Twice Kissed (41 page)

Not that she really cared. Becca had more important things on her mind, but she kept them to herself and even refrained from rolling her eyes when the old lady made some joke about throwing a bra onto the stage at Keith Richards’s feet. Sheesh. Old people! Head cases!

Besides, Becca’s guilt was eating at her and she didn’t give a rip about the baby
or
the Stones. She was already feeling like a sneak, a thief and an ingrate, but it was all too bad. Once she hooked up with her mother again, everything would work out.

If Marquise is okay.

“She has to be,” Becca said as the plane taxied along the runway and she saw the distinctive illuminated peaks of the roof over the main terminal.

“Who has to be?” Gladys asked, smiling and showing off teeth that had been filled with gold. She was touching up her lipstick, trying to keep a steady hand as she squinted into a tiny mirror on her compact while the plane’s engines wound down. Becca glanced out the window over the wing, saw the flaps raised, and felt her stomach clench. “Has to be what?” the woman insisted.

“Nothin’.” The less said, the better.

“Are you going into the city? Is someone going to pick you up?” She smeared her lips together, spreading the maroon color, then dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her finger.

“Yeah, my mom’s gonna be there.”

“Good. Good.” She wasn’t really listening, and she twisted her lipstick back into the tube. Winking at Becca, she said, “Grandma’s got to look good, y’know. Don’t want to scare Baby Charlie right off the bat.”

She chuckled, and Becca managed a thin, barely-patient smile. The woman was completely out of it. Baby Charlie probably couldn’t care less if his grandmother resembled a gorilla, but rather than roll her eyes and tell the woman to get a life, Becca stared out the window as the plane eased into its position near the jetway. If this lady had any idea that Becca had lied to Aunt Connie, stolen from Jenny, then hitchhiked to the L.A. airport to save some money, the woman would probably fall into a dead faint. That would be too bad for Baby Charlie because from the looks of the packages stowed under the seat, the kid was gonna be outfitted with enough Beanie Babies to fill his nursery.

The plane rolled to a stop and Becca crossed her fingers that a cab to the Brass Tree hotel wouldn’t cost her more money than she had. If it did, well, she’d probably just have to stiff the driver. That thought settled like lead in her stomach, but she didn’t worry about it too much. She couldn’t. She had to connect with Mom before Aunt Connie found out she was gone and the “you know what” hit the fan.

I give,
Maggie thought as she stared at the wrinkled pages she’d copied from Marquise’s diary that she’d found on the computer. Her plan of becoming her twin and walking through her life hadn’t helped her find her sister. All it had managed to do was make her aware of a darker side of Marquise, convince her that she hadn’t known her twin at all, and bring her closer to a man she should never trust, a man whom she was certain she still loved, a man she should still avoid.

And scare her to death. Ever since the report of Marquise’s Jeep being run off the road, Maggie had been more determined than ever to locate Marquise.

If only she could. She’d called Marquise’s housekeeper at the house in Aspen, dialed every friend and neighbor she could find in Marquise’s Rolodex and ended up with nothing for her efforts except a huge phone bill and an aching head.

Thane, too, had been on his cell phone most of the night, calling people in California about Renee Nielsen, connecting with Howard Bailey and Tom Yates about his ranches, and had finished by making a call to Carrie Edgars, who had left him a voice-mail message on his cell phone earlier.

Maggie didn’t eavesdrop, but the French doors separating his bedroom from the living area of the suite were open and she couldn’t help but hear snatches of the conversation.

“You knew how I felt…no, Carrie, that’s not the way it was or is…we talked about this last summer…okay in September…so it’s time for both of us…yes, you, too, to move on…of course. Hey, that’s just the way it is. Well, hope it works out…”

He hung up and she, seated on the couch, had watched him surreptitiously. Closing his eyes, he rotated his neck as if trying to crack his spine and relieve some tension.

His cell phone jangled loudly. Grumbling something under his breath, he answered tersely, as if he expected Carrie to be calling back.

“Walker.” A pause. His lips flattened over his teeth, and through the glass panels of the French doors, his gaze met Maggie’s. In a heartbeat she knew that something was wrong.
Mary Theresa. The police have found her and
wanted to break the news to Thane before talking with me.

