Aquamarine (4 page)

“You think the murderer is a member of the family?” She bit into the strawberry.

“Someone close to the family, anyway. Someone with inside knowledge.”

“That’s just great.” She shook her head. “Sorry. Not interested.”

One thing for sure, she was every damn bit as stubborn as Kirsten. That tongue flicked out again, this time to lick the juice off her lower lip. Teague forced himself to look away.

Another moth smashed into the window with a muffled thump.

Dammit, she could do this. He knew she could.

Teague frowned at her. “If there were just some way I could convince you how important this is …” He dug in his wallet for a couple more photographs. Placing them on the table in front of her, he tapped the first snapshot. “This is a picture of Jack and Kirsten taken at Kirsten’s engagement party. Can you see the family resemblance?”

Shea put down her fork. She fumbled nervously with the locket that hung from a fine gold chain around her neck.

“And this”—he nudged the second picture—“was taken a few weeks ago. He’s gone downhill since.” In the
second snapshot, Jack Rainey’s color was bad. He’d lost a lot of weight.

“You’re telling me this man is Kirsten’s father?”

He nodded.

Shea shoved her plate aside. She stared at the photographs and Teague stared out the window. Let her think about it awhile. It wasn’t an easy decision.

“Teague?”

“Hmm?” He turned to her.

“I probably need my head examined for even considering this,” she said, “but I’ll do it. Just for a couple of days, I’ll be Kirsten.”

Shea returned to her room at the Liberty Lodge just after two
A.M.
Bone weary but too restless to sleep, she paced the narrow strip of carpet between the end of the bed and the built-in desk and dresser. Her mind reeled with all she’d learned in the last few hours: an apparent kidnapping, a possible murder, an angry fiancée, a grieving father. She worried her locket between thumb and forefinger, seeking comfort from the familiar.

If only she could talk with her mother …

She shouldn’t have agreed to Teague Harris’s crazy scheme. And she wouldn’t have if he hadn’t shown her the photographs of Kirsten’s father.

She’d always known she was illegitimate. According to the story her mother had told her, her father had been killed in Vietnam before he could marry her mother. She’d never questioned that story until now.

Shea flipped open her locket and stared at the only picture she had of her father. Lieutenant John Raines
looked like a younger, healthier version of Jack Rainey. Coincidence? She wouldn’t bet on it.

But if Jack Rainey and John Raines were the same man, then why had her mother told her that lie about his dying in southeast Asia? To cover the fact that she’d had an affair with a married man? Maybe. But that didn’t explain where Elizabeth figured in the equation.
She
was the one who’d sent the postcard.

Dammit. Shea snapped the locket shut. There were too many unanswered questions, and she wasn’t at all sure she was going to like the answers. Maybe she should contact Teague Harris right now and call off the whole thing before it was too late.

She pulled his card from the back pocket of her slacks, sat down on the bed, and started to dial. Changing her mind at the last moment, she broke the connection before the call had a chance to go through.
Don’t be such a weenie
, she lectured herself.
Are you going to give up on this the way you gave up on your job?

She’d worked twelve-and fourteen-hour days—weekends and holidays too—as an account executive at the Plas-Tech Corporation. She certainly hadn’t deserved a pink slip for her efforts. Yet she hadn’t said a word in her own defense, just emptied her desk and walked out.

Dammit, when will you learn, McKenzie? For once in your life, fight for what you want. Tackle your difficulties head-on. Back out now and you’ll never know the truth
.

But if she stayed in Liberty …

Shea remembered the way Teague’s raspy voice had wrapped itself around her name, the way the hard gray of his eyes had softened to a smoky charcoal once he realized she wasn’t lying, the way her body had responded to
his touch. Tall, dark, and dangerous didn’t even begin to cover it.

“Who was Kirsten’s best friend in grade school?” Teague asked. He and Shea sat on a rustic bench overlooking the lake. To a casual observer they probably looked like a couple enjoying the scenery and each other. In reality, the park bench was Shea’s classroom, Teague her teacher. Neither one of them was interested in the view, and far from enjoying his company, Shea was just about at the end of her tether. When she reached it, she’d probably strangle him with the cord.

“Tamara Johnson,” she snapped.

“Johnston,” he corrected. “Tamara Johnston.”

