Shadow Lover (30 page)
She went straight into the bathroom, and he could hear the shower running full force. He'd already checked—there was no other way out of the room, so he knew there was no way she could escape, if she suddenly had the crazy need to. The motel didn't come with room service, but he found a place that delivered Chinese food and called in a huge order. By the time she came out, looking like a pale, drowned rat in a baggy t-shirt and oversized jeans, he was setting the cartons out on the table.
"Don't bother telling me you're not hungry," he said, forestalling her instant protest. "You need to eat, and if you don't cooperate I'll tie you to the bed and pour fried rice down your throat."
A faint, answering smile would have been too much to hope for. Instead she simply sat on one of the hard little chairs and reached for the can of soda he'd gotten from the machine outside.
There were no plates, so he simply shoved the carton of lo
mein
at her, along with a pair of chopsticks, then started in on his own beef and broccoli. "You can have the egg rolls," he said, breaking the silence. "They have shrimp in them."
That broke through her numbness. She jerked her head up to look at him, and her eyes were bleak and sorrowful. "Why are we here?"
"We missed the last ferry."
"That's not what I mean and you know it. Why did we come here? Why are we going back to the Vineyard?"
"Unresolved business. I want to know who shot me. No one seems to be able to pry that information out of your brain, and I'm not comfortable letting go of it, particularly now that someone's started using you for target practice. I thought I could just forget about it and get on with my life, but I guess I'm not as forgiving as I thought I was. Particularly since someone seems to be up to his old tricks."
She picked at
the lo
mein
with a complete lack of interest. "What do you mean?"
"Whoever shot at you, whoever tampered with your brakes is presumably the same person who thought they'd killed me eighteen years ago. At least, I'm assuming it's the same person. They were all in the Vineyard the night someone shot me, and I'd hope there aren't two would-be murderers in the
MacDowell
family."
"Why would they want to kill me? I have nothing to do with you." There wasn't even a trace of defiance in her flat voice.
"Isn't it obvious? We both happen to be a singular inconvenience to anyone interested in inheriting the bulk of Sally's estate."
"My trust fund isn't going to make a hell of a lot of difference in the scheme of things. Not when you consider how much Sally left. Besides, the trust fund is already in place—my death isn't going to change it." She pushed
the lo
mein
away from her.
"Well, maybe our busy little murderer doesn't realize that. Or maybe he knows perfectly well you could have a much greater claim if you chose to exert it."
"What are you talking about?"
"Eat your dinner."
"I'm not hungry, and I'm not going to eat another bite until you explain yourself." Anger had finally begun to splinter through her unnatural calm.
Anger,
and a trace of fear. She didn't want to hear what he was going to tell her. She didn't want to know the truth.
"Haven't you ever wondered where you came from?" he said, putting his own carton of food down on the Formica-topped table. "Didn't you ever bother to ask, ever think about why Sally would bring you home to live with us? She certainly didn't make a habit of picking up strays." He couldn't keep the cynicism out of his voice, remembering his own origins, but Carolyn took it wrong.
"You don't need to remind me," she said bitterly. "I don't belong. I was here on sufferance. I have no right to be among the
MacDowells
."
"Didn't you ever ask where she found you?"
"I know where she found me. No one's ever made any secret of it. I'm the illegitimate child of someone who used to work for her."
"Nice of Sally."
"She hasn't been dead for twenty-four hours, Alex," she said sharply.
"That doesn't make her a saint, and she'd be the first one to tell you so."
"You know the
story as well as I do
. Sally was always fond of the woman, and when she died Sally decided to see that I was taken care of."
"She could have just written a check every month. And don't tell me that wasn't Sally's style. You know perfectly well she preferred her charity long-distance. What made her bring you into the house?"
"Obviously, you have some theory," Carolyn said, her icy calm vanishing. "Why don't you share it?"
He tipped his chair back, surveying her with a remote air. "You're a
MacDowell
," he said flatly.
She didn't blink. "Sure."
"Haven't you ever noticed the resemblance? You and Tessa could be twins."
"You're out of your mind. My mother was a Swedish nanny—"
"She might very well have been. But your father was Warren
MacDowell
."
All color left her face. She stared at him with a kind of sick shock. "No," she said flatly.
"Yes. There's no other explanation. Sally was too old, and Patsy had just had Tessa. The bloodlines in the
MacDowell
family have run very thin these last few generations. Too much inbreeding, I'd guess. The only other living
MacDowell
is an ancient great-aunt in a nursing home in
England
and a second cousin who's both too young and gay. No one else."
"I'm not a
MacDowell
."
"You know you are," he said. "And that's always been the problem. Deep in your heart you've known you belong."
"You're crazy," she said, but he could see the dawn of doubt in her eyes that were so like Tessa's.
"Why don't you ask
Warren
?"
She pushed away from the table in sudden fury. "I'm not asking
Warren
a goddamned thing. Now that Sally's gone I don't care about the rest of your sick family. If
Warren
happened to have fathered me I'm sure he knows it was the worst mistake of his life, and he's not about to admit it. And I don't want to know. I don't want to see or talk with any
MacDowell
ever again in my entire life." She was looking around the room in desperation. "And that includes you."
"What are you looking for?"
"My shoes. I'm getting the hell out of here."
"No, you aren't," he said with deceptive calm. "I told you, you aren't safe."
"And I told you I don't want to spend another minute with any of the
MacDowells
."
"Fine. I'm not a
MacDowell
."
