The Seductive Impostor (9 page)

He seemed sincerely fascinated. And maybe surprised. He draped one arm on the back of her seat and looked at her intensely. “Is that how your father worked?” he asked.

Rachel smiled. “Yes. We camped out on Sub Rosa for nearly six months while our house was being built.”

Kee turned and looked at her home. “Who designed your home?”

“I did. Dad was too busy with Sub Rosa.” She waved her hand at the large Victorian structure. “This is my first independent work. I was fourteen at the time.”

He turned back to her. “It's lovely.”

“Thank you.”

“What do you mean, you used to build homes? You don't anymore?”

“No.”

He waited for her to elaborate, but when she didn't, he asked, “Why not?”

She shrugged. “Because I like being a librarian now.”

His gaze narrowed. “Since when?”

“Since three years ago,” she told him, giving him a pointed look in return, closing the subject.

He stared at her in silence, wise enough to end the discussion. “Do you want to wait here while I find your clothes, or should I carry you in?” he asked instead.

Well, heck. She didn't want to be carried anywhere. It was disconcerting to be in his arms. But then, she didn't want him pawing through her underwear, either.

“I have crutches in the kitchen closet.”

He shook his head. “If you want that knee to finish mending properly, you'll forget the crutches for a few days at least.”

It wasn't really a grin he gave her as he opened the door. It was more like a happy smirk, as if he thought that keeping her confined to a wheelchair would keep her more easily under his thumb. Rachel wanted to snort, but she refrained. She'd gotten quite good at maneuvering a wheelchair three weeks ago.

He walked around to her side of the car, and Rachel braced herself for the feel of his arms going around her back and under her legs yet again.

Carrying a person was an intimate act. She had seen her father carry her mother more than once, usually when he was headed for their bedroom.

Keenan Oakes lifted her out of the car as if she weighed no more than a bag of groceries. He strode to the house with long, powerful strides, and Rachel tried her damnedest not to notice the pleasant smell of him, or how the muscles of his arms bunched, or how his legs carried them both with fluid, easy grace. She certainly refused to notice how his hair brushed the back of her hand as he walked.

It must be hormones, she decided, as he set her down on the porch swing so he could unlock the door. That must be what was causing her traitorous senses to awaken. Hormones. The bane of every woman's existence.

He got the door open, then picked her up again and carried her into the house, traveling through the living room, then mounting the steps that led to the bedrooms.

He stopped at the top of the stairs and looked down at her.

“Which way, Rachel?” he asked, his eyes laughing at her discomfort for being carried around like a child.

“Second door on the right, Mr. Oakes,” she said, emphasizing his last name as a barrier between them.

But he didn't move. “If you don't start calling me Kee, you're going to get a lot hungrier.”

“Kee,” she growled to get him moving.

“Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?” he said, finally walking down the hall.

“You're a bit of a bully, you know that?” she muttered, scrunching herself up to fit through the door.

“Thank you.”

“It wasn't a compliment,” she snapped.

He set her on the bed and headed for her bureau.

“I'll pack my things from there!” she blurted when he opened the top drawer. “Just hand me the whole drawer. I've got a suitcase in the closet.”

He was grinning as he walked back to the bed with the drawer in his hand, busily examining the contents with his gaze. He set the drawer beside her, then looked down at her with the devil dancing in his eyes.

“Now, how did I guess you wore basic white?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement.

Rachel felt her cheeks get hot. “The suitcase is on the top shelf,” she told him, lifting her chin and trying to glare through her blush.

He chuckled all the way to the closet. “Is there a good place in town to get a lobster feed?” he asked as he rummaged around on the top shelf. He pulled out her suitcase, brought it back to the bed, and opened it. “I'm dying for some lobster.”

“There's a Lobster Pot on the pier,” she told him, not moving to pack anything—not until he turned around. “If you're not looking for anything fancy, it's the best place in town. Why don't you pull some of my jeans out of the bottom drawer?”

As soon as he turned to do as she asked, Rachel grabbed a handful of panties and bras from the drawer and stuffed them in the suitcase. She quickly covered them up with a pile of socks. Then she added the jeans he brought over.

