Buch lesen: «The Unknown Twin»

“So, Lauren Conway. Do you know you have a twin?”

Lauren hugged the hospital bedsheet closer. “No. But I gather this Dana looks like me.”

Alex cocked his head, then reached into his back pocket and withdrew his wallet. He leafed through several pictures before he stopped, pulled one out and handed it to her.

Lauren looked down. In the picture was a woman with long, luscious hair and curves to die for outlined in a wild-print bikini. She held a surfboard and leaned on the smiling, sun-burnished man whose arm was around her. The man was Alex.

The woman looked exactly like Lauren.

The similarity made her light-headed and caused her heartbeat to falter. What was going on here?

Dear Reader,

Welcome to my contribution to the CODE RED series. It’s been a pleasure to participate in this project—three Superromance novels, an anthology, a twelve-book continuity, then four sequels—all about my favorite people, rescue personnel. It was a joy to work with the other authors involved in this series. I liked getting to know them and contributing to the story lines. But don’t worry. The Unknown Twin can stand alone, too.

As many of you know, I wrote some firefighter books for Harlequin a few years back, and it was a pleasure to revisit America’s Bravest. I did have to do some additional research, though. Fire fighting in California is different from that in New York State, where I did my original research of riding the trucks, eating at the firehouses and participating in classes and drills. I met with a wonderful former California firefighter, who helped plan out the staff and station house for us. I also called on my other friends in the Rochester Fire Department, particularly Joe Giorgione, who was always there to help out with technicalities and plot elements. All of the firefighters I worked with were wonderful and gave me very important information.

Lauren and Alex’s story is a classic romance about opposites attracting—the macho, charge-right-in hero and the creative, sensitive heroine. I love to put people who are so different together and see what happens. I didn’t expect all of what transpired in the book. It was fun to watch Lauren and Alex wrestle with their relationship. I hope you enjoy their trek to happily-ever-after.

I love to hear from readers. My e-mail is kshay@rochester.rr.com and my Web site is www.kathrynshay.com. Though few use it, I still have a snail-mail address: P.O. Box 24288, Rochester, New York 14624. Write and tell me what you think.

Kathryn Shay

The Unknown Twin
Kathryn Shay

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS TOUGH having an imaginary friend at thirty-two. Lauren Conway stared down at hers, now captured in living color in a brand-new comic strip, Dee and Me, that she’d agreed to create for the Courage Bay Courier. She’d moved to the California-seaside town two weeks ago to begin drawing the cartoon, which was based on the imaginary friend she’d first made when she was a child.

Looking down, she reread the strip she’d just finished.

Frame One:

You got yourself a job, Lily! Twelve-year-old Deirdre’s smile is pleasant. It always is, even when Lily does something stupid.

Lily looks nervous. Yeah, for the summer.

Frame Two:

Lily is first this time. I hope I don’t blow it. Like I do everything else.

Don’t be lily-livered. Dee laughs at her pun. You’re not gonna blow it.

Frame Three:

Flexing her muscles, Deirdre picks up the free weights and raises them in an arm curl. Lily stares helplessly at her.

Deirdre asks, You wanna try it?

Frame Four:

Lily appears horrified. Dee, please. I can’t.

If you think you can’t, Lily, you’re right.

Frame Five:

Lily stares helplessly out at the reader. Easy for her to say.

Lauren studied her drawings. “Is it any good?” she asked aloud. Leaning back in her chair, she stared up at the ceiling; the cheerful fresco of blue sky and sun she’d painted there made her smile. She’d worked in a cubicle on the other side of the building for a week while she fixed up this office on her own time. It was so small, so run-down, nobody else at the Courier had wanted it. And since she had just started as a part-timer, she hadn’t been high priority for amenities. Rising, she crossed the room to two oversize beanbag chairs she’d stuffed in the corner, since there wasn’t room for much else. Kicking off her canvas sneakers, she stretched out on one and put her feet on the other. She continued to stare up at her own personal sky, inhaling the spicy scent of potpourri she’d scattered throughout the office and pondering the direction of her cartoon.

