Replica (8 page)

Whether she was sick or not, Nate had to talk to her. She was his best friend, and she’d been through absolute hell yesterday. And knowing Nadia’s family, they hadn’t made the situation any easier on her, so she might appreciate the sympathetic ear. Assuming she didn’t completely freak out about him being a Replica.

But Nate’s motivation for going to see Nadia wasn’t entirely altruistic. He certainly couldn’t rely on the media’s account about what had happened on the night of the murder, but he hoped Nadia would be able to give him the first in the trail of breadcrumbs that would eventually lead him to Kurt—and, through him, to the true killer.

*   *   *

An
ordinary citizen would have had trouble getting through the Lake Towers security even with an appointment, but there were privileges that came with rank, and Nate wasn’t shy about taking advantage of them. He was in the elevator on the way to the penthouse before the security staff had finished bowing and scraping. He’d worried that the story of his murder and reanimation would make people treat him like a freak, or even an impostor. In some ways, he
was
an impostor, not the real Nathaniel Edison Hayes, no matter what he looked like or remembered. But he should have known that the Lake Towers staff would act like professionals and treat him as if nothing had changed. And if they were whispering and staring at him when his back was turned, he didn’t have to know about it.

When the elevator doors opened at the top floor, the Lake family’s butler, an aging gentleman named Crane, was waiting to meet him.

“Good morning, Mr. Hayes,” Crane said with a polite bow.

Nate refrained from rolling his eyes, but it was always an effort to contain his sarcasm when Crane was around. The old fart was so stuffy he was a caricature of himself, but he didn’t know it. From the penguin suit to the mannerisms—like
bowing,
for God’s sake—to the British accent from a man who’d been born in the state of New York, back when it existed, everything about him was affected and overdone.

“Miss Lake will join you in the morning room,” Crane intoned. Nate wanted to point out that it had been at least a couple of centuries since anyone had had a “morning room” in their house. “May I bring you some refreshments?”

Nate wanted nothing more than to have a private conversation with Nadia, but he knew from experience that if he didn’t allow Crane to bring refreshments, the butler would check in on them every few minutes to see if they wanted something—either because he was desperate to be of service, or because he was a nosy bastard who didn’t like the idea of his charge being left alone with a man, even if that man was her presumed fiancé.

“Some coffee would be nice, if you don’t mind,” Nate finally said, deciding it was the option that would lead to the fewest interruptions.

“Very good, sir,” Crane said, bowing again, and this time Nate
did
roll his eyes. Of course, Crane was too busy bowing to notice.

Nate started toward the “morning room,” which everyone other than Crane referred to as the den, his bodyguard falling into step behind him. Nate stopped in his tracks and gave the man a withering look. Ordinarily, his bodyguards knew better than to hover so close, and Fischer was usually one of the more laid back of them.

Fischer didn’t take the unspoken hint, neither backing down nor even lowering his eyes.

“You think you need to guard me inside my fiancée’s home?” Nate asked with a shake of his head. He supposed he should have expected an extra dose of paranoia from his guards after he’d been assassinated, but it somehow hadn’t occurred to him.

Fischer shrugged his massive shoulders. “Just doing my job.”

“Your job is to guard me when I’m out in public,” Nate reminded him. “You don’t have to stick to me like gum on the bottom of my shoe. Stay here.”

“The Chairman—”

“Isn’t your boss,” Nate interrupted, though he wasn’t so sure that was the case. If it came down to Nate and the Chairman giving the man contradictory orders, there was no question whose Fischer would follow. “I intend to have a private conversation with Miss Lake, and you are not invited.”

Fischer looked unhappy and even a little alarmed. Nate wondered if Mosely or his father had given him orders to stick extra close—and report on Nate’s every move. If he decided to launch his own search for Kurt, he would have to be very, very careful not to lead Mosely and his men right to him. Even though Kurt was almost certainly out of Paxco by now and would have fled to a country or state with no extradition agreement with Paxco, Mosely had frighteningly long arms.

