made the deception work.
His mouth was what fascinated her. It was the mouth of a satyr, cynical, voluptuous, utterly and completely sexual. He smiled, he laughed, showing perfect white teeth; he talked with lazy charm, holding the rest of them spellbound. Holding Carolyn spellbound, even as she fought it.
He was good. He was beyond good—he was masterful, enchanting Aunt Sally, charming Uncle Warren, telling old tales of a childhood he hadn't lived. Someone must be helping him, Carolyn thought, plastering an expression of polite interest on her face as her brain worked feverishly. Some of the little bits he was coming up with would only be known to members of the family. Someone must have told him about the time Alex had gone skinny-dipping at
South
Beach
on Martha's Vineyard and the police had caught him. Someone must have told him that Alex was dangerously allergic to shrimp.
He glanced at her across the dish of scampi, a faint, knowing gleam in his eyes. "Did you suggest the menu, Carolyn?" he murmured, making no attempt to serve himself.
"I have a weakness for shrimp," she said lightly.
"So do I ," Alex said. "A fatal weakness."
"Oh, my heavens!" Sally said in a shocked voice. "I'd forgotten, darling! You're allergic to the stuff. Carolyn, how could you have done such a thing?"
"It's been eighteen years." Her calm voice didn't betray her unexpected flash of guilt. Not for endangering the imposter. But for troubling Sally. "I'd forgotten as well."
"So you weren't trying to kill me?" he asked gently.
She toyed with her wine glass, then gave him a cool smile. "It wouldn't have been a very effective way to do it, now would it? After all, the shrimp is quite recognizable. If you were someone who knew he was allergic to shrimp you simply wouldn't touch it."
Her barbed statement went over Sally's head. "Don't talk to Carolyn of murder," Sally said brightly. "She's an expert on the subject."
"Oh, really?" His eyes were deceptively languid. "How many people have you murdered?"
"No one," she said. She smiled at him. "Yet."
"She loves reading trash," Warren explained broadly. "Murder mysteries, all that sort of garbage. She fancies herself an expert on modem crime because she's read a few whodunits."
"Hardly." Carolyn managed to keep the irritation from her voice.
"You'd better think twice before committing a crime, boy," Warren went on. "Carolyn's the type to catch you red-handed. She's a regular Miss Marple ."
"Don't be ridiculous, Warren ," Sally said with surprising vigor. "I read spy thrillers and I'm not about to join the CIA or the KGB. What do you read, darling?" She turned to Alex with an almost flirtatious smile.
"I don't have time to read," Warren announced loudly.
"I wasn't asking you," Sally said. "And anyone with any sense finds the time to read, or their brain atrophies and their soul shrivels."
"Even when they read trash?" Warren snapped.
Carolyn drained her wineglass. She had a splitting headache, but there was no way she was leaving Sally alone without her protection. Warren had a tendency to upset her, and the unexpected stimulant of her prodigal son would no doubt take its toll as well. She'd been going downhill steadily since last fall—Carolyn dreaded the thought that something might accelerate the inevitable process.
"Depends on what you define as trash, Uncle," Alex said smoothly. "I like reading honor novels, myself."
"You would," Carolyn muttered. Indeed, the teenaged Alex had been reading Stephen King when he disappeared. Once more, the stranger had done his homework.
"Tell me, Alex, do you have any plans now that you've finally returned to the bosom of your family?" Warren demanded.
" Warren !" Sally's voice held a distinct warning note.
"I'm not quizzing him about his past," her brother said impatiently. "Though I admit I'm curious. There's no reason not to ask him what he plans to do now, is there?"
"He doesn't have to answer anything he doesn't want to. It's
His mouth was what fascinated her. It was the mouth of a satyr, cynical, voluptuous, utterly and completely sexual. He smiled, he laughed, showing perfect white teeth; he talked with lazy charm, holding the rest of them spellbound. Holding Carolyn spellbound, even as she fought it.
He was good. He was beyond good—he was masterful, enchanting Aunt Sally, charming Uncle Warren, telling old tales of a childhood he hadn't lived. Someone must be helping him, Carolyn thought, plastering an expression of polite interest on her face as her brain worked feverishly. Some of the little bits he was coming up with would only be known to members of the family. Someone must have told him about the time Alex had gone skinny-dipping at
South
Beach
on Martha's Vineyard and the police had caught him. Someone must have told him that Alex was dangerously allergic to shrimp.
He glanced at her across the dish of scampi, a faint, knowing gleam in his eyes. "Did you suggest the menu, Carolyn?" he murmured, making no attempt to serve himself.
"I have a weakness for shrimp," she said lightly.
"So do I ," Alex said. "A fatal weakness."
"Oh, my heavens!" Sally said in a shocked voice. "I'd forgotten, darling! You're allergic to the stuff. Carolyn, how could you have done such a thing?"
"It's been eighteen years." Her calm voice didn't betray her unexpected flash of guilt. Not for endangering the imposter. But for troubling Sally. "I'd forgotten as well."
"So you weren't trying to kill me?" he asked gently.
She toyed with her wine glass, then gave him a cool smile. "It wouldn't have been a very effective way to do it, now would it? After all, the shrimp is quite recognizable. If you were someone who knew he was allergic to shrimp you simply wouldn't touch it."
Her barbed statement went over Sally's head. "Don't talk to Carolyn of murder," Sally said brightly. "She's an expert on the subject."
"Oh, really?" His eyes were deceptively languid. "How many people have you murdered?"
"No one," she said. She smiled at him. "Yet."
"She loves reading trash," Warren explained broadly. "Murder mysteries, all that sort of garbage. She fancies herself an expert on modem crime because she's read a few whodunits."
"Hardly." Carolyn managed to keep the irritation from her voice.
"You'd better think twice before committing a crime, boy," Warren went on. "Carolyn's the type to catch you red-handed. She's a regular Miss Marple ."
"Don't be ridiculous, Warren ," Sally said with surprising vigor. "I read spy thrillers and I'm not about to join the CIA or the KGB. What do you read, darling?" She turned to Alex with an almost flirtatious smile.
"I don't have time to read," Warren announced loudly.
"I wasn't asking you," Sally said. "And anyone with any sense finds the time to read, or their brain atrophies and their soul shrivels."
"Even when they read trash?" Warren snapped.
Carolyn drained her wineglass. She had a splitting headache, but there was no way she was leaving Sally alone without her protection. Warren had a tendency to upset her, and the unexpected stimulant of her prodigal son would no doubt take its toll as well. She'd been going downhill steadily since last fall—Carolyn dreaded the thought that something might accelerate the inevitable process.
"Depends on what you define as trash, Uncle," Alex said smoothly. "I like reading honor novels, myself."
"You would," Carolyn muttered. Indeed, the teenaged Alex had been reading Stephen King when he disappeared. Once more, the stranger had done his homework.
"Tell me, Alex, do you have any plans now that you've finally returned to the bosom of your family?" Warren demanded.
" Warren !" Sally's voice held a distinct warning note.
"I'm not quizzing him about his past," her brother said impatiently. "Though I admit I'm curious. There's no reason not to ask him what he plans to do now, is there?"
"He doesn't have to answer anything he doesn't want to. It's
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