Taking on Twins (4 page)

Already, he'd repacked and made his excuses—an unexpected business appointment in the Midwest—to Liza, Nick and Joe, whom he'd found having coffee out by the pool. They'd all been disappointed, but understanding. Especially since he'd promised Liza a pound of flesh if he didn't make it back in time for her wedding.

Nobody had a hard time believing that Wyatt put business first. He always had.

They had no way of knowing that he was a changed man. Or at the very least, an evolving man.

On his way out to await his cab, Wyatt breathed in all the familiar morning scents of Joe Colton's “House of Joe.” Rich, aromatic coffee wafted in from the kitchen and a warm breeze carried the fragrance of blooming roses in from the courtyard where Nick and Liza were to be married next week. The bakers were working overtime, and though the fresh cinnamon rolls and coffee cakes smelled heavenly, Wyatt couldn't eat. He was too keyed up over the thought of seeing Annie again.

Before he stepped out the front door, Wyatt heard voices coming from the parlor, just off the foyer. He paused to poke his head inside and bid a quick goodbye to whoever might be in there. As he cracked the door, the voices grew heated, rising in both volume and intensity.

Uncle Graham and his son, Jackson, were at it again.

Grimacing, Wyatt backed away. Rather than chance drawing their attention, he left the door ajar and moved as far away from the parlor as possible, and still be in the house and able to watch for his cab through the leaded glass sidelights at the front doors. Unfortunately, as much as he tried to block it out, it was impossible not to overhear the content of the disturbing conversation.

Jackson's voice had an ominous, feral quality. “Okay, Dad. One more time. The reason you've been making these
massive deposits into this mystery account is because you are being…blackmailed?”

“Keep your voice down,” Graham growled.

“Why the hell should I keep my voice down? Blackmail is illegal! Whoever is doing this to you can be stopped. Get yourself a good lawyer. I'm available. If you don't want me, the family is loaded with them. Just ask Rand or Wyatt. I'm sure they can think of a way to bail you out of whatever mess you've gotten yourself into.” Jackson's voice was filled with the parental censure usually reserved for father to son and not vice versa.

Wyatt could hear the soles of Jackson's shoes tattooing out an agitated beat that must have had him pacing in furious circles.

“That wouldn't be prudent.”

“What, you don't like Rand? Wyatt?”

“Has nothing to do with them. Or you.”

“Then what?”

“I'm being blackmailed by a member of the family.”

The echo of pacing footsteps stopped.

At this, Wyatt felt a warning tension grip the muscles at the back of his neck and he abandoned his position behind the giant potted palm and as casually as he could—given the circumstances—moved to the parlor door to listen. This was far too interesting to ignore.

Jackson sounded incredulous. “Come again?”

“I'm being blackmailed by a member of this family.”

“Who?”

“I find it difficult to say, as I don't want to tarnish your image of someone you hold to be nothing less than a saint.” Graham sounded smug. Arrogant. A man who had not one whit of his brother, Joe's, grace and maturity.

“I find your childish games tiresome, Dad. Why don't you cut to the chase before I doze off?”

“Can't have that.” The legs of a chair scraped against the floor. “Perhaps this will wake you up. I'm being blackmailed by Meredith.”

Silence.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Jackson snorted. “Why would Aunt Meredith blackmail you?”

Graham seemed to take great pleasure in dropping this particular bomb. “Because I'm Teddy's father.” The snick of a lighter sounded and a haze of pungent cigar smoke filtered out to the foyer. “Surprised?”

Silence.

“Son, you seem a little dismayed by the indelicate truth.” Graham's harsh laughter rumbled. “Having a hard time believing that Joe's lily-pure wife could take pleasure in my bed? Or perhaps it's finding out that you have a little brother that's a bit off-putting.”

A sound of pure disgust issued from Jackson's throat.

“Not so perfect after all, are they?” Graham sucked on his cigar for a moment. “Still have good old Uncle Joe and Aunt Meredith up on the damned pedestal?”

