Twice Kissed (19 page)

It wasn’t going to happen. Not tonight. The second she twisted off the spray, grabbed a towel, and stepped out of the tub/shower, Mary Theresa started in again. “You could tell Mom and Dad about Thane,” she suggested.

Maggie nearly fell through the floor. Her hair dripping, the towel half-wrapped around her torso, she stared at her twin as if Mary Theresa had lost her mind. “Are you crazy?”

“It would be easier to explain.”

“No.” Maggie had, in the past, gone along with her sister on most of Mary Theresa’s harebrained plans, but she wasn’t going to sacrifice herself this way.

“What does it matter?” Mary Theresa was warming to her plan; didn’t seem to think that exposing the fact that Maggie was seeing Thane on the sly was anything close to a problem.

“It matters.”

“He’s just a cowboy.”

“That’s not the point.” Maggie ran a comb through her hair and winced as the teeth caught in a tangle. With a hand towel, she rubbed a clear spot in the steaming mirror and tried to see her reflection as a current pop artist’s voice filled the room.

“Come on, Mag—”

“No!” Maggie worked on her hair, dragging the comb through her wet, wavy tresses. “Ouch.”

“Just listen—”

Knuckles rapped soundly on the door to Maggie’s room. “Girls?” Bernice’s voice was loud enough to be heard over the radio. “When you’re dressed come into the family room. Your father and I want to talk to you.”

“Shit!” Mary Theresa whispered, her face draining of all color.

“Girls? Did you hear me?”

“In a minute,” Maggie yelled.

“Well, hurry up. It’s late.”

“Oh, God, what will we do?” Mary Theresa asked, her hand to her mouth. “If they figure out—”

Maggie was sick inside. The images of the hot tub rolled through her mind. “You and Mitch, you didn’t—”

“No!” Mary was shaking her head furiously. “Okay, it got close, but we didn’t.” Her face wrinkled. “It was stupid, I know. Just messin’ around, drinking too much, and…oh, God, Maggie, you’ve
got
to believe me.” Tears were running down her cheeks, and she swiped them away with the back of her hand. Mascara smudged on her cheeks, and her eyes appeared sunken. In a matter of seconds she seemed to have aged ten years. “Please,” she begged.

Maggie’s fingers tightened around the rattail of the comb.

“I’ll do anything for you, if you just tell Mom and Dad that it was you. That you and Thane—”

The plastic comb broke. Maggie knew she was being a fool, manipulated by the master, but she had no choice. If her folks had any inkling, any idea that there was even the tiniest hint of incest…Her stomach clenched as the word burned through her brain. “Okay. Okay.” She walked into her room, found a pair of panties in her top drawer, stepped into them, and let the towel drop onto the floor. She scrounged around on the foot of the bed until she found her bathrobe and slid her arms through the sleeves. Cinching the belt tight around her waist, she looked at Mary Theresa, who stood in the doorway to the bathroom working at scrubbing off the evidence that she’d been crying. “Let’s go.”

Together, their silent evil pact hanging between them, they headed toward the family room. Maggie braced herself, steeling her shoulders, determined to take her parents’ wrath rather than have the family torn apart because Mitch and Mary Theresa were morons with the morals of alley cats.

She thought fleetingly of her own actions, of lying about what she was doing at the ranch, of the times she’d been with Thane in the woods, the fields, or the hayloft of the stables. Her skin tingled, and she flushed a little. Her parents would grill her and her father would probably threaten Thane, order him to stay away from Maggie. Forever.

Pain split her heart. How could she do it? How could she sacrifice something so wonderful as the love she felt for this man? Her throat tight, her feet feeling like lead weights, she followed Mary Theresa into the family room and saw the censure in their father’s eyes as he stood near the fireplace, his shoulders stiff, his spine rigid, his face the mask of a drill sergeant. “I want answers, girls. Straight ones.” He motioned to the leather couch. “Sit.”

“Frank,” their mother said. She was seated in her favorite wing-backed chair, one foot resting on an ottoman. “There’s no reason to be hostile.”

