seated them across from each other in a high-backed wooden booth at the very back of the restaurant, then brought them tall glasses of ice water and big handwritten menus.

“What would you like?” Teague asked.

Shea shrugged as she studied the menu in confusion. “I took only one year of Spanish. What are chongos?”

“A custardlike dessert with cinnamon sauce.”

“Sounds great, but not for a main course. Why don’t you order for me? Then if I don’t like it, I’ll have someone to blame besides myself.”

“All right,” he agreed, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Watch it, Teague. You almost smiled there for a minute.”

“What are you talking about? I smile.”

“Oh, yeah? When?”

“I’m smiling now.”

“That’s not a smile; it’s a smirk.”

Their waiter introduced himself as Javier. He and Teague got into a heavy discussion of the relative merits of pescado a la Veracruzano and mole poblano de guajalote, both specialties of the house.

“Oh, go for the mole,” Shea said. “At least I can pronounce it.”

“Excellent choice,” Javier said approvingly. He whisked away the menus and appeared moments later with a basket of tortilla chips, a bowl of salsa, and two bottles of beer.

Following Teague’s lead, Shea dipped a chip into the chunky salsa, then took a tentative bite. “Tell me,” she said. “What exactly is that mole whatever we ordered?”

“Turkey cooked with chocolate sauce,” he told her, then choked on his beer at the expression on her face.

“Turkey with chocolate sauce? You did say
turkey
with chocolate sauce?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll like it. They use unsweetened chocolate. It’s spicy, not sweet.”

She ate another chip, then tried a cautious sip of the beer. When she made a face at the unfamiliar taste, Teague laughed out loud.

“I take it you’re no beer drinker.”

“You take it right. I’ll stick to water, thanks.” She leaned forward and he caught a tantalizing glimpse of white lace and soft, creamy skin. “Teague, I overheard a conversation this afternoon. Kevin and Cynthia were discussing the changes Jack plans to make in his will.”

“And?” What was she getting at?

“Kevin was furious because his father intends to tie his inheritance up in a trust.”

“He’ll get over it.” He took her hand. “And Jack’ll probably change his mind once he calms down. They go through this same routine every time Kevin’s in an accident.”

“But he claims it wasn’t his fault this time.”

“It’s never his fault,” he said. “In this case, he shouldn’t have parked so close to the other car.”

“But his date said the space next to them was empty when they parked.”

“Right. Only what Kevin didn’t tell her was that he left the club to go buy condoms, and when he got back, he found that Walsh had pulled in on a diagonal, taking up a third of the adjacent parking space. Kevin managed to squeeze in. Unfortunately, Walsh wasn’t as adept at squeezing out.”

“So why didn’t Kevin just park somewhere else?”

“I asked him the same thing. He said he didn’t want Chelsea to realize he’d moved the car.”

“He didn’t want to explain where he’d been,” she said.

“Right. Anyway, don’t worry about Kevin. Believe me, Cynthia will make certain he’s not slighted.”

She shuddered. “You should have heard her. She can be a little scary, huh?”

“Ruthless when her children’s interests are threatened,” he agreed. “Kirsten never trusted her.”

Shea frowned. “So what if she hires an investigator? It wouldn’t take ten minutes to discover I’m not really Kirsten.”

He drew ever-narrowing concentric circles in the palm of her hand. “Don’t worry. I’ve already taken the proper CYA measures.”

“Meaning?”

“I talked to Sheriff Carlton, told him the whole story, the true story.”

“And he’s going along with it?” Her voice rose.

“He wasn’t happy about our little deception at first, but like me, the sheriff thinks the real Kirsten’s dead, and he’s as anxious as I am to flush out the killer.”

“He’s not worried that I’m a con artist who intends to cheat the Raineys?”

“He checked you out, Shea. No criminal record, not even a speeding ticket. You’re just what you told me you were, a junior executive with a plastics firm in Ohio. At least you were until the company downsized a few months ago.”

She didn’t look at him, but he could feel the sudden tension in her hand.

“Want to tell me about that?”

