Читать книгу Which Twin? - Elane Osborn - Страница 7

This was it—the place of her dreams. Or her nightmares. She was never sure which.

Rose Delancey drew in a breath of cool, sea-scented air as she peered through the black wrought-iron gate at the three-story gray stone house. A gust of cold air whooshed past her hair, blowing back her dark wavy bangs.

She shook off a sudden chill.

There was no doubt in her mind that this particular house, with its eight-foot brick wall and spear-topped gate, had haunted her dreams for as long as she could remember.

Another chill, one that had nothing to do with the weather, slithered through Rose. There was no point asking herself why gazing upon this scene in the light of day was so important to her. She’d done enough soul-searching before starting out on her quest. Now that she was in this exclusive neighborhood south of San Francisco, staring at the cobblestone driveway leading to three double garage doors made of oak, the question was how she would manage to gain access to the rear of the house and the place from which she could see the vista of her dreams.

The wind rose again to rattle the leaves of a large olive tree growing at the left corner of the garage, drawing Rose’s attention to a set of iron steps behind some low-hanging branches. Her heart began to race. Those stairs most likely led to a deck off the second story of the house. All she had to do was walk up them, and she would reach the spot from her dreams.

Of course, she reminded herself with a wry twist of her lips, that would be after she found some way through or over the black iron gate that barricaded the driveway.

As she frowned at the unfriendly looking spikes running along the top bar, her moment of elation faded. An impatient sigh bloomed in her chest before escaping past her lips. If this were a dream, the gate would magically open right now, allowing her to glide across the driveway and up the stairs. But this was not a dream. This was a windy, about-to-rain, end-of-January morning in real life, where nothing magical was likely to happen.

Or was it?

To Rose’s right, somewhere in the wall, a motor hummed to life. The gate in front of her began to move. Rose barely breathed as the space opened. Then, as calmly as if she were an expected visitor, she stepped onto the driveway and started toward the stairs.

When the garage door closest to the stairway started to rise, it just seemed part of the unreal atmosphere that had impelled Rose down the driveway. Then it struck her that the garage door and the gate were probably activated by a remote-control device, both of which had undoubtedly been activated to admit an approaching vehicle. A vehicle, her thoughts warned, that very likely contained someone who would stop a trespasser, thus bringing her quest to an immediate halt, just short of her goal.

Unless, of course, she was up the staircase, hidden by the canopy of leaves, before the vehicle turned into the driveway.

Rose broke into a half run. Once she started up the steps, her black flats struck a staccato, metallic beat. She slowed her racing feet as she neared the intricate wrought-iron gate at the top of the stairway, a gate that clicked open easily, admitting her to an expansive veranda, tiled in a brown herringbone pattern.

Tingling with anticipation, Rose gazed past the flowers spilling from the low, brick planter at the edge of the veranda some twenty feet away. She could now see the view from her dreams.

Almost.

The angle didn’t quite match the image that had so often appeared to her. She wasn’t standing quite high enough for one thing, and the red-tiled roof she’d gazed over in her dreams was nowhere in sight.

Turning to her right, Rose spied at the far end of the patio a circular staircase leading to a wooden deck above her. Without a second thought she crossed in front of a wide bank of French doors.

A slight drizzle moistened the iron stairs as Rose began to climb again, her footsteps ringing with an odd double echo. She ignored this, focusing on the metal gate at the top of the stairs. It opened easily onto a deck made of wide wooden planks, inviting Rose to step forward.

On her right the red-tiled roof of the house next door came into view as Rose walked slowly to the iron fence at the edge of the balcony. Drawing a slow breath, she placed her hands on the top rail. Cold metal chilled her palms as she gazed at the Golden Gate Bridge, stretching rusty-orange over gray-green water.

The view from her dreams. Finally.

Sometimes in her dreams the bridge gleamed in the brilliant sun. Other times it was a scallop of tiny lights against the black sky. Today gray clouds enshrouded the tops of the bridge’s two towers. Below her the ocean crashed onto a narrow beach at the bottom of a sheer cliff, and tiny drops of rain accompanied the wind and set her long, beaded earrings dancing against her neck.

Rose’s chest expanded with her sense of achievement, only to deflate a second later as the questions began. Why would she dream of this particular view over and over? And why had it seemed so vital that she find this spot so soon after her mother’s death, that she stand here in real life? It wouldn’t change anything. It certainly wouldn’t bring her mother back, nor would it fill that odd, empty, lost place in her soul. It wouldn’t—

“Do you think you’re fooling anyone, sneaking up the back way?” a deep voice demanded.