“I'm not sure those will fit over your brace,” he said, eyeing her huge right leg.

Rachel sighed. Of course, he was right. She tossed the jeans out of the suitcase. “I have some looser pants hanging in the closet,” she told him.

He had to return to the bureau to get her some sweaters next. But he suddenly stopped and picked up a picture that was sitting on top of it. He turned it toward the light.

“Is this your mother and father?”

“Yes.”

“You look like her,” he said, his gaze moving from the photograph to her, comparing them. “But you have your father's eyes.” He examined the photo again. “I was expecting someone different when I pictured your father. I had Frank Foster pegged as short, balding, with glasses that kept sliding down his nose. This man is downright brawny.”

“Dad wasn't a pencil pusher by any means. I bet he laid half the stones for Sub Rosa himself.”

He hefted the frame in his hand. “You want to bring this with you?”

“No. I'll only be gone a day or two,” she said, arranging her clothes in the suitcase.

“More like four, according to Wendell Potter,” he countered, tossing the picture on top of her clothes. “Is there anything else you need?”

Rachel took the photo back out and carefully set it on her nightstand. Then she closed and latched the suitcase. “Nope,” she told him. “Why don't you take this down to the car? Then you can come back and get me.”

He hesitated, then grabbed the suitcase and walked out of the room. In the hall, he stopped and frowned back at her. “Don't move an inch,” he said, the warning clear in his voice.

Rachel smiled at him.

As soon as she heard him on the stairs, she stood up on her one good leg and closed and locked the bedroom door. Then she slowly hobbled to the bureau and pulled out some more clothes.

She stripped off her sweats and was relieved to see that she was still wearing the underwear she'd had on last night. Maybe the Neanderthal did have some morals.

But Willow was dead right in her assessment of him. Keenan Oakes did not bother to ask a girl's permission to kiss her.

It took Rachel several minutes to change her clothes, and Kee was banging on her door by the time she was done.

“Give me a minute!” she grouched at him while she used the bureau and the door casing for support to hobble to the bathroom. “I'm getting dressed!”

“I'll help you,” came his suddenly lowered voice.

Rachel snorted loudly enough for him to hear.

She sat down on the edge of the tub and pulled a small bag out of the vanity, which she began cramming toiletries into. Hooking the bag over her shoulder, she hobbled back to the bedroom and opened a small chest on her bureau. She took out three barrettes and put them in her bag. She'd braid her own hair tomorrow morning, thank you very much.

She pulled her thick braid over the front of her shoulder and stared at it. It was surprisingly well braided. Why had Keenan Oakes bothered with such a personal chore?

Rachel tossed the braid back over her shoulder. She wouldn't think about it. She wouldn't picture those strong masculine fingers gently pulling out the snarls, painstakingly weaving it into some sense of order.

She wouldn't.

Rachel tightened her grip on the bag, took a deep breath, and pasted a smile on her face before she unlocked the bedroom door. Without saying a word, he swept her up and carried her down the stairs, her bag banging into his back with every step he took.

“Wait! Set me down here, in the kitchen,” she asked as sweetly as she could. “I need you to do a walk-around, to check things.”

“I'll set you in the car first.”

“No. Here. Just leave me here. I won't budge.”

The look he gave her was almost comical. “The more you push that knee, lady, the longer you'll be carried around.”

Rachel widened her smile. “I know. I won't budge an inch this time.”

Because she didn't have to. Kee set her on a stool at the center island and went back upstairs to check there first. Rachel immediately reached into the drawer and found the pouch of fake emeralds she'd stashed there the night before.

She had been in immense pain, dragging herself onto the porch and into the house, but she'd still had enough wits to dump the jewelry in the drawer. She'd known she might have to call for an ambulance, and she hadn't wanted some helpful attendant to find them on her.

By God, these emeralds were going back to Sub Rosa. She stuffed the pouch in the bag with the rest of her things and had a smile on her face when Kee came sneaking back into the kitchen with that silent stride of his, looking as if he expected to catch her gone from her seat.

“Everything looks fine upstairs,” he muttered, clearly surprised by her obedience. “I'll check the cellar next and then the barn. Which door leads downstairs?”