“They’re lying and Mitch—” He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and nodded as if he were slowly counting off the seconds. “Where in tarnation is that boy?”

“Who knows?”

“It’s well after midnight.”

“He’s nineteen, Frank.”

“Well.” Taking a deep breath, Frank Reilly lowered his head and skewered his two daughters with one frightening, determined gaze. “Maggie. Mary Theresa. Would one of you tell me what’s going on here? Who’s the boy?”

Maggie sank onto one leather-bound cushion. Inside she was shaking and quivering and her lips were suddenly so dry they felt as if they would crack. Mary Theresa perched on the edge of the couch and stared at Maggie, silently encouraging her.

“Well?” Their father’s face was florid, his eyes shining black beads that didn’t show a glimmer of empathy.

Maggie swallowed hard. She opened her mouth and forced the hated words over her lips. “It’s…It’s me, Dad. I have a boyfriend.”

“Oh.” Was there a twinge of relief in his voice?

“You?” Their mother took a sip from the glass that had been sweating on the table and Maggie realized that she’d been above suspicion—the plainer tomboy of a daughter who was more interested in swimming laps and riding horses than being involved with boys.

“Y…yes. I have a boyfriend.”

“Who?” Frank demanded.

“No one you know.”

“Someone from the restaurant?”

“No.” Maggie’s guts churned painfully. “He’s—”

Brring! The phone jangled loudly. Their mother physically jumped. Frank glared at the instrument. “Who would be calling at this time of night?” Impatient and irritated, he crossed the room and snagged the receiver, cutting off the second ring. “Hello?” he nearly shouted, then paused. “Yes, yes. Frank Reilly.” All eyes in the room turned to him and witnessed the instant deterioration of a strong man. “You must be mistaken,” he whispered, his face crumpling, his broad shoulders sagging as if suddenly burdened with an incredible weight.

“Frank?” Bernice asked, her voice shaking.

Frank Reilly slumped against the wall. “No,” he whispered loudly, then more vehemently. “No! No! No!” His fist pounded on the wall.

“Frank? What is it?” Terror laced their mother’s voice. “Frank, you’re scaring me and the girls and…what? What is it?”

Maggie’s skin prickled and a dull, muted roar, the sound of waves crashing on a distant beach, caused a headache to build behind her eyes. “Dad?”

“Oh, God.” Mary Theresa began to shake.

“I’ll be right there,” he said, his voice cracking as he hung up the phone and stared at his family through eyes that shone with tears, eyes that Maggie was certain couldn’t see. “That was the police.” His voice was gruff with emotion. “It’s Mitch…they found him on the beach.” He took in a deep breath, crossed the brown sea of carpet, and wrapped his arms around Bernice. “He’s gone.”

“What?”

“He’s…oh, God, he’s dead.”

“No!” She started fighting then. “You’re wrong, they’re wrong, Frank, no. Not Mitch—”

“Shh.”

Bernice gave out a sharp keening wail that screamed through the house, bouncing off the walls, echoing in the rafters.

“No!” Maggie shook her head violently side to side. Tears filled her eyes. “I…I don’t believe it.”

“Honey, it’s true.”

Bernice, sobbing and screaming, began pounding with small, impotent fists on her husband’s chest. “Mitchell,” she cried, tears rolling down her face. “No, not Mitchell. He…he was a son to me. It didn’t matter that…that I didn’t give him birth…oh God, oh God…”

Mary Theresa sat stunned, her eyes dry and round, her face as white as death.

“There’s some mistake!” Maggie was on her feet. “Call them back, call them! Whoever called.” She reached for the phone, grabbed the receiver and, with tears streaking down her cheeks, shook the mouthpiece at her father. “Call them, Dad!”

It’s true. I feel it. Oh, God, Mitch is dead.

“What?” Maggie whirled on her sister who hadn’t moved, still sat like a statue on the couch. “How do you know?” Mary Theresa blinked and didn’t say a word.

“How does she know what?” their father asked, his lips beneath his mustache beginning to quiver slightly. Those once beady, suspicion-filled eyes had begun to glisten.