“If it’ll make you feel better,” Nate said, “you can turn your phone back on. But if my father calls, you make sure to tell him I can’t come to the phone. Do not interrupt me under any circumstances.”

Fischer looked even more unhappy, but when Nate strode toward the den, the guard remained behind. Nate thought he heard the man muttering to himself. It was probably a good thing for both of them that he wasn’t able to make out the words.

Nate felt an unaccustomed flutter of nerves as he approached the den. Nadia was the only person other than Kurt whose opinion actually mattered to him. If she looked at him and saw an impostor masquerading as her dead best friend, he wasn’t sure he could take it. His father didn’t love him, his mother had been absent from his life for ten years, his “friends” were all sycophants, and now he’d lost Kurt. He couldn’t lose Nadia, too.

With an effort, Nate ordered himself to man up and get on with it. He took a deep breath as though marching into battle, then stepped into the den.

Nadia was already waiting for him. She was curled up on a sofa wearing a boxy fleece sweater, with a warm, fluffy quilt tucked around her legs. Her lustrous blond hair was gathered into a sloppy braid that hung over one shoulder, and her face was devoid of makeup. Her cheeks seemed even paler than usual, the circles under her eyes so dark they looked almost like bruises. Nate had never seen her looking so vulnerable before, and guilt stirred in his chest. He didn’t know what had happened on the night of the reception, but he was sure Nadia wouldn’t have been hounded by Mosely if it weren’t for him.

A hint of pink tinted her cheeks, and Nadia smiled at him ruefully. “I look that bad, huh?”

Nate shook his head at himself and forced a grin. “Let’s just say I hope you feel better than you look.”

She made a sound of mock outrage. “You’re supposed to flatter me and say I look great, you ass.”

He blinked innocently. “You expect me to obey social convention? I may be a Replica, but I’m still
me
.” He frowned. “Sort of.”

He’d been trying for humor, but of course bringing up his status as a Replica was about as far from humor as he could get.
Way to kill the mood,
he scolded himself as he watched the light bleed out of Nadia’s eyes and the smile fade from her lips. He hurried to sit beside her on the sofa. He wanted to take her hand and give it a comforting squeeze, but she was gripping the quilt so hard he’d have to pry her fingers free to manage it.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was trying to be funny.”

“Guess that means you really
are
still you,” she replied, shaking her head at him. There was a tentativeness to her voice he wasn’t used to, and she was staring at his face with too much intensity. He realized she was trying very hard not to give him the visual once-over everyone else had given him.

“It’s okay to look,” he told her gently. “I know this must be really weird for you. It is for me.”

She chewed her lip as she finally allowed her eyes to wander. He held still for her inspection, which paused when she reached his wrists.

“You’re not wearing cuff links,” she commented, and Nate guessed from the heat in his face that he was blushing. He often skipped the tie and sometimes even the jacket that constituted an Executive’s uniform, but Kurt liked him in cuff links, so he usually wore them.

“It’s not because I’m a Replica,” he said. “It’s just that I suck at putting them on myself.” Of course, he could have asked one of his other servants to do it for him, but that wouldn’t have been the same.

Nadia nodded at his explanation. “Other than that, you look like you,” she said with an ironic smile. “And you
sound
like you.” Her hands relaxed their grip on the quilt, although she didn’t exactly look at ease.

“Hmm. Only smell, taste, and feel left to go.” He leaned toward her and offered his throat. “Have at it.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips, and he let out an internal sigh of relief.

“In your dreams,” she said, shoving him away playfully.

“Brat,” he said, then tugged on the end of her braid, and her smile broadened into a grin.

“
You’re
calling
me
a brat? Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

The memory of standing in front of the mirror yesterday, examining his body and marveling at its perfect imitation of the original Nate Hayes, flashed through his mind, and he shivered. He looked down at his hands, turning them over and staring at them as if he’d never seen them before.

“I can’t quite … absorb whatever it is that happened to me,” he said. “I feel so normal. But I’m not the same person I was just a couple of days ago.”

“Yes, you are,” Nadia said firmly, hiding the lingering doubts he was sure she must feel.

He looked up and met her eyes. “If I were the same person, I’d remember what happened the night of the party.”