“That one,” she told him, pointing to the door beside the pantry.

He disappeared again, and Rachel had a moment's worry that he would discover her workshop. But then she realized he wouldn't see anything out of the ordinary. It was just a typical workshop—but for the giant puffin sitting in the middle of it, covered with a sheet. But then, he wasn't a local, so he wouldn't know about her and Willow's gifts.

“Come on,” he said, returning upstairs, shutting and locking the cellar door as he entered the kitchen. “I'll get you settled in the car, and then I'll check out the barn and your motor home.”

“Thank you.”

He hesitated before picking her up. He was bent over, his eyes level with hers. “You don't like being dependent on anyone, do you?” he said, his expression suddenly softening.

“Who does?”

He smiled. “That's true. I've been there, and I can tell you, it's a bitch.” He scooped her up again. “I'll try to remember that when you get ornery.”

Rachel grabbed the back of his neck and lifted her chin. “I wouldn't get ornery if you wouldn't get bossy.”

He shrugged with her in his arms. “Then I guess we're going to butt heads on occasion,” he said, walking down the stairs and into the yard. “Because I can't seem to stop.”

“That's probably why you can't keep a girlfriend.”

He snapped his gaze to her.

Rachel smiled at him.

He set her in the car, and it was all she could do not to laugh out loud when he closed the door and headed for the barn. It was killing him to keep his promise not to bring up last night to her.

She watched his long, muscular legs carry him to the barn—and decided then that Joan the shrew was a very stupid woman.

K
ee knew that Rachel Foster
didn't care for his driving. The poor woman was gripping the door handle with enough force to break it.

“It's going to be quite a boon to the town budget when you get caught,” she muttered, just as he pulled into the only parking spot on the town pier. It was marked by the unmistakable handicapped symbol.

Kee shut off the engine and watched as Rachel pried her fingers free and flexed them. He looked at her with one raised eyebrow, waiting for her to explain her comment.

“When they fine you for speeding, then tack on the fine for parking in a handicapped spot,” she said, waving at the sign in front of them. “Not to mention driving an unlicensed car.”

“I didn't want to wait,” he said, lovingly running his hand over the steering wheel. “This is an amazing machine. It was all but begging to be taken out.”

“But it's not registered.”

He looked at her again, his eyes lighting with mischief. “That's what makes the ride all the more exciting. Come on, Rachel, let your hair down a bit.”

The little prig lifted her chin at him. “It's my reputation that will get ruined when I get caught with you.”

Kee looked in his rearview mirror and suppressed a grin. “Well, Miss Foster, your reputation is about to take a nose dive,” he said, as he got out to face the car that had pulled up behind them.

“Good afternoon, sheriff,” he said, his grin widening when he saw Rachel sinking into her seat. “I'm Keenan Oakes,” Kee continued, holding out his hand to the deputy sheriff.

“Oakes? I thought I recognized the car,” the officer said, not returning his smile. Or his handshake. “This is Thaddeus Lakeman's car.”

“It's mine now.”

“It's not registered.”

“I've just been reminded of that fact, Deputy Jenkins,” Kee said, reading the man's name from his badge. He pulled out his license and handed it to him. “Do you mind if I get my date settled on the pier while you write me up?” he asked, not waiting for an answer, but going around the car and opening the passenger door.

Kee thought Rachel was going to slide all the way under the dash. He leaned in to find her glaring at him. Yup. She'd heard him tell the sheriff she was his date.

Kee nearly bumped into Deputy Jenkins as he stood and turned with Rachel in his arms. Her face was scorching red now and her eyes wide with dismay, as Kee held her face to face with the ticket writer.

“Rachel!”

“H-Hi, Larry,” she whispered, looking down at Larry's chest.

“What happened to you? I thought your knee was healed,” Jenkins said, stepping toward her, a little red in the face himself as he darted a confused look at Kee.

Kee started walking out to the pier. He found a picnic table and set Rachel down. “I'll go order for us,” he told her, “while you bring our friend up to speed.”

He turned to head for the Lobster Pot window only to nearly bump into Jenkins again. The poor man looked as if he didn't know who to stay with—Rachel or the criminal he was trying to ticket.

