What Lies Beneath (11 page)

“And all the men…” he continued. “Well, let’s just say I got to live out their fantasies tonight.”

“I got to live out my fantasy tonight, too.”

Will smiled, leaning down to place a soft kiss on her lips. Her body responded to his touch, but her brain chased the heat out of her veins. It was time to sleep, at least for now.

He reached down to pull the duvet up to cover them, and then tugged Cynthia up to curl her back against his chest. Wrapped in the warmth of the blanket with Will beside her, they fell asleep, the lights still on, their clothes still strewn around the apartment.

Sometime before dawn, Cynthia woke up, still tucked in Will’s strong embrace. She squirmed slightly to free herself from his grasp and sat up on the edge of the bed.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice sleepy and rough.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m just thirsty, and I never brushed my teeth. Do you want some water?”

“No, I’m okay.”

Cynthia pushed up from the mattress and walked nude into the bathroom. At the doorway, she paused and looked back at Will. She expected to catch a glimpse of him as he fell back asleep, but he was propped up on his elbow. He was watching her walk away, but the expression on his face was not what she was expecting. His brow was furrowed, his gaze burrowing into her backside, of all places.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

Will shifted his gaze to her, the intensity only increasing as he studied her face just as thoroughly. “No,” he said pointedly, although his contemplative tone made her wonder if that were really true.

Cynthia was too sleepy to worry much about it. She went into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. She chugged a cup of water, finished removing her makeup and went about her nightly beauty regime. Her body was aching, but fulfilled, and she was eager to crawl back under the covers and sleep in Will’s arms until noon.

Returning to the bed, she switched off the lights and slipped under the sheets. Will had rolled onto his back and his eyes were closed. She snuggled into him and laid her head on his chest. Listening to his heartbeat, she realized she’d never been so happy. Finding a passion in sewing and design was nothing compared to finding a passion and love for Will. Tonight had been everything she hoped and wished for when she gave him back her engagement ring—a chance for them to start over and be happy together.

“I love you,” she whispered into the dark once the rise and fall of his breath became steady and even against her and she was certain he was sleeping. Then she turned onto her side and closed her eyes, immediately falling asleep.

* * *

Although he was lying in bed with his eyes closed, Will was far from asleep. Ten minutes ago, he would’ve told anyone he was exhausted and content with the woman he loved in his arms. His business was doing well and his love life was better than ever. Somehow, all of that was snatched from him so quickly that he couldn’t feel the pain of it being ripped away at first. There was just a mix of confusion and denial swirling around the sleepy fog of his brain. What he’d just seen was impossible. Incomprehensible. And yet there was no way to deny the truth.

The rose tattoo was gone.

He’d hated that thing from the moment she’d gotten it. Cynthia had gone off on a spring break girls’ trip to Cancun their senior year at Yale. Sometime amongst the sun and surf and tequila, she’d decided it would be a great idea to commemorate the trip with a tattoo on her ass.

It was pretty and well done, but in the end, it was a red rose inked into her left butt cheek. He’d done his best to ignore it over the years, and when their love life fizzled, he’d forgotten it was even there.

Until it wasn’t.

When he watched her walk away, the realization hit him like an iron fist to the gut. There was no tattoo. And not even the faintest hint of where one might’ve been removed by a laser without his knowledge. There was nothing. He didn’t know what to say when she asked if something was wrong.

Yes, by God, something was very wrong. She was not Cynthia Dempsey, and that was a problem.

In an instant, his entire world came crashing down around him. The best relationship he’d ever had was built on nothing but lies. He could feel it disintegrating around him. Everything she’d said and everything they’d done in the past few weeks meant absolutely nothing.

Who had he just made love to? This woman, this Cynthia imposter…who was she, and how had she ended up living another person’s life? The doctors said she had amnesia. Did she even know she
wasn’t
Cynthia? Was this all just one tragic mixup, or had this woman deliberately taken advantage of her circumstances? Was it possible that despite her outward appearance, she was as manipulative as Cynthia?

