Shadow Lover (15 page)

If he'd pulled it out of her reach again she would have knocked it all over him, but the imposter had a strong sense of self-preservation. He'd won this
round,
he was smart enough to settle.

"Get in the car," he said.

"I haven't finished my coffee yet."

"Bring it with you."

She couldn't come up with another argument. She drained the mug, set it down on the porch railing, and headed for the car.

If it wasn't a companionable silence, it was at least a relatively peaceful one, and she slid down in the seat, ready to nap her way northward.

And he seemed willing enough to let her. Once they were parked on board the ferry, he reclined his seat as well, closing his eyes peacefully.

Carolyn's eyes flew open in the dimness of the ferry's belly. There was no way she was going to lie beside him and sleep.

But one small cup of coffee and a restless night's sleep proved too much for her. Up on deck she could have more coffee, lots of it, while she watched the island disappear into the mist. All she had to do was unfasten her seat belt and slip from the car.

She couldn't do it. She was just too damned tired. Alex seemed to have fallen asleep the moment he closed his eyes—his breathing was deep and even, and he seemed off in another world. He wouldn't bother her.

She was crazy to stay there. But she was too tired to do anything else. And for some inexplicable reason, trapped in a car with a liar and an imposter, she felt safe, at least for the moment. Safe enough to give in to the shades of sleep falling down around her. Safe enough to trust him. At least for the moment.

* * *

He watched her. She slept like a baby, curled up on the front seat, half facing him, her hand tucked beneath her face. She probably sucked her thumb when she was a kid. He scoured his memory, but that piece of information eluded him.

All her life she'd been old before her time, a miniature adult, looking out for her adopted family. She'd been brought into the family at age two, and already she'd known she was living on borrowed time. She'd been a somber, well-behaved young child, and she was a somber, well-behaved adult. Except where he was concerned.

The teenaged Alexander
MacDowell
had always been able to rile her. The man who sat next to her in the car seemed to have the same wicked ability.

She needed to be riled more often. And he was definitely the man to do it.

But not right now. She was exhausted, with faint purple smudges beneath her eyes, and she didn't even stir when the ferry landed and he started the car engine. For a moment he wondered whether she was faking it, trying to shut out the necessity of making polite conversation.

But then, Carolyn didn't bother with manners as far as he was concerned. He suspected he was the only person she had ever been outwardly rude to, and it must have been absolutely liberating for her.

She shifted beneath the constricting seatbelt, murmuring something beneath her breath. He couldn't quite make out what she said, but he figured it didn't matter. He was oddly content to let her sleep as he drove northward through the thinning traffic. There was a certain amount of trust in her ability to sleep so soundly. She'd never admit to that trust, but he knew it was there, and it moved him.

Did she want him? It was a strong possibility, despite her obvious overwhelming dislike. He didn't know whether it was wishful thinking on his part, or whether he'd really tasted the beginning of a response last night on the porch roof.

Did he want her? Completely. And he had every intention of taking his time with her, spending long, slow, endless hours in bed with her, with no ghosts, no almost-family members breathing down their necks, watching them, as they always seemed to be watching.

It would make sense to wait until all this was over. Until Sally died, until everything was settled. Then there'd be nothing between them, no lies, no pretending,
no
family.

The problem was
,
he wasn't sure he had the self-discipline to wait.

They were within half an hour of home when she woke up, although she tried to pretend she hadn't, rather than have to make conversation with him. If he had a generous streak in his body he would have respected her reluctance. He didn't.

"Pleasant dreams?" he inquired.

She didn't move, obviously trying to decide whether she could fake it or not. She wisely realized it was a lost cause, and her eyes opened, still slightly dazed from her long sleep. "Pleasant enough," she said. "You weren't in them."

"It sounds as if I was before. Have you been dreaming about me? Erotic dreams?"

"Not likely," she said with an unflattering shudder.

He grinned. "Did you dream about me when you were a teenager?" He waited for her usual hostility, but she seemed too weary to bother.

"I used to have nightmares about Alex after he left," she said slowly. "They lasted for years, until I finally did something about them."

"What did you do? Have him exorcized?" He deliberately used the word "him."

"I saw a therapist in college. She helped me figure out what was fantasy and what was memory."

"And what did you remember? What haunted you?" His casual tone of voice was sharpening, but he could only hope she was still too
sleep
drugged to notice.

She turned to look at him, and her eyes were absolutely clear and steady. "I dreamed he died. I dreamed I saw someone shoot Alexander
MacDowell
and throw his body into the ocean."

She'd managed to silence him. "Quite a dream," he said after a moment. "And you didn't do anything to stop it? You must have really hated him. No wonder you can't stand to be near me. Or is it a guilty conscience?"

"I couldn't have saved him."

"But you didn't try."

"But he didn't die, did he?" she countered with swift irony. "After all, you're here, alive and quite disgustingly healthy."

"But you saw me die. Did you see who killed me?" She was silent, and the smartest thing to do would have been to let it be, wait until she was ready to talk. But he wasn't feeling very smart, or very patient. "Did you?"

"No." She was fussing with her seat belt, her elegant hands nervous. "I'm still not sure what was memory and what
was a nightmare
."

"I thought your therapist helped you figure that out."

"She helped me let go of it. There was no way I could solve it, so the only thing I could do was put it away from me."

"And now I've brought it all back. No wonder you hate me."