“Not particularly, but since you already seem to know half the story …” She shrugged. “I went to work
for Plas-Tech straight out of college. Jerry Maxwell, the owner, was a terrific boss. But when he retired eighteen months ago, his son Jason took over.” She paused.

“Not such a terrific boss?”

“Oh, great boss. Lousy boyfriend. He’s the colleague I mentioned dating. When we broke up, I was corporate history. Jason called it downsizing, but that was just an excuse.”

Teague’s eyebrows slammed together in a frown. “You didn’t fight it?”

“My parents urged me to, but it seemed pointless. I didn’t want to work with Jason any more than he wanted to work with me.” She sighed. “Maybe I was wrong. I don’t know. Water under the bridge now.”

“And it’s not like you have to work,” he said.

She met his gaze. “Meaning?”

“The sheriff also learned that you inherited some money recently. Enough money to make it unlikely that you’re a gold digger after a stake in the Rainey fortune.”

She didn’t look at him, but he could feel tension in her fingers again.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re upset because the sheriff ran a background check on you.”

She looked up. “I know it’s silly. He’d have been criminally negligent not to investigate my past.”

“But?”

She dropped her gaze. “But I still feel violated. The way you must have felt last night when you discovered someone had been going through your things.”

“I’m sorry, Shea, but we had to be sure you were telling the truth.” He squeezed her hand. “Fact is, the
sheriff’s still following up on a couple of leads, trying to find a connection between you and the Raineys.”

She frowned. “So he does suspect me of something?”

“Only of being related to Jack.”

She smiled faintly, playing with the locket around her neck. “I’ve suspected that myself.”

Javier brought their food then, and Teague watched in secret amusement as Shea took her first cautious bite.

“Oh, it’s good!” she said, sounding surprised. “But spicy,” she added, as the subtle fire of the mole sauce kicked in and she reached for her water glass. By the time she was finished, Teague knew where the evening was headed. Or at least where he hoped it was headed. He couldn’t quit staring at her, and after a while he quit trying.

For dessert Javier brought fruit and a basket of tiny, nut-flavored Mexican wedding cookies.

“I really shouldn’t,” she said, but managed to nibble her way through a plate of fruit and two cookies. As she was reaching for a third, she glanced up and caught him looking at her. “Why do you do that?” she demanded.

“Do what?” he asked, trying to sound innocent.

“Stare.”

“I like to watch you eat.”

She grinned. “I’ve always had a healthy appetite. Fortunately, I’m blessed with a heavy-duty metabolism as well. Otherwise, I’d be big as a barn by now. Or at least a barnyard animal.”

“You look perfect to me.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.” Their gazes locked, and slowly her smile faded.

He reached across the table to rub a dusting of con
fectioner’s sugar off her lower lip. Then he very deliberately sucked the sweet white powder off his fingertip.

She licked her trembling lower lip, her eyes luminous. “Teague?” she whispered.

In the background, recorded mariachi music competed with the clink of silverware and the chatter of the other customers. He wanted her, he thought, and unless he was crazy, she wanted him too. “Let’s get out of here.”

Shea breathed deeply, trying to calm her raging hormones. The cool night air helped to blunt the edge of the strange, dizzying euphoria possessing her, but when Teague took her arm to help her into the passenger seat of his pickup, another, even more powerful wave of emotion swept over her, weakening her knees and annihilating her inhibitions.

He got in on the driver’s side. “Where to now? It’s still early, but in Liberty our options are limited.”

“Limited to what?” She leaned back against the headrest.

“A couple of bars on Main Street and a strip joint on the edge of town.”

“No thanks.”

“There’s a movie theater, but the last show started at nine. You don’t want to go in in the middle, do you?”

“No. What do you suggest?”

He turned to face her. She was very aware of his nearness in the confines of the front seat. “You could come to my apartment and look at my exquisite collection of—”

“Etchings?” The giddiness escaped in a giggle.

“Arrowheads, I was going to say, but I suppose it amounts to the same thing.”

“The lodge is closer,” she said, surprising herself. “Even though I don’t have an arrowhead collection, exquisite or otherwise.” She could, however, think of one or two other things to show him.