Shadow Lover (11 page)
"We can talk about something else."
"I don't want to talk at all. I want to forget you even exist," she said ruthlessly. She turned away from him, facing out the window.
"Don't worry, Carolyn. As soon as Sally dies, I'll be gone from your life, and it'll all be over. You'll never have to think about me again."
She didn't respond. Her profile was distant in the gray morning light, and he allowed himself the dubious pleasure of watching her as he watched the road. He had known plain women, beautiful women, kind women, and cruel ones. Carolyn Smith had perfect features—a narrow, straight nose, high cheekbones, a sweetly generous mouth, and wide-set, wonderful blue eyes. Her skin was flawless, her body long and nicely curved, though she could have used a few extra pounds. All in all, she should have been physically irresistible.
But she had a wall around her, a wall of barbed wire and ice, and no matter how lovely the creature behind that barrier, she was still out of reach. The warning signs were all around—no trespassing—and yet her cool beauty was perversely tempting. Most sensible men would keep clear of her.
He wasn't a sensible man. He was a man who enjoyed a challenge. He was a man who knew far too much about Carolyn Smith, probably more than she did herself. He was a man who enjoyed danger. Otherwise he'd be Sam
Kinkaid
on the other side of the ocean, basking in the Mediterranean sun in his house in
But here he was. And here she was
,
her arms folded tightly across her body, turned away from him, cold, silent, withdrawn. Here she was, at his mercy for at least the next twelve hours. He was looking forward to it.
The front seat of the jeep felt as cramped and stuffy as a race car. Carolyn was doing her absolute best to ignore him, pretending to be asleep, staring out the window, answering his occasional comments with a discouraging "mm." But try as she might, she couldn't rid herself of the overwhelming sense of his presence, crowding her, pushing at her, physically overpowering her. He was there, beside her, all around her, intrusive, demanding, even when he didn't say a word.
It was her own damned fault and she knew it. At the advanced age of thirty-one she'd learned how to let go of distractions, rise above disappointments, inure
herself
to annoyances. And yet the con artist pretending to be Alexander
MacDowell
seemed impervious to all her defenses. He managed to get under her skin with his faint, mocking grin, his luminous blue eyes,
his
sexy, lazy slouch.
She took a deep breath,
then
let it out slowly, trying to relieve the tension that had built up inside her. It was the fifth or sixth time she'd tried it, and it didn't seem to be working. It only made her feel lightheaded.
"Need more tranquilizers?" he drawled, pulling to a stop outside the ferry office. He'd found the Woods Hole dock without any trouble, and she knew a moment's doubt. The way was well marked, and he was a thorough, well-versed man. He'd drive directly to the house on
"I'm fine," she said in a tight little voice.
"You're wrapped tighter than a watch spring. I'm surprised you're not a little more resilient."
"I'm worried about Sally. I haven't been away from her for the last year, when she started going downhill. I don't like to leave her."
"That's a long time to devote
yourself
to someone with a full-time nurse and a household staff. She doesn't need you hovering at her bedside every moment."
She turned to look at him. "No, she doesn't. But I need to be there."
She half-hoped there wouldn't be room on the ferry for their car. She shouldn't have underestimated him—he'd already reserved a space, and they arrived promptly in time to make the sailing.
It had been so long since she'd been on the ferry, so long since she'd seen Edgartown. At one point the old house had been a battleground for the
MacDowell
siblings—everyone wanted their piece of it. Of all the
MacDowell
houses, this was the important one, far more precious than the
Park Avenue
apartment or the sprawling
She could have thought of happier ways to return than with a man pretending to be a dead man. Alex
MacDowell
, seventeen years old, with wild, angry eyes, haunted her. His ghost wandered this island, roamed
lingered
in the shadows in the formal garden behind the old house. The ghost of Alexander
MacDowell
lived here, and bringing an imposter into his presence seemed like a very grave mistake.
She left the car and the man and went in search of a cup of coffee, sipping as she watched the island loom up out of the afternoon sea. It was later than she expected—it was already
midafternoon
and the ferry was taking far longer than she remembered. Probably because she was so eager to get this over with.
He was already waiting for her in the car when she reached it, just as the ferry docked. She had no idea how thorough his briefing had been, but she had no intention of giving him any help in finding the house on
She'd known that huge old white Victorian house since childhood, yet it looked strange, different in the off-season. Like the rest of the houses along
She glanced at Alex, but he seemed entirely familiar with the place as he parked the car and climbed out. Of course, it was always possible he'd come here before, as part of his training. He knew too much about the real Alex
MacDowell
not to have help from someone close to the family. Maybe an actual
MacDowell
.
He glanced back at her. "You want me to open the door for you?" he drawled.
She'd been sitting there in a trance. She shoved at the door handle, forgetting she still wore her seatbelt. She cursed beneath her breath, finally exiting the car with a complete lack of grace.
