Dark Dreamer (8 page)

“The snows get heavy here.” Cara gazed at a spot somewhere west of Rowe’s shoulder. Her eyes were the same stormy hue as her sister’s, but not as grave. “If you don’t shovel your roof, ice builds up around the edge and when the snow melts off, the water can’t escape, so it ends up inside your house.”

“Great,” Rowe muttered. “And I have a ghost as well.”

The corners of Cara’s mouth tugged slightly, drawing Rowe’s attention to its kissable perfection. Identical twins, each lethally gorgeous in her own way, living right next door. What had she done to deserve this refined torture?

Cara’s next comment was, “Are you seeing my sister?”

Rowe had heard Mainers were direct, but the question startled her. Was Cara a lesbian as well? Odds on. The woman had been cruising her relentlessly since avoiding the handshake. “I…er, no. I’ve seen her, but I’m not
seeing
her.”

“Okay.”

Rowe detected relief in her face and figured Cara probably tried to keep her sister on a short leash. Who knew what kinds of problems a woman with a mental disorder could get herself into? She fought back an instinct to cover her healing black eye with her hand. Cara was staring at the injury with a combination of suspicion and dismay.

“I had an accident.” Rowe answered the unspoken question but did not go into detail. If Phoebe wanted to tell her twin what had happened, that was up to her. She switched topic. “I understand you’re in the music business, Cara.”

Phoebe’s twin unzipped her leather jacket and eased back into her seat, apparently deciding to stay put for the moment. “I direct and produce music videos.”

“That must be pretty interesting.”

“If you get off on being up to your neck in coke, testosterone, and egos.”

Rowe grinned. “Sounds like the shine’s worn off.”

“It’s a living. A good one.”

“That’s important when you have expensive taste in footwear.”

Cara blinked, then smiled a broad wayward smile, and at last Rowe saw a difference between the sisters’ faces. Cara’s smile involved more muscles and made more creases. It was vivacious, sensual, and engaging. By contrast, Phoebe’s held a siren’s hypnotic allure, its very remoteness a drug. Cara’s smile made you feel good, Phoebe’s made you crave her.

Cara extended a leg and lifted her jean hem to expose a pair of custom black alligator boots with a finish that was slightly matte.

“Lucchese?” Rowe made an educated guess. She had tried on a similar custom pair once but drew the line at spending five thousand bucks on them.

“I couldn’t help myself. I have a couple of Stephanie Ferguson designs, too. Phoebe thinks it’s my flashy side coming out.”

“My mom says the same thing about my computer. As in, what’s wrong with a typewriter?”

Cara let out a husky laugh. “You write, er…thrillers, don’t you?”

“It’s okay. You can say it. I write horror.”

“You’ve come to the right place.”

“I sure hope so. I have a deadline hanging over my head and zero happening in the ideas department. Of course, you didn’t hear that from me, and I need your promise I won’t read it on some horror blog tomorrow.”

“Done.” Cara stood up and removed her leather jacket. Dropping it on the seat, she said, “I’m going to grab a coffee. Want another one?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Rowe tried not to let her mouth fall open as she watched her companion cross the passenger deck. Cara wore a tight cranberry sweater tucked into her jeans. These sat on her hips, emphasizing a narrow waist, compact ass, and slender legs. She was hot. And smart. And probably had a girlfriend, perhaps several. Maybe she was the one who had posed for the mock-historical photo. Rowe opened her satchel, planning to ask. But before she could locate the pic, Cara returned with their coffee.

She gave a small smile as Rowe pulled the jacket away for her to sit down. “Listen, are you doing anything later?” she asked once she’d settled.

Other than gnashing her teeth in front of the computer? Rowe managed a laid-back tone. “No, I’ve nothing planned.”

“Want to come over for a drink after supper?”

“Sure. I’d like that.”

“Call it a peace offering. I was kind of rude to you before, I’m sorry.”

“No apology necessary, but thanks.”

They held one another’s stare and Rowe felt a flicker of awareness ignite between them. It was exactly the kind of flicker that had the potential to complicate her life. She looked away.

