The Seductive Impostor (14 page)

Kee eyed each of his men in turn. “You just solve the problem of Thaddeus Lakeman's missing art. I'll take care of Rachel.”

 

Rachel had her own problems to take care of, and they seemed to be compounding exponentially. If finding out she'd inherited millions of dollars of stolen art wasn't enough, now she was suspected of stealing legitimate art as well.

Rachel fluffed the lump of towels under her blankets, shaping it into a curve that looked like her body. She smiled, realizing this was the oldest trick in the book and was probably the first place Kee would check.

That thought quickly sobered her. Kee wouldn't be checking anything, because he wouldn't be coming to steal any kisses—not after tonight's not-so-subtle encounter in the foyer.

Rachel straightened, heaving a pitiful sigh. So much for Kee's warning that denying her passion was a dangerous thing. She had finally decided that a hot and steamy, old-fashioned affair might be a good idea after all—that maybe this little attack of lust she was having was actually healthy.

It should certainly be safe. Keenan Oakes didn't seem to get emotionally attached to women, if his attitude toward Joan that first night was any indication. He hadn't even taken the time to get over their breakup. In fact, he'd turned his attention—and kisses—to Rachel rather quickly, now that she thought about it.

And what about Mikaela's mother? There had never been any mention of her—from any of the men, for that matter. Not that Rachel had asked, though she did wonder if Kee was widowed or divorced.

But did she really care? Nope. She just wanted to jump the guy's sexy bones, not build a life with him.

Rachel sat down on the bed next to her lumpy likeness and absently massaged her knee. Who was she kidding? It wasn't simple lust she was experiencing, but full-blown, unadulterated, undeniable passion. She'd been living like a nun too long, and her newly awakened hormones had zeroed in on Mr. Arresting Oakes.

Not that it mattered now.

It was time to go home. Sub Rosa was up and running, finding Thadd's secret room had just bottomed out on her list of priorities, and her need to gather the rest of her dad's contraband—and discreetly dispose of it—had risen to the top.

If she couldn't locate Thadd's secret room, Kee certainly wasn't going to, even if he lived here for the rest of his life. And whoever had been stealing from Sub Rosa was Kee's problem now. As long as the Foster name couldn't be tied to any illegal activities—past or present—then she and Willow were safe.

Bolstered by her reasoning, Rachel looked at her watch for the tenth time. Good Lord! While waiting for the house to quiet down, she'd spent more than four hours taking a bath, shaving her legs, covering every inch of her body with lotion, giving herself a manicure and pedicure, washing and drying and brushing her hair until it shone, and then weaving it into a single thick braid fastened with a barrette shaped like a moose and a pine tree.

It was after midnight. Surely the men were asleep by now.

Rachel stood up and checked to make sure she had the fake emerald necklace and single fake earring in her pocket. She still couldn't believe she'd lost one of the earrings and that—just her luck—Kee had found it. Which only proved yet again that she must never consider becoming a professional burglar.

She started toward the door, spotted her cane standing in the corner of her bedroom, and stopped and shifted most of her weight to her right leg. Her knee felt surprisingly sound, with barely a hint of pain, so Rachel decided the cane would be more of a nuisance than a help. She picked up the flashlight instead, which she'd pilfered from the kitchen earlier, and opened the bedroom door.

She nearly tripped over Mickey.

“Are you waiting to see me?” she whispered, bending down and patting the yawning wolf on the head. “Or are you hoping to sneak in and eat my cat?”

Mickey yawned again as he sat facing her, then cocked his head in lupine inquiry. Had Kee put the wolf on guard by her door, just as he had that first night, or was Mickey only looking for some female company?

Rachel found herself in a quandary. Did she dare bring Mickey into the tunnels with her? Damn. If she did disappear into the wall without him, he'd likely scratch the panel raw trying to follow her.

“Oh, come on,” she whispered, limping down the hall toward the great room. “I'm about to let you in on a very big secret, but you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

Mickey silently padded beside her all the way to the great room until Rachel stopped in front of the huge granite hearth on the west wall.

“Now, this is important,” she told her companion. “You have to know just which stone to push.”

Rachel applied pressure to one of the granite stones until she heard a click come from the wall on the right side of the hearth. Mickey immediately stuck his nose in the crack.