All this time he’d been afraid to let his guard down because he didn’t think he could trust Cynthia not to hurt him again. But he took the leap and found there was a greater pain he hadn’t felt yet. The woman he loved, the one who’d gotten under his skin and made him question the way he lived his life, wasn’t Cynthia at all. Cynthia never had the power to hurt him this badly because he hadn’t allowed it. This time he’d let down his protective walls and permitted his mystery lover to shatter his heart, whereas Cynthia had merely cracked it.

It took every ounce of strength he had to keep his jaw clamped shut and swallow the hurt, confused words in his throat when she snuggled into his chest, completely oblivious to his discovery. The woman in his arms was not Cynthia. It was nearly impossible to wrap his head around the idea. His mind bounced around frantically, reliving every discussion, every touch, trying to determine if it had been obvious but he’d been too blinded by her light to see it.

No wonder Cynthia had cheated on him. He’d been with her since college but he barely knew her anymore. They’d become so disconnected from their relationship that he couldn’t even tell her from someone else. He, of all people, should’ve been able to tell the difference regardless of what some plastic surgeon’s knife had done. He was a fool.

Will wanted to shake her and start throwing angry accusations, but it was 3 a.m. and he knew the answers wouldn’t come. In the morning he would uncover the truth and then see what she had to say for herself. For now, all he could do was try to fall back asleep and hope the heartburn-like pain in his chest didn’t keep him up all night.

It was then, as he lay in the dark praying for sleep to dull the pain, that the woman lying in his bed quietly declared that she was in love with him. And to think, up until that point, he’d thought the situation couldn’t get any worse.

Ten

W
hen morning had finally come around, the arrival of the sun did not make Will’s outlook any brighter. In fact, he’d lay there wide awake the entire time. With each second that ticked by, the pain and confusion had slowly morphed into anger and suspicion. He got out of bed around seven and told her there was a pressing problem with the Sunday edition. He couldn’t very well tell her he didn’t want to be around her, pretending to bask in their post lovemaking glow. He wasn’t a very good actor, and he wasn’t ready to confront her until he had all the information. He wanted to have the advantage, and that meant doing the necessary research to figure out who she was and what she was after.

She—
he couldn’t think of her as Cynthia anymore
—pouted appropriately and gave him a kiss to help keep her on his mind all day.

Oh, yeah, she’d be on his mind, all right. But probably not the way she imagined.

When he got to the office, he asked his weekend admin to pull any articles the local papers had done on the plane crash. He spent two hours at his desk poring over the pieces published in his paper and other papers around town. There wasn’t much information aside from details of the accident itself, the short list of survivors and what the airline was doing to ensure the tragedy would never happen again.

None of that was helpful.

Going down the hallway into the bullpen, where a large group of journalists worked in cubicles, he sought out the guy who had written all the articles for the
Observer
.

“Mike? Do you have a second?”

The journalist spun in his chair, a look of surprise on his face when he realized the owner of the paper was in his cubicle and not the guy across from him looking to borrow a stapler. “Yes, Mr. Taylor?”

“I’m looking for some information on Cynthia’s plane crash. Do you happen to have any research materials left over that I can see?”

“Sure thing.” Mike spun back around to his file cabinet and pulled out a green file labeled “Chicago Flight 746.” “Everything I have is here, including any official faxes the airline sent.”

“Is there a list of passengers and seats included?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Mike.”

Will took the file back to his office and flipped through the pages. According to the information from the airline, Cynthia was in 14A, a window seat in coach. That was unusual. A look at the first-class passengers explained it. Looked like a large group of Japanese businessmen traveling together. She probably hadn’t realized what seat she was assigned until it was too late to change it.

Turning back to Cynthia’s row, he noted the person beside her in 14B was a woman named Adrienne Lockhart. She had not survived the accident. Few had.

Firing up his laptop, Will pulled up his internet browser and searched for this Adrienne Lockhart. The first link was adriennelockhartdesigns.com, a site for a SoHo-based fashion designer.

A fashion designer. Will’s stomach started to churn with dread. He was certainly on the right track. He’d hoped for a moment he’d find she’d sat beside a middle-aged attorney named Harold.

He opened the website up and saw on the homepage an announcement that the store was closing and thanking her patrons for their support. The announcement was dated the day before the crash.

