Haunting Rachel (6 page)

He was not Thomas.

In one sense, that fact was a relief; at least now she could stop agonizing over whether Thomas had been alive all the time she had believed him dead. He hadn’t lied to her, hadn’t been cruel enough to hide himself from her.

He had, quite simply, died in a tragic plane crash before his thirtieth birthday.

No, this was another man entirely. A man at least a few years younger than Thomas would have been, maybe thirty-five at most. But the resemblance was certainly uncanny. It made her seriously ask herself if maybe everyone really did have a twin somewhere in the world.

So. There was a stranger who looked like Thomas, a man who knew her name and who had seemingly been watching her for at least several days. The question was— why?

That question remained in Rachel’s mind after she went home and all through the weekend, while Fiona fussed over her and Cam exclaimed, and the phone rang with worried inquiries from concerned friends—this surprising her, since she had not realized so many people still thought of her as a friend after she had spent so many years away from Richmond.

She found herself going often to her bedroom window, where there was a view of the front gate, her gaze searching for sunlight glinting off blond hair. But she didn’t see what she looked for. Who she looked for. And without information only he could supply, there was no way for her to know who he was and why he had come into her life as he had.

By Monday afternoon Rachel had reached the point of wondering if she should take out an ad in the newspapers asking the mysterious blond man to give her a call. She didn’t, but the thought was definitely tempting.

No one seemed to notice her preoccupation over the
weekend, or if they did, chalked it up to her brush with near death. Graham was the only one to comment on Monday afternoon when she went to his office to sign yet another stack of legal documents.

“You’re very quiet today,” he said, leaning back in his chair to study her thoughtfully. “Aftereffects of the crash?”

“Probably.” She made her voice reassuring. “I don’t know, maybe everybody should crash their car into an oak tree at least once. It sort of puts things into perspective for you.”

“What kinds of things?”

Her shoulders lifted and fell. “What really matters. Graham, I don’t think I want to sell the house after all. Even to Cam.”

He didn’t seem surprised. “What about the business?”

“I haven’t decided about that yet. But the house … Mom and Dad loved it so much, and they’re very much there in spirit.” Despite control, her voice quivered. “I started cleaning out their bedrooms yesterday, finally going through everything, and I couldn’t believe how close to them it made me feel. When I thought of Mom’s letters and her collection of lace handkerchiefs being packed away, and all the books Dad loved going into storage because I don’t have room for them in my apartment in New York … it just hit me what I was thinking of doing.”

She hadn’t actually begun cleaning out their bedrooms. What she had done was take two steps into her dad’s room and then sit in a chair, crying for the better part of an hour. But the result had been the same. She couldn’t bear the thought of selling out.

Graham smiled. “Well, there’s enough money to maintain the house, no question. Would you move back to Richmond and commute to New York? Keep the apartment
in Manhattan and visit here on weekends? Or do your design work out of the house?”

Rachel sighed. “I haven’t made those decisions yet— except there’s no way I could work totally out of the house and keep my job. To make a name for yourself in the fashion industry, you have to be where it’s happening— and that means New York.”

“So that’s still important to you? It’s one of the things the accident put into perspective?”

She thought about it, nodding slowly. “It’s not fame I’m after. It’s not even success, really. It’s … being creative the only way I know how. It’s the excitement I feel whenever I see an idea actually taking shape in a sketch and then in fabric and on a model.”

“You could have that here in Richmond,” he said neutrally. “Open a boutique, maybe, with one-of-a-kind designs. The label of Rachel Grant, a Richmond exclusive. I’d say most of the ladies around here would eat it up. In time, New York could come knocking on
your
door.”

Even as he spoke, Rachel knew it could work, could be a huge success. She was only surprised she hadn’t thought of it before then.

“It’s a possibility,” she said slowly.

Graham nodded. “Definitely something to think about. I mean, if you’re going to keep the house, it’d be a shame to have it go unoccupied for long stretches. Living here, working here. Makes sense to me.” And it would keep her in Richmond, which was what he wanted.

She smiled at him. “You should have stayed with trial work, Graham. You can be very persuasive when you want to be.”