Maggie’s heart plummeted. She was hot and cold all at once. Fear congealed her blood as she stood, the papers in her lap forgotten and fluttering to the floor.

“Where are you now?” Thane demanded as he walked into the living area and spoke into the handset.

Maggie’s heart was a drum. Another long pause and the conversation was again one-sided. He checked his watch. “All right,” he agreed, snagging the jacket he’d flung carelessly over the back of a chair. “I’ll meet you there in half an hour.” He hung up and shrugged into the short rawhide coat. “That was Roy,” he explained, his expression a mixture of worry and excitement. “He thinks he’s found my son, and he’s flying through Denver. Waiting for a connection, so I’m meeting him at a bar in Denver International. Why don’t you come along?”

Relief chased away her fears though she knew the feeling was only temporary.

The invitation was tempting, but she shook her head. “No, Thane,” she said, knowing this was something he should do on his own. “I’ve got a million and one things to do here. I
know
there’s some connection between Mary Theresa and Renee Nielsen—something I’ve seen somewhere.” She motioned to the rumpled stack of papers that represented Marquise’s life. “I’ll go through these again.”

“I don’t like leaving you here alone.”

“I’ll be fine.” His concern was touching, but ludicrous. “I’m a big girl.”

“There might be a nut on the loose.”

“The doors here lock and hotel security seems pretty tight to me. Really.” She placed a hand on his arm, ignored the protests forming in his eyes. “I’ll be safe.”

“I’d feel better—”

“When you find out about your son.” She felt a painful little tug on her heart; the knowledge that Thane and Mary Theresa had conceived a child was a new stumbling block, one more tie that bound them together forever and reminded her of their betrayal.

Get over it, Maggie, this boy is your nephew. M.T.’s child. Thane’s son.

“Go,” she encouraged. “If you’re gonna meet your friend between flights, you don’t have a lot of time.”

He found his keys in a pocket of his jacket. “Promise me you’ll be careful. Don’t take any risks. And stay put. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“I should be right here. Go on. I’ll go over these notes again.”

“You think it’ll do any good?”

“Don’t know. Won’t hurt.”

He stared at her for half a second. Fire ignited in his eyes. “Oh, Christ, Maggie, you take care of yourself,” he whispered, grabbing her fiercely under the arms and forcing his mouth to hers. He smelled of smoke and leather, tasted of coffee. His kisses were warm, hard, and filled with a new desperation that caused her heart to pound. There was something different about him. About them. She couldn’t breathe, could barely think, and the room seemed to spin.

Dear God, help me,
she thought, knowing that she was foolishly trapped in a one-sided love. His tongue was insistent, and his voice cracked when he lifted his head. “What you do to me should be illegal,” he admitted, stroking her hair.

“You’d better go—”

He cut her off with another kiss, the pressure of his lips anxious and wanting, the heat from his body quick to spark. It was as if he was kissing her for the last time, she realized, as if he sensed the same aura of despair that had been boring a hole in her soul for the past few days.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promised, his voice gruff as he lifted his head and touched the tip of his nose to hers. “And then, darlin’, you and I, we have to talk.”

A lump filled her throat. “I know.”

“Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.” Sighing, he let his arms fall and strode to the door.

“Good luck.”

As he glanced over his shoulder, one side of his mouth lifted in that smile she’d loved all of her life. “Why do I feel like I’m gonna need it?”

“Don’t know.”

With a wink, he was out the door, his boots echoing dully down the carpeted hallway before the door slammed shut.

Maggie touched her lips with her fingertips, refused to give in to the urge to cry, then picked up the scattered pages of her sister’s life and sat down on the edge of the couch, her eyes scanning the computer printouts sightlessly. She gave herself a quick, hard mental shake because her thoughts drifted back to Thane, who was on his way to find out about his son.

“Now listen, Maggie,” she told herself, shuffling through the pages. “Think about Mary Theresa. You have to find her, and the answer to what happened to her is here.” She shook the damned printouts. “Here. Somewhere. You just have to be smart enough to find it.”

Maggie. Where are you?

Maggie froze. The voice echoed through her head. “Mary Theresa?” She whispered. Oh, God, was it Marquise? Maggie spun as if she could see her sister, though she knew the act was foolish.