Will clicked on “About the Designer,” and before the page had almost fully loaded, he knew he had come to the right site. There was a photo of a smiling, dark-haired woman posted there. They could’ve been sisters with like features arranged in a slightly different way. She looked to be a similar build to Cynthia, but facially, there were differences. Adrienne’s face was a touch rounder, her nose slightly wider. She didn’t have Cynthia’s high, prominent cheekbones or expensive, perfect teeth. Her hair had a sort of wavy kink to it, although it was the same dark color.

Clicking on the picture, it enlarged and he was able to zoom in on the feature he was most interested in. The eyes. He’d convinced himself that the gold in Cynthia’s eyes had always been there, but he’d avoided her gaze so long he’d forgotten. Now he realized it was because it hadn’t been there before. But it was certainly in this photo. If he enlarged the picture enough to show nothing else but the pair of green-gold eyes, it was like looking at Cynthia.

The Cynthia he’d made the mistake of falling for.

Cynthia Dempsey was not in his apartment. That woman was most certainly Adrienne Lockhart.

But why? How had this happened?

There had obviously been some kind of mistake at the accident site. Either the bodies had been thrown from their seats or they’d switched seats for some reason. He knew Cynthia hated the window, so he had no doubt she would needle the person next to her into trading. As badly as they were hurt, the women looked similar enough to be confused by rescue crews.

If Adrienne had woken up in the hospital, her face reconstructed to look more like Cynthia…it was an easy mistake for everyone to make. She had looked horrible, nothing like Cynthia at first despite Dr. Takashi’s best efforts. They believed she was Cynthia because the doctors told them she was. But it was also an easy mistake to correct. All she had to do was say, “I’m not Cynthia Dempsey” the minute she could talk. But she hadn’t. She’d feigned confusion and was diagnosed with amnesia.

Well, of course it would seem like it. She wouldn’t recognize any of the people that came to see her. They’d never met. She wouldn’t recognize their house or know anything about their life or her past. It made perfect sense.

Except she hadn’t remembered who she really was either.

He’d always believed amnesia was the stuff of soap operas before Cynthia’s accident. And now, knowing the truth, he was inclined to believe it still was.

The woman on that website was at the end of her rope. She’d lost her store, was flying back home to Wisconsin. She had nothing when she got on that plane. Even if there had been some initial confusion when she woke up with all the surgeries and drugs, there had to be a point when she realized there was a mistake and didn’t say anything.

But why? Did the fancy life Cynthia no longer needed seem more glamorous? Rich parents, a penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side, a five-carat platinum engagement ring…certainly better than returning home a failure.

Better to go along with it, see how long she could get away with her game. In a matter of weeks, she’d overtaken Cynthia’s life and set it on the course of the life she wanted. Not only was she designing, and miraculously well for a supposed novice, but now she had all the industry connections to get a collection off the ground.

It was certainly a big risk to take. She couldn’t have known about the tattoo, but there could’ve been a million different ways to give her game away. Seducing him was probably the stupidest thing she could’ve done. Did she think he would be blinded by love and never notice the differences?

It had worked pretty well, so far. He’d dismissed the shoes being too big and the eyes being too gold. Cast aside doubts when she was suddenly a world-class seamstress. Suppressed his amazement when the personalities were like night and day. He supposed he had been blind. He hadn’t wanted to see that no bump to the head could’ve turned the cold, indifferent woman he knew into the vivacious, loving woman who had charmed him from the first day in the hospital.

But perhaps that was all an act. If she were shrewd enough to steal another person’s identity, all of that could just be part of the game. Be sweet, be loving, be innocent and everyone would love her too much to ask questions.

Slamming his fist into his desk, Will let himself focus on the pain radiating up his arm. The unpleasant sensation was the only thing in his life he knew was real and true. Cynthia or Adrienne or whoever the hell she was had wrapped him in such a web of lies that he didn’t know what to believe. But pain didn’t lie. It didn’t turn your whole world upside down and confess its love to you in a ploy to hijack someone’s life.

Well, no more. He wasn’t about to be used for a second longer. He shut down his laptop and grabbed his coat off the back of his chair, then he marched out of his office to hail a cab for home.

