Shadow Lover (14 page)
There was a lot to be said for self-discipline, he thought, stretching his legs out in front of him. For strength of character, for the ability to control one's raging appetites. Right now he couldn't think of a single thing in favor of it, but he was sure that sooner or later he'd be downright thrilled with his restraint.
It was a funny thing about women, he mused. Some women were incredibly sexy, sure of themselves and their appeal, luscious and liberated and irresistible. They were his favorite kind of women, warm, welcoming, smart, and funny. Women you could laugh with, drink with, sleep with,
talk
with.
And then there were women like Carolyn Smith. At least, he presumed there were other women like her, though so far he'd been lucky enough to avoid running into them. She seemed to have no idea how exquisitely beautiful she was. In the few days in her company he didn't think he'd seen her make a single, natural gesture. It shouldn't have been the
MacDowells
who'd turned her into a repressed, rigid young woman—they didn't care enough to exert that kind of influence. But something had made her as earthy and lively as a statue.
He wondered if she ever laughed. If she even knew how to kiss. She wasn't a virgin. The information Warren
MacDowell
had gotten him had been very thorough, but as far as he could tell she'd never allowed herself to care for anyone but the goddamn
MacDowells
—who would abandon her at the first chance, if it suited their needs.
He'd been hoping to charm her, tease her into relaxing and accepting him. At least he'd hoped to get her to drop her armed warfare. He had too much going with the real
MacDowells
to spend his time being threatened by a poor almost-relation.
It had been a waste of time, but at least he understood her a little better. Knew just how hopeless it would be to try to seduce her into accepting him. She wasn't going to—it was that simple.
He smiled faintly, staring out into the night sky. Nothing was hopeless, particularly when it came to sex. It just depended on how much energy he was willing to expend in relation to benefit gained. Carolyn Smith wasn't about to cause that much trouble, even if she wanted to. Her concern for Sally overrode her sense of justice. She wouldn't throw a monkey wrench into his complicated scheme unless she was certain he would harm Sally. He really didn't have to get her in bed to insure she'd be no threat.
There was, however, another very tangible benefit to seducing her. He just happened to have a case of unshakable lust, every time he looked at her, every time he heard her soft, clear voice, every time he smelled the clean, flowery scent she used. He wanted to shake her up. He wanted to see what Miss
Priss
looked like with her hair wild and loose and her cool eyes dazed with passion. He wanted to see what she looked like beneath those boring yuppie clothes. He wanted to taste her skin.
He could hear the faint creak of the stairs, his ears preternaturally attuned to the sounds of the night. She hadn't gone to bed after all, unless she was planning on sleeping in the downstairs bedroom, which he doubted. That had always been Sally's palatial suite, and he sensed that Carolyn would never dare presume to sleep there, even with Sally in absentia, even if she wanted to get as far away from him as she could.
She was trying to be as stealthy as possible, but she wasn't that adept at sneaking around. He could hear the almost imperceptible sound of the door opening beneath him, and he held himself very still. If she'd had any sense she would have used the back stairs, the kitchen door. Unless she wanted him to hear her, to follow her.
He doubted it. Carolyn was singularly unused to trickery and deceit, despite her years amidst the
MacDowells
. She was straightforward, honest, and honorable. Just about everything he wasn't. It was little wonder his very existence drove her completely crazy.
The moonlight had faded somewhat, but he could still see her quite clearly on the empty sidewalk in front of the house. She had an old cotton sweater pulled on for warmth, and she looked neither to the right nor the left as she crossed the street and headed down toward
She was walking slowly, steadily, a woman with a purpose. The beach was deserted, the tide was out, and a ring of seaweed and shells littered the sand. She walked all the way to the edge of the water, staring out over the inky vastness.
He couldn't see her expression—she was too far away. He could only watch her slim, straight body, the tension in her narrow shoulders,
the
determined set of her head. Why had she gone down to
He was half-tempted to scramble off the roof and go after her. To grab her arms and force her to tell him exactly what she had seen on that deserted beach, long summers past.
It would be a waste of time. She wouldn't tell him, and if he put his hands on her he'd end up kissing her again. He could overwhelm her doubts and objections quite easily, but where would that get him?
He wanted to find out. He went through the window, down the darkened stairs,
then
froze. She was already back, opening the front door with belated stealth, closing it behind her.
"Have a nice walk?" he murmured from the landing.
She jumped. "Were you spying on me?"
"Honey, you left me sitting on the roof overlooking
"You're supposed to pay attention to your own affairs and leave mine alone."
"What were you looking for?" He took a couple of steps down. She held her ground, but he could see the wariness in her eyes even in the darkened hallway.
"What makes you think I was looking for anything? I wanted some fresh air, and I wanted to be alone."
"You looked like someone visiting a holy shrine," he said. "Or maybe that's not entirely accurate. Maybe
someone revisiting
the scene of a crime."
He'd managed to break through her icy calm. "What do you mean by that?" she demanded.
"Just what I said. Did something interesting happen down at
studly
local on a hot summer night? Or was it something else?"
She'd frozen up again, in control once more. "I happen to like the ocean," she said.