I need your help. Oh, God, I counted on you.

“Where are you?” Maggie asked, blinking rapidly, the pages in her lap forgotten.

Please come…I…I need you. I’ve made such a horrible mistake.

“Where are you?” Maggie screamed to the four walls, relieved that her sister was alive, convinced that she was sending her messages again, angry and frustrated that she couldn’t reach her. “Mary Theresa! Where the hell are you?” Her throat was rough, her eyes filling with tears. “Can you hear me?” Closing her eyes, she tried, as she had over and over again through the years, to throw her own inner voice.
Where are you, damn it! M.T.—I’ll come to you, but I don’t know where you are…”
She waited. The seconds ticked off. Tears began to fall from her eyes.

She thought she’d lost her again and, in exasperation, her fingers crumpled the pages still in her hands. “Damn you, Mary—Damn you, I can’t help you if I don’t know where you are!”

Maggie? Can you hear me? I’m going home…

In the bustle of the airport bar, seated at a corner table, Thane ignored his drink—a bourbon on the rocks. The ice was melting, the drink becoming weak. He didn’t give a rip as he stared at the pictures of the teenage boy, snapshots Roy had taken. The kid was good-looking, with dark hair that waved a bit, green-blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a jaw that promised to become square as the years rolled by and he reached manhood. Pride pulled the corners of Thane’s mouth up a bit, bitter reality caused his eyes to narrow in anger. Mary Theresa, the bitch, had kept this secret to herself, only leveled with him when she was backed into a corner, when she wanted the upper hand.

“His name is Ryan,” Roy said. “His phone number and address are here.” He pointed to the manila envelope from which he’d extracted the photos. “You can call him if you want.”

“You’re sure he’s mine?”

“Not without a DNA test, no.” Roy, his short, clipped beard beginning to show signs of gray, took a swig from his beer and tried to catch the waitress’s attention. The bar was filled with travelers talking and laughing, drinking, snacking, and just killing time between flights. Carry-on bags, backpacks, laptop computers, and briefcases littered the floor under the tiny tables. “What I’m sure of is that he’s Marquise’s, er, Mary Theresa’s—she was still using her given name back then.”

The waitress, a freckle faced girl who didn’t look old enough to serve alcohol of any kind, glanced in Roy’s direction and he took advantage of the situation, holding up his near-empty bottle of Coors and wiggling it, silently asking for another.

“I’ll be right with you,” she promised.

Roy grabbed a handful of popcorn and motioned toward the picture. “But look at that kid, would ya? If he’s not your son, he should be.”

“You think he takes after me?”

“Not now. But when you were a kid. Damned straight. The spittin’ image. Ahh, here we go.” He grinned up at the waitress, whose lack of expression didn’t invite conversation or, Thane guessed, many large tips. “Thanks, sweetheart. You’re a love,” Roy said with a playful grin.

She barely smiled. “Anything for you?” she asked Thane in a toneless voice.

“No, I’m fine.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the glossy snapshots.

“He’s preoccupied,” Roy explained, as she scribbled on a notepad, slapped the tab onto the table, then moved onto the next group of thirsty patrons. Roy drained his first bottle before starting on his second. “Here’s the scoop. The kid is the only son of Vera and Bill Brown. The old man—well, he’s only forty-five, not exactly ancient, I suppose—is a firefighter, his mother a travel agent who works four days a week. They think this boy is God’s gift and the kid hasn’t given them a lot of grief. Yet. Plays soccer and baseball, doesn’t have a steady girlfriend as far as I can tell from what I managed to dig up.

“He’s held down two jobs, one scooping ice cream—that one lasted about three months. Later he signed on at the local car wash and took a turn polishing fenders. Right now he’s not working.”

Thane nodded, staring at his son.
His son.
Ryan Brown. A boy he had yet to meet; a kid he hadn’t known existed until just recently. Damn Mary Theresa.

“Since I’ve given you the phone number and address along with a hefty bill for my services,” Roy said with a smug, self-deprecating grin, “I figure from here on in, the ball’s in your court.” With a glance at his watch, he scowled, “Oh, shit, I gotta run. Got a plane to catch. Finish that, will ya?” he asked, pointing to the long-necked bottle that he’d barely touched. “And pick up the tab. This one’s on you.” He grabbed the overnight bag he’d stuffed under their small table and started for the door.

