Cavanaugh’s Woman (8 page)

Moira couldn’t believe it. It’d been three years. Three years without a word. And now here Carrie was, in her room, pretending to be her. It was a little difficult to grasp all at once. “Funny, I always thought I looked like you.”

Younger by eleven months, her sister was an inch or so taller than she was, and perhaps a little thinner of face, but to the undiscerning eye, they looked enough like one another to be twins. Or, at the very least, pass for each other.

It was a fact that hadn’t been wasted on their father. He used their uncanny resemblance whenever he could incorporate it into one of his scams.

The years melted away, as did the hurt at being left to carry on without her. The past was instantly forgiven. What was left was joy, sheer joy at seeing Carrie.

Moira crossed quickly over to the bed, part of her wondering if she was dreaming with her eyes open. Kissing Shaw had addled her brain, so was this a hallucination?

She reached out and took her sister’s hand. “What are you doing here?” she asked again. “Why didn’t you call, write, send smoke signals, something?”

Carrie shrugged. “I figured it would get lost in the shuffle.” Mail addressed to Moira arrived at Firestone Studios in large gray canvas bags by the ton. “Now that you’re a big star—”

She didn’t want to get into that, didn’t want it separating them. She’d been lucky. Carrie had run off with some guy she’d met during their travels. Things hadn’t turned out all that well for her.

“Never mind that now. How long can you stay?”

“A while.” Carrie pressed her lips together. The look on her face was uncertain, as if she didn’t know how to phrase the next part. “That all depends on Simon.”

“Simon,” Moira repeated. That wasn’t the name of the man Carrie had run off with. That had been a Lewis Sotherland. “Who’s Simon?”

Carrie took a deep breath. To Moira’s way of thinking the smile on her face seemed a little forced. “The man I’m going to marry.”

“Marry?” Moira stared hard, searching for the customary joy that traditionally accompanied that kind of declaration. She didn’t see it. What was going on here? “My God, you just drop out of the sky after three years and tell me I’m going to have a brother-in-law? Wow.”

Trying to be thrilled for her, Moira hugged her sister. She felt Carrie wince against her, heard the whimper that escaped before she could press her lips together.

Moira drew back, wary. Worried. And suspicious. “What’s the matter? I haven’t gotten that strong, or you that weak,” she added.

Carrie looked away, unable to meet her eyes. “Nothing.”

Puzzled, concerned, Moira deliberately pressed her fingers against the left side of her sister’s rib cage. Carrie winced even as she pulled away. Moira matched her movement for movement, peering at her face, trying to read between the lines.

“Carrie?”

Carrie deliberately avoided looking at her. “It’s nothing.”

The hell it was. “Let me see ‘nothing.’”

Her sister began to back away, but Moira grabbed hold of her blouse and managed to pull it up before Carrie could step back. There, pressed against her flesh, was an ugly rainbow of colors—yellow, blue, green with a dash of purple—swirling around in an uneven swatch. Moira’s heart froze. Her voice was stony as she raised her eyes to her sister’s face. “How did you get that?”

Before Carrie could answer, Moira heard the sound of the toilet being flushed. The realization that there was someone else in the hotel room with them penetrated just as the bathroom door opened and a tall, dark-haired handsome man walked out. A broad smile graced his tanned face. Moira caught herself thinking that whoever this was, he looked like a matinee idol and had the swagger to match.

Carrie took the opportunity to snatch back the edge of her blouse and tuck it back into her jeans.

The man extended his hand toward her as he approached. “Hi. You must be Moira. And I’m—”

She’d noted the way her sister shrank into herself when she first turned to look at the man. It was probably all unconscious, Moira thought, and all the more telling because of it.

Her expression was unsmiling. “The man who gave my sister that bruise?”

Simon looked taken aback by the accusation. “What?” The look he tossed Carrie was just the slightest bit accusing. “Hell, no. She walks into things a lot—don’t you, Carrie?”

Carrie’s head bobbed on cue. “Uh-huh, all the time.” She flashed a weak smile at her sister. “You know how I was.”

Moira’s eyes were steely. It took everything she had not to fling herself at the man, her nails extended. Ever since her mother had died, she’d been the matriarch, the protective one. Feelings like that didn’t fade away over time.

“Yes, I do. Dad used to call you the steady one.”

Carrie nervously ran her tongue along her lips. She made Moira think of a skittish animal waiting for the jaws of a trap to snap shut.

“I’m older now,” her sister told her. “I got clumsy.”

Moira’s eyes narrowed. What had he done to her carefree sister? “Only in your choice of men.”

