The Pretender (4 page)

She delivered the pitcher and glasses to a table near the dance floor—four well-fed guys wearing expensive haircuts and even more expensive suits. As she was pouring, one of the guys hitched forward and waggled a folded-up fifty between two fingers.

“Hey, Sunshine,
sweetheart, the beer’s nice, but my friends, here, we’ve been waiting all night to hear you sing. When are you gonna give us a song?”

Abby’s smile froze on her face, but she didn’t jerk or spill a drop of beer. She finished pouring, then flashed the smile at the man with the fifty. “I’m sorry—Sunny’s not here tonight. I’m Abby, and trust me, you don’t want to hear
me
sing.”

The man
looked confused for a moment, then gave her a long, narrow-eyed look and shook his head. “Sorry—I thought sure… If you don’t mind my saying so, you sure do look alike. Sisters, right?”

Abby stretched out her smile and murmured, “That’s okay, I get that a lot.”

“Those guys giving you trouble?” Elton asked her when she took back the tray.

She shook her head. “No…just asking for
Sunny.” She took a deep breath. “I didn’t tell ’em. Don’t want to ruin their evening. Look, could you and Trisha cover for me for a few minutes? I’m gonna go…um…” She gestured vaguely toward the ladies’ room.

Elton said, “Sure, no problem.”

She pushed away from the bar and ran.

Thank God the restroom was empty. She checked the stalls, then went to the sink and turned on the water.
Wet her fingers and patted her hot cheeks. Then stood and stared at herself in the wood-framed mirror.

You sure do look alike. You’re sisters, right?

How many times had she heard that? She’d always thought it was just a superficial likeness. Sure, she and Sunny were the same height, approximately the same weight—if you didn’t count the way it was distributed. Both were blond and blue-eyed,
although Sunny’s hair was darker and had more body, more curl. And her eyes were a deeper shade of blue, that dark violet that seemed to hide so many secrets, so much sadness. Abby had typical Nordic coloring, with blue-green eyes and straight, pale blond hair. She usually wore it twisted in a knot at the back of her head, because she was a dancer and that style made her neck look longer.
More elegant.

Now, with her heart beating fast and hard, she lifted a hand to pull the elastic bands from her hair. It uncoiled in a way that seemed almost angry and slithered down her back, and she shook her head to make it fall forward over her shoulders. Tilted her head so that it covered one eye, the way she’d seen Sunny do so many times, particularly when she was singing some hot, sexy
number.

Her image gazed back at her from behind the curtain of hair, cheeks flushed, lips pouty.

She looked…sexy, hot.

Like Sunny.

In a half daze, she went back to the bar and told Elton she didn’t feel well and was going home. In the back room she took off her apron, gathered up her jacket and purse, still barely conscious of what she was doing. Outside, with a sweet spring
breeze blowing and the sidewalks filled with people making the most of the balmy night, she searched through her purse for subway fare and found the money Pauly had given her at the cemetery.

What the hell, she thought, giddy with a mixture of exhilaration and fear, as she stepped to the curb and hailed a cab.

She was out of breath and her hands were shaking as she unlocked the door
to her apartment. Inside, ignoring Pia’s chirp of welcome and barely flinching or altering her stride as the cat leaped from the back of the futon to her shoulders, she made straight for the kitchen, where the envelope the police had given her containing Sunny’s personal effects lay unopened on the counter.

With Pia watching curiously from her favorite perch on Abby’s shoulders, she opened
the envelope and shook the contents onto the decades-old tile. It was a pitifully small pile—some things, anything with blood on it, she imagined—had been kept by the cops for evidence. She picked up Sunny’s I.D. card. Hands clammy, she held it…stared at it…dropped it…picked it up and stared at it again.

It’s true. I could do it.

I could pass for Sunny.

Chapter 2

S
o? What if I could pass for Sunny? The question is: Should I?

Why shouldn’t I? It’s not like I’m trying to steal her identity. It would just be for a little while. Just so I can use the plane ticket. And the credit card. To go to California. To tell her grandfather what happened.

Abby went back and forth with her conscience, which, annoyingly, didn’t seem
inclined to give in.

It’s still wrong. Not to mention illegal. As in…stealing?

Not if I pay it back. Then it’s only borrowing. And anyway, what good is the plane ticket to anybody else, if it’s nonrefundable? It would just be going to waste.

Her conscience was silent, but intractable.

I have to tell them about Sunny. Wouldn’t it be better to do it in person, instead of a
phone call or—God forbid—email?

Very kind and considerate of you.

Sarcasm? Seriously? From her own conscience?

Okay, look. I said I’ll pay it back. Maybe they’ll let me work it off. They have a ranch; there must be something I could do. How about if I could work for room and board to pay them back?

Stubborn silence on the part of her conscience.

Hey, I’m about to be
homeless here! Worst-case scenario: I can be homeless in California. It has to cost less to live there than here.

And for darn sure, the weather’s better.

So…I don’t care if you don’t like it, I’m using that plane ticket. I’m going to California. To tell them. In person. After that…I guess I’ll just have to see what happens.

That’s it. End of arguments.

