six-pack of Alex's favorite dark beer.
She slammed the door shut and moved to the sink. The water gushed forth obligingly, when it should have been turned off for the winter.
The telephone was dead—at least Alex hadn't lied about that. Though he had a cell phone in his jeep—he could have found out whether there was a way off the island without disappearing.
She moved back into the front parlor, sinking down in one of the linen-covered chairs. The light was strange, and she realized she'd never been on the island in any time other than high summer. She wasn't used to the way the spring light cast long, eerie shadows across the water.
She closed her eyes and she could see him. Alex—the real Alex—young and strong and healthy, a lithe, beautiful creature as irresistible and untamed as a unicorn. How could she have resisted, even having felt the sting of his torments and teasing over the years? She'd watched him that summer, bare-chested and tanned and smooth skinned, wearing only a ragged pair of cut-offs, and she'd dreamed about him.
Her knowledge of the basics of sexuality had been woefully inadequate back then. Alexander MacDowell had been the center of her first romantic fantasies, and her first full-fledged sexual fantasies. Dream sex had been idealistic and delicate, a worshipful experience consisting of closed-mouth kisses and disembodied pleasure. She shuddered to think how she would have reacted to the reality of it all. But Alex had disappeared, giving her just a taste of what real sexuality was, leaving her more shattered and vulnerable than ever. He'd had more than his share of older, wiser girls—he didn't have to prey on his own family. If he'd stayed, if he'd lived, he probably wouldn't have touched her again.
Though she hadn't been family, she reminded herself. She had belonged to nothing and no one. Not even Alexander MacDowell .
She tried to summon up the remembered golden beauty of the lost boy, but the interloper kept forcing his way into her imagination. Instead of Alex's sexy, youthful pout she could only see the stranger, with his elegant, Cossack eyes and wary beauty.
Maybe he was an actor, hired by a mastermind to bilk Sally of her millions. Or maybe he'd been hired for a kinder motive, to give Sally peace of mind during her final days, weeks, and months. To give her back her beloved, long-lost son so she could die in peace.
Even Carolyn couldn't quibble with a motive like that—she would have done anything to make Sally's passing easier, even if it meant lying, stealing, or putting up with a dangerously seductive con man. But for some reason she couldn't quite believe that altruism was behind the imposter's arrival.
He had to be working with someone close to the family, someone who would be privy to all the private goings-on, the layout of the houses, the nuances of relationships between the three disparate MacDowell siblings, the family memories, family secrets. Alex was smart enough, subtle enough, and brass balled enough to try to carry off such a masquerade, but he needed help. It was all well and good in a detective novel or a romance, but in real life posing as someone else should have been just about impossible to carry off.
There was no way he could convince her, even if he'd managed to bamboozle the rest of the MacDowell family. Even the usually paranoid Warren had accepted him with barely a protest. Obviously the imposter was damned good.
Would she have believed him if she hadn't seen the real Alex die? She liked to think that she wouldn't, that she would have known immediately, instinctively, that this wasn't the bane and delight of her adolescence, come back to haunt her.
Except for the fact that he seemed to arouse most of the same emotions within her. Rage, frustration, and an overpowering, unwilling fascination.
"What are you thinking about?"
She hadn't even realized he'd pulled up outside the house. He was already climbing out, her overnight bag in one hand, a
She slammed the door shut and moved to the sink. The water gushed forth obligingly, when it should have been turned off for the winter.
The telephone was dead—at least Alex hadn't lied about that. Though he had a cell phone in his jeep—he could have found out whether there was a way off the island without disappearing.
She moved back into the front parlor, sinking down in one of the linen-covered chairs. The light was strange, and she realized she'd never been on the island in any time other than high summer. She wasn't used to the way the spring light cast long, eerie shadows across the water.
She closed her eyes and she could see him. Alex—the real Alex—young and strong and healthy, a lithe, beautiful creature as irresistible and untamed as a unicorn. How could she have resisted, even having felt the sting of his torments and teasing over the years? She'd watched him that summer, bare-chested and tanned and smooth skinned, wearing only a ragged pair of cut-offs, and she'd dreamed about him.
Her knowledge of the basics of sexuality had been woefully inadequate back then. Alexander MacDowell had been the center of her first romantic fantasies, and her first full-fledged sexual fantasies. Dream sex had been idealistic and delicate, a worshipful experience consisting of closed-mouth kisses and disembodied pleasure. She shuddered to think how she would have reacted to the reality of it all. But Alex had disappeared, giving her just a taste of what real sexuality was, leaving her more shattered and vulnerable than ever. He'd had more than his share of older, wiser girls—he didn't have to prey on his own family. If he'd stayed, if he'd lived, he probably wouldn't have touched her again.
Though she hadn't been family, she reminded herself. She had belonged to nothing and no one. Not even Alexander MacDowell .
She tried to summon up the remembered golden beauty of the lost boy, but the interloper kept forcing his way into her imagination. Instead of Alex's sexy, youthful pout she could only see the stranger, with his elegant, Cossack eyes and wary beauty.
Maybe he was an actor, hired by a mastermind to bilk Sally of her millions. Or maybe he'd been hired for a kinder motive, to give Sally peace of mind during her final days, weeks, and months. To give her back her beloved, long-lost son so she could die in peace.
Even Carolyn couldn't quibble with a motive like that—she would have done anything to make Sally's passing easier, even if it meant lying, stealing, or putting up with a dangerously seductive con man. But for some reason she couldn't quite believe that altruism was behind the imposter's arrival.
He had to be working with someone close to the family, someone who would be privy to all the private goings-on, the layout of the houses, the nuances of relationships between the three disparate MacDowell siblings, the family memories, family secrets. Alex was smart enough, subtle enough, and brass balled enough to try to carry off such a masquerade, but he needed help. It was all well and good in a detective novel or a romance, but in real life posing as someone else should have been just about impossible to carry off.
There was no way he could convince her, even if he'd managed to bamboozle the rest of the MacDowell family. Even the usually paranoid Warren had accepted him with barely a protest. Obviously the imposter was damned good.
Would she have believed him if she hadn't seen the real Alex die? She liked to think that she wouldn't, that she would have known immediately, instinctively, that this wasn't the bane and delight of her adolescence, come back to haunt her.
Except for the fact that he seemed to arouse most of the same emotions within her. Rage, frustration, and an overpowering, unwilling fascination.
"What are you thinking about?"
She hadn't even realized he'd pulled up outside the house. He was already climbing out, her overnight bag in one hand, a
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