The Seductive Impostor Read online

  He finally walked to the door and stood in front of her. “You’re the closest thing I have to a daughter, Rachel Foster. And it pains me to see you locked away in this self-imposed prison of mediocre existence. You’re as great an architect as your father was. And what have you done for the last three years? You check out books at the library, collect ten-cent late fees, and read stories to toddlers with runny noses.”

  “It’s rewarding.”

  “No, Rachel. It’s safe. And it’s a terrible waste.”

  “Thank you for bringing me the box.” She kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you again soon.”

  Realizing his petition was falling on deaf ears, Wendell reluctantly stepped onto the porch, but stopped and turned back to her. “I love you,” he said gruffly.

  “I know, Wendell. I love you, too.”

  He started to turn, but hesitated. “You’ll not let the news of Thadd’s heir being found upset you,” he instructed, his voice thick with emotion. “And you’ll be a good neighbor to Keenan Oakes when he arrives.”

  Rachel shot him a crooked smile. “Afraid I’ll fabricate a few ghosts and goblins to scare him off?”

  Instead of returning her smile, Wendell narrowed his eyes. “That possibility did occur to me,” he admitted. “Give the man a chance, will you? Don’t condemn him for having the questionable luck of being a Lakeman. The article said he is Thadd’s great-nephew twice removed. That’s falling a fair distance from the tree. Keenan Oakes just might be one of the good guys.”

  Rachel placed her hand over her heart. “I’ll be nothing but graciousness personified.”

  Wendell gave her a quelling look. “Just as long as you know it’s not gracious to flood the man’s basement with seawater or short out his electrical system.”

  “That won’t happen, because I have no intention of ever setting foot on that property again.”

  “But you can’t expect him to reopen Sub Rosa alone. You’re the only one who knows the mechanics of that house. He’s going to need your help.”

  “He’s not getting it,” she said, alarmed at what he was suggesting. “He can talk to the company that’s been overseeing it for the last three years. They have all the schematics and blueprints.”

  “Hell, Rachel. It took them over a week just to figure out how to close the storm shutters. And another three weeks to drain the tidal reservoir and get the place on line with the public power company. And that was the easiest part of securing the house. The climate sensors kept going off at least once a month for the first year, before a company was found who could handle the problem. And do you know who they called every time that damn alarm went off? Me,” he said, thumping his chest. “What in hell do I know about climate control systems?”

  “Why did they call you?”

  “Because I’m the only contact Thadd’s lawyers have here in Maine.”

  “You never told me Sub Rosa was causing you fits. Why didn’t you call if you were having so much trouble?”

  Wendell’s eyes softened, and he blew out a calming breath before he answered. “Because I couldn’t ask that of you,” he told her gently. “Not after what you had found the last time you were there.”

  Rachel’s chest tightened again. No, she wouldn’t have helped him then. Three years ago she wouldn’t have cared if Sub Rosa had burned to the ground.

  Now, she was just indifferent. Or so she had thought. But Wendell’s reminder of the intricate and sometimes contrary workings of Sub Rosa made her homesick for it. She had loved all the bells and whistles and ingenious innovations she and her father had built into the mansion.

  Sub Rosa ran on electricity generated by tidal power. The climate control system rivaled the International Space Station. And everything—from the lights to the storm shutters, the lawn sprinklers to the security alarms—ran from a giant control room in the basement.

  Sub Rosa was practically its own living, breathing entity. The loving creation of Foster & Daughter Architects.

  She missed it.

  And she never wanted to set foot inside it again.

  “I can’t help Keenan Oakes,” she said softly. “Sub Rosa belongs to him now. He’ll eventually learn its ways.”

  “I know, Rachel. I’m only asking that you promise not to do anything to…well, to hinder his adjustment.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t begrudge the man his inheritance. I’ve long since passed the point of caring one way or another.” She looked beyond the stunted pine trees growing along the cliffs beside her home, up toward the towering gables of Sub Rosa’s roofline. “We’ve made peace, that great house and I. We’re content now to live side by side, neither of us intruding on the other.”