“She just said that…” Maggie let her voice fall away.

“She didn’t say a word! Christ, what’s got into you?”

Maggie’s stomach clenched. “But—”

It’s no mistake, Maggie. Mitch said he was gonna do it.
Mary Theresa’s body began to shake. Her eyes held her sister’s, and without so much as a sound, she said,
I think he killed himself.

November 1998

Thane felt no sense of homecoming, just a cold, dark certainty that his life had changed forever. With Maggie asleep in the passenger seat beside him and the gauge of the gas tank nearly on empty, he cranked the steering wheel and turned the truck into the lane leading to the heart of his ranch. Home, if you could call it that. Dawn was just cracking—spreading weak light over the flat, snow-laden acres.

Against Maggie’s protests, they’d spent five hours of the past night in a fleabag of a motel on the sagging mattresses of twin beds only a few feet from each other. Thane hadn’t slept a wink. Just knowing she was an arm’s length away had kept him awake, an erection so intense it was nearly painful, reminding him how much he wanted her. That he’d once loved her.

Hell.

It had been a long, long time ago.

A lifetime.

Now, as the blizzard chased them down and the beleaguered windshield wipers slapped time to a fading country ballad, he shoved any lingering tender thoughts of her aside. He didn’t have time for the pain of nostalgia. He’d leave that to lovesick fools who didn’t know better.

Bone tired, his bladder feeling as if it would burst from half a dozen cups of coffee, he wheeled the rig down the lane where ten inches of snow smoothed out the ruts that ran parallel to the fence posts that were his guide. No tire marks were visible, no weeds poking above the smooth white surface.

Four-wheel drive kept the wheels moving, snow packing and churning under the tires as the ranch house came into view. This little piece of land had become his sanctuary as it had once in a while been Mary Theresa’s.

Christ, what a mess. Damn Mary Theresa. His fingers tightened over the wheel, his knuckles showing white. As if he were choking his beautiful, self-centered and destructive ex-wife.

“Damn it all to hell.”

And still the snow fell.

The outbuildings of the ranch appeared through the flurries and the house, two compact stories of stone and cedar, stood dark, not a lamp lit. It didn’t matter; he was relieved to have made it this far.

But for how long? What is all this crap with Mary Theresa? Where the hell is she?
For the past few days, ever since he’d come to the conclusion that she really was missing, the same questions had been racing like a brush fire through his mind, powered by caffeine and the slow-burning anger he’d always felt for that woman—the one woman who had been his wife. If it was possible, he’d love to grab hold of her narcissistic shoulders and shake some sense into that calculating, beautiful head of hers.

Whoa, pardner, she could already be dead for all you know.

Again his jaw clenched to the point of breaking and he eased off on the gas as he parked as close to the house as possible.

“Where…where are we?” Maggie asked, yawning and opening one eye. She’d been half-asleep, dozing on and off for hours. Now, with her auburn hair resting against her cheek, her eyes blinking off any lingering bit of slumber, she straightened, squinting through the foggy glass.

He’d hoped she’d aged over the years—put on weight, or shown signs of wear, but the few little lines around her eyes only added a depth to her—a maturity that he hadn’t been aware was lacking all those years ago.

God, he’d had it bad for her then. No woman, and he’d had more than a few by that time, had touched him as she had. It wasn’t so much her beauty, but her spirit that had reached him. Her razor-sharp tongue hadn’t hidden the complexity of her soul, and her sense of humor, even in those tense days, had been his undoing. He’d sensed that she’d been frightened of him, but fascinated, and though he’d told himself to forget her, to leave her alone, to keep his goddamned fantasies buttoned up and his pants on, he hadn’t been able to resist.

And it had cost him.

More than he could ever imagine.

She roused and yawned. “You said something?”

“We’re here.”

Squinting, she looked out the window. “Where exactly is ‘here?’”

“My place.”

“Your place?” She was starting to awaken, her mind clicking into gear—he saw it in the change of her expression, an adjustment from slumberous acceptance to clarified understanding. “You mean in Wyoming?”

