Twice Kissed (30 page)

He glanced in the rearview mirror. “You know that we’re being followed, right?”

She hadn’t noticed, but wasn’t surprised. A glance over her shoulder confirmed his suspicions. “The police?”

“Probably.” He drove out of the gated community and watched as an undistinguished Jeep followed suit. “I noticed them on the way over here. Just wasn’t sure.”

“If it’s not the police, it could be someone involved in Mary Theresa’s disappearance.”

“Or the press.” He slid her a glance and a crooked daredevil smile crossed his lips. “Want me to lose them?”

She laughed. “In this?”

He patted the dash. “What was it Han Solo said about the
Millennium Falcon
in
Star Wars?”

“I hate to think.” She rolled her eyes.

“Something like she may not be pretty, but she can jump to hyperspace in…oh, I don’t remember the quote. Anyway, trust me, this truck can haul ass when asked.”

“Oh, right.” She couldn’t help but smile even though she was experiencing a case of nerves. Being this close to Thane was unsettling, kissing him was tempting but perilous and having someone following them bothered her. But she couldn’t let it. Not until she found out what was happening with her sister. She glanced in the rearview mirror. The Jeep was several cars back, but still in pursuit. “Let ’em follow us,” she decided. “We might just learn something from them.”

Thane’s smile was without a drop of humor. He didn’t bother to speed through the amber light, but let the Jeep lag behind them. “My thoughts exactly.”

“This is a place I stay when I’m in town,” Thane said as he wheeled into the reserved parking area of the Brass Tree, a hotel located not far from downtown. “The kicker is that our friend Syd Gillette owns it.”

“Mary Theresa’s latest husband.”

“That’s right. Ironic, I think,” Thane said without a smile.

Maggie had known that Gillette was a hotel magnate, but hadn’t paid any attention to which of the “few independent and elegant” hotels he’d owned, even though Mary Theresa had mentioned it in the short span of time she’d been married to the guy.

Thane left the truck with a valet, and liveried bellboys helped them with their bags. Built before the turn of the century, the Brass Tree’s redbrick charm rose eight stories and had once towered over the surrounding buildings. A grand hand-carved staircase, polished to a deep cherry sheen, rose off a marble-floored lobby where stained-glass windows and crystal chandeliers vied for attention. Antique chairs and lamps clustered around a three-storied fireplace in a reading room at an angle from the front desk.

Earlier in the century the Rocky Mountains had been visible from the Brass Tree; now steel and glass high-rises were the focal points of many of the old rooms. But the interior was charming, the rates not in the stratosphere, and Maggie was thankful for a place to call home for the night.

The suite she and Thane agreed upon was roomy enough, with two bedrooms flanking a central living area complete with fireplace, love seat, and couch. Complimentary brandy and chocolates were waiting on the marble-topped table.

Maggie dropped her bag onto the end of her bed, reached for the phone, and dialed her sister-in-law in California. Connie was polite but cool and informed Maggie that the girls were “out” for a while. She’d have Becca return the call when they got back. When Maggie made the mistake of asking how Becca was doing, she was frostily informed that her daughter was “having the time of her life.” Connie’s voice lost some of its sarcasm as she confided, “You know, Maggie, you didn’t do her any favors by uprooting her and taking her to the edge of nowhere.”

“Despite what you may believe, Connie, Settler’s Ridge isn’t one of the seven levels of hell. In fact it’s kind of charming, quaint, and wholesome. I like it. I like it a lot.”

“Maybe it’s just your cup of tea. You’re a loner by nature, Maggie, don’t deny it. But think of Becca. She’s only thirteen, for God’s sake. She belongs here with her friends.”

“That’s why she’s visiting.”

There was a hesitation on Connie’s part, and Maggie sensed there was something deeper going on. “I, um, I’m taking her to a specialist for her ankle.”

“Why? Is it worse?” Maggie’s guilt jumped into hyperdrive.

“No, she seems fine, but you never know. I want her to see an orthopedist—as well as Jenny’s pediatrician. She’s just skin and bones.”

“Connie, don’t overreact.”

“I’m just concerned. She’s Dean’s only child. The last of his line.”

“I know.”
Oh, Lord, how I know.

“Jim and I are concerned. That’s all. And the folks, they are, too.”

Another jab of guilt. Dean’s parents were aging, his father recently confined to a nursing home, his mother living close to Jim and Connie. The only McCrae standing in the way of Jim inheriting all his family’s wealth was Becca.

“But if you don’t want her to see a specialist…” The innuendo was impossible to ignore. Once again, without saying a word, Connie was implying that Maggie put her own needs over those of her child.

“Just have Becca call me, okay?” Maggie couldn’t get off the phone fast enough. She gave Connie the number of the hotel and replaced the receiver. She’d been dealt a deck of grief from Dean’s family in the past; she didn’t need any more now. Even if Connie’s intentions were good, they were certainly misguided. The sooner Maggie found Mary Theresa and got this mess behind her and returned to her home in Idaho, the better.

And what if you don’t? What if you can’t find Mary Theresa? What if she really is dead? Or kidnapped by some lunatic? It happens to women all the time especially famous ones.

Her heart sank, and depression nagged at the edges of her consciousness. Suddenly, everything seemed impossible.

Thane rapped on the French doors separating her bedroom from the living area of the suite, then poked his head in. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starved.”

“Me too,” she admitted, needing to clear her head from the snare of her dark thoughts. “I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

“Fine.”

She threw herself together, put on black slacks only slightly the worse for wear from being packed in her bag, a cream-colored angora sweater, black belt, and shoes. Touching up makeup that needed major repair, she settled on a fresh swipe of lipstick, a little mascara, and blush, then gave up. Her hair was unruly, she hadn’t packed any jewelry, and she didn’t much care. She wasn’t in Denver for dinner dates with Thane or anyone else; she was here with a purpose.