Rose jumped, then swiveled around. Just inside the gate stood a man wearing a brown leather jacket, a crisp white shirt and faded jeans. Approximately six feet tall with broad shoulders, he had a square face and short brown hair, tattered by the gusting wind. She noted rough-edged features that indicated he was in his mid to late thirties. His eyes were narrowed beneath his furrowed brow, preventing Rose from seeing their color, but she knew they would prove to be a muted blend of green and brown. For, just like the bridge, this man had repeatedly appeared in her dreams.

As the familiar-yet-strange man began to approach, Rose fought a wave of dizziness, and her mind struggled for a foothold in reality. Was any of this—the house on the cliff, the bridge in the distance, the oddly familiar stranger—real? Had she actually gotten out of bed this morning and taken that cab ride to this spot above the sea? Or was it possible that she was still lying on that hard hotel room mattress, sound asleep, lost in yet another dream?

Or nightmare?

This must be real, she decided as the man grasped her upper arms. Never, in any of her dreams, had she felt her flesh being pressed beneath his strong grip, nor had she experienced the dream stranger’s warmth as he drew her toward him.

Looking into his penetrating eyes, she saw they were indeed a warm mixture of brown and green, though perhaps darkened a shade by some emotion she couldn’t discern. Anger, perhaps? Rose opened her mouth to apologize for having trespassed, but the man spoke first, his deep voice harsh with impatience.

“All right, Anna. What the hell is going on?”

Rose blinked. Anna? Who was Anna? More to the point, who was this man, and why did he look as though he wanted to kill her?

In her dreams this man, or the one who looked so much like him, was always smiling—sometimes widely, revealing strong white teeth, or with his full lips twisted into a lopsided grin. Upon awakening from these nighttime visits, Rose was always filled with a languid warmth, prompting her to keep her eyes closed for a few moments so she could hold on to the image of his face, the eyes that teased her and the lips she wanted to kiss.

None of those half-awake feelings warmed her now. She felt as if she were trapped in a nightmare—cold, terrified, desperate to escape and yet utterly incapable of moving other than to pull her gaze from the thin, tight line of this stranger’s mouth to the combination of fury and worry in his eyes.

It was the fury that kept Logan Maguire momentarily silent as the wind whipped dark tendrils around Anna Benedict’s pale face, emphasizing the blank, dazed expression clouding her dark-blue eyes.

Clenching his jaw, he drew in a steadying breath. “What’s going on here, Anna?” he demanded. “You left two messages on my machine saying you were in trouble, that you needed to see me. The next thing I know, there’s a message from your father, worried sick because you’re missing.”

When Anna only blinked at him, Logan went on, “It’s been a long three days, and the flight back from France was no picnic. Do you have any idea what it was like, retrieving those messages from the phone aboard the plane, waiting anxiously for the flight to end?”

Upon landing he’d rushed to his car, then swerved through streets clogged with morning commuters, San Francisco traffic, to the Benedict house. All the while he’d cursed himself for allowing Robert Benedict to bow to his daughter’s refusal of a bodyguard six months ago, when the man had decided to run for the U.S. Senate seat once held by Robert’s father, Charles.

“So,” Logan went on. “I drive like a bat out of hell to get here, hit the remote to open the front gate as I turn onto Sea Cliff Drive, only to see you step calmly through the opening and head for the outside stairs.”

As Logan had raced up the steps, he’d realized that he’d been worrying about her needlessly. And now, slightly out of breath, bone tired from his long flight and completely out of patience, Logan gripped Anna’s arms more tightly.

“Well, what was it that sent you off this time?” he asked. “Another excursion to ‘find yourself’?”

As Logan waited for Anna to reply, he became aware that the soft drizzle had become a steady rain. He watched her half-dazed expression turn to one of utter confusion. She shook her head as if to clear it, and damp curls fell forward to brush her eyebrows and cling to her cheeks. When she started to brush the short tendrils back, Logan grabbed her hand.

“When you said in your first message that you were in trouble,” he said with far more control than he felt, “please don’t tell me you were referring to the fact that you suddenly decided to cut your hair.”