“It’s as close as we can get right now.”

“But—”

“Look, Maggie, one of us has got to sleep and piss—not necessarily in that order.” He cut the engine and shoved on the door. Wind, as cold as an arctic blast, filled the interior. He didn’t have time for arguments and had to escape the warm confines of the truck.

“I thought we had to get to Denver. ASAP.”

“We are.” He yanked out some of his gear, and she, shooting him a glance that called him all sorts of foul things from a liar to a murdering bastard, grabbed a small bag and her purse. Together they trudged through the knee-deep snow to the porch. “Make yourself at home.” He unlocked the door, then held it open for her. “There’s a bathroom and extra bedroom upstairs, where you can crash if ya want.” He tossed her a look, and she saw the weary lines around his eyes. “I need a few hours, that’s all. Then we’re outta here.” He walked to the hallway and fiddled with the thermostat.

“Fair enough,” she said, though she didn’t like being in Thane’s house for a second. It was too personal, too close. And though warmer than the outside, it seemed cold and unwelcoming.

“The kitchen is that direction,” he said, pointing down a short hallway as he mounted wooden stairs that led to a landing before curving up to the second story. As his bootheels rang on the steps, she dropped her bag and walked to the kitchen. Small. Sparse. Just the essentials. Butcher-block countertops, cracked linoleum floor, the necessary appliances, and a table with two chairs pushed under a window that looked out across the parking yard to the barn and outbuildings.

The rest of the lower floor consisted of a living room decorated in what appeared to be cast-off or garage-sale furniture; a bedroom that had been converted into a den now equipped with a computer, modem, fax machine, floor-to-ceiling bookcases; and a bathroom.

She heard the toilet flush upstairs and the shower begin to run as she noticed the telephone/answering machine, its red light blinking. With only a slight qualm she pressed the
PLAY
button and heard three messages from Detective Henderson demanding that Thane phone the Denver police, another folksy greeting from someone named Howard Bailey, giving him a report on the livestock and what had happened on the ranch in the past couple of days, and one from a woman named Carrie, a friendly female voice who just asked Thane to call her back.

Maggie wondered about the woman, but shoved all thoughts of her aside as she made her way back to the kitchen. She heard the sounds of pipes and water running and decided Thane was still in the shower. Good. She needed a break from him. He was too intense, too good-looking, too much a part of her past.

Rummaging in the cupboards, she found a can of coffee on a shelf, located a much-abused coffeemaker on the counter, and set to work. While the coffee perked, she scrounged through the contents of the refrigerator, found eggs, a half loaf of bread that had seen better days, part of an onion, a couple of crisp apples, and a brick of cheddar cheese. Nothing fancy, but it would have to do.

Grating cheese and cracking eggs, she thought of Mary Theresa and her life in Denver. What did Maggie really know about her sister? She’d visited only a few times, once when Mary Theresa had married Syd Gillette, an older man who owned a string of hotels and treated his third wife as if she were one of his possessions. Mary Theresa had been younger than Gillette’s son, his only offspring, a boy who had been conceived in Syd’s first stab at wedded bliss.

Mary Theresa and Syd’s marriage hadn’t lasted a year. Since then Mary Theresa had avoided walking down the aisle.

So who else did Maggie know—who were the people associated with her sister? Eve Lawrence, Mary Theresa’s secretary, was the first to come to mind, and lately she’d worked out with a personal trainer whose name escaped Maggie. There was a boyfriend, ten years younger and a model of sorts—or had it been a tennis pro? His name had been Wayne…no, Wade, and his last name had been the name of a dog…Wade…Shepherd? No. Pomeranian, that was it. Then there was the cohost of
Denver AM,
Craig Beaumont. He and M.T. hadn’t gotten along. Or so she thought, but Maggie couldn’t really remember. Truth to tell, she didn’t know much about him or the other people who were involved with her sister since Mary Theresa had moved to Denver. Maggie had been wrapped up in her own life, her own problems, and her twin had always been secretive and glossed over her own.