* * *

Sunday afternoon Cynthia was filled with nervous energy. She should’ve been floating around on cloud nine after the amazing night she shared with Will, but something about this morning hadn’t sat right with her. He’d come so far in his attempt to work less and spend more time with her. But this morning, he had almost avoided her. He didn’t make eye contact. His lips had been stiff against hers when she kissed him goodbye. Then he’d dashed out the door to go to the office for a problem that someone other than the CEO could have fixed.

It made her uneasy. She thought last night had gone so well. She didn’t know what the problem could be. Unless he heard her when she’d said she loved him. Cynthia had been certain he was asleep, but what if he wasn’t? What if it was way too soon? She was a fool.
Always wait for the guy to say it first.

As time went by without word from Will, Cynthia opted to call Darlene Winters. She should’ve waited until Monday, but she needed the distraction. She was pleased to find the fashion editor was still just as excited to view her work. She was to bring three pieces and her sketches to her office in the
Trend Now
magazine headquarters on Tuesday.

The problem was she only had three completed pieces: the gown, the shirt-dress and a coordinating skirt and blouse. If she took those three pieces, she didn’t have the option of wearing one of her own designs. She didn’t think any of her sketches could be completed in time, because she was short on the fabrics and supplies she would need. She’d just have to settle for the small fortune of designer clothes she owned.

She stood in her closet, eyeing the endless racks of items to wear. Cynthia had already picked out a deep purple skirt. She liked the pop of color, and the lines were similar enough to her collection that the style didn’t contrast too much with what she promoted. But she still needed a blouse.

She flipped through hanger after hanger, the dollar signs adding up exponentially, but nothing caught her eye. Then she saw a glimpse of fabric in her peripheral vision. The flash of purple and white drew her down several feet to a long-sleeved blouse. She pulled it off the rack and looked it over. It was perfect, really. The purple and white stripes would accent the skirt, and some of the details in the blouse were very similar to what she’d been thinking about using in her own collection. Curious, she glanced at the tag on the collar.

Adrienne Lockhart Designs.

She looked at the name, staring intently at it for several moments as her brain tried to process the sudden influx of information rushing forward at once. It was like a dam had broken. Every memory she’d ever had bombarded her.

She remembered designing and sewing this blouse. The woman who bought it at her boutique was looking for a unique birthday gift. Her friend was the kind of person who had everything and she’d been struggling to find something different. Adrienne had hoped the woman would bring in more business, but nothing had ever come of it.

She could now picture her funky little shop with walls lined with clothing she’d designed and sewn herself. The fortune in her father’s life insurance money she’d used to get started. The heartache of packing everything up to ship home to Wisconsin when it didn’t work out.

Adrienne Lockhart.

The hanger slipped from her fingers to the floor, but she didn’t bother to bend over and pick it up.

“My name is Adrienne Lockhart.” She said the words aloud to the empty closet, and for the first time in two months, the niggling sensation in the back of her mind wasn’t there. The name Cynthia Dempsey had always triggered a feeling that things weren’t right. And they weren’t.

Because Cynthia Dempsey was dead and buried in Wisconsin with a tombstone that had Adrienne’s name on it.

A rush of emotion and confusion washed over her. She’d been living a lie for months. Fell in love with a dead woman’s fiancé. Made love to him several times, all the while he believed she was someone else. How could she tell him the truth? What would he do?

He’d said he liked her better now than before, but would the fact that she wasn’t Cynthia Dempsey change how he felt?

Never once when she thought about when and how she would regain her memory did it ever occur to her that she would realize she was someone else. Everyone thought she was dead. Cynthia’s family thought she was alive. All of Cynthia’s friends, the people who’d come to her party last night, pleased to see she was doing so well…how could she tell them the truth? How could she explain any of this?

Nausea swept over her. Rushing from the closet, she raced into the bathroom and lost her lunch in the fancy porcelain toilet.

Why hadn’t she gone with her instincts? Alarm bells had been sounding the entire time to warn her that this life wasn’t hers. She never had money or expensive anything. She was convinced that her tiny apartment in New York was an old janitorial closet. Her house in Milwaukee was a small, three-bedroom cottage in the suburbs that she inherited when her father died. The nicest piece of jewelry she owned was the strand of pearls that belonged to her mother. They were irreplaceable, but even then, they couldn’t touch the value of Cynthia’s jewels.