Shea leaped to her feet. “Johnson? Johnston? Who cares? She moved to Washington at the end of eighth grade. What are the odds the Raineys will drag her into the conversation? No, never mind. I’ll tell you what they are. A million to one. This is pointless. You’ve been grilling me for hours, and my poor little brain cells are fried. Isn’t it time for recess yet?” Her eyes flashed; her breasts rose and fell with each quick, agitated breath.

Teague stared off across the water toward the island, carefully avoiding both the accusation of the eyes and the temptation of the breasts.
Ought to be a law against those damn sports bras.
Especially under tank tops.

Shea grabbed his hands and dragged him to his feet. “Come on, Teague. Let’s play hooky. Just for an hour or two. What do you say?”

Jeez, he was tempted. But he squared his shoulders and tugged his hands free. “I say that in just under
twenty-four hours you make your debut appearance as Kirsten Rainey.”

“Please, Teague? I’m whipped.”

She didn’t look whipped. She looked … Damn, better not dwell on how she looked. “What was your mother’s middle name?”

“Slave driver!”

“Wrong. It was Anne. Elizabeth Anne Lennox Rainey. She died shortly after you were born. Father’s middle name?”

“Dammit, Teague.”

“Father’s middle name?” he repeated.

“I hate you.”

“Father’s middle name?”

She sank down on the bench in defeat. “Michael,” she said with a sigh.

“I’m not ready.” Panic engulfed Shea in a suffocating wave. She needed more time. It had been only a week since she’d first agreed to the masquerade. A week of drill and practice as Teague did his best to train her for the role of long-lost daughter. A week of pretending her heart didn’t beat out of control every time he looked in her direction.

Teague smiled encouragement. “I’ve taught you everything I know about Kirsten and her family. You’re as ready as you’ll ever be. Besides, Jack can’t wait forever. When I called yesterday to prepare them for your arrival, Cynthia said he’d had another bad night.”

Then Jack Rainey and I have something in common besides our looks
.

Massacre Island, the private domain of the Rainey
family, loomed above them like a fortress. It was much larger close up than it had appeared across the lake from the deck of her room at the lodge. Granite ledges shelved up from the water, giving way to a heavy stand of ponderosas. The air was cool and tangy with the scent of the pines. “I’m scared, Teague.”

He touched her shoulder briefly, and her heart did a somersault. “Don’t be. Just concentrate on what you know. Pop quiz. Describe the family.”

“There’s Jack, of course, and his second wife, Cynthia.”

“Who was …” he prompted.

“A widow with a young son Jack later adopted. That’s Kevin, now a college student.”

“Who else?” Teague cut the motor and they drifted into the mooring at the end of the dock. He used his foot as a bumper, then made fast with the ease of long practice.

“Michaela, Jack and Cynthia’s five-year-old daughter, born after Kirsten’s disappearance.” She stared at the wilderness of rocks and trees. “Where’s the house?”

Teague lifted an eyebrow. “You tell me,
Kirsten
.” He held out a hand to help her from the boat.

Ignoring his outstretched fingers, she hopped onto the dock unassisted. Her brain was barely functioning as it was. If he touched her again, the few remaining circuits would short out for sure. “Straight along the path to the south side of the island. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars,” she recited. “I’ve got the directions memorized. I just thought we ought to be able to see the house from here.”

“Too many trees in the way.” He squeezed her hand, and her spine melted.

“I can’t do this,” she said, not sure whether she was talking about meeting the Rainey family or pretending to be his fiancée.

“Yes, you can.” His voice was low and soothing. “Think positively.” He nodded toward the path. “The welcoming committee just cleared the trees. Follow my lead.” He pulled her into an embrace and kissed her with more enthusiasm than she felt the situation merited. Dammit, she was shaky enough without having to deal with a hormone rush.

“Don’t lose yourself in the part,” she warned through her teeth while gazing adoringly up into his face.

His answering smile made her tremble. “Who says I’m acting?” He kept one arm draped around her as they turned to greet the others. “Cynthia, Kevin, Mikey—look who’s back.”

Shea fought to still her trembling and concentrate on the Raineys.