“Good enough,” she told her reflection, and ignored the lines of worry at the corners of her eyes. Grabbing her purse, she hurried into the living room and found Thane, in dark slacks and a long-sleeved shirt, pacing in front of the small couch. He looked up at her entrance and a smile tugged at one side of his mouth. “You clean up nice, Ms. McCrae,” he said.

“Ditto.”

They were out the door and down the elevator without much ado, and a maître d’ seated them at a corner table in a dining room divided by dark wooden panels topped with beveled-glass windows that glittered seductively in the glow of dozens of candles.

Thane recommended prime rib, Maggie ordered brook trout, and they sipped wine as the courses came and went. Small talk was the order of the day, and they spent some time eyeing the other patrons, wondering if any of them were part of the people who had been following them. “It’s weird,” she admitted, feeling warm inside from her second glass of Chardonnay.

“What is?”

“This whole case, if that’s what you want to call it. Mary Theresa’s disappearance and now being here with you. I just never would have expected it to happen.” She looked up at him for a split second, then glanced away, afraid she might get lost in the intensity of his gaze. “As I said, weird.”

“Could be fate.”

She nearly laughed. Thane Walker believing in kismet. That would be the day. “Sure.” She took a swallow of wine and winked mischievously. “That’s what it is.” She noticed a few of the patrons at nearby tables turn to look at her, their expressions puzzled as they talked to the other members of their party.

“They think you’re Marquise,” Thane said, as if reading her mind. “But they’re not sure, and if you are, then why haven’t the newspapers and television stations reported the fact that you’re alive and well? Why aren’t you hosting
Denver AM
with Craig Beaumont?”

“I know,” she admitted, and the seed of an idea that had been planted in her brain while she was searching through Mary Theresa’s house started to sprout. “Why aren’t I?”

“What?”

“Why aren’t I Mary Theresa?”

Thane’s expression changed, his smile fading. “I don’t understand.”

The sprout was taking hold, and she was beginning to see the possibilities. She leaned over the table. “Why don’t I step into Mary Theresa’s shoes? Literally and figuratively. If I go through her life step by step, so to speak, well, at a faster pace, for the last week or so, maybe I can figure out what happened to her.”

“Wait a minute, I don’t get what you’re saying,” he argued, setting down his glass and shoving his plate to one side.

“Sure you do. What do you think would happen if
I
became Mary Theresa, no, I mean, if I became Marquise? You know, lived in her house, walked through her daily routine, re-created her life so I could get the real picture, or at least a blueprint of what she was going through before she vanished.”

“You’re not serious.” He looked stricken.

“As serious as I’ve ever been about anything in my life.” She was warming to the idea, and Thane was obviously growing cold as death. “I might be able to learn what happened to her and that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? You want to find her.”

“Everyone does.”

“But it’s more than that with you,” she said, seeing the storm clouds brew in his eyes.

“I’m concerned.”

“You want to find her, of course, we all do.” The glow from the wine, the seduction of looking into Thane’s eyes again, the feeling that she could trust him nearly overtook common sense. “You know what, Walker? I’m going to do this. I’m gonna be Marquise.”

The waitress, a pert girl with short red hair and an easy manner, cleared their plates and offered dessert and coffee.

“We’re fine,” Thane assured the girl and once she’d stepped away from the table, he pinned Maggie in his glare. “I didn’t drag you all this way to tempt fate. Hell, Maggie, this is crazy. You’re playing with fire.”

“Then why did you ‘drag me here’?”

“We’ve been over this.”

“But I’m not buying it. Level with me, Thane.”

“I have.”

“Not completely.”

The waitress returned and slipped them the bill, which Thane signed to their room. Maggie started to reach for her purse and protest, but he held up a hand. “We’ll square up later, okay?”

“Just try not to bully me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They returned to the suite, and, once there, Maggie found the folded pages of Marquise’s diary with the addresses and phone numbers of the people she was closest to.

“It’ll be simple,” she said, as Thane lit the fire. Kicking off her shoes, she sat on the edge of the couch. “I’ll just call everyone with whom she had an appointment and interview them.”

“Interview them?” he repeated skeptically, straightening as the gas fire hissed quietly and flames licked ceramic logs. “So now you’re a pro?”

“With my background, in a way, I am.”

“And you feel no qualms about donning Marquise’s persona and life?” He wasn’t amused.

“No. Someone on this list”—standing, she held the pages and shook them under his nose—“knows something. If not where Mary Theresa is, then what was happening in her life. You can’t tell me that her shrink doesn’t have some idea as to her mental state. The police think she might have committed suicide, by—well, how? I don’t know. Possibly driving over a cliff or holing up somewhere and giving herself a lethal dose of drugs or whatever? But if she was in that frail a mental condition, shouldn’t her psychiatrist have had some clue? And what about the people she worked with, her personal trainer—Laslo…Laslo…” She looked through the pages. “Laslo Rolf. Wouldn’t she confide in him, or her secretary? Or someone she worked with?” More agitated by the minute, the wheels turning in her mind, she paced in front of the fire as she studied the copied pages of her sister’s diary. “So, no, I wouldn’t mind becoming Marquise for a while. Not at all. It’s to help.”

“I’d be careful when you start interviewing her psychiatrist, especially if you’re serious about walking in your sister’s shoes. The shrink might think that you’re doing it for other reasons—that you have some need to become Marquise. From the outside it could appear more than a little incestuous.”

She froze at the word. Mitch. Mary Theresa. Thane. Memories of that heart-wrenching time of her life burned through her mind, the same hurtful recollections that had haunted forever and were part of the reason that she had, years before, been under psychiatric care. “I think we’d better leave incest out of this,” she suggested.

“It’s behind us now.”