Dead Ringer Read Online Free PDF Page A

do this for me and find Daddy, too.
    Instead, she touched the papers she'd tried for years to obtain. "How did you get these?"
    As if it had been the easiest thing in the world, Finn said, "The court agreed to release your records to us in the interest of public safety."
    She nodded, numb. Even the judicial system was in on the deal. "And this?" At last she pushed the photo out from under the other papers.
    "Our research team dug it up. Take a look. The resemblance is uncanny."
    Heart in her throat, she turned the picture over. Stating up at her was an attractive blonde in her late thirties, maybe ten years older than Angelina was now, but still youthful.
    Her mother. The one person in all the world who was truly hers.
    Tears gathered in the back of her throat and she swallowed convulsively, suddenly panicked. She would not break down. Not in front of him.
    "Are you all right?"
    His voice was gentle, too gentle. It nearly undid all her efforts not to cry, and for half a second she almost leaned against him, wishing for someone who loved her, someone to share this moment with, someone who would understand and help her absorb it.
    But there was no one, only him, and when she trusted herself to look, she caught him appraising her, measuring her reaction, calculating... something. Her hackles went right back up again.
    "What else is going on here, Sharkman? You want me to get into Borian's house. What does this"-she shook the photograph at him-"have to do with it?"
    "Everything," he said curtly. "Borian adored his wife and never got over her loss. You're going to give her back to him."
    Puzzled, she frowned. "Me? What do you mean?" "Your job is to look as much like Carol Borian as possible. That's the hook we'll use to get you inside the house."
    Her jaw dropped, but before she could get any words out, he slid off the sofa and walked past her as if he lived there. His familiarity with Beaman's home sent another flash of irritation through her. She followed him into the bedroom.
    "This is my bedroom. I didn't give you permission-"
    "We have a deal, and I just held up my end. So let's skip the niceties. We don't have time."
    He opened her closet and began riffling through her clothes. She shoved past him and closed the doors. "What are you doing?"
    He lifted her off the floor and set her down a few feet away. The hands circling her waist were warm and strong, and she didn't like the way her heart thumped at their touch.
    "Checking your clothes for something more..." He examined her from head to toe and back again. "Appropriate." Reopening the closet, he began wading through the clothes.
    Who the hell did he think he was?
    She stepped toward him, and like that, he turned, blocking her way.
    "I'm going to do this whether you like it or not."
    His gaze was steely and she returned it. "Just so we're clear-I don't like it."
    He turned back to the closet and she leaned against the bed, staring moodily at the picture of her mother. Face it, the woman was a stranger. She looked refined and elegant, blond hair pulled back into a soft chignon, a string of pearls around the neck of her tailored dress. Nothing like the rebellious spitfire Angelina had imagined all these years. Nothing like Angelina.
    A nip of disappointment bit and she caught her reflection in the mirror. She'd toned down the bright red lipstick, but her lips were still a beacon of color. "You really think I look like her?"
    Finn spoke over his shoulder, his fingers moving through the clothes. "Enough to make her husband's hair stand on end, we hope. Especially if you lose the makeup and the Veronica Lake hair." He scraped back a section of clothes to examine a glittery black dress with a plunging neckline.
    "What's he like?"
    "Old-fashioned. European." He pushed the black dress into the "reject" section and held up a red strapless pant suit. "Does everything you own have sequins?"
    "No."
    "Good."
    "Some of it has feathers."
    He shot her a don't-mess-with-me look and she seat