Her new boss, Perry O’Connor, had studied the prototype when she’d presented the concept to him in an interview several weeks ago. “It’s got a lot of potential, Conway.” He nodded to the drawings. “I like the self-effacing nature of the klutz. Cute dynamic with her alter ego. Puberty adds a lot. But you need a focus. A tack.” His expression was thoughtful. “We’re looking for something to draw readers to the Courier’s Web site. Maybe we could do this cartoon on the fly.”

“On the fly?”

“Yeah, have readers write in saying what they like and what they don’t like, and see if we can roll with it. It doesn’t have to be in every day. Then you could tailor the cartoon to public opinion.” He stared hard at her from beneath bushy gray brows. “Think you can do it?”

Could she? “Yes.”

“Okay, let’s give it a shot. You’re hired. Don’t let me down.”

“I won’t.”

So she’d moved from Benicia, in the northern part of California, to this small community of Courage Bay, close to L.A., hoping she’d be able to realize a dream she’d had for a long time. And realizing that dream was why she was at the office at midnight.

She shot a look at her battered oak desk. Tomorrow, Saturday, she would come in and strip and re-stain it.

Maybe you should come in and work on our cartoon. Ah, that voice. Her imaginary friend, Deirdre, aka Dee. Just as Deirdre advised Lily when she was at her wits’ end, she was also there for Lauren in the worst of times. There had been a lot of those lately.

Placing her bare foot on the carpet remnant she’d put down—it was thick with a geometric print—Lauren sighed. “I can do this,” she said aloud. “I want to do this.”

Then do it, Deirdre told her. Make me come alive like I am in your imagination. Like you have since we were little.

Lauren concentrated on visualizing the face of her imaginary friend—and sometimes alter ego. Lauren’s face. Red hair—though Lauren’s had turned auburn now—dark brown eyes, freckles and a bow-shaped mouth. “Come on, Dee, help me out here.”

Okay, close your eyes. Picture me on the surfboard. Picture Lily on the dock, wishing she could surf.

“Lily would wish she could swim.” Just like Lauren did.

Breathing in, Lauren lost herself in the scene. The rush of the ocean was loud. The air was hot, tempered by a delicious breeze. It kissed Lily’s skin. Overhead, seagulls swooped and dived. Ah, it was so peaceful…

BING-BONG!

Alex Shields bolted upright from his cot when the alarm went off. Lights blinked on, and ten other firefighters bounded out of their bunks alongside him as the dispatcher’s voice crackled over the PA. “Fire at the Courage Bay Courier. Engine One, Ladder One and Paramedic One go into service.”

“Hell, that’s right in our backyard,” Louis Alvarez said as they threw on their uniform pants over the gym shorts that, along with T-shirts, all firefighters wore to bed. They raced to the bays, where the rigs were parked and ready to go.

As senior captain of Courage Bay Fire Department’s Squad Two, the shift currently on duty, Alex ducked into his office and yanked the printout from the computer. He scanned it as he headed for the trucks. Fire in the newspaper office. Occupants unknown. Alex knew the presses worked until about two, but who would still be there at 3 in the morning?

At his locker, he shoved on his bunker pants and boots, grabbed his turnout coat and air-pack and snatched up his red captain’s helmet. He was on the truck in seconds, along with the other four assigned to Ladder One. The bay doors went up almost simultaneously, with a teeth-grating iron screech. Sirens blared in unison as the three vehicles raced out of the house, onto Jefferson Avenue and around the corner to Fifth. They lurched to a stop in front of the Courier’s building.

Alex bounded off the truck and took a quick tour of the exterior. Thick smoke billowed out the Fifth Street side—from lower floors, as well as the roof—disappearing into the dark, warm early morning. No flames on the west side or the back of the building, but there was an open window at the front west corner. No light on inside, though. Back at the trucks, he set up a makeshift Incident Command from which he could direct the maneuver, called for generators to be put in place and calmly gave his orders into the radio. “Engine One. Attack from primary entrance on Fifth Street. Check to see if there’s a guard.” His engineer—the rig driver and second in command—would know where to position the units. “Ladder One, get the aerial up to the top of the west side and start a master stream.” It looked like the fire was contained in one side of the building, but the flames could spread fast.

Minutes later, the hoses were laid for both an exterior and interior attack. Alex listened over the radio as his men worked.

