The Seductive Impostor Read online

  “Do you remember what I told you?” Keenan asked, reaching behind Rachel 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.

  “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.

  Also by Janet Chapman

  Charming the Highlander

  Loving the Highlander

  Wedding the Highlander

  Published by Pocket Books

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2004 by Janet Chapman

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 1-4165-0337-4

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  To Della,

  for being a great sister as well as my best friend.

  You might question some of my antics,

  but never question my love.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you, Chris Limberis, for helping me make sense of the legal and political systems around here. How wonderful that I can use both lawyer and friend in the same sentence when referring to you.

  And thank you to the gang at Write It/Sell It, Gail and Lance, Jason, Lorin, Marg, John G., Chris F., and all the rest of my extended family from the Writer’s Retreat Workshop. A girdle is not the only thing that gives great support!

  But most especially, thank you, Chris Goff and Jan Chalfant, my sisters in prose, for the long-distance brain-storming, the pep talks and scoldings, and the many memorable RWA conferences. What wonderful and patient husbands we have.

  Chapter One

  Using her cane for support, Rachel Foster limped down the steps of the library and headed for her truck, eager to get home and take a long soak in a tub of steaming water. The torn cartilage in her knee was nearly healed, but the rest of her muscles had gotten lazy from lack of exercise. It was going to take a month of kayaking to get back in shape, and Rachel could hardly wait until her doctor’s appointment on Friday to get rid of her cane and the stupid, itchy brace on her knee.

  She waved at a few friends as she drove down the street that separated Puffin Harbor’s small, eclectic assortment of shops from the grassy town park and headed toward her home, which, up until her hiking accident three weeks ago, had been only a fifteen-minute walk away.

  But Rachel’s smile quickly disappeared as she passed the firemen standing outside the station. She’d yelled at them to be careful when they’d rescued her off Gull Mountain, but they’d just laughed and threatened to drop her. Her glare was answered by whistles and catcalls, with Ronald Pikes waving both hands and shouting something about her taking a hike.

  Rachel pulled into her driveway to find Wendell Potter sitting in the swing on her porch, his briefcase tucked under his chin and his eyes closed.

  He woke up when she came to a dusty stop beside the porch. He scrambled to his feet as she got out of the truck.

  “What brings you here, you handsome old goat? Business or pleasure?” she asked as she slowly mounted the stairs.

  He did return her smile, but it seemed a bit forced. Or maybe a bit tired. Rachel leaned up and gave him a noisy kiss on his cheek, realizing that her old family friend and lawyer was getting up there in years.

  “This old goat is here on business, I’m afraid,” he said, holding the screen door for her as she opened the inside door, then following her into the kitchen. “I’m closing up shop,” he continued, going over to the kitchen table and setting his battered old briefcase down.

  Rachel hooked her cane over the back of the kitchen chair and sat down, propping her right leg on a second chair, studying him as he dropped into his own chair with a tired sigh.

  “You’re closing up shop?” she repeated. “But you can’t be a day over sixty,” she told him, smiling broadly.

  “I’ll be seventy-four next month, and you know it. What?” he asked, lifting one bushy eyebrow. “You think I’m going to babysit your legal affairs the rest of my life? You’ve got a sister who can do that now.”

  “But then what will you do?”

  He perked up, shooting her a smile that had surely been a lady-killer fifty years ago. “We bought a condo in Florida. No more Maine winters for us!”

  Rachel slapped her hand down on the table. “Good for you! It’s about time you spent all that money you’ve made off us Fosters all these years.”

  His bushy eyebrows dropped in a mocking glare, and he shook his head at her. “I swear you get sassier every time I see you.” He suddenly sobered. “How’s the knee?” he asked, nodding toward the cane hanging on her chair.

  “Pretty good now. I’m hoping Dr. Sprague lets me get back to work next week.”

  Wendell nodded approval. “Betty said you tumbled halfway down Gull Mountain,” he told her, his eyes suddenly lighting with humor. “Said most of Puffin Harbor’s fire department came to your rescue.”

  Betty was Dr. Sprague’s receptionist and an incurable gossip. She was also Wendell Potter’s wife.

  Rachel covered her face with her hands and peeked between her fingers. “It was so embarrassing. They strapped me into one of those litters and carried me off the mountain.” She lowered her hands, her eyes widening as she dramatized her tale. “I was terrified they were going to drop me. I kept screaming at them to be careful, trying to be heard over their laughter. I was dying, and those fools were having a field day.”

  “That’s because they knew you weren’t dying.” Wendell chuckled. “And every firefighter you’ve ever turned down for a date had you exactly where he wanted you,” Wendell said as he undid the buckles of the battered leather satchel and reached inside.

