The Seductive Impostor Read online

  “I’m hungry, Mr. Oakes. I’ve lived up to my side of the bargain. Are you going to feed me or not?”

  “Certainly, Miss Foster. If I am anything, I’m a man of my word,” he said, his expression changing to a simmering heat.

  Chapter Six

  It was very disconcerting to be pushed around willy-nilly in a wheelchair by a giant. Rachel felt slightly off-balance and very much out of control.

  Keenan Oakes had stormed into her life like one of the nor’easters that came up the coast, slamming into Maine with all the force of the Atlantic behind it. She was beginning to feel like the wave-pounded rocks that held up Sub Rosa.

  Rachel was wheeled back into the elevator and arrived on the first floor in the blink of an eye. Her unasked-for host then pushed her into the kitchen, where they found two of his men looking frazzled and frustrated and very much out of place.

  Keenan must have thought so, too.

  “I think we’ll eat out on the patio,” he said, turning her chair around and pushing her through the kitchen door, which one of the men hurried to open, and into the great room. “It’s rather nice outside today,” Kee said conversationally.

  Rachel assumed he was talking to her, but she didn’t answer. She was too busy gripping the arms of her chair and hanging on for dear life. The man must be a terror behind the wheel of a car.

  The house was indeed flooded with light, Rachel realized, as they headed for the bank of glass doors that made up the southern wall of the great room. Things hadn’t changed at all since the last time she’d been there, though most of the furniture was covered with dust cloths. The high vaulted ceiling, with its heavy beams and gilded molding, looked as if it belonged in a European cathedral. The granite hearth on the west wall had a fire burning low in it, and the sunlight coming through the now exposed windows was indeed filtered by years of grime. Several doors opened onto a stone terrace that overlooked the Gulf of Maine, and the speed demon stopped only long enough to open one of them before he grabbed the back of her chair again and pushed her through it.

  Rachel prepared herself for a blast of chilled air, but it never came. The early June air was bright with sunlight, and there was almost no breeze. She closed her eyes, lifted her face to the sun, and let out a sigh of pleasure.

  She was completely unaware of the man behind her or how his hands suddenly tightened on her chair.

  “Your girlfriend should be here now,” she murmured, still keeping her eyes closed.

  “What makes you think I have a girlfriend?”

  She snapped her eyes open. “I-I just assumed you do,” she said quickly. “With your money, you must have women flocking to you like sheep.”

  He wheeled her over to the weather-worn table, took a seat across from her, and looked at her with eyes the color of the ocean behind him. “And what would you be knowing about my money, Miss Foster? I’ve only just discovered my inheritance.”

  She eyed him directly. “Your reputation has preceded you, Mr. Oakes, by way of a newspaper article. Word is you’re an international salvager. And that you charge an outrageous fee and go after stuff untouchable by most salvagers.” She lifted a brow. “Any truth to that?”

  She wasn’t sure, but Rachel thought his face darkened in anger. Or was it humility?

  She stifled a snort. Certainly not humility. Not this man.

  “I run more of a lost-and-found business than a simple salvage operation. We’re hired by governments and corporations as much as individuals to find things—or people—they’ve lost. And yes, Miss Foster, I don’t come cheap.” He shrugged. “But then, I don’t get the easy jobs.”

  “And Duncan and Jason and Peter and Matthew. They work for you?”

  He nodded, never taking his eyes off her. “And Luke. You haven’t met him yet. And yes, we work together. We’re a highly specialized, very effective team.”

  Rachel nodded back. “Then you won’t be staying here,” she said. “You’ll have a hard time finding a buyer for Sub Rosa, though. It’s a rather unique piece of property.”

  “What makes you think I’m going to sell it?”

  Rachel gave him a surprised look. “Why would you want to keep it? It’s miles from nowhere. The article said you lived on your boat.”

  “But I can just as easily work from here.” He looked up at the mansion he was facing, then back at her. “And I like Sub Rosa. It suits me.”

  “But it’s a two-hour drive to the closest international airport,” she countered, horrified at the thought that he was going to become a permanent neighbor.

  He and his wolf, not to mention his merry band of brutes.

  “There’re plenty of grounds here to put in a small landing strip. We can go through customs in Bangor and then just fly here. Did good old Uncle Thadd have a helicopter port?”

  “Yes. It’s just behind the garage.”

  “How did he come up with the name Sub Rosa?”

  “It’s Latin. It means ‘the roses,’ ” she said simply.

  “Actually, Sub Rosa more literally translates to ‘under the roses,’ ” he said, his gaze narrowing with suspicion. “It also implies ‘in secret,’ as if there is more than the eye can see. What can’t I see, Miss Foster? Secret passageways? Tunnels leading from the house to the cliffs below?”

  “Thadd named it for the roses,” she said, refusing to be baited. “They grow wild here—in abundance,” she added, absently waving toward the cliff.

  He was looking at her as if he could read her mind. Rachel pushed one of the chair’s wheels to turn herself away.

  “I’ll find the real blueprints, you know.”

  She turned toward him again. And she smiled. “They’re in the library. I’ll go over them with you, if you want.”

  His eyes narrowed again. “They won’t show me the tunnels, will they?”

  “No. Because there are no tunnels.”

  “You need lessons in lying, lady,” he said, suddenly standing up.

  Rachel flinched. But he only walked toward the house and took the tray Peter was carrying toward them.