“Hey, you have no call to say that.” Simon took a step closer to her, anger flashing in his dark eyes.

Aligning herself with Carrie, Moira indicated the door. “I’d like you to leave please.”

Simon remained where he was. He looked at Carrie accusingly. “You didn’t tell me your sister was a bitch. C’mon, Carrie.”

Moira moved to block her sister’s way, her eyes on the man. “No, not her. Just you.”

He reached for Carrie’s hand, but Moira stopped him. “She goes where I tell her to go.”

“Not anymore.”

His expression turned malevolent. “And who’s going to stop her? You? You won’t look so pretty with your face rearranged.”

“Simon—” Carrie protested, panicked.

“Shut up, Carrie.”

Moira raised her chin pugnaciously. “Neither will you behind bars. Not after a while. Pretty men like you are considered fresh meat there. You lay one finger on me—or my sister—and you’re going to have to kill me because I’ll be calling the police the second I scrape myself off the floor. Now get out of here,” she ordered, “before I call security.”

“You women are all alike,” he growled.

“No,” she said, her eyes shooting daggers at him. “We’re not.”

Simon managed to grab Carrie’s wrist. “You’re coming with me.”

Carrie began to struggle. Moira grabbed his hand and began peeling his fingers away from Carrie’s wrist.

“Let go of her!” she shouted.

The next second, Moira heard someone knocking loudly on the door. “Moira, are you all right?”

Her heart leaped into her throat. It was Shaw.

Chapter Eight

M
oving Simon aside, Moira lost no time in getting to the door and throwing it open.

Shaw glimpsed what looked like relief on Moira’s face as she stepped back to admit him. There were two other people inside the room. Well-honed instincts instantly kicked in. Shaw took one look at the man and knew this was no late-evening tryst he’d walked in on.

He could feel the tension in the room. His eyes shifted back to Moira. “Anything wrong?”

She could have hugged him. While she never doubted that she could handle Simon, that the man who badgered her sister around was at bottom a coward the way all abusers were, it was nice to have backup.

“Not anymore,” she told Shaw. She looked at Simon. “This man was just leaving, weren’t you?”

Anger smoldered in Simon’s eyes as he looked at Carrie. Whatever he’d hoped for by coming here with her sister—and Moira could make a better-than-educated guess as to what that was—it was not panning out for him. Given half a chance, she knew he would take his frustration out on Carrie. “You coming?” Simon asked.

Moira placed herself between Simon and her sister. “No, I already told you, she’s not. She’s staying here with me.” She slipped her arm around her sister’s shoulders. The protective gesture was not lost on Shaw. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

The man looked as if he might be debating making a stand after all. Shaw shifted his weight, issuing a silent warning to him. “The lady said leave.”

If looks could kill, there would have been three dead bodies within the room. “The lady hasn’t heard the last of this yet,” Simon warned before storming out of the suite and slamming the door behind him.

Moira blew out a sigh of relief, then flashed an encouraging smile at the woman beside her.

Shaw’s eyes shifted from one woman to the other. They looked alike. Not so he would mistake one for the other when they were standing side by side. Seeing them both, he could readily identify which one was Moira. But he wasn’t so sure about his ability to tell one from the other if he’d happened along just one of them.

Moira’s eyes were greener, he decided. And she looked a lot more in control, more vivid than the woman next to her.

Shaw made the natural assumption. “Is this your sister?”

“My baby sister,” Moira qualified with the kind of warm pride that had no foundations other than love.

The woman flushed. “Eleven months. Moira’s just eleven months older.” Belatedly, she put out her hand. “My name’s Carrie.”

Moira snorted. “Your name would have been mud if you had gone with him.”

She shook her head, still stunned that the vibrant, gregarious sister she’d once known would have allowed herself to become subjugated by a man like that. Granted, Simon was good-looking, but looks only went so far. Kindness could bridge all sorts of gaps, and if she was any judge of character, she knew that the man her sister was involved with didn’t have a drop of kindness in him.

Carrie shrugged nervously. “He’ll cool off. He’ll be fine.”

“He’ll be alone,” Moira insisted. She saw the look on Carrie’s face. Given half a chance, she’d forgive the man who had abused her and go back to him. She could hardly believe it, but there it was, in Carrie’s eyes. “I don’t want you seeing him again.”

The moment threatened to erupt in a confrontation between the sisters.

“So she’s bossy like that with everyone?” Shaw asked the other woman, seeking to lighten the tension, at least while he was still in the room.