She turned to look at him, and there was unmistakable surprise in her blue eyes. Eyes you could drown in, he thought absently. Light and dark, calm and stormy, all at the same time. "I don't hate you," she said. "I just wish you'd never come here."

They were coming up to the narrow turn onto the
MacDowell's
long, unpaved driveway. It was an unprepossessing entrance to the multimillion-dollar compound, low key on purpose. One could barely notice the state-of-the-art surveillance equipment. He yanked the wheel, started down the narrow, two-mile drive, and then pulled to a stop, turning off the car and swiveling in the seat to look at her.

She looked nervous, as well she should. "The snow's gone," she said, obviously trying to distract him.

"You want to tell me again that you don't hate me? I don't believe you, Carolyn. Why don't you unburden yourself and tell me what you really think of me?"

She rallied. "I'd think that would be obvious. I think the real Alexander
MacDowell
has been dead for the past eighteen years, and you're a very good, very smart imposter who's here to bilk Sally out of her money."

"And who's working with me? If I'm a phony I must have a partner in crime—I couldn't know so much about the family without inside help. Who is it—one of the servants? Maybe a business associate?"

"One of the family. You know too many intimate details. If I had to guess I'd say it was
Warren
. Patsy is too ditzy, her older children are too self absorbed and stupid to carry something like this off, and Grace doesn't care about the money.
Warren
's got the brains and the nerve and the ruthlessness—though I can't figure out why he'd bother. The money will come to him and the others anyway—Sally's not going to change her will."

She was too smart and too damned observant.
Warren
wouldn't have given anything away, and neither had he. "Sounds to me like you're still caught up in fantasy," he murmured.

"Alexander
MacDowell
is dead!" she said desperately. "I saw him die!"

"And never bothered to tell anyone? Not the police, not Aunt Sally, as she was mourning her lost child? You didn't even want to drop a clue that her wait was going to be in vain?"

She couldn't come up with an answer.

"Guilt," he said again. "You know, that's a lousy thing to have running your life for eighteen years. I'll tell you what—I forgive you."

"You what?"

"Forgive you," he said grandly. "For watching me
die,
and doing nothing to save me. Hey, you were a kid, and you probably didn't even believe what you were seeing. It's not your fault. Your therapist was right—let go of it."

She didn't look gratified. "You're an imposter," she said again. "And I'm not going to sit around and do nothing while you rob a dying old lady."

"Then prove it."

For a moment she looked startled, as if the idea had never occurred to her. "Why should I bother?" she said after a moment.

"Because it's driving you crazy. I'll tell you what, Carolyn," he said lazily, leaning back in the driver's seat. "I'll make a bargain with you. You prove I'm not the real Alexander
MacDowell
and I'll disappear. Without a whimper, without stealing the family silver. I'll just go away, and
your
safe little life will be yours once more."

"No!" she protested. "You can't do that! If the man she thinks is her long-lost son disappears again without a word it would kill her."

"Carolyn, she's dying," he said with great patience and no emotion whatsoever. "Make up your mind. Do you want to expose me as a fake or not?"

"I do. I just don't know what's best for Sally."

"I can tell you the answer to that. She needs to believe her son has come back from the dead. I wouldn't think you'd want to deprive her of that, would you?"

There was confusion and real dislike in her clear blue eyes. He didn't blame her—he was giving her a hell of a hard choice. But he wasn't feeling particularly merciful that morning.

"You really are a bastard, aren't you?" she said bitterly.

"One more thing I have in common with the Alexander
MacDowell
you once knew and loved," he said lightly. "I tell you what—why don't you busy yourself trying to find out who I really am, and who exactly it is who's been feeding me information? Once you have proof you can keep that knowledge to yourself as long as I don't harm Sally. Once she dies, which you and I both know won't be long, then you can trot out your evidence and I'll disappear in disgrace before they can throw me into jail."

"Very convenient. What do you have to gain from that?"

"A comfortable berth for the next few weeks or however long it takes. The personal satisfaction of knowing I'm making an old woman's dying days happy."

She snorted in disbelief. "And what about your accomplice? Will you let him face the police?"

"I don't think you'll call in the police, Carolyn. I think you just want to see me gone again. Don't you? So you don't have to deal with your guilt anymore, so no one takes your place with Sally, so no one threatens all that money you've worked so hard for all your life."

She looked at him with deceptive calm. "I lied," she said. "I do hate you."

"Sure you do, angel," he said easily. "And you can ease your guilty conscience by ferreting out the truth about me. Go for it."

She stared at him. "You're on," she said after a long moment. "I'll find proof you aren't the real Alexander
MacDowell
, and then I'll decide what to do with it. Maybe I'll just torture you a little."

"Kinky," he murmured. "Just be careful of one thing." She didn't look particularly interested in his advice, but he didn't care. "It might not be too smart to look into what happened to your childhood friend. After all, if he really was murdered, there's a good chance the killer is someone you know. Someone who was there at the house that night. If he or she finds out you saw them on the beach, you might be putting yourself in danger."

Her face paled in the bright light of
midday
. Clearly she hadn't considered that little notion, and he wondered if she was going to end up with a bullet in her back.

Whoever had shot the obnoxious teenaged Alexander
MacDowell
and tossed him into the ocean had had eighteen years to get over his murderous tendencies. No other
MacDowell
had died an untimely death, or disappeared without a trace, or even suffered an unexpected accident. They were all safe and sound.