Maggie couldn’t believe Mary Theresa was dead. Wouldn’t. Someone knew something. People just didn’t disappear without a trace. This was the age of telecommunications, for God’s sake, where the government and every creditor knew intimate details of a person’s life through his social security number, driving record, and credit-card use.

So where was M.T.?

Biting her lower lip, she sautéed onions, added the eggs, stirred, and when the mass had about congealed, threw in a couple handfuls of cheese.

By the time Thane walked down the stairs in clean jeans and a flannel shirt that was still unbuttoned, the makeshift meal was ready.

Maggie glanced at his bare chest, where there were still drops clinging to curling swirls of hair she’d never seen before, then looked away before she lost her train of thought. “You want some breakfast?” she asked, biting into an apple she’d already cut.

One side of his mouth lifted in a charming smile she would have loved to slap off his face. “Sure.” He buttoned his shirt and tucked in the shirttails.

“It’ll cost ya.”

“How much?”

“Just the truth.” She handed him a plate with a makeshift omelette and a couple slices of toast.

“Thanks.” He set his plate on the table, then poured two cups of coffee. “So what do you want to know?”

“Everything.” She took a seat opposite him and skewered him with a stare she hoped would seem intimidating.

“That’s a tall order.” His gaze darkened and in a chilling moment of déjà vu she remembered loving him years before, yet knowing that he kept secrets from her, that his past was guarded. Some things, it seemed, hadn’t changed.

“And you’re ducking the issue,” she said around a mouthful of eggs.

He ate in silence for a few minutes, chewing thoughtfully, washing down a bite of toast with coffee, then nodded as if agreeing with some inner conversation he’d had with himself. “Who called?”

“What?”

While watching her, he took a bite of toast. “You listened to the recorder, didn’t you?”

“No…I…” She wanted to lie, but figured there would be no reason. She sipped her coffee, then said, “Detective Henderson wants you to call him, some guy named Howie—”

“Howard Bailey, owns the place next door.”

“—he said everything was fine, and a woman named Carrie left a message for you to call.”

“Did she?” Again that ingratiating and irritating smile.

“Yeah.” Maggie finished her breakfast and shoved her plate aside. “So, back to the truth.”

“What is it you want to know, Maggie?” He leaned back in his chair.

“I told you—everything.”

He glanced out the window and rubbed his chin. She knew without his saying so that he was examining his soul, taking stock of the secrets and lies that had made him the man he’d become. “I’m beat to hell. You know that, so how about I check on the stock, sleep for a couple of hours, and fill you in on all the details.”

“No way. I want to know exactly why you’re involved with my sister. Why the police suspect you and—” She stopped before she crossed a line she’d never stepped over, a line she’d avoided for the better part of eighteen years.

“And?” he encouraged.

“Never mind.”

“Come on, Mag Pie,” he said, using an old, familiar endearment from years before. “Spill it.” He finished his coffee in a gulp and rolled his lips in on themselves. When she didn’t answer, he scowled. “My guess is that you want to know why I married Mary Theresa. Why, when things were so good between you and me, I took up with her?”

The room seemed to shrink. All the old doubts in her mind crawled out of their carefully locked crates. She felt eighteen again. Young, alone, betrayed. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Like hell.” He stood, tossed his plate into the sink, and reached for his jacket. “I’ll keep it simple for now, okay? It was a mistake. From the git-go. I was an idiot. You were the one I loved. But I was young and randy and didn’t think beyond the minute’s pleasure.” He slid his arms into the sleeves. “It started out as a mistake. I’d had a few too many beers and then…”

“Then you couldn’t stop yourself.”

“Nah.” He shook his head as if to convince himself. “I could have. I just didn’t want to.” His eyes held hers for a moment. “As I said. Young and foolish.” Snapping his jacket, he walked to the door, grabbed his hat, and squared it on his head. “You want a more detailed explanation, you’ll get one. Just as soon as I take care of things and catch up on a few hours’ sleep.”

Maggie watched him disappear through the door, and she mentally kicked herself a dozen times over. What did it matter? The past was ancient history. Mary Theresa had been irresistible, even to Thane. End of story.