Nadia didn’t quite grimace, but she did look uncomfortable, and she averted her gaze. “Let’s just pretend you had a nasty blow to the head and have amnesia. That doesn’t make you a different person.”

He waited for a moment, expecting her to tell him what had happened. He’d thought it was pretty obvious what he’d been fishing for. But Nadia just sat there chewing on her lip and looking uncomfortable. Suddenly, Nate wasn’t sure he wanted to know exactly what had happened after all.

Crane took that moment to enter the room—without knocking, naturally—carrying a tray with a coffeepot, two white china cups and saucers, and a cream and sugar set. The tray was decorated with a large golden-yellow mum in a small crystal vase. Nate knew Nadia valued informality as much as he did, but informality was a foreign concept to people like Crane.

Nate and Nadia met each other’s eyes as Crane put the tray down and fussed to make sure everything was arranged just so. Nate was tempted to offer the old man a ruler so he could make sure every item was exactly the same distance apart, but making fun of Crane was just too easy.

Finally, Crane was satisfied with the arrangement of the cups and saucers—or was satisfied that Nate and Nadia weren’t going to say anything of great interest while he was eavesdropping—and trundled out of the room. Again, Nate suspected the slow pace was deliberate, but neither he nor Nadia said a word beyond “thank you” until they were alone again.

“You shouldn’t sneer at him like that,” Nadia said, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “He’s just doing his job.”

It wasn’t the first time Nate had been told he wasn’t allowed to complain about people who were doing their jobs, but he never quite saw the logic in the restriction. Unlike Executives, Employees could choose their jobs, after all, and they could also do them without being assholes.

“He’s not living in a Jane Austen novel,” he said, a little peevishly. “I see no reason why he can’t do his job without the stick up his ass.”

Something flashed in Nadia’s eyes, and she put the coffeepot down with a little more force than necessary. “That’s how ninety percent of the people he interacts with want him to behave. You think he should change just because
you’d
like it better?”

Call him crazy, but Nate had the feeling Nadia was angry with him. And not just because he’d grumbled about the butler. No doubt she had cause, but one of the things he’d always liked about her was her ability to refrain from critiquing his behavior like just about everyone else in his life did. Life under the microscope, with the whole world pointing out and then reveling in his every misstep, was a pain in the ass.

“I’m sorry I’m not perfect,” he said, his voice sharper than he intended as he grabbed for the coffeepot. “I just get tired of people acting like assholes. Crane actually
bowed
to me when he met me at the door, for God’s sake.”

Nadia leaned back into the sofa’s cushions and crossed her arms over her chest, looking mulish. “He’s doing his job,” she gritted out as if he hadn’t heard her the first time. “Not everyone can do whatever the hell they want whenever the hell they want to, like you can. You were assassinated, I spent fifteen hours in the security station, Bishop is running for his life, and the most important thing you can think of to talk about is how annoying you find my butler? Really, Nate?”

Nadia’s words hit home, and the surge of anger faded.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, stirring some sugar into the cup of coffee he’d asked for but didn’t really want. It was easier to fuss with the coffee than to look at Nadia and see the reproach in her eyes. “I guess picking at Crane is easier than facing all the other crap that’s bouncing around in my head.” He took a sip of his coffee, then wrinkled his nose at the taste. He’d put in the same amount of sugar as he usually would, but it tasted too sweet. He’d noticed the same thing at breakfast, though he’d assumed he’d absently put in too much sugar. Maybe there was a subtle difference between his taste buds and those of his original.

Mentally, he rolled his eyes at himself. There was no point in obsessing about this. He put the cup down and risked a glance at Nadia. To his relief, her expression had softened.

“I’m sorry, too,” she said, though as far as he was concerned, she had nothing to apologize for. “I know you must be worried sick about Bishop.”

His fists clenched again as he fought off an image of Kurt in Mosely’s clutches. Then he smiled a bit as he fully absorbed what she’d said. “You don’t think Kurt did it.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Of course he didn’t do it!” she said indignantly. “You don’t for a moment think—”