Taut with excitement,
stomach aquiver with butterflies, she sat down at the ancient computer and before she could change her mind, fired off an email to Alex Branson, Attorney at Law:

FORGOT TO MENTION. IS IT OKAY IF I BRING A CAT?

“You’ve gotta admit, the girl’s got—what do your people call it…”

Sam Malone’s lawyer raised his eyebrows. “
My
people? I assume that would be…Jewish?”

“Yeah. What’s
that word—great word, means
cojones
—balls. Which I can’t use since she’s a girl. You know the—”

“Chutzpah?”

“Yeah. That’s the one.” Sam gave a cackle of laughter. “The girl’s got
hutzpa,
that’s for sure.”

Naturally, old uptight Alex didn’t crack a smile. Just looked him in the eye and got straight to the point. “What do you want to do about her?”

Sam narrowed his eyes and
scratched his chin, just to give his lawyer the notion he was thinking it over. Truth was, he was feeling damned excited. Happy, even, for the first time since he’d gotten the terrible news from New York. There was an itch under his skin he recognized and remembered from his considerably younger days, an itch that said there was adventure afoot. A challenge. Hell, he never had been able to resist
a challenge.

“Cards have been dealt,” he growled. “I’ll be curious to see how she plays hers. Won’t you?”

The lawyer raised his eyebrows again, but only said mildly, “Are you going to want to meet her?”

“I might.”

“When—”

Sam waved a hand impatiently. “When the time’s right.” Damn lawyers always had to pin things down. “For now, just…tell her to go ahead and bring
the damn cat. Then we’ll wait and see.”

Alex closed up the computer and tucked it into his briefcase. “Don’t wait too long,” he said, as he slid the briefcase off the wood plank table and headed for the door. He gave a nod and a wave as he went out, leaving the door open.

Sam grunted and went to shut it, hobbling a little. Damned legs—still feeling the effects of that crazy stunt he’d
pulled a few weeks back, he supposed. He sure did hate being old. Simple thing like riding hell-for-leather across a meadow shooting at helicopters with a deer rifle wouldn’t have bothered him a bit, back in his stuntman days. Woulda been all in a day’s work. Nowadays, he paid a heavy price for such foolishness.

Sure was fun, though.
He cackled with pure glee, remembering how it had felt
to bring down that chopper along with the man who’d shot and wounded his ranch foreman and tried to kidnap his baby great-grandson.
I may be old,
he thought,
but I ain’t through livin’ yet.

Instead of pulling the heavy pine plank door closed, he stood in the cabin’s doorway and watched his lawyer stride through the meadow grass and swing himself into the waiting helicopter. Nice to be that
young, he thought with an inward sigh.

Good man, Alex Branson—way too serious and buttoned-up for a youngster, but they don’t come any more honest or loyal. Which, for a lawyer, is saying something. Yeah…he’s a good man. I shouldn’t jerk his chain like I do.

But damned if it ain’t fun.

Sam watched the little blue chopper lift off and bank away toward the mountain ridge—looked just
like a dragonfly, he’d always thought. He watched until he couldn’t see it anymore, then turned and hobbled back into the cabin, closing the door behind him. He made his way to the table and picked up the black-and-white photo that was lying there. He stood for a long time gazing down at the photo, an eight-by-ten glossy—what they used to call a studio headshot—of a woman.

“Ah…Barbara. My
God, but you were lovely.” He no longer cared that he spoke aloud when there was nobody but himself to hear.

A wave of sadness swept over him, and after a while he slid the photograph back into the manila envelope where it had been kept for more than half a century. That was the best place for it—the past. The past was dead, done with. The past was nothing but sadness and regrets.

He shook himself, shaking off the sadness. And he grinned. He couldn’t wait to see what the future was going to bring.

Sage leaned one shoulder against a support pillar and watched the first passengers from the New York flight make their way toward him down the glistening corridor. First-class passengers first, of course: businessmen with cell phones glued to their ears; an older couple
looking annoyed—he wondered if that was because it had been a rough flight, or if it was just their normal way. An elderly lady towing an oxygen bottle. A very tall black man wearing a suit Sage was pretty sure had cost more than his pickup. He waited patiently and watched them all go by, not the least bit concerned he’d have trouble spotting the passenger he’d come to meet. How many young, blond
women carrying a pet crate could there be on one flight?

Turned out, she’d have drawn his eye even if he hadn’t been there specifically to pick her up. She was that kind of woman, tall and slim, with long legs that looked even longer in the skinny jeans and knee boots she wore. She had on a sleeveless top made of some kind of slithery material the color of old brandy, in a style that had
the look of another time, and carried a black jacket thrown over one arm—the right. She carried the crate in her left. As he watched, she halted in the middle of the walkway, set the carrier on the floor and slipped the jacket on.

He couldn’t blame her for that. Like most places where the weather could get hot, Bakersfield had a tendency to overdo the air-conditioning.

Then his breath
caught.

He could see now that the jacket was of roughly the same vintage as the silky top, with padded shoulders, fitted in at the waist and flared out over the hips. From that point upward, with her blond hair tumbled all around her shoulders, she looked like a 1940s movie star. Looked, in fact, exactly like the pictures he’d seen of Sam’s second wife, Barbara Chase. Not so surprising,
though, he thought, considering Barbara would be this woman’s grandmother.