“Roy?” Thane said, realizing his friend was leaving.

“What?”

Thane stood and stuck out his hand. “Thanks.”

Roy’s grin showed off teeth that were beginning to yellow. “Any time.”

Heart thundering, Maggie wheeled into Marquise’s drive and felt like an intruder as her sister’s home loomed in the watery blue glow of street lamps. The house, usually warm and inviting, was dark, a massive structure with all the warmth of a tomb. But this had to be right, didn’t it?

The message she’d received didn’t make any sense. Why would Marquise be at her house? Or did she mean that she was going to…“Don’t even think it.” Maggie cut the engine and tossed her keys into her purse. Just because Mary Theresa had supposedly written a suicide note, one that the press, thankfully, hadn’t mentioned anywhere, didn’t mean that she was actually going to take her life.

Maggie was out of the car in a second and flying up the front walk. She banged on the front door and poked the doorbell with an insistent finger, but she knew no one was inside; the house looked cold and empty. Using her key, she unlocked the door, stepped inside, and nearly jumped out of her skin as the security system started beeping softly and for a second she thought a man was lurking in the shadows.

Then she remembered the suit of armor and forced herself to remain calm, to try and settle her erratic pulse and the feeling of doom that seemed to seep from the walls. Her boots slapped against the floor as she snapped on lights along the hallway to the closet where she disengaged the alarm system. “Mary Theresa?” she called, knowing deep in her heart that she was alone in the behemoth of a house. She walked back to the base of the stairs and again called to her sister, but the house was silent.

“Great,” she said under her breath and glanced at the suit of armor and mannequin as if they could hear her. She felt goose bumps rise on her skin and rubbed her arms through her thick jacket.

Maybe coming here was wrong, maybe Maggie hadn’t interpreted Mary Theresa’s message correctly, she thought as she crossed the living room and spied the piano, black and gleaming near the bank of windows that viewed the still lake. The water was smooth and dark, only a ribbon of moonlight illuminating the surface. The snow had completely melted away, and the grass shimmered silver and cold in the night.

“Come on, M.T., where are you?” she whispered, a feeling of dread settling like lead in her heart. Where was her sister? She passed by a hallway mirror and jumped at her own image—her sister’s image.

You’re losing it,
she told herself and set her jaw.
Just wait. M.T. said she’d be here.

Or did she? Maybe you didn’t hear a message at all. Maybe it’s all in your mind, just as the shrink told you a long time ago, or maybe it’s just wishful thinking.

“Damn.” She sat on the piano bench and sighed. “Where are you, Mary?” she wondered aloud, running a finger along the keys of the concert grand and listening to the tinkling notes as she stared into the vast darkness of the night. Dread squeezed her throat, and just being alone in Marquise’s house started stretching her nerves as tight as the wires of this piano.

Maybe this was a wild goose chase. A mistake.

She walked to the den. Switching on Marquise’s computer, she waited for the machine to boot up, then dialed Connie in L.A. in the hopes of connecting with Becca. The computer went through its start-up procedure, the monitor glowing as the phone rang several times only to be answered by a machine. Rather than leave a message, she hung up. “So far you’re batting a thousand,” she told herself, trying to fight an overwhelming sense of disappointment.

She missed Becca terribly. But it was probably one-sided. Though Becca was starting to come around, it seemed, and though the seductive luster of L.A. had begun to fade, even a bit, in Becca’s eyes, the ravine between mother and daughter seemed impossible to bridge at times.

“Pull yourself together.” The cold dark house was beginning to get to her. She
had
to pull herself together. Glancing at her watch, she bit her lip and prayed that she and Mary Theresa would connect, the mystery surrounding her disappearance and Renee Nielsen’s death would be solved, and she could return to Idaho where she and her daughter could resume their normal, if very dull, lives. Right now, dull sounded like heaven.

And what about Thane?
she asked as she sat in a desk chair and stared at the monitor where the few icons of Marquise’s programs decorated the screen.
What are you going to do about him?