Wyatt's mind raced. More than ever, he was convinced that Meredith was not Meredith. Emily's situation seemed increasingly grave with every tick of the parlor clock. Clearly, Patsy Portman had a dangerous agenda. He couldn't get to Keyhole soon enough. A sense of urgency had his mouth dry as day-old toast and his heart roaring like a wounded lion in his ears. He'd have to call Rand and Lucy from Keyhole and tell them what he'd overheard.

Outside, a car horn sounded. His cab. As quietly as possible, Wyatt retrieved his luggage and made good his escape. Fresh air filled his burning lungs as he opened the double doors that led out of the house. With a gentle pull,
he closed the door behind him, then moved to the portico and handed the cabby his luggage.

“Airport,” he instructed.

 

As he left the parlor and headed for the dining room, Jackson Colton fought the bile that rose in his throat. His father's confession disgusted him more than he could ever put into words. Although he couldn't say he was surprised. His father was no choirboy.

And Meredith. Meredith had changed.

As a child, he'd adored his Aunt Meredith. In fact, he'd looked upon her as a second mother. But in the past years—before the time of Teddy's birth, in fact—Jackson had noticed changes in Meredith that more than disturbed him. For so long, everyone had tried to pass these changes off as postpartum depression or the accident, but Teddy. was eight years old now and the accident happened a decade ago.

His sister, Liza, had once hinted that she believed something very amazing and unbelievable accounted for the changes in Aunt Meredith. At the time, Jackson had brushed off the wild notion. But now, as he reflected back on Liza's crazy theory, a chill raced down his spine and he feared there might just be more than a grain or two of truth there.

When he arrived in the dining room, he was dismayed to discover that he was not entirely alone.

Meredith was seated at the head of the table with a cup of coffee, a croissant and the society page. Languidly, she lifted her gaze from the print and trained it on Jackson. A small smile played at her lips, and she sat up a little straighter.

“Good morning, Jackson.”

“Is it, Meredith?”

He could feel her watching him pick up a serrated knife and begin to saw his bagel in half.

“Something wrong, dear? You don't seem quite yourself.”

Still holding the knife, Jackson turned to face her. “Funny, I could say the exact same thing about you.”

Meredith's face hardened. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Just this—If you don't stop extorting money from my father, I will go to the police.”

Meredith laughed, playing it light, as if she thought he were joking. “Jackson, honey, what in heaven's name are you talking about?”

Jackson had to hand it to her. She was as cool as the other side of a pillow on a hot summer day. “I'm talking about the fact that my father is paying you hush money because he's afraid Joe will write him out of his will,
if
—” his voice grew steely “—Joe finds out that his rotten little brother is really the father of your son.” He ran the blade of the knife across his fingertip, testing its sharpness. “So, since my father is too much of a spineless jellyfish to call your bluff, I guess the dubious pleasure is mine.” Jackson stabbed his knife into the cutting board and turned to look her in the eye. “Back off. Do I make myself clear?”

Meredith blanched and clutched her cup till it rattled against the saucer. “Don't you dare threaten me, Jackson Colton.”

“Or what?”

“Or you, my precious nephew, will be sorry.”

“I'm already sorry.”

Shaking with rage, Meredith watched Jackson stalk out of the room and frantically wondered exactly what he knew. He couldn't know that she was an impostor. No one
knew that—with the exception of Emily—and soon, that would no longer be a problem.

Meredith reached into the pocket of her robe for her ever-present bottle of tranquilizers. After several botched attempts, she was finally able to shake two into her palm. She tossed them into her mouth and chased them down her throat with a gulp of coffee.

She took a deep, cleansing breath, and waited for the rage to subside and the little voices that shrieked in her head to quiet down.

Breathe in, breathe out.

In…out… In…visualize the peaceful place…out. She focused on the hands of the wall clock and watched a minute dissolve into ten.

Yes. There now. She was fine. She would be just fine.

Better than fine, actually.

A rough plan began to form in the back of her mind. She needed Jackson gone now too, but it would get a little messy if there were too many murder attempts all at once. No, there had to be an easier way to get rid of Jackson.