Rachel pulled the panel all the way open.

Mickey disappeared into the dark void.

Rachel snapped her flashlight on and followed, stopping only long enough to close the panel behind them.

Dust immediately assaulted her nose. Mickey was already exploring the passage, well out of the beam of her flashlight.

“Get back here,” she whispered, walking down the narrow passage. “You're going to get lost.”

Her only answer was the faint vibration of the electrical turbines humming in gentle echoes through the tunnel.

Great. Another contrary male with a mind of his own.

Rachel continued down the passageway, deciding that it was Mickey's responsibility to find her, and didn't stop until she came to an intersection of tunnels. To the left was a set of stairs that led all the way up to the third floor and came out in the tapestry room. Straight ahead led to another intersection that would bring her to the foyer. And if she went right, she'd end up in the tunnel that came out on the cliffs just above the Gulf of Maine.

Rachel lowered the beam of her flashlight to the floor, looking for paw prints that would tell her which direction Mickey had taken.

What she found, though, besides Mickey's prints heading up the stairs to her left, were several human footprints, mostly traveling from the cliff tunnel and continuing up to the third floor. She leaned over and set the beam of her light on the clearest print.

It was definitely male—a size eleven or twelve, maybe—and looked like a sneaker tread. She moved the light again, stopping on another print, this one smaller—definitely that of a woman.

Rachel straightened and stared into the darkness. Two sets of footprints: one male, one female.

Dammit. Who else knew about these tunnels?

“Think,” she absently whispered to herself. “Who could possibly know about these passageways? Female. Female,” she softly repeated, trying to picture all the women who had visited Sub Rosa when Thadd was alive.

Her mother, for one. Marian had certainly known about the tunnels. Rachel aimed the flashlight back at the floor. But these footprints were fresh, not three years old. There was almost no dust covering some of them.

“Come on, Rachel. Who else?”

Mary Alder, Thadd's girlfriend, might have known about the passageways. Had Thadd and Mary been close enough that he'd trusted her with such a secret?

Maybe. But if she did know, why would she be visiting Sub Rosa now, after all these years?

Rachel considered Mary Alder. It was sad what had happened to Mary after Thadd's death. The once proud, vibrant, and beautiful woman who'd enjoyed the status of being Thadd's girlfriend had become a recluse after the tragedy. She was seen walking in town, only occasionally and usually at night, in a state of disarray, mindless of those around her and usually talking to herself.

Which was why Rachel doubted these footprints belonged to Mary. And even if they did, that didn't explain the male footprints.

Mary did have a son. Mark Alder. He'd been running the Lakeman Boatyard for nearly eight years now.

“Naw,” Rachel said to herself. “Not Mark. He's weirder than his mother.”

About six months after her parents had died, Mark started asking Rachel to go out with him. It had taken nearly a year of gentle refusals for Mark to finally get the message that she wasn't interested.

For lack of a better term, Mark Alder was a dork, and an odd dork at that. He was a mama's boy, still living at home at the age of thirty-three, and he rode a rusty old bicycle to work even in winter. He'd been two years ahead of Rachel in high school, and even then he'd worked at Thadd's boatyard as a painter.

Naw. They couldn't be Mark's footprints. Besides, Mark had never liked Thadd—he always thought Thadd should have married his mother instead of just stringing her along.

Maybe…maybe Willow had been here.

Rachel aimed her flashlight back on the smaller footprint. It wasn't a sneaker tread, like the larger one, but a dress shoe.

Willow wore dress shoes. And she knew about the passageways. But she hated Sub Rosa.

But did she hate it enough to pilfer its treasures?

Nope. Not Willow. Besides, she'd been too focused on law school and pursuing her new career.

Rachel sat down on the bottom granite step and absently massaged her knee. “Think. Who else?”

What about the workers who had built Sub Rosa? Rachel remembered discussing with her dad her worry that they would know about the secret passageways since they were actually building them. Frank Foster had thought he'd solved that problem—or at least minimized it—by bringing in a crew of stonemasons from Guatemala.

But they could have told someone.

Rachel suddenly tensed at a thought. Raoul Vegas. What about the dealer her dad had mentioned in his letter, who was in the business of “redistributing” stolen art? Could he possibly know about the tunnels?

He might, if he'd dealt directly with Thadd.