Carrie nodded. “Pretty much.” Her smile faded a little as she looked at Moira. “It’s one of the reasons I left.”

“And maybe one of the reasons you came back,” Moira guessed.

But this was something that needed discussing later, privately. Moira looked at Shaw. Under other circumstances, his appearance on her doorstep might have been the beginning of something. But not right now. Not while she had Carrie to worry about.

“Speaking of coming back, why did you?” She wasn’t going to allow herself to speculate about the reasons for his return. “Not that I’m not grateful for the cavalry appearing at just the right moment,” she added.

“You forgot these.” Slipping his hand into his right pocket, Shaw took out the earrings she’d handed him in the ballroom. He held them up. They caught the light and flirted with it. “I thought you might want them.”

Moira saw her sister’s eyes grow huge as she looked at the dangling earrings. If they’d been real, they would have easily been worth twenty thousand dollars—each. “Thanks.” She took them from Shaw. “But you didn’t have to come back for that.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t like the idea of carrying around expensive jewelry in my pocket.”

“You weren’t.” When he raised an inquiring eyebrow, she explained, “This is just costume jewelry.”

He laughed shortly. They certainly had fooled him. And given him a reason to return, which had turned out fortunate for everyone. He’s seen people like that guy before. They got off by threatening women.

Shaw touched the tip of one earring in her palm. “Sure looks real.”

“That’s the thing about fakes.” Moving over to the bureau, she deposited the earrings. “In the right setting, they can fool you.” She looked deliberately at her sister. But Carrie seemed oblivious to her meaning.

Shaw glanced toward the door. He wasn’t sure how the other man fit into all this, but he hadn’t liked the looks of him.

“Do you want me to stick around for a while?” he offered.

Yes, Moira thought, she did. But not for the reason he surmised. Besides, she needed to have a long talk with her sister. That couldn’t happen if Shaw remained.

She hooked her arm through his and walked the short distance to the door. The smile she flashed didn’t show the reluctance she was experiencing.

“No, that’s all right. I don’t think he’ll come back. Cowards rarely do.”

“Cowards have a way of lashing out when you least expect it. They go for the soft underbelly,” Shaw said.

Moira grinned, patting her flat stomach. “My underbelly is hard.”

He sincerely doubted that. What was worse, he felt an urge to make the determination himself. Maybe he had better hit the trail after all. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She stood holding the door open for a moment. “Count on it.”

And in an odd sort of way that didn’t altogether please him, he did count on it.

The moment she closed the door, Moira turned around to look at Carrie. The pep talk she was going to launch into faded. Tears shimmered in her sister’s eyes. Tears always reduced her to mush, especially Carrie’s tears. Moira took her hand and led her sister over to the bed. Sitting down on the edge, she put her arm around Carrie’s slender shoulders and just held her to her for a few seconds.

“I’m glad you’re here, Carrie-Bear,” she said quietly, using the nickname she hadn’t uttered since they were both children. It was the nickname their mother had given Carrie. “I’ve missed you.”

Carrie sighed, trying to hold back a sob, battling a hundred demons. Gravitating toward one. “Moira, I love him.”

She knew Carrie did—that was what made all of this so hard. Moira hated the man she hardly knew, hated him for ever hurting someone she loved, and she loved her sister fiercely. Moira paused, searching for the right words to soften this, knowing there weren’t any. “I don’t think he loves you.”

Carrie’s head jerked up. Anger mingled with pain in her eyes. “How can you say that?”

She thought of the bruise she’d see on Carrie’s rib cage. Thought of it and knew that it hadn’t been the first. Wouldn’t be the last if she let Carrie go back to him. Like as not, the man would take out on her what had happened here.

“Because,” she began patiently, “you don’t hit the person you love.”

Carrie rose and began to pace around the room. “So, he has a temper. Lots of people have tempers.”

Was Carrie so blind, or was the view just better from a distance? “He has a
problem
and I don’t want you to be part of it.”

Carrie became defensive, fighting battles for Simon that he couldn’t fight on his own. “He doesn’t mean it.”

That was an old, familiar refrain. Moira had heard enough stories to know what usually followed. Remorse, promises and more and more serious beatings.

“None of them mean it. It’s a sickness, Carrie, but it’s a sickness that has casualties and I don’t want you to be one of them.”

She watched Carrie pace about the room. Same old Carrie. Any second now, she was going to work up a head of steam and leave. Moira couldn’t let that happen.

Ever practical, Moira’s mind turned toward details. “Do you live around here?”

Carrie shook her head. “We move around.”