Too bad she couldn't send him to jail. That was a good place to go, if you were an annoyance. She ought to know. She'd certainly spent her share of time in jail. The tranquilizers began to kick in, giving her a relaxed and vaguely euphoric feeling. Jail. Hey, now. Maybe she should give this jail thing some thought. Maybe that wasn't beyond the realm of possibility.

But for what?

Unless…

Unless she could get him to go for the attempt on his uncle's life.

A light bulb flashed on in Patsy's mind.

That was it.

Her heart began to hammer. In fact, while she was going
to all the trouble, she'd set him up for
both
attempts on Joe's life. A slow smile crept across her lips.
Oh, yes, Patsy, honey,
she gave herself a mental pat on the back,
you are good.

Satisfied as a cat with a bowl of cream, Meredith went back to the society section and her half-empty cup of coffee. After a little nap, she'd get started on her plan to get Jackson out of the picture, and thereby solve a lot of nasty problems.

 

Annie Summers, her mouth full of bobby pins, looked into an antique, gilt-framed wall mirror with disgust. Her hair. Her lousy, rotten, crinkly, goofy hair was having one of its notorious bad days. The April sun streamed in from a nearby window, creating a rusty halo that gave her a bit of a fallen angel look. She curled an upper lip to enhance the effect. It was hopeless. No amount of spray or gel or relaxer or blow-drying or clippy doo-dads would whip it into submission, either. They hadn't invented the product that could handle her particular mop, and the day they did, she was buying stock. She'd be a millionaire overnight.

“Moah? Amicks?” she muttered around the hairpins.

“Yeah?” Noah and Alex's muffled voices came from the back of her shop.

“Mat are oo doing?”

“Playin'.”

“Id oo tut 'er shoes on, yike I asked?” Annie removed the pins from her mouth and crammed them into her makeshift bun and hoped for the best.

“Uh…” Whispered laughter and some scrambling reached her ears. “Yeah, we're putting our shoes on.”

“Are you putting them on your feet?” She grinned at their giggles. One didn't live with two five-year-olds and not know when they were up to no good.

“Er, uh, okay,” Alex, self-appointed spokesman for the two, answered.

“Are you putting them on now?”

“Uhh…yeah.”

“Are you wearing socks?”

“Oh…well—”

With a sigh, Annie dropped her brush on a Louis XIV love seat and strode from the showroom of the antique store, Summer's Autumn Antiques, that she'd inherited from her father. Moving into the play area she kept next to her office for her boys, she stopped short and stared.

“What the—” Exasperated, Annie shook her head. “What are you guys doing in your—” she took in the bare chests and, in one case, bare bottom “—underwear? Alex,
where
is your underwear?”

“It was his idea,” Alex said, pointing at Noah.

“Was not.”

“Was too!”

“What idea?” Annie asked.

“We were going to put our clothes on the dog and surprise you.”

As Alex explained, Chopper, the aging black Lab, came hobbling out from behind the toy box, his foot caught up in the arm of a sweater. He sported socks and shoes on three of his four feet. His tail, which he wagged pitifully, protruded from the fly of some small body's—obviously Alex's—underpants. Chopper looked absolutely miserable.

Try as she might, Annie could not hold back the giggles. Screaming with delight, the boys joined in, doing a little jig that had their skinny little bodies flailing and leaping.

“Why on earth did you think to put clothes on poor Chopper?”

“No shirts, no shoes, no service,” Noah offered.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Annie looked back
and forth between the two faces, mirror images of hers, both earnest in their explanation.

“We wanted Chopper to come out to lunch with us—”

“—and he couldn't go if he was naked—”

“—cause Emma says the sign in the window says—”

Annie held up her hand. “Okay. I get it. But you guys need to know that they don't serve dogs at the Mi-T-Fine Café. Even well-dressed dogs, like Chopper, here.”

Alex's face fell. “Never?”

“Never?” Noah echoed.

“Nope.” She gestured to the dog. “And since they don't serve naked kids either, put this poor animal out of his misery and you two get dressed.” She glanced at her watch. “I'll give you five minutes. If you're not ready, I'm going without you. And I'm ordering hot dogs.”