“That’s why I stopped criminal trial work.” He smiled slightly in return. “I was able to sway a jury to believe my client was innocent when he was actually guilty as hell.
Didn’t much like the way that made me feel, so I switched to corporate law.”

“I never knew that.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t run my car into an oak tree, but what happened did put things into perspective for me. I’ve found life often forces us to make choices, whether we think we’re ready for them or not.”

“I’m beginning to think you’re right about that.” Her voice was somewhat rueful. “When I came back here, it seemed there were nothing but choices to make, and I didn’t want to make them. Yet, somehow, every time I’ve had to choose, it’s been easier than I expected. More simple and clear-cut.”

“Maybe you’re getting back on balance. You’ve had a hell of a rough year, Rachel, don’t forget that. Give yourself time. There’s no decision you absolutely have to make now, no choice so imperative that it won’t wait a few weeks. As with the house, you’ll know the right choice when it hits you.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course.”

She laughed and got to her feet. “I’ll let the whole situation simmer for a while and see what happens. Satisfied?”

“For the moment.” He rose as well, smiling. “How’s the car?”

“Drives like a dream, thanks. I meant to ask if it’s a rental or leased?”

“Leased. Let me know if you want to buy it.”

“Okay.” If she lived in Richmond on a permanent basis, she would need to own a car, something she had not needed in New York. Then there would be insurance, and a tag, and maintenance … responsibilities. Ties to this place. If she kept the house—and she was fairly certain she
would—that would be the biggest tie of all. She felt a tinge of uneasiness but pushed that reaction aside. “Rachel?”

She looked at Graham, saw his frown, and realized that she must have flinched or otherwise betrayed discomfort. “It’s nothing. For a minute there, I let the … weight of choices overwhelm me. But you’re right. There’s nothing I have to decide right this minute. Which reminds me—”

“I’ll tell Nicholas you need more time to decide about the business.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you later, Graham.”

“You bet.”

Rachel left his office and drove her leased sedan home without incident. Except that she couldn’t stop scanning her surroundings in search of the blond stranger. She didn’t see him.

That newspaper ad began to seem more inviting.

When she went into the house, it was to discover that Fiona was upset because Darby’s workmen had been “tramping” up and down the stairs all day, getting in her way, and Cam wanted to talk to her about buying a rosewood wardrobe that had been found in the attic even though Darby was desperate to have it for her shop, and Darby needed to check with Rachel because she had a list of requested pieces from clients.

Rachel dealt with each of them patiently, soothing, answering, or making a decision—whatever was called for. Fiona was promised fewer difficulties caused by workmen, Cam was promised the rosewood wardrobe, and Darby’s list was gone over and selected items agreed upon. Then Rachel retreated to her father’s study so she could be alone for a little while.

It was a room she had always loved, a fairly small room off a side hall on the first floor, where her father had spent
much of his time when he was home. It was one of the few rooms in the house not furnished with delicate antiques— though the huge Regency table that had served as his desk was certainly an exquisite piece. The remaining furniture consisted of big, comfortable, overstuffed chairs and a sofa that faced the marble fireplace, as well as big, solid end tables and occasional tables. The floor was hardwood, but covered with a lovely rug in muted shades of blue and burgundy, and bookshelves lined the wall between the two large windows.

Rachel had already been through all the business papers her father had kept in this room, but she was still in the process of sorting through his remaining personal papers. He had been quite a letter writer, especially in his younger years, and Rachel was loath to throw away his correspondence without reading it just to make sure nothing important was discarded by accident.

She was sitting at the desk bemusedly reading a letter to her father from a rather well-known sixties actor, when the door opened and Fiona stepped in, a peculiar expression on her face.

“Miss Rachel …”

“What is it, Fiona? Darby said she’d speak to her guys, so they should stay out of your way now. Is that it? Or is there another problem?”

“No. That is—I don’t know. There’s a—a gentleman here to see you.” The housekeeper’s voice was as odd as her expression, a little shaky and more than a little hesitant.

“Oh? Who is he?”