And didn’t that have a familiar ring? Moira mused. After their mother died, they’d moved around so much that at one point, she was convinced they were nomads or gypsies. But this was Carrie and she didn’t want to scare her off. She didn’t press for details. Carrie would tell her in her own good time.

The first thing was to make her sister feel secure.

“Good. Then I won’t be uprooting you.” She tried to look as innocent as possible. Carrie had always been her toughest audience. “How would you like to do me a favor?”

Carrie looked at her, her expression puzzled. “
You
need a favor?”

Moira had a feeling that her sister thought she had everything. In a manner of speaking, she did. What she had was glamour and money. But there were other things that were sorely missing, things money couldn’t begin to buy.

“I need a stand-in,” she told Carrie glibly, then grew more serious. “More than that, I need family.” Her smile was meant to break down walls. “What do you say? Want the job?”

A smile played on Carrie’s lips, reflecting relief. “What’ll I have to do to qualify?”

Moira laughed, relieved as she hugged her. That had been a great deal less painless than she’d anticipated. “Just be you.”

“How’s your sister doing?” Shaw asked Moira as he walked into the squad room the next morning, trying to bank down the feeling that he’d been looking forward to seeing her all morning.

He’d given breakfast and the woman who was the center of it—his mother—his full attention. Even so, his thoughts kept drifting back to last night. To the relief on Moira’s face when he’d shown up. To the way her eyes had fluttered shut when he’d kissed her in the hall. To the way her lips had felt against his. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake free of the thoughts about her.

She was dressed much the way she’d been dressed yesterday morning—jeans, a shirt, shoes that allowed her to move fast if she had to. None of which were nearly as breath-stealing as the outfit she’d had on last night.

But he had come armed with his imagination, and that was both good and bad.

Moira set down the near-empty container of coffee on his desk. “Better. Thanks for asking.” And then she grinned. “I now have a stand-in.”

He was getting to like her grin. To wait for it. Which wasn’t good. “Excuse me?”

“A stand-in. Someone who takes my place while they check the lighting, block the scene, things like that.”

“You gave her a job?” He would have expected her to give her sister money, if anything. Maybe she wasn’t quite as much of an airhead as he’d originally thought.

“I gave her a way out,” she corrected. “You know, give a man a fish, you feed him for a day, teach him to fish—”

“And he’s stuck cleaning fish for the rest of his life.” He saw the look on her face. “My dad used to take us fishing. I never seemed to catch anything so I got cleaning detail.” Then, in case she thought he was being critical, he added, “What you did was a good thing.”

Moira pressed her lips together. “Simon was using her as a punching bag.”

The policeman within him pushed to the foreground. “She want to press charges?”

She shook her head. “I’m lucky I got her to stay with me instead of him.” This was Carrie’s life and she had no business discussing it, even if she was worried about her sister. Moira saw Reese walking toward them and waved to the man. She glanced in Shaw’s direction. “Are we ready to roll?”

He laughed. “Yeah, we’re ready to roll.”

The day, he thought as he walked to meet his partner, promised to be an interesting one.

It broke her heart.

The kind of life she and her father and sister had led never took them to the seamier streets, the kind she found herself on now as Reese and Shaw drove around, looking for underage prostitutes to question. It wasn’t easy. Word had gotten around and the girls were scattering like so many mice before a hungry cat.

Her father, Moira realized as she looked around, had sheltered them from this kind of thing. Sheltered them from the despair, the poverty that first ate away at a person’s self-respect, then devoured all hope, leaving nothing but a skeleton of misery in its place.

She wished she knew where her father was now, so she could thank him. The kind of life they’d led hadn’t been orthodox, but he’d done what he could to make sure they had what they needed.

Moira saw despair on the faces of the women who paraded themselves on the corner.

She rocked back and forth on her seat, impatient. Captive of her word. She’d given it to Shaw, saying she was going to stay inside the car the way he’d told her to. It allowed her only the vaguest of views. But even that was almost too much.

Old before their time, worn-out, these women who sold their bodies in order to survive another day were the walking dead. It was only a matter of time before they turned up as lifeless corpses, victims of some kind of terrible crime.

Moira shivered as she watched Shaw approach yet another prostitute. How could he stand going out into this day after day? How did he keep from having it drain him dry? Did he reconnect with something life-affirming every night? Was that what kept him going? She didn’t know, but she was certainly beginning to admire the man a great deal.

They’d been at this the better part of the day, riding around to corners like this one, questioning the women they did find, searching for the younger ones, the dropouts and the runaways who had no idea what they were getting themselves into.