She hadn't realized that Alex had come up behind her, following her gaze out to the abandoned lighthouse. "It hasn't changed much, has it?" he murmured.
She glanced up at him. He was too close, but then, even at opposite ends of the country the man would always be to close for her peace of mind. He was looking out at the place where the real Alexander
MacDowell
had died with no more than casual curiosity. Totally unaware of its history.
"Some things never change," she said quietly. He met her gaze. "And some things do."
His smile was faint, self-deprecating. Sexy. That was the one thing he had in common with the lost Alex.
He was sexy as hell. And just like the vulnerable thirteen-year-old he'd left behind, she was far from immune.
He glanced around him, as if seeing the place for the first time. Which, in truth, he probably was. "There's something depressing about a seaside community in the off-season, isn't there?"
"I prefer it."
He grinned. "Okay. How about something depressed about an unused lighthouse?"
She shook her head. "It's still used. It's just automatic. It's to keep people from dying on this beach." She used the words deliberately, almost as a taunt.
But the man pretending to be Alexander
MacDowell
was oblivious. He merely shrugged. "I hope it works," he said. And he started toward the house.
Chapter 7
T
he house was cold, musty, damp, and dark. Spring had come early to the Vineyard, but the warmth of the sun hadn't penetrated the shadowed recesses of the old house, and Carolyn shivered as she stepped into the gloomy front parlor. The furniture looked bulky and ominous in the
holland
covers, and the shades let in no light at all.
"Let's get the picture and get out of here," she said, unwilling to explore the old house any further. It had been a long time since she'd been here, and yet the painful memories still lingered. If it had been up to her, she never would have come back.
Alex walked past her, into the darkness, and pulled one of the shades, flooding the room with light. "What's the big hurry?"
"I don't want to miss the last ferry."
He turned to look at her. "I thought you realized."
If she'd been cold before it was nothing compared to the sudden chill that invaded her
bones.
"Realized what?"
"We've already missed it. Didn't you look at the schedule? I'd assumed you realized once we got on the boat there was no getting back till tomorrow morning."
"Don't be ridiculous! The ferries run till
at night, and longer on weekends."
"In the summer, Carolyn. This is off-season. The last boat left the island an hour ago. We passed it on our way out here."
"No! What about the ferry we rode on? That was getting ready to leave—"
"It was heading on to
Nantucket
. It won't be back here till morning. We're stuck here for the night. We might as well make the best of it."
"There are planes—"
"What about the car?"
"You can stay here and keep it company." He leaned against the wall. "I hadn't realized you were quite so scared of me."
"I'm not."
"Then why are you so desperate to leave? You'd have to rent a car once you got to the mainland, and then the drive north would take you a good five hours."
"I want to get back to Sally."
"Why? She's not going to die in the next twenty-four hours. Her doctor said she'd stabilized for the time being."
"You talked with her doctor?" She tried to keep the anger out of her voice.
"Why not? I'm her son. Her closest living relative."
You're a cheat and a liar
. She didn't say the
words,
she even schooled her expression into one of deceptive calm. "Of course," she murmured, turning away from him.
"Look," he said. "If you're that desperate I can see if there are any small planes flying off the island tonight. But you're making a fuss over nothing. You don't have to be afraid of me."
"I'm not," she said again.
"Then what is it you're afraid of?"
She looked at him, cool and fierce. "Absolutely nothing."
"Now, that's not true," he said lazily. "You're afraid of spiders, and commitment, and Alexander
MacDowell
. You're also afraid of losing whatever dubious sense of family the
MacDowells
have given you. You're like a child in a candy store, looking inside at all the treats you can never have. But you don't realize all those things are tasteless, useless. A mirage."
"Spare me," she drawled. It was easy enough to find out she was terrified of spiders—the entire family knew it and mocked it. If she'd reached the age of thirty without forming any serious romantic attachments it was only logical that she'd been uninterested in getting involved. As for whether she was actually afraid of Alex, either the real one or the man pretending to be him—well, she wasn't going to think about that, not right now. "What about the hotels? The bed-and-breakfast places?"
"Off-season, remember? Is it this house you're afraid of? Did some monster pop out of a closet and molest you?"
"It holds unpleasant memories," she said in an icy voice.
"Like what?"
"Like the day Alex died." Immediately she knew that she'd said too much. For a moment his face was entirely blank, and then he moved toward her, a slow, almost stalking pace, and it was all she could do to hold her ground, to look up at him with absolute calm and not back away.
"The day Alex died?" he echoed. "What made you think I died? I just ran away. That's what everyone else thought, isn't it?"
His eyes were mesmerizing, a deep blue that sank into her bones. "Yes," she said.
"Yes, what? Yes, you thought I died? Or yes, that's what everyone else thought?"