  Wendell nodded. “Good, then. I’m glad for you.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek, then turned and finally walked off the porch to his car. He opened the driver’s door, but stopped yet again and looked back at her. “Now make peace with your new neighbor as well, Rachel, because he’ll likely come calling once he gets a good look at his inheritance.”

  “And why would that be?” she asked, glaring at her old friend.

  He grinned at her. “Probably because when we spoke on the phone last week, I told him to direct his questions concerning Sub Rosa to the second architect on record.”

  “Wendell!” she shouted, as Wendell disappeared into his car and started the engine.

  He rolled down the window and popped his head out, his grin wicked. “It’s time you rejoined the living, Rachel, my love. And I’ve been thinking, Keenan Oakes just might be the man to make that happen,” he shouted back, just before he drove away in a cloud of gravel and dust.

  Four hours had passed since Wendell’s disturbing visit, and Rachel was now sitting on the living room sofa, surrounded by the mess she’d made of her home searching for the key to the strongbox. The open box sat on the coffee table in front of her, the contents spilling out of it, the nine-page letter lying half-folded on top of everything. Stunned insensate, Rachel stared at the painting hanging over the fireplace not ten feet away.

  It was a beautiful painting, obviously old, technically perfect, of a Scottish castle that loomed out of the mist, standing tall and strong against the battering sea. The small painting had been placed there the day they’d moved in. Her father’s prized possession. Her favorite inheritance from Frank Foster. And according to the letter she’d found in the strongbox, worth a small fortune.

  The letter also said it had been stolen from a museum in Scotland more than twenty years ago.

  The delicate emerald earrings and necklace in Willow’s jewelry box upstairs, which had been worn by their mother on special occasions, were worth a staggering $1 million dollars. The letter said they had been stolen from a private home in France more than sixteen years ago.

  The bronze Asian statue on the bookcase next to the hearth was sixteen hundred years old, worth $200,000, and had been stolen from an Oregon home almost a decade ago.

  The silver tankard, wine-tasting cup, and snuffbox sitting on the piano had all come from a single collection in Germany, eight years ago.

  All stolen.

  And all of them now in her possession.

  The ruby and gold ring Rachel wore on her right middle finger, which had been a gift from her father on her twenty-first birthday, had been taken from London not two months before Frank Foster had presented it to her. At the time of its disappearance, the ring had been valued at $93,000.

  Rachel very carefully worked the ring off her finger and gently placed it in the strongbox.

  She picked up the letter again and unfolded it, forcing her trembling hands to still enough that she could read the last section again.

  Don’t judge me harshly, Rachel. I’m not a thief. But I am guilty of being seduced by the beauty, workmanship, and timelessness of Thadd’s gifts. If you’re reading this, then they’re all yours now, and Willow’s and Marian’s. How you deal with them is up to you alone, though; keep them, discreetly sell them, or toss them into the
sea if you can’t stand the idea of possessing them. Or simply return them to Thadd, if you wish. He’ll understand. He might argue with you a bit at first, but he’ll accept them back.

  Thadd respects you, Rachel, just as much as I do. You’re an intelligent woman with unbelievable talent and a strong, kind, and good heart. Please don’t tell the others what I’ve done. It’s hard enough for me to know how deeply I’ve wounded you with this secret. Don’t wound the others with such a tainted memory of me.

  I love you. Every day since you were born, I’ve marveled at receiving such a wonderful daughter. You and your sister are the fruit of a great love between your mother and me. Never forget that. The passion I have for my wife is strengthened by the love I have for my daughters. So instead of thinking badly of me, remember only the fierceness of my bond to the three of you.

  Receiving and then selfishly keeping the stolen art is my sin alone, Rachel. Not yours or Marian’s or Willow’s. And it is a sin I don’t wish to see passed down to my family. Marian doesn’t need the heartache bringing this to light would cause her. And Willow has hopes of climbing the political ladder, all the way to the governor’s mansion one day. And you, my sweet daughter, have homes to design for deserving families.