“He says his name is Delafield, Miss Rachel. Adam Delafield. He says.”

Rachel frowned at the housekeeper. “Did he say what it was about?”

“Something about your father, he said.”

“All right. Show him in.” Since her parents had died, she had been getting calls and visits from people they had known, and in particular from people who had been helped in some way by her father.

“Miss Rachel—” Fiona hesitated, then turned away, muttering something under her breath. And crossing herself.

So Rachel probably should have expected her visitor to present something of a shock. But she didn’t. And when the blond man walked into the room a few moments later, she could only stare at him in astonishment.

“Hello,” he said, his voice low and curiously compelling. “I’m Adam Delafield. It’s nice to finally meet you, Rachel.”

His eyes were definitely blue.

He was tall and athletic in appearance, with wide shoulders and an easy way of moving that spoke of an active life. His lean face wore a tan that had obviously come from time spent outdoors over the years. He was dressed casually in dark slacks and a black leather jacket worn over an open-necked white shirt, and looked perfectly at ease.

He also looked, amazingly, incredibly, heartbreakingly, like Thomas.

Of all the questions swirling around in Rachel’s mind, the first one to find voice was “Who are you?”

He smiled slightly. “I just told you.”

She got up and went toward him, stopping when she could rest her hands on the back of a chair, keeping it between them as a barrier. “You told me your name. But
who are you?
Why have you been watching me? Why did you leave the accident and—and come to my hospital
room, and how do you know my name?”
And how is it that you look so much like him?

“Lot of questions.” His smile remained. “Can we sit down while I try to answer them?”

Rachel hesitated, then gestured for him to sit on the sofa while she chose the chair across from it. She couldn’t take her eyes off his face, and even as he began speaking in a voice that was—surely it was!—eerily like Thomas’s, she realized that he was not as at ease as he appeared. There was tension in him; she could feel it. And those blue eyes held a muted intensity that stirred a new and wordless uneasiness in her.

“My name, as I said, is Adam Delafield.” He spoke slowly, consideringly, and his gaze was intent on her. “And the simple answer to all your questions is that I knew your father.”

“How did you know him?”

“He invested money in a … project of mine.”

Rachel frowned, trying to take in what he was saying, to separate his words from the overwhelming confusion of his looks. “I don’t recall seeing your name on any of Dad’s financial records.”

“No, you wouldn’t have. The investment wasn’t through the bank. He used personal money and there were no records of the transaction.”

Her frown deepened. “I know Dad occasionally invested his own money in ventures he considered too risky for the bank, but no records? A handshake deal? How could he report his profits or losses if there was no paperwork?”

“In my case, he didn’t expect either profit or loss. The deal was simple, a turnaround of the money. He invested a considerable sum, which I was to repay within ten years.”

“Interest free? That sounds like a loan rather than an investment. And a pretty good deal for you.”

Adam Delafield nodded. “An excellent deal for me. But he called it an investment because he was sure we would do business together in the future. That was a little more than five years ago. I expect to be in a position to pay off the … loan—within the next six months.”

“And that’s why you showed up here? Why you watched me from a distance for days?”

“You make me sound like a stalker.” His voice was light, but that intensity lingered and lent the words shadows. He sighed. “Rachel—I hope you don’t mind, but Duncan talked about you and I got into the habit of thinking of you as if I knew you.”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “No, I don’t mind.”

“Thanks. Rachel, I just wasn’t sure how to approach you. I intended to introduce myself to you earlier, right after Duncan and your mother were killed, but you had already gone back to New York, and until the estate was settled, or nearly so, you weren’t expected back. I didn’t want to intrude on your grief. And—I knew about the resemblance.”

Taken aback, she said, “You did?”

He nodded. “Duncan commented on it, even showed me a photograph of Thomas Sheridan. So I knew my appearance would probably come as a shock to you. I didn’t want to upset you, that’s why I hesitated to just come up and knock on the door. At the same time, the investment Duncan made in my project was substantial, and since I knew there were no documents, and that he wouldn’t have mentioned it in his will, and possibly not even in his personal papers, I had to see you and explain the situation.”