Rachel aimed the beam of her flashlight down the tunnel that led to the cliffs and hugged herself against the sudden shiver racing down her spine. She didn't know much about criminals—that was Willow's department—but she doubted they were very nice people.

Had Raoul Vegas been quietly helping himself to Sub Rosa's wealth for the last three years?

Rachel shook that thought away, dismissing the idea—or rather hoping—that an international criminal had not been sneaking around here. Or that he might still be in the area.

Besides, it still didn't explain the smaller footprints.

Well, heck. The more she thought about it, any number of people might know about the passageways.

Rachel snorted. Here she was trying to keep her “big secret” from Kee, when a virtual parade of people had obviously been using the tunnels on a regular basis.

Maybe when she left Sub Rosa later, she should simply leave one of the panels open. Kee would find the passageways and discover the footprints just as she had and know that someone besides his neighbor was roaming through his house at will.

Something bumped against her back. Rachel jumped up and spun around, holding her flashlight like a weapon, only to find Mickey standing on the stairs above her, his tail wagging and his eyes gleaming like silver stars.

Rachel covered her racing heart with her hand and took a calming breath. “Dammit. You scared me,” she scolded in a whisper. “Give a girl some warning, will you? Make a little noise next time.”

Seemingly oblivious to her fright, Mickey turned and trotted back up the stairs. Rachel followed at a much slower pace, favoring her knee.

And again she lost the wolf. She continued climbing, passing several intersecting tunnels on the second floor, and finally reached the panel that opened into the tapestry room.

“Pssst. Here, Mickey.” She softly whistled. “Come on, boy. It's time to go back to the real world.”

She continued to call, then finally gave up and slowly pushed on the panel. A warm current of air rushed into the room from the tunnel, creating an eerie moan.

She pushed the panel all the way open, and Mickey brushed past her leg.

“Will you cut that out!” she hissed, stepping out of the tunnel and sweeping her flashlight around the room. “You're going to get us cau—”

Rachel swallowed her words the moment the beam of her flashlight landed on a pair of leather-shoed feet, crossed at the ankles, attached to a shadowed but definitely male body sitting in a chair on the other side of the room.

M
ickey was sitting facing the chair,
his wagging tail sending wisps of dust sparkling through the narrow beam of her flashlight. Rachel clicked off the flashlight, dropped her head, and sighed. Damn. She definitely needed a new career. Sneaking around Sub Rosa was becoming an exercise in futility.

And just as before, Keenan Oakes had nothing to say.

Rachel lifted her head, squared her shoulders on a deep breath, and tried to see past the stark moonlight cutting through the room. “I'm not a thief,” she firmly whispered. “I have never taken anything from Sub Rosa.”

The shadow stood.

Then slowly started toward her.

Rachel took a cautious step back. “I'm not a thief.”

He stopped just six paces away, the moonlight slicing across his body, illuminating the broad stance of his legs while keeping the upper half of him in shadow. She couldn't see his hands, and assumed he had his arms crossed over his chest—as he was in the habit of doing whenever he was in a speculative mood.

“I'm not a thief,” she repeated, just in case he hadn't heard her the first two times.

“I know,” came his soft reply from the darkness.

She took a step closer. “You know?”

He also moved a step closer. “But you do like to trespass.”

“I'm not trespassing. I'm a guest here.”

He took another step forward, the moonlight now reaching his crossed arms. “You're a guest who's standing in the middle of a locked room.”

Well, there was that. “I was looking for you,” she lied, staring directly at his face, pretending she could see him.

“And why is that?”

“To tell you I'm not a thief.”

“And it couldn't wait until morning?”

“I couldn't sleep, with you and everyone else thinking I've been taking things from Sub Rosa.”

“They don't think that, Rachel. They're as…” He uncrossed his arms and held his hands away from his sides in a gesture of acquiescence. “They're as charmed by you as I am.”

Charmed? He was charmed?

That was good, wasn't it? That she'd charmed him into believing she wasn't a thief?

“That's not how it looked earlier in the foyer.”

He took another step forward, which brought him close enough that she could actually feel the heat of his body. And smell him. And—oh, God—she could practically taste him.

“You didn't stick around long enough to find out what we thought,” he said, his whisper sending a succession of shivers down her spine.