  Keenan set it in front of her. Rachel looked at the food and tried to figure out what it was they intended to feed her.

  Keenan took his seat across from her again, and Peter quickly disappeared. Rachel turned to see him slip back into the house. “Coward,” she muttered, only to turn back at the sound of Keenan’s laughter.

  “Cooking is not one of their strong points,” he said, poking the concoction with a fork. He shoveled some of it into a plate and set it down in front of her. “Eat, Rachel. It’s about all you’re going to get until I can hire a cook.”

  “Franny Watts is available,” she said, prodding the food with her fork. It didn’t jump out of the plate, so she figured it was at least dead.

  “She live nearby?”

  “In town,” she said, tentatively scooping some of the hash onto her fork. She held it up and stared at it. “She used to cook for Thadd. She’d probably jump at the chance to have six huge men to cook for.”

  Her host reached out and stayed her hand before she could take a bite. He pushed on her arm until she set the fork back down on her plate.

  “How about I take you into town and we find a fast-food place? It’s got to be healthier than this stuff. And we’ll stop by your house long enough to get you some clothes.” He looked her up and down, the corner of his mouth lifting. “As cute as those sweats are, I think you’ll feel more comfortable if you don’t have to live in clothes you’ve slept in.”

  Rachel silently fingered the hem of her sweatshirt. The clothes were hers, and she’d been trying—really hard—not to think about how she’d gotten into them. Her last memory of last night had been of her sitting on her couch like a zombie, her eyelids getting heavy, her fear and frustration ebbing away in a cloud of fuzzy peacefulness.

  She could not remember changing her clothes.

  And she could not bring herself to ask Keenan Oakes if he had changed them for her.

&nbs
p; “Why not just drop me off at my house? My sister will be home this afternoon, and your house is up and running enough for the time being.”

  Rachel watched, amazed if not shocked, as his entire face suddenly softened. “You can’t take care of yourself, Rachel. And I called Wendell Potter this morning, and he said your sister was gone until the weekend.”

  He shifted in his seat and set his elbows on the table on either side of his untouched plate, steepling his fingers and tapping his chin as he stared at her. “I’ll make a deal with you. I won’t keep bugging you about being in my library last night if you stay here until your sister gets back.”

  “I…no, I want to go home.”

  “You’ll have free rein of the house,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “I’ll have an electric wheelchair delivered this afternoon, so you can get around and still let your knee heal.” He smiled. “Jason may haunt you with questions, but you probably won’t even see me most of the time. And you can call Franny Watts and get her to come cook for us.”

  Rachel didn’t trust him any farther than she could spit. Keenan Oakes was all but inviting her to take another shot at his library. It wasn’t sincerity she saw in his eyes—it was the calculated risk a predator was willing to take to trap its prey.

  “What about your wolf?”

  “I’ll keep him outside.”

  So she wouldn’t escape, was what he was really saying. Rachel surprised herself by actually considering his proposition. Good Lord. Why was she trying to talk herself out of accepting his offer? She couldn’t ask for a better opportunity to hunt for Thadd’s secret room. Then she could get rid of any evidence that might implicate her father’s involvement in Thadd’s crimes.

  It was perfect. Assuming Keenan Oakes kept his word and stayed away from her.

  “You’ll accept the fact that I wasn’t here last night if I stay?”

  His eyes lit with triumph. “I won’t bother you about being in my library last night,” he clarified, not accepting or arguing the fact. “If you’ll earn your keep.”

  “How?” she asked, realizing he hadn’t promised not to bother her in other ways. He hadn’t promised not to kiss her again.

  And why did that thought send shivers racing down her spine?

  “Help me get this place in working order,” he said, waving his hand at the mansion. “Hire a staff. Get the windows washed. Find a crew to get that dock I inherited out of dry storage and into the water before my schooner arrives. Show Jason the ropes.” He suddenly smiled. “Just put my house in order.”

  Her eyes widened. “Do you mind if I heal while I’m at it?”

  He stood up and grabbed the back of her chair. “Not at all. But last I knew, your fingers weren’t broken. Use the phones you just got working.”

  Rachel didn’t say anything else. She was too busy holding on for dear life as Keenan raced her into the house and through the great room.

  The trouble with most men, Rachel decided, as she was whisked through Sub Rosa’s massive gate and onto the narrow roads of Puffin Harbor, is that they tended to be creatures who liked to take charge. They loved giving orders, and they expected them to be obeyed without argument.

  “Is the motor home yours?” Kee asked as he turned Thadd’s shiny red Ferrari into her yard.

  “Yes. I used to use it for work.”

  “You used a motor home for work?”

  Gripping the door handle like a lifeline as they came to an abrupt halt just behind her truck, Rachel nodded. He was a terror behind the wheel of a car, just as she’d expected. But he was a proficient one, having maneuvered the vehicle with all the skill of a fighter pilot.

  “But you’re an architect. How does a motor home fit into that picture?” he asked, shutting off the engine and turning to face her.

  Rachel calmed her racing heart before she answered. “I used to be an architect,” she corrected, “doing residential design. When I took on an assignment, I camped out on the land my clients wanted to build on. I usually spent one or two weeks there, studying the lay of the ground, the weather, and the…the feel of the place,” she explained, ending with a small shrug. “I couldn’t build until I had a clear picture of what my design would look like on that particular lot.”

  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 th
e 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.”