Shadow Lover (35 page)
"That too." He looked down at her. "Do you want me to find you a safe place to hide?"
"Is there such a place?"
"I don't know."
"I'm not leaving you," she said, not caring how it sounded.
"I know you aren't," he said. "I wouldn't really let you." And he took her hand, heading off into the
firelit
night.
He stole a pickup truck with surprising ease, ripping out the ignition wires and starting it with an almost frightening efficiency even before Carolyn could climb into the front seat. It was a rusty old wreck, and if it ever possessed seatbelts they'd been removed by an impatient owner, but the engine ran smoothly as Alex pulled out onto the highway heading toward the west end of the island.
Carolyn felt a lump under her butt, and she reached down and pulled out a crushed beer can. "Why couldn't you have stolen a Mercedes?" she inquired.
"They have too many antitheft devices. We were looking for transportation, not luxury," he said, concentrating on the road in front of him. Behind them the night sky was a brilliant canvas of orange and red and smoky blue as the historic
MacDowell
house went up in the flames of century-old timber, but the roads were devoid of traffic, and resolutely Carolyn turned her face forward.
"Who was it?" she asked in a low voice.
"I still don't know."
"Where are we going?"
He didn't answer. He didn't need to. He was headed in the direction of Gay Head, and she knew without asking what he wanted to find.
"Take the first left," she said finally, as they were approaching the cliffs.
He slowed the car, turning to look at her in the moonlight. "What?"
"Take the first left. You want to see where the Robinsons lived don't you? It's down that road."
His smile was slow and heartbreakingly sexy. "When did you start to know me so well?"
"Decades ago," she said.
The Robinson house was nothing like the architectural splendor of the
MacDowell
house in Edgartown.
Menemsha
and the southwest tip of the island were much more rural and far less upscale, at least in Vineyard terms. The Robinsons had owned a small, rambling cottage off by itself on the backside of the
Squibnocket
Cliffs near Gay Head. A weathered-looking for-sale sign hung lopsided in the front yard, and the place looked lost and deserted.
He pulled the stolen truck into the driveway and climbed out. The eerie fire-glow had already started to fade in the distance—obviously the blaze hadn't spread to the other old houses surrounding the
MacDowell
house. The moon was low in the sky, getting ready to set, and there was just the faintest touch of pink on the eastern horizon. It must be getting near dawn, Carolyn thought dazedly, climbing out of the truck as well, her body feeling stiff and aching.
"This place looks deserted." Alex had paused on the front steps, staring up at the cottage.
"I told you, the parents died and the only heirs were distant cousins. The house has been on the market for a while—it's priced too high, but no one cares enough to let it go."
He was as adept at breaking into houses as he was at stealing cars. She followed him into the dark, musty interior, flicking a light switch with no results. It was cold, a damp, bone-biting cold, and Carolyn sank down in one of the old mission oak chairs, shivering, while Alex prowled around with the aid of a small flashlight.
She thought he'd forgotten about her. He was staring at framed photographs on the wall, his back to her, and she wrapped her arms around her body, trying to control her shivers.
"I'll make a fire," he said, not even looking at her. Staring at an old photo of a young girl from the nineteen-forties, her sweet young face oddly familiar. He was looking at his birth mother, she realized.
"I will," she said, moving toward the fieldstone fireplace, but he was ahead of her, settling her back in the chair.
He stripped the sweater from his body, seemingly impervious to the cold night air against his bare skin. "Put this on."
"Don't be ridiculous, you'll freeze," she protested, but he simply overruled her, pulling it over her head. It was warm, and it smelled like him, and it made her far too vulnerable.
In a matter of minutes he had a small fire going, warming the rustic living room, filling it with light.
He sat back on his heels once he'd coaxed the fire into a decent blaze, turning to look at her. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Can I stop you?"
His smile was slight. "There's always a chance we might not survive."
"A fairly good chance, if one can go by what's happened so far," she said.
"What was it you didn't tell me?"
"What do you mean?"
"Yesterday afternoon, you said there was something you felt about me that I didn't know. Or maybe that was lust."
"You already know perfectly well I lust after you," she said in a deliberately cool voice. She didn't want to be having this conversation, not now. Not with the smell of the burning house still clinging to her hair and clothes, not with him kneeling, shirtless in front of her. Not with the sky turning pink with dawn and a murderer out there, waiting for them.
"Then what was it?" He tilted back his head, watching her with utter stillness. "You aren't in love with me, are you?"
Odd, how her heart could stop beating, how her breath could stall in her body, and yet she could still appear perfectly calm. "That's idiotic."
He shrugged. "If I die I'd like to know I'll be mourned."
"Trust me, if you die I'll mourn you," she said dryly. "Though chances are if you don't make it, neither will I."
"Are you in love with me, Carolyn?"
"You're very annoying. You've pissed me off for as long as I can remember."
"That still doesn't answer my question. Are you in love with me?"
She made a disgusted sound. "Of course I am. Don't be so damned stupid. I always was, I expect I always will be, and I don't like it one damned bit. Happy?"
"Yes," he said, and reached up his hands to cup her face. He was lit by the firelight in the rustic old house, and she knew she was doomed.
She wasn't going down without a fight. Pulling away from him, she scrambled from the chair and headed for the front door. "I'm going to check something," she said nervously, flinging it open, ready to barge out.
The sight of the man standing there stopped her cold. It was growing lighter in the distance, but even in the predawn shadows and the firelight emanating from the room she never had any doubt as to who it was.