Cara touched Rowe’s wrist fleetingly, reclaiming her attention. “I can see why Phoebe likes you.”

Rowe stumbled over what to say.
Please don’t flirt with me
sprang to mind, and all of a sudden, she felt weary. Weary of being the safe, stoic type that women, lesbian and straight, seemed to think they could practice their charm on without consequences.

She could see Cara probably had her number already. Hers was the role of obliging butch next door, the one who could be depended on to fix cars and rescue damsels in distress. All it took was the promise of a hot meal, a sweet smile, and the possibility that one day something romantic might transpire.

It was not enough.

Rowe was sick of being used and sick of chasing the impossible. She withdrew her hand and casually sipped her coffee. She would be a friend to the Temple twins, but she would not be toyed with. Never again would she put her life on hold for a woman who wasn’t going to choose her anyway. Her therapist had said we repeat the same lesson over and over. Well, this was one lesson Rowe had finally learned.

She would enjoy Phoebe and Cara on her terms, not theirs.

*

Easier said than done, she thought a few hours later as she sat in an armchair in the Temples’ den. The twins were at either end of the cushy sofa opposite her, each with her feet tucked up, each gazing at Rowe like she was the only woman on earth.

“So, you never actually had that conversation?” Cara asked.

Rowe shook her head. “I knew she wouldn’t leave her husband. And I didn’t want an affair.”

Cara swirled her wine idly. “I love how straight women think they can take a walk on the wild side and run back to hubby, and no one gets hurt. Like we don’t count. It’s not infidelity if it’s with a woman.”

“She must have hated that you wouldn’t play her game,” Phoebe said.

“I never thought about it that way.” Rowe found the twins’ take on her situation refreshing. It was a relief to be able to talk about Marion openly. In Manhattan, she couldn’t lower her guard with any of her friends. Their social circles were too incestuous.

“I’ve met her type,” Cara said. “They need a lot of attention and they don’t mind who they get it from. A man or a woman.”

“It must be an ego trip for a straight woman,” Phoebe added. “I mean, to have a lesbian desire her. Maybe she was trying to make her husband jealous.”

Rowe thought about Christopher Cargill. Had he guessed? He had to know almost everyone who met his wife lusted after her. Did it make him feel good about himself to be married to the hottest woman in the room, to know every guy present wondered what he had that none of them did? Chris didn’t strike Rowe as the insecure type, and if he had guessed that she was in love with Marion, he hadn’t let on. She sighed. Who knew what went on in other people’s relationships? She was thankful to have left it all behind her, the whole miserable mess of life in the Big Apple.

“Bummer that it affected your work so much,” Cara said.

“I only have myself to blame. I let it go on far too long.”

“You were in love,” Phoebe said softly. “Passion and common sense make unlikely bedfellows.”

Cara shot her twin a pointed glance, and Phoebe blushed slightly.

Detecting an undercurrent between the sisters, Rowe changed the subject. “So, you’ll be away all next week?”

“Yes,” Cara said. “Phoebe has a series of meetings at Quantico, and I thought I’d spend a few days in Virginia while she’s there—take a look around.”

Rowe tried to imagine what there was to see in winter in Virginia. It would get kind of chilly wandering around the Military Park at Fredericksburg, and somehow Cara didn’t seem the type to spend vacation time soaking up Civil War history.

“Sounds like fun,” she said dryly.

“More wine?” Phoebe offered.

“Probably not a good idea. I need a clear head tomorrow, or I’ll never get that morgue scene finished.”

“You’re still writing it?”

“Jesus, give the woman a break,” Cara said. “She’s just been baring her soul about why her writing’s screwed.”

“It’s okay,” Rowe said cynically. “I’m not in Manhattan anymore, so I have no excuse for not writing. I’m in the perfect place, in the ideal space, but I spend most of my time staring out the window fantasizing about fried chicken. It’s pitiful.”