  Rachel’s joy at Wendell’s unexpected visit suddenly turned to curiosity when he pulled a small metal box from his briefcase and set it on the table in front of her.

  It was an old box, dingy and dented by years of indifferent handling and misuse, the weathered green paint chipped away at the corners and around the lock, exposing the dull patina of rusted cheap tin. Rachel stilled at the sight of the box and fought to repress the familiar weight of grief suddenly welling up in her chest.

  She recognized the box.

  “What’s in it?” she whispered, lifting her gaze to the lawyer she’d known since childhood.

  Wendell clasped his hands an
d placed them on top of his now deflated briefcase. “It’s your daddy’s strongbox,” he said, his bushy gray brows pulled into a frown. “And I can’t say what’s in it, because I don’t know. Frank only gave me the task of keeping it for him.”

  “When?”

  His frown deepened. “Well…it was more than five years ago, best as I recall.”

  Rachel returned her gaze to the box. A good two years, she realized, before the tragedy that had rocked Rachel and her sister’s world.

  She looked back at Wendell. “You’ve had this for five years? Why are you giving it to me now?”

  The aging lawyer’s already florid face turned a deep red. He dropped his gaze and began to fidget with one of the buckles on his briefcase. “I forgot it, Rachel,” he said, shaking his head. “Honest to God, I simply forgot I had the damn thing.” He looked at her, his liquid brown eyes sad. “There was so much chaos three years ago. So much grief and disbelief. I remembered my duty at that time, but that was before Frank died.”

  No. It had taken her father two weeks to die from the bullet lodged in his head. Rachel’s chest tightened again, this time with heart-crushing sadness. Two weeks of mourning the death of their mother and praying for the recovery of their father. Two weeks followed by three years of trying to understand the senseless tragedy.

  And now this. Just when the pain had finally ebbed to a dull ache, Wendell brings her Frank Foster’s dented old strongbox.

  One last gift from her father.

  One final reminder of the destructive power of passion.

  “I tucked it away in a storage closet when I realized Frank might live,” Wendell continued, his eyes clouded with his own grief. “And then I forgot. I only found it this morning, when I starting packing up the office.”

  He reached across the table and covered her hand. “I’m sorry. I failed my old friend, and now I’ve brought back your sadness. But I’m bound by my duty, even though I know the pain it’s likely to cause you. Frank wanted you to have this box.”

  Rachel turned her hand palm up and squeezed the warm, age-bent fingers covering hers. She gave Wendell a grateful smile, then reached out and touched the box, carefully pulling it closer.

  Wendell reached inside his briefcase again, but left his hand there as he looked at her, his face washed with concern. “Have you seen today’s paper yet, Rachel?” he asked.

  “No. Why?”

  He pulled out a newspaper and unfolded it, laying it on the table facing her. Rachel read the headline printed in bold two-inch letters across the top: LAKEMAN HEIR FINALLY FOUND.

  She stared at it numbly. Unmoving, silent, forgetting to breathe.

  “Actually, Rachel,” Wendell said softly, “that headline is what made me remember the strongbox. Learning that they’d found Thadd’s heir brought it all rushing back. Like you, I thought Sub Rosa would sit vacant until it crumbled into the sea.”

  Rachel flinched at the sudden pain that lurched at her heart. And that surprised her—that she still felt such a strong love for Sub Rosa.

  Nearly as strong as her hate for it.

  “That won’t happen,” she said, picking up the newspaper and unfolding it fully. “We’re more likely to witness the Apocalypse than we are to see Frank Foster’s work self-destruct. He designed his structures to last until—”

  Rachel’s words trailed off, her thoughts evaporating like dew at sunrise, as her gaze settled on the face of the man in the large color photo below the headline.

  He was…arresting.

  His eyes captured her attention first; dark, narrowed in laughter as they focused on the child he held in his arms. Eyes edged with crow’s-feet, set in a deeply tanned, chiseled face.

  His hands—large, blunt, powerful—holding the young girl securely against his shirtless, hair-covered chest. Broad shoulders, sleek-muscled arms, a flat stomach.

  Arresting.

  The child looked to be about four or five. A girl with riotous blond hair and a cherub face, her tiny hand resting on his cheek as she smiled back at him. She was wearing a bright pink swimsuit, her exposed skin just as tanned as the man’s. They were on a sail ship at mooring: stout ropes, wooden deck, folded canvas sails in the background. A schooner, perhaps.

  Rachel read the caption below the picture. “Keenan Oakes,” it said, “with his daughter, Mikaela.”

  Keenan Oakes. Thaddeus Lakeman’s heir.

  Well, now. It seemed the mansion that stood high on the cliff next door, looming like a brooding ghost, would be brought back to life after a three-year sleep. The storm shutters would be raised. Lights would be seen in the windows again. And people would come. The tomb of Thaddeus and her parents’ tragedy would soon be awakened by the activities of the living.