Rachel was back to her proximity problem. Her palms itched, and it was all she could do not to reach out and touch him.

“Do you remember what I told you in our workout room, right after you kissed me?” he asked, reaching behind her and gently lifting her braid, pulling it over her shoulder.

“I…” Rachel swallowed and tried again. “I don't remem—what did you say?” she asked hoarsely, trying to see his face through the shadows. She couldn't see a damn thing, so she looked down—and could only watch, mesmerized, as he deftly opened the clasp, pocketed her barrette, and then slowly twined the freed ends of her hair around his fingers.

“I told you that the next time we reached this point, I intended to finish it.”

“And we…we're at that point now?”

Slowly, and with such gentle precision that Rachel tingled all the way down to her toes, Kee began unraveling her braid.

“We're past that point, Rachel.”

Her skin tightened in awareness.

The braid slowly unfurled, and his hand moved higher.

Breathing became difficult.

And when his fingers finally reached the nape of her neck, he cupped her head, leaned down and brought his lips to hers—not kissing her, not quite touching her—just close enough to bring every nerve in her body alive in anticipation.

“Either smack me with your flashlight, Rachel, or kiss me.”

The flashlight clattered to the floor.

Rachel threw herself against him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him so fiercely that even a dead man would get the point.

He lifted her off her feet, his hands cupping her bottom to hold her against him, as he took several steps forward. Kee pushed Rachel back against the oak panel she'd come through, and her only escape banged shut with resounding finality.

Not that she cared at the moment, with her mouth so busy feasting on his. She wrapped her legs around his waist while canting her head to deepen the kiss, pulling the taste of pure heaven into her mouth. He braced one hand on the wall, his other hand still holding her securely, and obligingly parted his lips.

Years of denied passion exploded inside her. Rockets went off in her brain. Her heart raced, her skin heated, and the shell of protection she'd carefully built suddenly shattered with deafening glory.

Kee thrust his hips forward, pressing her against the tapestry room panel, and reached for the buttons on her blouse. His lips moved from her mouth to her cheek, then lower and to the side, until he was nuzzling a deliciously sensitive spot below her left ear.

Rachel moaned her pleasure, just to let him know he was driving her crazy in a very good way.

She couldn't think, couldn't seem to move other than tremble. There was something…something she wanted to do.

The first button on her blouse gave way, then the next, and the next one.

Ah, yes. That was it. She wanted to undress him and run her hands over every inch of his body. Tension and heat and passion radiated from him, battering her like the ocean waves pounding the granite cliffs outside.

He was finishing it, he'd told her. Tonight. Now. Here.

God, she hoped so.

She reached down to the hem of his shirt and tugged, wiggling it up his ribs, only to moan again when his lips captured her earlobe. His tongue teased and probed and promised even more.

“Help me,” she whispered, tugging at his shirt. She needed to touch his bare skin, the fever inside her beginning to spiral out of control.

He leaned back, his hips keeping her firmly planted against the wall, and with one deft movement, his shirt disappeared.

Rachel made a sound of thanks and leaned into him, laying her face on his chest and wrapping her arms around his now naked torso. His heart thumped against her cheek with the power of a locomotive. His skin was moist, the hair on his chest soft and sensuous, tickling her lips in a most delicious way.

She licked his nipple, and was rewarded with a moan so male in nature it sent shivers of pure feminine delight racing through every cell of her body.

He pushed her blouse off her shoulders, pulling the straps of her bra with it. “Help me,” he demanded rawly, trying to peel her clothes off, too.

Rachel let go of him long enough to unclip her bra and slip her arms free, then immediately went back to touching him, tracing each powerful muscle on his shoulders and arms and neck, reaching up to kiss him again.

The contact this time was hotter, more frenzied—and maybe just a bit desperate. Her nipples engorged as they brushed his chest hair, making them supersensitive. He pressed heavily against her, the bulge of his arousal burning through her jeans.

Rachel's insides convulsed. She couldn't take much more of this torment. She yearned—hurt—to have him inside her.

“Finish it,” she whispered beside his ear, letting her tongue linger, feeling a shudder run through him.

He stepped back, set her on her feet, and attacked the zipper of her jeans. Rachel quickly slipped out of her shoes and went for his belt, the task overly difficult because her hands wouldn't quit shaking.

Their breathing grew labored, their urgency palpable.

