Twisted Shadows (13 page)

“Why did you leave Nicholas behind?” Sam asked.

“I told you. I didn't have a choice.”

“I don't think you can convince him with that explanation.”
Or me
. The unspoken words hung in the air.

A long silence. “I can't expect either of you to understand.” Her mother's voice wavered. “Does he look like the photo?”

“Yes. He's tall. Six two or so. Dark hair. Dark blue eyes. He says he has nothing to do with his … father's business.”

A long pause. “Do you think … he will see me?”

“Not right away,” Sam said gently. “He has to have time to get used to the idea, just as I did.”

“But you're willing to see Paul.”

“I've had more time to get used to the idea.”

“Did Nicholas have a … mother?”

“No,” Sam said.

A long silence. Then, “Where can I reach you?”

Sam was hesitant to name the hotel. “My cell phone,” she said. “I'll keep it on.”

“Be careful, Samantha. Please be careful.”

“You, too. Are you where you said you would be?”

“Yes.”

“I'll call you tomorrow.”

“Samantha?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.” Her mother tried to sound normal, but Sam heard the break in her voice.

“I love you, too,” Sam said, and signed off, then went to the window and looked out. The park was alive with people.

She'd been born here. She and Nicholas.

Her mother had lived here in Boston with her father. They had loved each other once.

Then her thoughts returned to the FBI agent. McLean. She could see him leaning easily on the bar, his eyes angry when he studied her brother, softening when they turned to her.

She was still startled by the intensity of her reaction to him.

But he'd been identified as the enemy.

If she denied that, she would be denying any trust in her brother.

She felt very alone.

Nick poured a straight scotch and went to the window of his town house.

The night was hot, humid.

A sister, by God. A twin sister. How could he not know she was alive? He should have. Somehow he should have.

If
she was his sister.

She
was convinced. He knew that. He knew people. He could read them. It was a talent he'd had to develop. Too many people wanted too much from him.

He saw a car down the street. Christ. Did the feds know how obvious they were? McLean had obviously followed him to the restaurant, but he'd made damn sure they wouldn't follow Samantha Carroll. He didn't want McLean or any of his fellow agents anywhere around Samantha. She would be safe enough, though, at the hotel. It had been Cal's find, and because they often recommended it to their customers, they received special consideration. The feds might know about it, but he doubted it. As far as he knew, no one had been questioned there.

Dammit, he'd liked her. He hadn't wanted to. He had more than enough family. And he certainly didn't want a mother after all these years, particularly one who had abandoned him and disappeared.

The thought made him sick inside. He'd had his battles with the old man, but at least his father hadn't dumped him like unwanted garbage.

He'd really believed she'd been killed when he was a toddler. He'd asked a lot of questions, but his father had always turned them away. It was, he'd been told, too painful. No one else would talk about her, either. Let the dead rest, they all said.

He wanted to hit something. He wished he was in the gym and had a punching bag available. Instead he balled up his right fist and slammed it down on his left hand, leaving it stinging.

No question that Samantha would stir up a hornets' nest, and Paul Merritta knew it. George would be livid. So would Victor. They'd already planned to divide up the Merritta empire between them. Anna wanted a piece, too, but she was a woman. Women didn't have much value in his family.

So why the hell did Pop want to resurrect a daughter who supposedly died more than three decades ago?

He had to applaud Samantha's guts. Would he have done the same thing? If he'd been told he had a sister he'd never known about and a mother still alive, would he have sought them out or would he have done what he had done so many times before—burrow deeper into his hole?

He'd not been able to warn her off. Or scare her off. Maybe he hadn't really tried hard enough.

Why hadn't Pop told him he had invited her?

“
I don't think Mother had a choice about whom to take with her …
”

Maybe that was true. But in all the years since, she'd made no effort to see him, to contact him. Surely if she'd cared anything about him, she would have found a way.

He took another sip of scotch, heard the phone ring and listened as the answering machine replied. “I'm out. Leave a message.”

“Don't forget about dinner tomorrow night.” His father's voice issuing an order.

Wouldn't Pop like to know he had already met her?

For once, he might have the upper hand in the game.

nine

Sam leaned against the leather seat of the car and looked at Nick Merritt.

She relished the moment. It meant time with him—time to explore, to seek information. Any small nugget was welcome.

He wasn't any warmer than he had been yesterday. In fact, he seemed even more on guard than before. He'd still not asked any questions about her mother, while if their positions had been reversed, she would have been peppering him with questions.

But then her mother had left him, not her. And Paul Merritta? Had he tried to keep her? She had been deserted by him as much as Nick had been deserted by their mother.

Nick obviously hadn't accepted that yet.

He'd had someone pick her up at the hotel, then he'd met her at a doctor's office where blood samples were taken. Then he'd taken her to a late breakfast.

If she'd expected any more warmth than yesterday, she'd been badly mistaken. Nicholas had been taciturn the whole time. She wondered, in fact, whether he had any feelings at all.

She was surprised then when he turned to her at a stop light. “You should probably know. Pop called me and asked me for dinner. I think he plans to spring you on me then.”

“You didn't tell him I'd contacted you?”

“Nope,” he said.

She stared at him. “Why?”

“Let's say I didn't want to be manipulated. By anyone.”

The admonition was quite clear.

She was silent for a moment, then shrugged. “I didn't come to see him anyway.”

“I should warn you. He won't be happy. He doesn't like his plans being spoiled.”

“I don't really care what he wants,” she said.

Nick's mouth twitched, yet he gave away nothing more than that.

She didn't ask any more questions, merely looked around at the neighborhoods he drove through. The homes became more and more elaborate until they reached a long, tall wrought-iron fence that seemed to go on forever. He finally turned into a drive, halting the car when he came to the gates.