Kirsten’s stepmother approached first, an attractive woman as slim and chic at forty-four as most women half her age. She pulled Shea into a welcoming hug, enveloping her in warmth and Chanel No. 5. “Kirsten,” she said in a shaky voice, “I can’t believe you’re here. I never thought we’d see you again. It’s wonderful to have you home.” Tears glistened in her eyes. She released Shea and pulled her son and daughter closer. “Say hello to your sister.”

Fair-haired, blue-eyed Kevin, a nineteen-year-old sophomore at the University of Idaho, was startlingly handsome with near-perfect features. He took Shea’s hand in a firm grip, then pulled her close. “It’s good to have you back, Kirsten,” he whispered in her ear. “We’ve missed you.”

When he let her go, she smiled up at him. “I missed you too, Skeeter.”

An odd expression rippled across his surface composure. He wasn’t trembling on the brink of tears like Cynthia, yet it was obvious that this meeting was affecting him as profoundly as it was his mother. “I’d almost forgotten that old nickname. I must have been a rotten little pest.”

She grinned. “Rotten maybe. Pest definitely. But little? Never.”

Teague shot her a questioning look, a slight frown marring his forehead. Had she messed up already?

Kevin shoved his little half sister forward. “Say hello to Kirsten, Mikey.”

Michaela Rainey was the image of Shea at five. She had the same straight little nose, clear blue-green eyes, tousled dark ringlets, and stubbornly squared-off chin with just the hint of a cleft. Right now the chin was thrust forward aggressively, her lower lip in pouting mode.

She stood toe-to-toe with Shea. “You’re not my sister. My sister’s dead. Ruth said so and
she
doesn’t lie.”

Cynthia gasped. “Mikey, you’re being rude.” She dragged her daughter away from Shea. “Apologize to Kirsten this instant.”

“I won’t!” A mutinous expression twisted the little girl’s features. “She’s not Kirsten. She’s a nimposter who’s trying to steal our island.”

“Michaela Rainey, apologize at once.” Cynthia’s expression was thunderous.

The child twisted loose. “I won’t! And you can’t make me.” Then she turned on her heel and took off up the path.

Cynthia looked as if she were about to follow, but
Kevin placed a restraining hand on her arm. “Let her go,” he said. “It’s not her fault. Ruth has been filling her head full of that garbage for years.” Kevin glanced at Shea. “You remember our beloved housekeeper?”

“Does she still whistle ‘Rock of Ages’ for hours on end?”

Kevin grimaced. “Her musical shortcomings are the least of the problem. A few years ago she joined a very strict sect called the Tabernacle of the Blessed. If you thought she had a weird take on religion before, you should hear her now. She’s got those two kids of hers on their knees every five minutes praying for forgiveness for some imagined sin or other.”

“If she’s gone off the deep end,” Teague said, “why not fire her?”

“Jack won’t hear of it.” Cynthia frowned. “And he has a point. Ruth’s been a fixture on Massacre Island longer than I have. Besides, she’s an excellent housekeeper as well as a trained nurse. I don’t know how I’d manage Jack’s care without her.” She turned to Shea. “Teague explained about your amnesia.” Her smile was so sympathetic, Shea felt like a worm for deceiving her.

“Yes, my memory is still pretty patchy.”

Teague wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She glanced up, surprising an expression on his face that made her feel dizzy. All week, during the incessant drills in Rainey family minutiae, he’d kept a careful emotional distance. He’d been by turns a bully, a buddy, and a brother. She’d decided all the heavy-duty sexual awareness was one-sided. Evidently, she’d decided wrong. The fierce, tender yearning of his expression told her that. She shivered in reaction, then frowned as another possibility occurred to her. Was it she he wanted? Or Kirsten?

Thankfully, conversation was sporadic as they took the path to the house. Shea found it difficult to think with Teague’s arm around her.

The scenery was gorgeous, the views increasingly spectacular as they climbed toward the crest of the island. They paused at the top to catch their breath and appreciate the dramatic vista down the length of Crescent Lake.

“This is where the lookout was posted back in pioneer days. Can you imagine how young David Rainey must have felt when he woke up—he’d fallen asleep at his post,” Kevin explained for Teague’s benefit, “and saw Indians approaching in war canoes?”

“White men dressed as Indians,” Shea said. “Thugs hired by Angus Fitzhugh, a local land baron who coveted the island.”

Teague shot her a funny look. That wasn’t a topic his coaching had covered.