He shoved her jeans down to her ankles at just the same time as she pushed down his. He lifted her up, moving her back against the wall as before. Rachel wrapped her legs around him, this time gasping at the shock of having nothing between them.

Nothing but glorious, quivering heat.

He positioned her higher, then stopped suddenly, the tight muscles of his arms twitching, his eyes closed, breaths rasping from his lungs.

Rachel realized he was fighting for control.

She didn't want that. She dug her nails into his skin to make him look at her, and stared up past the angular planes of his face in the moonlight into dark-blue eyes blazing with primordial need.

“It's not trespassing if you've been invited,” she told him, shooting him a crooked smile. “Or do I need to clarify that point as well?”

A shudder ran through him, shaking them both.

Rachel tilted her pelvis, relaxing her thighs to lower herself until she could feel the tip of his shaft probing the wet folds of her opening.

And still he held back.

“I've always had a thing for cavemen,” she whispered.

His eyes burned at her reference to their first meeting, his nostrils flaring and his hands biting into her thighs. He swore, grabbing a fistful of her hair as he braced one forearm on the wall behind her and captured her mouth in a hard and consuming kiss. He moved that kiss to her cheek, then her throat, then buried his face in the crook of her neck and thrust forward, and upward, not stopping until she was fully impaled.

Rachel sucked in her breath at the deep invasion. She took advantage of his stillness to adjust to his size, willing her inner muscles to relax, to yield and accept him.

“I need to move, Rachel,” he growled, his mouth hot and wet, his teeth rasping her neck—then his lips soothing her skin.

But still he waited, her noble caveman. Rachel arched against him, buried her own face in his shoulder, and lightly bit her permission.

He moved with the force of a hurricane, fast and hard and completely out of control. Rachel cried out, not in distress but in triumph. She rode the storm she'd created, joyously meeting each powerful thrust of his hips.

The wall at her back, the room, the house, the world—it all slipped away in a haze of erotic smells and tastes and sensations. She welcomed each thrust with small moans of encouragement, matching his own grunts of pleasure.

She climaxed quickly, bucking against him, consumed by convulsions that exploded from her in a scream of fulfillment.

He pounded deeper and harder and faster, then suddenly stopped. She felt him come then, embedded all the way up inside her, his shaft pulsing against her seizing muscles.

He dropped his head to her shoulder, his huffing breaths pushing his sweat-soaked chest against hers. Their hearts pounded as tiny shudders continued to ripple through each sensitized nerve of her body. She clenched on a lingering spasm that pulled him even deeper inside her.

His head snapped up, his gaze narrowed on hers. He thrust forward slightly, retreated, then forward once more, this time with deliberate purpose, closing his eyes on a curse that was more groaned than spoken.

He straightened abruptly, pulling her away from the wall, and stood in the middle of the room, holding her in their erotic embrace—Kee still deeply seated inside her and Rachel only able to cling like quivering jelly.

He started for the door, and the movement embedded him deeper, the sensation causing Rachel to clench involuntarily around him.

He stopped, and growled, and changed direction.

“If you keep bouncing me around, I'm going to come again,” she warned through gritted teeth, desperately trying not to.

He stilled, staring directly into her eyes with a heat so intense, she melted right there in front of him and climaxed again.

He made a sound—half wounded animal, half angry lion—and dropped to his knees, laying her down on the rug without breaking contact, driving deeply into her with a pounding force that sent her climax into hyperdrive.

He reared up, threw his head back, and entered the storm again.

And finally they were finished.

Point made.

Driven home quite soundly.

Rachel lay on the dusty carpet—Kee half on her, half off her—and stared at nothing, the silence broken only by heavy breathing and thumping hearts. She could count on one hand the number of men she'd been with. Heck, she could count on her fingers and toes the number of times she'd actually done it.

She'd never done it like this, though, with such…such…dammit, with such
need
. If she hadn't felt him inside her, she would have just died. Or gone crazy.

Hell, she had gone crazy. She was lying on the floor with a demigod sprawled across her, and she'd just climaxed twice—the second time
by just looking at him.

The genie was out of the bottle.

Passion had finally won over good sense.

He levered himself up on one elbow to stare at her, his large, utterly masculine, slightly trembling hand brushing the tangle of hair off her face.