A uniformed man in the gatehouse stepped out, apparently recognized Nick and went back inside without a word. The gates glided open.

It wasn't a house. It was an estate. The large and imposing English manor-style mansion sat among huge oak trees. Carefully tended flower plots dotted the rich green lawn, yet there were no bushes along the fence.

No place to hide
.

The thought unsettled her. Heck, she was scared out of her wits. Until now, the Merritta family had been a collection of shadows. Now she was seeing reality. Power. Probably evil.

It was all she could do to maintain her composure, not to let the fear show. She'd been operating on adrenaline until now, on anger, on curiosity, on sheer determination. Now she wondered whether she hadn't ventured way beyond her depth.

The trick was not to let it show.

Nick didn't say anything as he drove up to a rounded drive and parked. Instantly a man appeared from the front door. He stopped when he saw Nick stepping from the car.

“Mr. Merritta, we weren't expecting you.” The puzzlement in his voice was audible to Sam.

Mr. Merritta. Not Merritt
. It was obvious that his abbreviation of the family name had not been accepted.

“Miss Carroll invited me,” he replied easily, going around the other side of the car and opening the door. He offered Sam his hand, and Sam couldn't help but wonder if he was doing it out of courtesy or as a challenge to those who were watching. His face certainly didn't give anything way. He turned to Sam. “Meet Reggie. He runs the house.”

Reggie didn't look like a man who ran a gangster's house. He was small and slender and tended not to meet her gaze. He even had a little bit of a British accent. He was, in truth, a cliché.

He led the way inside to a marble hallway and then into a room that was obviously a parlor. He hesitated a moment, as if reluctant to go and impart unpleasant news to his employer. His gaze rested warily on Nick before he backed out the door and disappeared.

“You don't seem entirely welcome,” she noted.

“As I told you, my father isn't fond of surprises. I expect he wanted to spring you on me, then take credit for presenting me with a gift.”

“Am I a gift?”

“I don't think it's a gift for you.” As before, he avoided answering the question.

She walked around the room, unable to sit. There were bookcases, but they were mostly filled with photos, rather than books.

There were some photos of a young Nick, some of another boy. A pretty young girl. Groupings of men.

She stopped at the photo of the girl. “Who is she?”

“Anna, my cousin.”

It was still “my” not “our,” she noticed. “And the boy must be George.”

“Yes,” he said shortly.

“Will they be here today?”

“I don't know.”

His usually clipped replies had become even more curt since they'd entered the house.

A muscle throbbed in his cheek and jaw, and for the first time she realized how hard this might be on him.

Reggie appeared again. “He will see you,” he said.

“He” was said in capital letters, like God. Suddenly she had second thoughts. A lot of them. She'd been carried along this far on pure obsession. An obsession without real thought of consequences.

She turned to Nick. “Come with me.”

“He said alone,” Reggie emphasized.

“Then I will leave without seeing him.”

Reggie shook his head in dismay.

“Losing your courage?” Nick asked.

The question was biting.

“No,” she said, then turned back to Reggie. “All right.”

She followed him up a curving staircase, along a wide hallway and into a large room.

Reggie backed out, gently closing the door behind him.

She was alone with the man who had given her life.

He was sitting in an armchair to the side of a large desk, a shadow of the man she'd seen in pictures. His hair was gray and thin. Yet his eyes were the same dark blue color as hers, and they seemed to burn with life, or maybe it was the embers of life.

“Nicole?”

“Samantha,” she corrected.

“Your mother wanted to name you that,” he said. “But I thought twins should have similar names.” He paused. “So she finally won that battle.”

“Is that what you had with her? A war?”

“Sit down,” he commanded her.

She sat. Not because he told her to, but because her legs felt like rubber.

Sam studied him just as he was studying her. “Why did your people contact me after all these years?”

He suddenly smiled, and she saw the charisma that her mother must have seen at one time.

“Direct, aren't you?”

“What else should I be?”

“Why did you call Nicholas before seeing me?”

“I was told he didn't know about me. I thought he had as much right to know about me as I did to know he existed.”

“And …?”

“He's not ready to believe it yet. He wanted a blood test.”

His smile disappeared. “He would.”

“Why?”

“He doesn't trust me.” He shook his head. “It's a hard thing to know your son distrusts you.”

“Does he have reason?”

His eyes didn't blink. “No, but I should have told him about you long ago.”

“How could you when I was supposed to be dead?”

He gave her a thin smile. “So you learned about that?”

“Did you think I wouldn't?” The air was thick between them, charged with emotion that wasn't evident in the calmly spoken words. Every word he spoke was a quiet challenge. And she couldn't help but reciprocate.

“Did Nick tell you?” he asked.

She was silent.

“Loyalty is a fine quality. So is being discreet.”

She'd always thought so. But not in the way he meant it.

“Who died to provide you with bodies to use in place of ours?” she asked bluntly.

“Tommy told me you were gutsy,” he replied in a satisfied voice. “Don't worry your head about it. They were already dead, and their people received compensation for the use of their bodies.”

“But why?”

“If some acquaintances, even members of my family, learned that Tracy had run away, they would have gone after her.”

It was still difficult for her to think of her mother as Tracy. “So you were protecting her?” She couldn't keep a wry skepticism from her voice.

“Yes,” he said. “She and I made a bargain all those years ago. A devil's bargain. I didn't like it. But she was determined to leave.”

“Why?”

“She wasn't comfortable with us.”

“With crime, you mean?”

He gave her a chiding look. “My father was head of the family at the time. I've been changing our direction since then.”