Phoebe gnawed on her bottom lip, a task Rowe would cheerfully have carried out for her. “There must be some way we can help. I know!” Her eyes lit up. “When we get back home, you can come here for dinner each night. That way, you won’t have to think about cooking in that awful kitchen of yours. If you want, we could even talk about what you’re writing.” She glanced at her sister. “Cara always has lots of ideas. She’s very creative.”

“That’s a nice offer,” Rowe said, as if her mind was fully engaged with her writing woes when, really, she was thinking about ravishing Phoebe. “But I need to solve this for myself.”

“What’s your new novel about?” Cara asked.

“A woman is carrying a mutant baby that can read minds and gets her to kill people.”

The sisters snuck darting looks at one another.

“Yep,” Rowe said. “It’s derivative crap.
Rosemary’s Baby
meets
The Omen
. Pretty unsavory.”

“So the mother and the baby have a psychic connection?” Phoebe seemed captivated.

Cara, on the other hand, was unable to mask an expression of pitying derision.

“Uh-huh. It’s the baby that has the power,” Rowe replied. “The evil spawn idea. Only, in my cunning twist, the daemonic child operates from the womb.”

“Don’t tell me…” Cara offered one of her wayward smiles. “It’s a covert campaign tool for the pro-choice movement?”

Rowe made a show of stroking her chin thoughtfully. “I wonder if my agent would buy that?”

“Instead of killing people, why don’t you get the baby to save the mother’s life?” Phoebe suggested. “You know, she could be in some kind of danger and the baby warns her.”

Rowe’s mind clicked into gear. “The husband is seeing another woman…he’s planning to kill his wife before the baby is born…”

“
Rosemary’s Baby
meets the Laci Peterson case.” Cara’s tone was not entirely dismissive.

Phoebe was gazing at Rowe with shy hopefulness, as if her idea probably sucked but might at least warrant a few seconds of serious consideration. Rowe wanted to kiss her and then some. Hoping these horny yearnings were not written all over her face, she forced herself to entertain the new story concept. Maybe it had legs. It wasn’t like her serial killer–fetus tale had a whole lot going for it.

“Not bad,” she conceded. “Not bad at all.”

“See.” Cara slid a foot across the sofa and nudged her sister. “Haven’t I told you I’m not the only creative person in our house?” The indulgence on her face spoke volumes of her relationship to her sister.

Rowe found herself intrigued by their dynamic. It was almost as if each was the flip side of the other. Cara was outgoing, Phoebe introspective. Rowe guessed that Cara spent a lot of time trying to instill confidence in her twin. Phoebe seemed to seek her sister’s approval constantly.

Curious, she asked, “Why do you two live together?”

The Temple twins regarded her solemnly.

“Trust,” Phoebe replied. “No matter what happens, we know we can always trust each other.” She looked to Cara, as if to measure her reactions.

“I guess the truth is, we don’t need anyone as much as we need each other,” Cara said in a pensive tone. “That must sound kind of creepy. But it’s pretty normal for twins.”

“You don’t have other relationships?”

“None that get in the way.” Phoebe seemed completely at ease with this discouraging pronouncement.

“What Phoebe means is that relationships come and go, but our bond will never change.” Cara looked Rowe up and down in frank appraisal. “Does that mean you won’t invite us to party with you?”

Rowe didn’t know whether to be charmed or shocked. Against her better judgment, she teased back. “Any time you want to find out, call me.”

Phoebe giggled. “Watch out, or she will.”

Cara’s eyes trapped Rowe’s. “Yeah, I have your number,” she warned softly.

“Figures,” Rowe said and did not look away.

CHAPTER FIVE

“What do you think of her?” Phoebe asked.

“She seems decent,” Cara said, braiding her twin’s long hair to keep it from tangling during sleep.

She had done this all their lives, since the death of their parents. Sylvia and Norman Temple had been killed on Pan Am Flight 759 when the girls were seven years old, and their grandmother had brought them up. Elizabeth Temple was an honorable woman who had taken great care to improve the estate the girls had inherited but seemed out of her depth with the demands of mothering. She had once told Cara that her only son, their father Norman, had been handed over to a nanny the day he was born, as if this made her disinterest inevitable.