Logan rarely spoke so sharply to Anna. He knew that what might seem like vanity to others was Anna’s desperate attempt to maintain the image her mother was so obsessed with. More than once Anna had threatened to chop off her long hair, only to have Elise convince her that the change would spoil the “classic lines” created when Anna’s slightly wild hair was pulled back tightly.

Releasing her hand, Logan reached toward the damp tangle of curls. His fingers brushed her cheek before they combed through the thick waves at her temples, then encountered the beginning of her familiar waist-length braid.

“Okay,” he said through clenched teeth. “You cut bangs. Elise will probably hate them, but it is your hair. If she really flips, you can use gel or something to slick…them…”

Logan’s words trailed off as he became aware that a strange tingling heat had begun to grow in the palm of the hand cupping Anna’s head. The fingers still gripping her slim arm had developed a similar sensation, which was now racing up through his chest, then down his legs, grounding him to the planks beneath his feet like some capricious electrical current.

Anna’s upturned face registered wonderment blended with confusion. The confusion seemed to be contagious, for Logan suddenly found himself shifting his attention from her shadowed eyes to her lips—noting how full they were, how softly they curved, how the raindrops falling onto their parted surface shimmered in pale pink dots. And for the first time since Logan Maguire had seen Anna Elise Benedict a little over twenty-seven years ago, he found himself wanting to kiss those lips, to pull her slim body into his arms—not as the older brother he’d always considered himself, but as a lover.

Few things frightened Logan. Not taking the curves of Highway 1 at top speed in his ’65 Mustang convertible, nor negotiating a deal that could make or lose millions of dollars for the family he owed so much to. But this—this sudden change in the way he’d always felt about Anna—scared him silly.

Instantly he untangled his fingers from her damp hair and released her. As he took a step back, he forced his attention to Anna’s eyes once again and saw that her confusion had been replaced by a look of terror. Logan’s eyebrows moved together in a tight frown. Never had Anna looked at him this way before—as if she were afraid of being attacked. True, he could never remember being quite as angry with her before, but his role of “big brother” had necessitated a certain amount of discipline, to which Anna normally reacted with stubborn silence. Perhaps she’d felt the same strange tingle of attraction he’d experienced and was just as stunned by it. If this were the case, he decided, the two of them would simply talk it out, then laugh over it and return to treating each other as brother and sister.

But not out here, he realized as the falling raindrops suddenly grew fat and sharp as the wind rushed in from the sea.

Logan shouted against the roar of the sudden downpour, “Let’s get out of this before we’re completely drenched.”

He turned toward the sliding glass door that led to Anna’s room. Her hesitant footsteps on the deck told him that she followed, but as he reached for the door handle, he realized that those footsteps sounded more rapid and increasingly distant.

Logan looked up just in time to see Anna disappear down the circular staircase. Immediately he gave chase, twisting down the now-slick steps, blinking away the rain to watch Anna through the openings in the ironwork beneath his feet, scowling more deeply each time his wide shoulders rammed the center post, refusing to slow in deference to the narrow curve.

By the time he neared the bottom, Logan had almost caught up with her. He missed grabbing Anna’s hand by mere inches as she released the railing and headed toward the second set of stairs at the far end of the veranda. However, he knew he had her now, knew she would need to slow down in order to keep from slipping on the expensive tiles that Charles Benedict had installed forty years ago only to discover that they became dangerously slick in the fog and the rain.

Anna, like Logan and her brother Chas, had been indoctrinated from the time she could walk never to run on the veranda, especially when it was wet. Logan prepared to slow his rushing feet as he reached the bottom step. Anna, however, hadn’t paused for a second. Across the now-shiny tiles she ran, and when she started into the sharp turn that would take her to the second stairway, her feet flew out from beneath her. She landed flat on her back, then slid to a sudden stop against the brick planter.

In moments Logan was at her side, down on one knee bending over her and asking, “Are you hurt?”

Her dark eyes stared up at him as she gave her head an uncertain shake. Her mouth opened and formed the word no, but not a sound passed her lips. At that point her eyes widened, filling with sheer terror as she fought to breathe. When she tried to sit up, Logan placed his hands on her shoulders.

“Lie back. You’ve had the wind knocked out of you. You have to relax.”

Relax? Rose wanted to scream. A weight was pressing on her chest, threatening to squeeze the very life out of her, and this man wanted her to relax? Panic stiffened every muscle and she again fought to struggle into an upright position.