“I'll just be a minute, deputy,” he told the man. “Rachel, why don't you explain how I couldn't fit the wheelchair into the Ferrari, and so I had to take the handicapped space,” he added, as he stepped around Jenkins and went to the order window.

“What will it be, mister?” the old man in the booth asked, his pencil ready to write.

“Well, I don't know. My date said you have the best lobster in town, so you tell me.”

The weathered old salt squinted out the window past Kee, and his eyes suddenly widened as he snapped them back to his customer.

“You with Rachel Foster?”

Kee nodded.

“On a date?”

He nodded again.

The man whistled through his teeth, his face breaking into a wrinkled grin. “Did you mention that fact to Jenkins?”

Again Kee simply nodded.

“Well, then, young man, I hope your pockets are deep. Larry Jenkins has been trying to get one of the Foster girls to go out with him for years now.”

“Is that a fact? Maybe Jenkins's pockets just aren't deep enough for Rachel Foster,” Kee said, watching the old man closely. “Maybe she's got more expensive tastes.”

The smile instantly left. “Then you don't know Rachel very well,” he growled. “She's not a wallet chaser. She's successful enough in her own right.”

“Then why hasn't she gone out with him?”

The old man eyed Kee with a speculative gaze. “Because she don't date. Period.”

“She's here with me.”

The man leaned farther out the window and looked in the direction of the bright red Ferrari. “She's just being neighborly,” he said, shaking his head. He squinted one eye at Kee. “You can call it what you like, flatlander, but Rachel Foster don't date no one, no matter how rich they are. And I sure as hell know she wouldn't be dating anyone connected to Thaddeus Lakeman,” he muttered, turning around and driving his fist into a water tank full of lobster. He pulled one out, threw it in a netted bag, and dove in for another one.

Kee knew when he'd been dismissed. He turned away from the window and watched a still red-faced Rachel trying to calm an even redder-faced Deputy Jenkins.

Suddenly the officer of the law tossed Kee's license down on the table and strode back to his car. Rachel picked it up. Kee gave her enough time to study it before he walked over and sat down across from her.

“You must be one sweet-talking lady, Miss Foster. Jenkins forgot to ticket me.”

“What did you order?” she asked, glaring at him while she ignored his compliment.

“I have no idea. The guy just took one look at you and started pulling lobster out of the tank. So, what's it going to cost for getting me out of a ticket?”

“A date.”

“Excuse me?”

“Larry said he'd forget the ticket for a date.”

Kee felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, much as they did on Mickey whenever the beast was angry. “A date with you or with me?” he asked very softly, his eyes letting her know he wouldn't like either answer.

He watched her grow suddenly still as she stared back at him, but then she lifted her chin again.

“With me.”

“I hope you told him no.”

She turned the license over and over in her fingers, not taking her gaze from his. “Do you see a ticket on this table?”

She was actually baiting him, he realized. He leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “Why didn't you get good old Larry to take you home, then?” he asked in a congenial voice. “This was your chance to tell the law that you'd been kidnapped and were being held against your will.”

She looked so disappointed that Kee nearly laughed out loud. She lowered her chin and stared at the license in her hand. Finally she tossed it onto the table toward him.

“I've decided to stay at Sub Rosa awhile,” she told him, her voice subdued and cautious. “As long as you keep your promise not to bother me, I'll promise to get the place up and running again.”

Kee leaned forward even more.

She didn't retreat.

He smiled. “It's going to be an interesting week, isn't it, Rachel?”

Nor did she return his smile. “Yes, Kee, I believe it is.”

 

The diabolical jerk had kissed her again—again without asking permission. And the worst part was, not only had she let him get away with it, she had liked it.

Rachel opened her eyes and squinted against the sun coming through her dirty windows. It was day number two of this little adventure, and it was time she made some plans.

If she wanted to clean up her dad's mess, she needed to come up with a way to stay out of the clutches of one very determined male. Rachel remembered the promise she'd seen in his eyes last night as he'd dropped her down on her bed and then followed her there, kissing her soundly enough to curl her toes.