Realizing the woman was just standing there looking around her—looking for him, no doubt—he pushed off from the pillar and moved purposefully forward.

“Sunny?”

Her gaze jerked toward him and her mouth opened; he could hear her suck in air. The look on her face made his stomach clench. Not because she was
the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, although she was, but because she looked absolutely terrified. Not the way most people look when they’re scared, but like an animal with nowhere to run. He’d never had a woman look at him that way before. He had to say, he didn’t much like it.

He smiled—he hoped in a reassuring way—and held out his hand. “Sunny Wells? Sage Rivera. Welcome to California.”

“I’m, uh… Thanks.” She let out the breath and a smile flashed, although the wariness didn’t leave her eyes. Striking…mesmerizing eyes. Silvery blue eyes, with just a hint of green.

She thrust out her right hand, and he saw it was bandaged—a fact she seemed to remember at the same moment, because she jerked it back with a little shrug and a breathless, “Um…hi, nice to meet you.”

As he answered the shrug with one of his own, he realized he was experiencing something he wasn’t used to. Which was awkwardness. He felt uneasy in his own skin. He didn’t like that much, either.

Feeling a need to be doing something, he bent to pick up the cat carrier. A low growl issued from its depths. He looked at Sunny and raised his eyebrows.

“Meet Pia,” she said darkly. “Otherwise
known as the Cat from Hell.”

He nodded toward her bandaged hand, which, he now realized, did look very white and fresh. “That what happened to your hand?”

She made a sound that wasn’t really a laugh—more like a snort. “Yeah. They said I could take her onboard as my carry-on. They forgot to mention they were going to make me take her
out
of the carrier going through security.”

“Ah.” He dropped to one knee beside the carrier and placed his hand on the wire door. The growl from inside rose in pitch and volume. Okay, fair warning. He laughed softly.
Can’t say I blame you, kitty cat…don’t care much for flying myself.

“Freaked her out,” Sunny said with a breathless laugh. “I mean, totally. You should have heard her. Actually I’m surprised you
didn’t.
The whole terminal
heard her. Hey, what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t very well let go of her.”

“I’m surprised you don’t look more beat-up than you do,” Sage said, picking up the carrier and beginning to walk alongside her as they headed for the baggage claim area. She had a long, graceful stride, he noticed. And was nearly as tall as he was, in those boots.

“I had her wrapped in my jacket,” she explained,
sounding out-of-breath, although they weren’t walking that fast. “I thought I could handle her. And except for the noise, it was kind of okay, at first. It was just when I tried to put her back in the carrier. That’s when she really chomped me.”

He gave a low whistle. “
Chomped
you? Sounds like a pretty bad bite. Think maybe you should see a doctor?”

She shrugged dismissively. “I don’t
know. It bled like crazy, which I think is good, right? They took me to this first aid place in the airport and put antibiotic stuff on it and bandaged it, so I think I’m good.” She swore under her breath, fairly mildly, he thought, under the circumstances. “Stupid cat. She’s bitten me before, lots of times. But never like this. I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t have tried to…” Her voice seemed
to wobble, and she took a breath and held it.

“She’s just upset and scared. She’ll get over it,” Sage said.

She exhaled in a gust. “Yeah…I’m sure.” But she didn’t sound convinced.

They joined the cluster of people waiting at the baggage carousel. Sage set the cat carrier on the floor. And then…there it was again, that unfamiliar unease he couldn’t define and didn’t know what
to do about. Some part of it—maybe a
big
part—he put down to plain old ordinary sexual attraction. Which wouldn’t have been surprising, considering the woman standing next to him was chock-f of sex appeal, except she wasn’t the type he would normally be attracted to. Tall, Nordic, blond city girls? Not even close. Not in the same hemisphere.

There had to be something else going on here.
What, he didn’t know, and that meant he was on guard and meaning to stay that way.

It occurred to Sage that she was looking at him, in a sidelong kind of way that made him wonder if she was as wary of him as he was of her.

She had the grace to look embarrassed, at least, when he met her gaze and said, “What?” in a challenging tone. There was just a touch of color in her cheeks that
made her eyes almost seem to shimmer. And made him a little dizzy.

“You’re not—” She stopped, but didn’t look away, and the way she was studying him, a little frown between her eyebrows, appraising....

He got it. And felt a sinking in his belly he hadn’t in a very long time. His skin grew hot.

“Yeah, I am,” he began, quietly but with a touch of attitude, but before he could go
any further she was shaking her head, looking confused.

“But…you can’t be—” she said, at the same time he said, “I am Indian.”

There was a moment of utter silence. Then she said dryly, “Well…I was going to say, ‘the lawyer.’”

“Ah.” His momentary spurt of anger died as quickly as it had risen, leaving him off-balance once more, and a little ashamed of himself. He stretched his
lips in a smile. “No. That would be Alex Branson. Like I said, my name is Sage. Sage Rivera-Begay. I manage the ranch.”