“Take it easy,” his deep voice soothed as strong hands restrained her attempts to rise. His touch felt terrifyingly like the pressure around her chest. With a vehement shake of her head she battled both.

“Don’t!” His voice was harsh again; he was digging his fingers into her shoulders. A second later he said more softly, “You have to stop fighting and let your lungs take over. It will happen. Trust me. Just listen to me.”

Believing she had no choice, given the man’s greater strength, she gazed into his eyes as he continued to utter reassuring words. Her world began to turn black as she sank against the cold, wet tiles and tried not to fight the painful constriction in her chest.

A second later her ribs expanded and cold air rushed into her aching lungs. Along with a mouthful of rain.

Immediately Rose began to choke. This time the man helped her to a seated position, slipping strong arms around her, holding her as violent coughs racked her body. By the time the coughing fit eased, Rose realized she was too weak to attempt another escape. She would be forced to explain how and why she’d come to trespass on his private balcony.

Just as she was getting ready to do that, however, the man suddenly slipped an arm beneath her knees, cradled her to his chest and stood. Her abused lungs barely managed to draw a startled gasp before he began striding along the balcony. Rose shook her head and squirmed as she tried to form a verbal protest.

“Oh, no you don’t, Anna.” The man’s arms tightened around her as his harsh voice rose above the rattle of the rain. “I’m not going to put you down and give you the chance to pull God-knows-what new stunt. Not till we’re inside where it’s dry and I get a damned good explanation for what you’ve been up to.”

Rose was fully prepared to explain her actions, but she wasn’t about to take the heat for what someone named Anna might have done. Aware that they were moving past the French doors she’d noticed earlier, she opened her mouth to tell him that he was making a mistake.

“Look,” she started, but before she could say another word, one of the doors opened.

The man stopped, and Rose turned. Framed in the doorway was a blond woman dressed in a champagne-colored jacket over a matching skirt. She was maybe a shade over five feet tall, and from the lines marking her delicate, perfectly made-up features Rose guessed she was somewhere in her late forties or early fifties.

The woman’s fingers tightened around a small ivory purse as she frowned and spoke sharply. “Logan, what are you—”

She broke off as her dark-brown eyes met Rose’s. Lifting a slender hand to cover her mouth, the woman blinked and breathed a stunned-sounding, “Anna?”

Again the Anna business. Rose shook her head, but the man named Logan was already replying.

“Yes, Elise. She slipped on the tiles and took a fall. I need to get her inside and see if she’s broken anything.”

As the man carried Rose through the doorway, the woman backed into the cream-and-beige room, her wide brown eyes gazing in surprise before narrowing slightly.

“Anna,” she said. “You know how dangerous those tiles are. I must have told you a hundred times that—” The woman broke off. Her eyes narrowed further as she went on, “Where have you been, young lady? What have you done to your hair? And where did you get those clothes? Not to mention those vulgar earrings?”

Rose frowned. Young lady? No one had addressed her in such a patronizing, belittling tone since her junior year in high school. And as to the comment about her earrings, she touched the long tangle of beads strung in hues of blue and purple that her mother had given her this past Christmas, then opened her mouth to protest the term vulgar. But before she could say a thing, again she heard, “Anna?”

This time the word was barely a whisper, filled with unmistakable relief. Rose turned. A tall man with gray hair that nearly matched his light-charcoal suit stood on the threshold between the bedroom and the hallway behind him. He appeared to have paused in the act of tugging loose his red silk tie to stare across the room at Rose.

The man holding Rose was quick to reply. “Yes, Robert. Anna took a fall, and I want to lay her down on the bed and see if anything is broken.”

He’d barely taken one step forward before Rose gave a protesting wiggle and managed to blurt out, “That’s not necessary. I’m fine, just let me—”

“Logan,” the blond woman interjected, stepping toward them. “I really think it would be better if you took your sister up to her bed.”

Rose followed the woman’s gaze to the water dripping from her thoroughly soaked purple skirt and turquoise sweater, then over to the large bed draped in a pristine ivory coverlet.

The arms holding her tightened convulsively. A second later she was being whisked past the bed, then the man named Robert. The action took place so quickly that Rose found herself halfway down a cream carpeted hallway before it occurred to her to twist violently in an attempt to escape this Logan person’s hold.

“Put me down,” she demanded.