And then he'd straightened, winked at her, and left the room whistling some jaunty tune that Rachel just knew had nasty lyrics.

The arrogant man! Keenan Oakes had decided she intrigued him. He had brought her here against her wishes—initially—and now he thought he had his prey right where he wanted her.

Well, she was right where she wanted herself to be. In Sub Rosa. And
she
had the knowledge of the house's secrets.

Rachel threw back the covers and sat up, smiling at the dust particles floating through her room. The first thing she noticed as she looked around her temporary haven was the electric wheelchair sitting against the wall, plugged into an outlet.

It hadn't been there last night when she'd gone to sleep.

Rachel frowned at it and then at the door. She'd locked that door last night, just before she'd undressed for bed.

It seemed Keenan Oakes had a few secrets of his own, and he wasn't afraid to show them off. He knew she wouldn't take kindly to the fact that he could waltz into her room while she slept. And that is precisely why he'd waited to bring in the chair—just to prove that he could.

She wondered what he'd think if she snuck into his bedroom tonight and rearranged things while he slept. She could, too, if she could walk. Lord, she hated being laid up.

Rachel sighed and sat up on the edge of the bed, only to fall back on the mattress with a squeak. A similar squeak sounded below her, and she heard the scurry of tiny claws under the bed.

The kittens.

She rolled onto her stomach and lifted the bed ruffle, leaning over until she could see underneath. Four pairs of eyes blinked back at her. One of the pair was decidedly larger and narrowed. Mabel emitted a throaty growl of warning.

That damn cat. Her lie had certainly come back to haunt her, hadn't it? She was now the proud owner of a feral cat and three scruffy kittens, whether she liked it or not. She was either going to have to make peace with the growling beast or face five men she didn't want for enemies.

The sixth man, Kee, already knew she'd never seen that cat before in her life. He just wasn't in a hurry to call her bluff. He was too busy enjoying a good laugh at her expense.

“Come on, Mabel. I won't hurt you,” she told the mother, her voice dripping sweetness as she reached under the bed. “I just want to pet you. Come on, kitty. That's a nice cat.”

Her fingertip barely made contact with fur before she pulled her hand back with a yelp. She immediately began sucking her finger, tasting blood.

“Dammit. I'm not going to hurt you,” she said, glaring at the unblinking eyes watching her. “We just have to get along for a little while. Then you can go back to your hole in the woods.”

One of the kittens mewled, and Rachel's heart immediately softened. “Now, Mabel. You don't want your babies to have the hard life you've led, do you? You can come live in my barn with your family. You'll have plenty of food and good shelter, and I can find homes for your little ones when the time comes. Won't that make you feel better?”

Mabel answered Rachel with another growl and used one of her paws to push the mewling kitten deeper into the shadows.

“Fine. Be that way, you dumb cat. Maybe I'll just forget and leave my bedroom door open. And if that wolf comes snooping around, don't come crying to me,” she finished with a growl of her own, dropping the ruffle and pulling herself up by the bedpost. “I hope he takes a chunk out of your tail, you ungrateful witch,” she muttered, hurling herself in the direction of her new wheelchair.

She landed with a grunt. She got herself settled, pulled the plug from the wall, then began to play with the controls. The wheelchair quickly responded to her commands to go forward and back and spin around in circles that would make a top dizzy.

Her spirits immediately lifted. To heck with the stupid cat. She was independently mobile again. No more being carried around in Kee's arms or scared out of her wits as he pushed her through Sub Rosa. Her knee would heal quickly and she would find her dad's blueprints, and then she would wave good-bye to the whole motley crew of men who had invaded her peaceful world.

But first she had to call her sister.

Willow was going to be worried sick about her if she couldn't reach her at home. Rachel directed the chair to the phone by the window and punched in Willow's cell phone number. It rang several times before the voice mail kicked in. With a sigh of regret, figuring Willow was probably in a meeting, Rachel left a vague message. She told her sister not to worry if she couldn't reach her for the next few days and that she'd try calling her again that night to explain everything.

She hung up and headed for the bathroom. Once there, she unwound the bandage from her left arm and examined her wound. She saw that she was black and blue just above the wrist.