It was the first time she'd looked into Warren
MacDowell's
face since she'd found out he was her father. The effect was startling, and she stood in the doorway, frozen, terrified, waiting for something. He was her father, and she felt nothing more than she'd always felt. There was no sudden wash of filial love. No resentment, either. She was too busy facing the possibility of death.
She'd never seen him less than perfectly dressed. He was still wearing a jacket, but his tie was long gone, the shirt was wrinkled and stained, and he had soot streaks across his face. His silver hair was mussed, and the eerily calm expression on his face was the most frightening of all.
"I thought I might find you here," he said. "Where's Alex?"
She didn't make the mistake of looking behind her. Obviously,
Warren
couldn't see him, a small advantage they needed to take advantage of. "Somewhere," she said vaguely, horrified to hear her voice tremble.
"He's the real Alex, isn't he?"
Warren
said wearily. "He had me fooled, but then, he always was a conniving little trickster, I was a fool not to realize the truth, but then, I was so very sure he was dead."
"
MacDowells
are hard to kill."
"We both know he isn't really a
MacDowell
,"
Warren
said gently. "And you are."
"Have you suddenly developed some paternal feelings for your long-lost daughter?" She kept her voice cool and cynical.
"You weren't long lost. Sally brought you home, much to my disapproval. I wasn't cut out to be a father. You were an accident, one that I would have much preferred to forget all about, but my sister liked to have her own way. She wanted you as a little playmate for Alex. I'm not sure she had in mind the kind of games you two must have been playing recently, however." Despite his rumpled appearance he was his usual waspish self.
"That doesn't explain why you'd want to kill us, Warren."
He looked utterly astonished. "Kill you? Why would I want to do that? I came to—" He stopped mid-sentence, an expression of absolute shock on his face. And then he collapsed at her feet in a soundless puddle, and she looked down to see the growing stain of red in the back of his perfectly tailored jacket.
She was too horrified to scream. She looked up, numb with shock, into the smug, pleased face of Cousin George. "You really are quite stupid, Carolyn," he said. "He didn't even have a gun. Why in the world would he want to kill you? The poor fool wanted to save your life."
"You," she said helplessly.
"Of course, me," he replied. "Now why don't the two of you come on along now, so we can finish this up? I need to get back to my dear mother's bedside before anyone realizes how long I've been gone. Come along, hmmm?" And he gestured sweetly with the big black gun in his hand.
Chapter 23
I
t was a glorious sunrise. They walked up the winding path toward the cliffs, a bizarre funeral cortege. They'd left
Warren
's body behind in a growing pool of blood, and now they walked, climbing the hill that they'd climbed as children, with George chattering with inane cheerfulness as he drove them upward.
"How's your memory now, Alex?" he taunted. "Is the murky past all coming back to you?"
"Somewhat," he said, his hand tight around Carolyn's. "Seeing you standing there with a gun in your hand did wonders."
"I'm sure it did. I can't believe how you managed to fool Uncle Warren into believing you were an imposter. I knew it was you the moment I saw you, and I was the one who killed you before. Even my mother recognized you, though she was merely convinced you were the dead returned to torment her."
"Did they know you shot me eighteen years ago? Were they part of it?" Alex sounded distant, only slightly interested in what should have been of paramount importance.
"Yes and no. They knew after it was too late, and they had no choice but to cover up for me. After all, I'd done it for all of them, hadn't I? And Aunt Sally had always been ridiculously doting—it obviously wouldn't have mattered to her how big a stink it would have made if I'd been accused of murder. Patsy and Warren would have made sure I wouldn't have been charged, of course, but it still would have been quite a mess."
"You want to refresh my memory?" Alex drawled. "Why kill me? Apart from the fact that I was a royal pain in the butt. As I remember, you weren't any too charming yourself back then."
"Oh, but that's where you're wrong. I was a perfect son. Devoted to his mother, always looking out for her best interests. I'm very observant, you know that. The night you were going to leave you caught me watching my mother and her latest
boyfriend go
at it. They were into kink, which made it particularly entertaining. You absolutely spoiled everything."
"What did I do?"
"Threatened to beat the hell out of me if I didn't stop watching. But of course, that's a habit that's hard to break." He grinned with impartial cheeriness. "You two were quite entertaining in the library a few days ago. I was hoping for a replay before I burned the Edgartown house, but you were so
unobliging
. Not that I believe for a moment you weren't going at it like rabbits. You just kept out of range of the windows."
Nausea rose in Carolyn's throat. "You watched us?"
"I watch everyone. It's my major pleasure in life, one I learned young. I don't usually have to resort to my own arrangements. I belong to a very discreet club in
"Perverts like you," Carolyn snapped.
"Now, now, dear cousin. There's no such thing as perversion among consenting adults. And you were very consenting indeed, I could tell. He does have a way with him, doesn't he?" George sighed gustily. "I wish we had more time. I don't know who I'd want to fuck more, you or him. But I doubt either of you would be terribly cooperative. Still, it would be so much fun to have the other one watch."
"Why are you in such a hurry?" Alex said in a silky voice, ignoring Carolyn's expression of sick horror. "I'm game if you are."
George laughed. "Very thoughtful of you, but you don't fool me for a minute. You just think if you have extra time you might be able to trick me. I'm afraid I've learned to sublimate my appetites to a greater good. You two need to be dead by sunrise.
A lovely suicide dive
off the cliffs."