Instantly he realized that was a tactical error. She was a strong, resilient woman, but she'd been through too much in the last few days, culminating in Sally's death that morning. She picked up a chair and threw it at him.
He managed to knock it out of his way and leap up after her. She'd opened the door, halfway out, barefoot or not, when he caught her arm and dragged her back in, slamming the door shut behind her and pushing her up against it. His own tenuous hold on his temper had snapped as well, and he didn't care. He loomed over her, trapping her, holding her there, as she fought against him, her strong fists pounding against his chest, her bare feet kicking his shins, as a litany of pathetically lame curses came from her mouth.
He caught her shoulders and shook her once, hard, shocking her into momentary silence. Tears were pouring down her pale face, the tears she hadn't shed since Sally's body had been found. "Someone needs to teach you how to swear," he muttered.
She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Who the
fuck are
you?" she demanded hoarsely.
A small, reluctant smile cracked his face. "That's better. I'm Alexander
MacDowell
, and you know it."
"Which would supposedly make you my first cousin," she said bitterly.
He shook his head. "The only person in this room with
MacDowell
blood is you. Sally's only child died before he was born—she managed to find another baby boy to substitute for her own."
Carolyn stopped fighting. She leaned her head back against the door, staring up at him. "You're crazy!"
He shook his head. "Why do you suppose Sally was so dead-set against DNA tests? She knew nothing would be proved. I'm the changeling in the family, Carolyn. Not you."
She looked up at him in shock, and he couldn't resist touching her face, the silky smooth, pale skin. "Not you," he repeated softly, leaning his forehead against hers. "Not you."
* * *
He left her alone. After she pushed him away he stepped back, and made no move to touch her again. She could be grateful for that much, Carolyn thought in a blinding daze of pain. If he touched her again she would crumble, and she couldn't afford to let that happen.
She was cold, so cold. She'd lost track of the time, but it didn't matter. She crawled into one of the queen-sized beds and pulled the covers up tight around her face, shutting out the world, shutting out the man who seemed to have been the harbinger of everything disastrous in her life. If she could sleep then maybe it would all go away.
When she woke the room was filled with an eerie light, and the bed was moving. She lay in the odd
stillness,
disoriented, knowing something was terribly wrong and not able to remember it. The bed was shaking, and it took her a moment to realize it was her body, wracked with shivers, that was making it move.
Alex lay stretched out on the other bed, asleep. The blue light of the muted television set filled the hotel room, and Carolyn watched the screen for a moment. He'd been watching The Weather Channel when he fell asleep. She had no idea whether he was expecting a natural disaster or he was just a weather junkie. She didn't care.
All she cared about was getting warm. It was
, according to the digital clock, and the room was like a freezer. She expected to see her breath mist in the frigid air. The pile of blankets lay on top of her like layers of ice, closing the cold in around her, and Alex lay in a t-shirt and jeans, seemingly oblivious to the cold. His bed was stripped down to the bottom sheet—he'd piled them on top of hers, and she felt a dizzy sense of gratitude. In this ice cave he was willing to risk freezing to death for her sake.
She'd read somewhere that freezing to death wasn't a bad way to go. You got numb, and then you fell asleep, and that was the end of it. But the numbness wouldn't come, no matter how badly she needed it, the cold was sharp and painful, and she bit her lip rather than cry out. All she could do was lie in the cocoon of covers and shake.
She tried to hit him when he climbed onto the bed beside her, but her arms were trapped beneath the pile of blankets. He made no move to get under
them,
he simply lay on top of them, wrapping his body around hers. He was hot in the icy room, burning hot, and she thought he must be dying. She didn't care. She needed his heat.
He was talking to her, she realized. Soft, meaningless phrases, as he warmed her body with
his,
and one hand gently stroked her face. Her tears were made of ice as well, but the heat from his hand melted them, so that they ran down her skin, burning her.
His whispered words made no sense; she knew that. "Hush, Carolyn. It'll be all right, I promise. I won't let anything happen. Just take a deep breath and let the heat surround you. I won't leave you. I promise I'll take care of you."
From somewhere deep inside she wanted to laugh. She didn't need anyone to take care of her. She had learned early on to be strong, to take care of herself.
And besides, everyone always left her, sooner or later.
What other silly things was he saying to her? It didn't matter. His feverish body was warming hers, and she could feel herself draining him. She'd leave him a cold, frozen husk if she weren't careful. She should bring him under the covers, share the warmth with him. She should tell him she didn't need him. She should do a thousand things.
But all she could do was sleep.
* * *
Alex considered making her eat cold lo
mein
for breakfast, then decided he couldn't be that cruel. The room was stifling hot, and when he finally woke her she was logy, covered with sweat, limp with heat and exhaustion.
"Five minutes for a shower or we'll miss the first ferry, and I don't know how hard a time we'll have getting a space on the next one."
She stared at him with blank incomprehension. He wondered if she remembered anything about last night. Probably not, and probably just as well. It would take a long time to get past her distrust—knowing she'd been vulnerable enough to cling to him and weep in his arms would be hard for her to accept.
He was willing to give her all the emotional space she needed, as long as she stayed close. His first and foremost task was to keep both of them alive. Getting past her formidable sense of betrayal and anger would have to wait.
She was out of the shower and dressed in five minutes flat. He'd already packed up their meager belongings and stowed them in the car, and he was waiting by the open door when she came out. "We can get coffee and something to eat on the ferry," he told her.