When he ignored her, instead turning and mounting a set of stairs, Rose tried again. “Look, I’m sorry about sneaking up to the balcony. That was wrong of me, but—”

Rose stopped speaking as she realized that Logan had reached the top of the stairs and turned down another hall without even looking at her. When he came to a stop in front of a closed door, Rose demanded, “Have you heard one word I’ve said?”

The man ignored her as he stretched out the arm supporting her legs, grasped the doorknob and twisted it several times. When the door didn’t open, he finally looked at her, his eyes narrowed with undisguised fury.

“All right, Anna. Dig your key out of that dammed suitcase you call a purse.”

Rose shook her head helplessly. This was her fault, she supposed. The first time he’d called her Anna, she should have pointed out his mistake. And she shouldn’t have run, shouldn’t have acted so irrationally.

“Please listen to me,” she said in a low, level tone. “I’ve been trying to explain that you are mistaking me for someone else. I don’t have a key to this room, because I don’t belong here. So just…put me down and allow me to leave.”

“What do you mean, you don’t…” he began.

“Hey, kiddo,” another voice broke in. Rose turned to see the gray-haired man approach, followed by the blond woman. “Give me your purse,” the man went on, “and I’ll fish that key out.”

When he reached toward the bag’s shoulder strap, Rose twisted away. “No!” she yelled. “What’s wrong with you people? Why won’t you listen to me? I’ve been trying to tell you that I don’t know you. I don’t know…”

She paused, frowning as she realized that both these people’s faces were vaguely familiar. She gave her head an impatient shake and finished, “I don’t know any of you.”

The gray-haired man frowned, the woman gasped, and the stranger named Logan sighed. “Anna, give your father that damned key.”

Before Rose could tell him she didn’t have a father, the woman stepped forward and snapped open her ivory purse. “When Anna insisted on getting a key made for her room, I suspected she’d eventually lose it, so I had the locksmith make one up for my key ring. Here, I’ll get us in.”

As Logan backed off to allow access to the lock, Rose once more demanded to be put down and began kicking for emphasis. Aware that her actions had broken his grip, Rose tried to twist out of his arms, but as the door clicked open those arms tightened again and he carried her into the room. She opened her mouth once again to attempt to make these people, especially the one holding her so firmly, understand that some mistake was being made. But once she caught sight of her new surroundings, all she could do was stare.

The carpet was the color of amethyst, the walls a pale shade of lilac. The bed she found herself being carried toward was covered in pale aqua—the exact color scheme of her room back in Seattle. Well, perhaps not exact. The tones she’d used were several shades darker, but, still, Rose found the similarity startlingly uncanny.

Even more uncanny was the neatly folded quilt at the foot of the bed, composed of yellow and pink flowers appliquéd onto alternating squares of turquoise and purple. It matched perfectly the one lying across the foot of her own bed—the exact same colors, faded slightly from repeated washings.

She knew her quilt was one of a kind, made by her mother the year she was born. Yet this one was…

“Just like mine,” she whispered.

“It is your room, Anna,” Rose heard Logan say, as he placed her on the bed.

Rose looked up. The man remained bent over her, frowning deeply, but the concern in his hazel eyes lent a certain softness to his scowl.

“I’m going to get Dr. Alcott,” the blond woman said abruptly. She glanced at Logan. “Aunt Grace somehow learned that Anna was missing and became so upset that we had to call the doctor in.”

She dropped a disapproving frown on Rose, then turned to leave the room. A second later the woman’s voice echoed from the hall.

“Robert, Martina says that Chas is on the telephone. He needs to speak to you about tonight’s speech.”

The man glanced at the door, down at Rose and finally to Logan. “I should only be gone a moment. Keep an eye on your sister, won’t you?”

Rose saw one corner of Logan’s mouth lift in a ghost of a smile as he watched the older man leave. Taking advantage of her captor’s momentary distraction, she rolled off the opposite side of the bed and onto her feet, then made a mad dash for the still-open door. But before she even made it around the edge of the bed, Logan was blocking her escape with his body. When she raised her hands to push him out of the way, he grabbed her wrists and demanded, “Blast it, Anna, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Rose looked up as she tried to pull her wrists free. She winced as the large hands tightened around them, then shook her head.

“Haven’t you been listening to me at all?” she asked. “I do…not…know…you. I’m not someone named Anna. My name is Rose. I know I shouldn’t have come onto your grounds. I certainly shouldn’t have been up on your balcony, but—”

Rose stopped speaking. She had to. The man in front of her had begun to laugh.