  “Hard to believe the man is related to Thadd,” Wendell said, breaking into her thoughts. “No family resemblance.”

  Rachel carefully set down the paper, picked up the strongbox, and began examining it. “Oh, I don’t know. Thadd had dark eyes. Where’s the key?” she asked, dismissing both Sub Rosa and Keenan Oakes from her mind.

  She looked up when Wendell didn’t immediately answer.

  He was frowning at her. “You have it,” he said. “Frank told me he gave you the key years ago.”

  It was Rachel’s turn to frown. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “He never mentioned this box or ever gave me a key that I remember.” She set the strongbox back on the table and shrugged. “Maybe he gave it to Willow.”

  “I don’t think so, Rachel. Frank left specific instructions that I give this box only to you. He said he wanted you alone to decide what to do with the contents.”

  Rachel stared at the box, wondering what secrets Frank Foster had wanted kept from his younger daughter, Willow.

  She pushed her chair back and awkwardly stood up. Her cane forgotten, she limped to the center island of her kitchen and turned back to Wendell. He’d risen when she had, his eyes concerned as he clasped his briefcase to his chest.

  “He didn’t say anything else?” she asked. “Like why he didn’t want Willow to know about the box?”

  “Nothing.” Wendell moved around the table, stopping in front of her. “Willow was busy with law school,” he reminded her. “You were the one here with Frank, working beside him, building Sub Rosa. You were the daughter of his heart.”

  “He loved Willow just as much.”

  “Yes, he did. But the bond you shared with your father was like none other, Rachel. You were Frank’s pride, his mirror image.”

  Wendell set his briefcase on the counter behind her and laid his warm, gentle hands on her shoulders. “Remember, when he gave me this duty, your mother was still alive, and there was no way Frank could have foreseen the tragedy coming. He was expecting three women to be mourning his death, not two.”

  Wendell tightened his hands on her shoulders, giving strength to his words. “But he specifically asked me to not tell Willow or Marian anything about it.” He nodded toward the table. “Whatever’s in there is between you and your daddy, Rachel. And now I’ve done my duty,” he said with a relieved sigh as he pulled her toward him. “So give this old man a hug and promise me you won’t let that newspaper article intrude on the peace you and your sister have finally found.”

  Rachel leaned into Wendell’s embrace and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him fiercely as she whispered her lie. “I won’t.”

  “That’s my girl,” he said over her head. “Sub Rosa is only granite and glass, Rachel. Don’t blame the house for what took place there.”

  He pulled away and looked into her eyes, giving her an encouraging smile. “Foster and Daughter Architects designed Sub Rosa, and that’s what people will remember a hundred years from now.”

  Rachel knew everything he was saying was true. It was her heart she couldn’t seem to convince. “I lost my own soul there three years ago. And although I know a house cannot cause human betrayal, there’s still a part of me that will always blame Sub Rosa.”

  �
��That’s because it belonged to you and your father as much as it did to Thaddeus,” Wendell said, squeezing her shoulders again. “You’re not just mourning the loss of three people you loved, you’ve lost Sub Rosa as well. Tell me, why have you and Willow continued to live in its shadow these last three years? Why haven’t you moved, putting all of this behind you?”

  “We couldn’t. I couldn’t,” she admitted. As much as she hated the sight of the house where her parents’ lives had ended, she hated the thought of not being close to Sub Rosa even more.

  “Thirteen years of Frank Foster’s greatest work sits next door,” Rachel said. “Thirteen years of apprenticing at my father’s side. And this house,” she added, waving at the kitchen they were standing in. “My first independent design. How could I walk away from the happiest years of my life?”

  Wendell’s smile returned, warm and understanding. “Ah, Rachel. You couldn’t leave for the simple reason that you will always be your father’s daughter. And Frank’s soul is restless, child, worrying about your continued refusal to design. It’s been long enough, Rachel. When will you start building beautiful homes for people again?”

  Rachel turned and picked up his briefcase from the counter, giving it to him along with a wry smile. “When I can figure out how to design homes without getting passionately involved in them.”

  “That’s not possible. Not for you, any more than it was for Frank. Passion runs through Foster veins.”

  “Passion is what killed my mother, father, and Thaddeus Lakeman,” she countered, limping to the door, silently letting the old lawyer know their visit was over. “Passion is what makes a man shoot his wife and friend when he finds them in bed together, and then makes him turn the gun on himself.”

  “Dammit, Rachel,” Wendell said, refusing to follow her. He stood in the middle of her kitchen, his briefcase clutched to his chest. “It’s not the same thing at all. Frank’s crime and the passion you bring to your designs are incomparable.”