“Nothing.” But she dialed the number of the hotel and left a message in their suite telling him where she’d gone and that she’d be back soon. She didn’t want him to worry about her, then decided she was a fool of the worst order. Oh, he cared for her a little—but not enough, not the way she loved him. She closed her eyes for a second and tried to deny her feelings, but she’d only be lying to herself. She loved Thane Walker. Pure and simple. She always had. Even during the duration of her stormy marriage to Dean McCrae.

Guilt crowded into her mind. “Fool,” she muttered. Thane would never love her. He didn’t have the capacity, and there was always Mary Theresa; like a ghost she came between them, even when they were pressed together, naked body to naked body. Mary Theresa had been in the bed with them.

“Stop it!” Her case of nerves was getting to her. “Sheesh, Maggie, you’re a head case,” she chastised, opening a program and eyeing Marquise’s address book.

Now Thane had a son, a boy he’d never met, Mary Theresa’s child…why that thought hurt so badly, she didn’t understand. She told herself to get over it. Aside from his on-again/off-again relationship with Mary Theresa, he also had a girlfriend in Wyoming—Carrie Whatever. Even if that was truly over there was the other issue.

And he’s never stopped loving your sister.

Maggie’s throat ached and she refused to think of Thane and the emotions that burned so bright in her heart. She couldn’t love him. Wouldn’t. It served no purpose whatsoever and would only cause her heartache. So she’d kissed him again. So she’d touched him. Made love to him. So what? People did it all the time. There wasn’t anything special or magical about it.

Get over it,
she told herself as she began going through Marquise’s files again, although the sense that she was trespassing gave her pause.

She scrolled down the address list, viewed the tax file and financial statement. With a sinking feeling she realized just how horribly in debt her sister was, how desperate her financial situation had become. Back taxes, credit-card bills, overdue lease payments, foreclosure notices on her place in Aspen and this very house.

“No wonder she ran away,” Maggie said, playing with the computer, cross-indexing—trying to find any match for Renee Nielsen. No Nielsens whatsoever. But there was another Renee. Renee Warner. Maggie felt a tingle at the nape of her neck, the sense that she was about to find something, something she didn’t want to see. With deft fingers, she scrolled down, double checked, did a file search and found no checks made payable to Renee Warner. But there were a couple of checks made payable to herself for cash and noted on the computer as RW.

“Could mean anything,” she told herself.
“Rear Window,
for example, or right wing or anything and Renee’s name is Nielsen…” Her neck ached and she glanced at the clock. It had been an hour and half since the last “message” from her sister. Since then nothing. Maybe she was having a nervous breakdown, just like Dean’s family always insinuated. Fat chance. Connie and Jim were always looking for ways to prove that she, even if capable of being Becca’s guardian, at least was too mentally unbalanced to handle the trust fund Dean’s father had set up for her child. It was all so sick. She’d been crazy to let Becca spend any time with them, but she’d had no choice. And she wasn’t crazy! Mary Theresa had contacted her.

So where is she?
Her heart leapt to her throat as she thought of the car accident and the fact that some other vehicle had edged M.T.’s Jeep off the road. Had something happened to her since the message? Could the person responsible for Renee’s death have found her sister?

“Come on, Mary. Come on,” she said nervously. Rubbing the strain from the muscles in her shoulders, she stood.

Thump!

She froze.

Outside, from the direction of the thud, a cat screamed.

Maggie started for the kitchen.

Click.

A lock gave way and Maggie’s heart, fueled by adrenaline, pumped wildly. With a squeak, a door opened. Maggie felt a cool rush of outside air creep into the house.

“Mary Theresa?” she called, praying it was no one else.

Henderson had just turned off the answering machine in his apartment and was sorting through the day’s stack of bills and junk mail while deciding whether to heat up a TV dinner or just roll into the sack and ignore his rumbling stomach. The phone jangled and he snatched up the receiver, answering quickly, by rote. “Henderson.”

“Officer Bates, Colorado State Police.”

Henderson’s mind clicked into gear.

“You put out an APB on a black Chevy Blazer, and I think we found it.”

“Where?”

“Off an old mining road near Crested Butte. It’s a wonder we found it at all. Got a crew on it already.”

“Anyone inside?” he asked, feeling a niggle of anticipation. This might just be the break they were looking for.

“Don’t know yet, but it looks bad.”