"There's no ocean in
"Sally needs me."
"Not for long."
"Then I'll come back to the water. When she dies," Carolyn added, as if to prove that she could say the words out loud.
"Here?"
"No!" she said fiercely, blurting it out.
"Too many bad memories?" he persisted.
"The only bad memories I have are of Alexander
MacDowell
."
"And what bad memories are those, Carolyn?" he asked in a deceptively gentle voice. "Do you remember the night I left? What did you tell Sally and the others?"
He looked down at her, and knew. Without a doubt she was hiding something, some knowledge of what had gone on in this house the night seventeen-year-old Alexander
MacDowell
had disappeared, and he suspected she had never told another living soul.
"I went to bed while Alex and Sally were fighting," she said. "When I woke up the next morning he was gone. That's all I know."
"Sally said you were sick right afterward. That you were in the hospital with pneumonia, and that they were afraid you wouldn't pull through. She said she didn't know who she was more distraught about, you or me."
"She was more distraught about her son."
"Ah, but her son was gone. Run away like the spoiled little hellion he was. You were there, possibly dying. Don't you think she would have been more concerned about you? After all, as far as she knew her son was alive and well, just off raising hell someplace. You were near death."
Carolyn looked at him, not bothering to disguise the anger in her steady eyes. "I didn't die," she said. "But I don't remember much of what happened the night Alex left, I wouldn't know anything about it. In the first place, I wouldn't have been there; in the second, if I haven't remembered in eighteen years I doubt I'm going to remember now."
He knew his faint smile was far from reassuring, but she held her ground. She was far braver than the quiet little rabbit
who'd
spent her childhood in the shadow of the
MacDowells
.
Warren
had sorely underestimated her.
"Why did you walk down to
"To get away from you," she shot back, goaded beyond endurance.
He reached out and caught her shoulder, tightening his grip when she tried to squirm away. He wasn't going to kiss her again, much as he wanted to. And he wasn't going to get the answers he wanted, needed from her tonight.
"Are you sure you really want to?" he asked.
But she had already wrenched away, disappearing into the back of the house before he could say another word.
Chapter 9
H
er dream came back that night, more vivid than ever, as she knew it would. It wasn't the sulky, teenaged Alex who came to her room; it was his imposter. The man with the same lost eyes, the same sensuous mouth grown older and more finely drawn, watching her
, calling
to her. In her dream she could see him lying on the beach as the water pooled around him and his murderer stood over him, the blood pouring from him, draining the life from him. "Why didn't you save me?" he said in a soundless voice. "Why didn't you tell anyone?"
But it was the imposter's voice, not the real Alex that called to her, and when she woke it was past dawn, and he was standing in the doorway, looking down at her.
"If you want to make the first ferry we have to leave in fifteen minutes," he said.
She was sleeping in an oversized t-shirt, as always, and she wasn't about to jump from the narrow iron bed while he stood there watching her. "I'll be ready," she said. "If you go away."
He was leaning against the open door, looking disgustingly well rested. He hadn't been tormented by nightmares and memories of death. His dark blond hair was swept back from his face, damp from an early-morning shower, and he was dressed as usual in faded jeans and a dark green cotton sweater that turned his blue eyes greenish as well.
"Why are you sleeping back here?" he demanded lazily. "There are plenty of other empty bedrooms available. You don't have to be the little
matchgirl
any more."
"It was the furthest I could get from you," she said with deceptive sweetness.
It didn't work. "Nice try," he said. "I think you sort of like the idea of being the poor little orphan, ill used by her rich benefactors."
It was like a sharp blow to the stomach, so painful and unexpected in the shrewd truth of it that she couldn't say a word; she could only stare at him as she felt her face turn pale.
"Bastard," she managed finally, with only a fraction of her righteous indignation.
"You deny it?"
"I don't deny any of your high-flown fantasies. We'll miss the ferry if you don't get the hell out of my room."
"I'll wait for you in the car."
"What about the house—?"
"I called Sally on the cell phone. Someone's corning in to take care of things after we leave. Get dressed, Carolyn, or maybe I'll go without you."
He would, too, she realized with sudden dismay as the door closed quietly behind him. There was nothing that would suit him better than to have Sally all to himself, without her interfering presence.
She threw back the covers and dressed quickly, grabbing her running shoes and heading downstairs in her stocking feet. Alex was leaning on the porch railing, a mug of coffee in his hands.
She would kill for a cup of coffee, but she would die before she would ask him for anything. "You ready?" he asked, pushing away from the porch. "The portrait's already in the car—I'm just waiting for you."
He had a second mug of coffee in his other hand, and he clearly hadn't missed the longing look in her eyes. "Want some?"
She wished she had the strength of purpose to refuse. She didn't. She reached out for it, but he pulled it away. "You have to smile and say good morning first."
"You have to go to hell first."
His faint smile was absolutely infuriating. "A social pleasantry in exchange for coffee. That can't be so damned difficult, now can it?"
She gave him a sickly sweet smile. "Good morning, Alex. I hope you had a lovely night's sleep. Yes, I'd adore a cup of coffee; how thoughtful of you to offer."