  Please, Rachel, do whatever you have to, to protect yourself and protect Marian and Willow.

  Make my sin quietly go away.

  And continue to love me despite it.

  Rachel wiped another set of teardrops from the letter before she carefully refolded the pages and set it back on the table. She stared again at the painting over the mantel.

  Thaddeus Lakeman had collected beautiful and expensive art. Everyone had known that. It was why he had hired Frank Foster to build Sub Rosa—an opulent, powerful venue in which to display his collection. It had taken her father five years to design the great mansion, and another eight years to oversee its construction.

  Since adolescence, Rachel had shadowed her father while he worked, adding her own ideas and her own touches of whimsy to the Gothic-like structure. And at her college graduation party, with her still clutching her degree to her chest, Frank Foster had presented Rachel with a full partnership in his newly formed company, Foster & Daughter Architects.

  That had been the proudest day of both of their lives.

  But now it seemed that she had helped build not only a home to display a world-renowned private collection of art, but an elaborate vault to house stolen art.

  Some of which was in her own home.

  Rachel looked up at the ceiling over her head. What had the letter said about a hidden room upstairs? She grabbed it back up and shuffled through the pages, skimming the words until she found what she was looking for.

  You’re going to have to forgive me, Rachel, for tinkering with your beautiful design. But the lovely home you built your family was lacking one small detail. When you and Willow and Marian were visiting Paris that summer, I took it upon myself to rectify your oversight. You’ve got to be proud of my own talent, daughter, for moving walls and rerouting a bit of plumbing, and still being able to disguise my work—especially from you.

  If you take the time to remeasure the rooms upstairs, you’ll discover that they don’t quite fit your original blueprints. I needed a small room, you see, to keep things in.

  Consider this our final treasure hunt together, Rachel, like you and I used to have in Sub Rosa while it was still being built. You were obviously able to find the key to the strongbox if you’re reading this. Now find the room.

  And when you finally enter my secret door, smile at my cunning and remember our good times working together.

  Oh, and take note, Rachel, of how I did it. You’ll find one special room in Sub Rosa that echoes the same design. Just don’t let Thadd know that I told you.

  She had finally found the key, once she had stopped her frantic search long enough to think with the left side of her brain. The only thing her father had given her five years ago had been a barrette made up of silver charms. The charms were miniature architect tools.

  All except for the small silver-plated key.

  Rachel raised her gaze to the ceiling again, mostly to keep the tears from streaming down her face. Her daddy had tinkered with her design.

  Moved walls.

  Hidden a room.

  And kept a terrible secret.

  Chapter Two

  Rachel set the plate of overcooked eggs in front of her sister, then carried her own breakfast around the table and took a seat across from Willow.

  “Eat,” she told her, trying to get her sister’s attention away from the newspaper. “Before your eggs get cold.”

  Willow ignored the petition, instead lowering the paper and staring at her with shocked eyes. “They found him?” she asked in a disbelieving whisper. “After all this time?”

  Rachel nodded.

  “He’s going to reopen the house, isn’t he?”

  She nodded again.

  Willow gave one last look at the photograph accompanying the newspaper article, then picked up her fork and began pushing her eggs around on her plate.

  “It was bound to happen eventually,” Rachel said into the silence, letting her own eggs grow cold. “A billion-dollar estate won’t sit forever without someone stepping forward to claim it.”

  Willow looked up at her with haunted eyes. Rachel wanted to hug her tightly and never let go, but she gave Willow a smile instead. “A billion dollars in assets and bank accounts, minus the five million Thadd left to each of us. Suppose Keenan Oakes will miss our share?”

  “I’m never touching that money,” Willow said, her face darkening with anger. “I’m going to give it to the Make-A-Wish Foundation.”

  “So you’ve said before.”

  Willow dropped her fork, pushed back her chair, and stood up. She walked to the island and turned and faced the table. “I’m doing it today. And I’m selling my Lakeman Boatyard stock and giving that money to the College of the Atlantic.”

  “Then do it. You’re going to feel a hundred pounds lighter and five years younger,” Rachel promised, speaking from personal experience. She had given her anonymous gift from Thadd away two years ago, to Habitat for Humanity.

  “Dammit, Rachel,” Willow said through gritted teeth, waving at the paper on the table. “We’re just getting our lives together. I don’t want him coming here. I don’t want Sub Rosa being reopened.”

  Rachel stood up, limped around the table, and hugged her sister. “Let it go,” she said, echoing Wendell’s words from yesterday. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Willy. You and I have moved on, and now it’s Sub Rosa’s turn.”

  She pulled back and smiled at Willow’s tear-washed face, giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “You have a new apartment to hunt for in Augusta and an assistant state attorney general’s desk to clutter up with important cases.”

  “I can’t just leave you here. Not now.” Willow suddenly reversed their positions, gripping Rachel’s arms. “Come with me. Sell the house and move to Augusta.”

  Rachel pulled away and went to the stove, taking the cooled frying pan to the sink and running it under the water. “No,” she said, concentrating on her chore. “I love this house and Puffin Harbor too much. I’d miss the ocean, kayaking, and walking to the town pier for lobster rolls.”

  Willow came and stood beside her. Rachel saw that her sister had the newspaper in her hand again and was staring at the photo of Keenan Oakes.

  “He’s dangerous,” Willow said softly. “And he’s going to cause trouble.”

  Rachel arched a brow. “You’ve decided this from his photo?”

  Willow snapped the paper in front of Rachel’s face. “Look at him, Rae. I mean, really look at him. Keenan Oakes is part heathen, part demigod, and all man.” She shook the paper for emphasis. “There are two types of guys in this world,” she continued. “The safe, sweet guy who asks permission to kiss you good night, and the kind who simply pulls you into his arms and kisses the sense right out of you.
And this man,” she said, pushing the paper mere inches from Rachel’s nose, “is not sweet, and he most assuredly is not safe.”

  Rachel batted the newspaper away, refusing to let Willow see how much her assessment of Keenan Oakes unnerved her. “It doesn’t matter what he is,” she said, furiously scrubbing the frying pan. “Because I don’t intend to even talk to him.”

  Willow was staring at his photo again. “He’ll be on our doorstep within two days of arriving here,” she softly speculated. She tossed the paper onto the counter, then stared out the window over the sink. “You have to stay away from him, Rae,” she whispered. “You’ve been so careful, so safe for these last three years.” She touched Rachel’s arm, making Rachel look at her. “If Keenan Oakes decides to involve you in Sub Rosa’s reopening, there’s not enough granite in this state to wall yourself up in.”

  Rachel began scrubbing the already spotless frying pan again. And again Willow stopped her. “How can you watch him reopen it?” she asked quietly.

  Rachel smiled sadly. “It will be easier than having watched it sit silent all these years,” she said truthfully. She shut off the water and turned to Willow. “I know you probably can’t understand that, but Sub Rosa is as much a part of me as you and Dad and Mom. And it hurts seeing it lifeless. Please don’t condemn Sub Rosa for being one of the victims.”

  “I grew up playing there, too,” Willow said, her hazel eyes tearing. “But if I see lights in the windows again, I’ll be expecting Daddy to come walking down the path looking for supper.”

  “But when he doesn’t show up, it will still be okay,” Rachel told her gently. “It’s his legacy to the world, Willow. For as long as Sub Rosa lives, so does he. Here,” she said, touching the center of her sister’s chest. “Frank Foster will always live here, in both of us. And so will Mom, and so will Thadd.”

  “Thaddeus Lakeman is rotting in hell.”

  Rachel grabbed her sister’s shoulders before she could turn away. “No, he’s not. Thadd loved us like daughters.”