“I got water,” Robertson shouted when he reached the basement. He’d taken one hose and aimed it at what he perceived to be the seat of the fire.

The aerial dumped water on the roof.

Two of the truck’s men had followed the hose in and were now dragging out the guard. Gonzales, a paramedic, rushed over to the unconscious man. The truck crew hurried back in to search and rescue. It didn’t appear they were going to need roof ventilation.

Now that everything was in place, Alex strode to the rig. He dragged out a single ladder, meant to mount a one-or two-story wall, and hauled it to the corner of the building.

Kellison, another paramedic, jogged over. “What’s going on?”

“I saw an open window at this end. Somebody might be in there working late.”

“Any lights on?”

“Can’t see any. Still, I’m gonna check it out.”

Together they positioned the ladder. Donning his face mask and starting his air, Alex glanced at Kellison. “Stay here. I’ll need somebody to heel the ladder if I come down with a victim.” Grabbing the rails, Alex shinnied up the rungs, then climbed inside the open window.

The smoke wasn’t opaque, but it was thick enough to do harm. And it was getting hot. He shone the flashlight he carried into the room and surveyed the area. The shapes were amorphous in the smoke, but he could make out a desk, a chair. A tiny beacon of light, invisible from outside and obscured by the smoke, lit the corner and something near it, which resembled a couch. Then he heard, “Ohhh…”

He raced over and found a sleeping woman, stretched out on something. He bent down and tried to rouse the victim. He couldn’t see her clearly, and she was tough to wake. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”

“What?” She was too slow to respond, so he picked her up. She was slight and easy to carry.

Striding back to the window, he yelled out to Kellison, “I got one. Stay with the ladder. I can carry her easy.” Setting the victim down, he shook her again. Finally, she awoke, but she was groggy. Kneeling her against the sill, he climbed outside and reached in. She went over his shoulder like a bag of feathers. Grasping the ladder, he descended. She stirred partway to the bottom. “Shh,” he said gently. “You’re all right, I got you.”

When they hit the last rung of the ladder, Kellison, assisted by Gonzales, took her from him. They laid her on the ground and, in the light of the generator his men had set up, Alex got his first good look at her. Though her face was covered with a thin layer of grime, he recognized her instantly. “Dana?”

“What happened to her hair?” Kellison asked, popping the canister to activate the oxygen.

Standing over them, Alex shook his head. “I have no idea. What the hell is my EMT doing in the newspaper office at three in the morning?” She was supposed to be at an Emergency Medical Systems training seminar in San Diego.

She coughed and sputtered. Alex stared at her. Something wasn’t right. Not just the hair; she’d felt lighter, too.

“Shields,” a voice called out over Alex’s radio. “We need you on the east side.”

“She’s all right, Alex,” Kellison said. “Her vitals are good. Go.”

Alex took one last look at the woman he’d once loved, and headed around the corner.

LAUREN COUGHED and breathed into the oxygen mask. Looking at her gown, she wondered if the pretty pink sweater she’d worn earlier was ruined. She’d smelled like the inside of a barn when she arrived at the hospital. Lauren smiled, remembering the sweet firefighter who had rescued her. That was the good news.

The bad news was that everybody had lost his senses.

First it had been the paramedic. “Come on, Dana, baby, take more oxygen.”

Then the hunky, if deluded, firefighter. He’d picked up her hand as they were putting her in the ambulance and kissed it, for God’s sake. Even though he was a stranger, she’d been moved by the tender gesture. But then she’d realized the guy must have inhaled too much smoke because he’d said, “I thought I was past these feelings for you, Dana.”

Finally, the nurse at the hospital, Jackie Kellison, acted as if she and Lauren were best buddies.

Hell, maybe Lauren was still out cold and hallucinating.

A doctor poked his head in her cubicle. An older man, he had a full head of gray hair and a kind smile. He looked familiar. “Hello. They treating you okay here?”

“Yes.”

“I’m George Yube, chief of surgery.”

Ah, yes. Perry O’Connor’s friend. Lauren had seen him at the office once.

“I’m Lauren Conway.”

He gave her a fatherly smile. “I know. Perry told me who you were last time I was at his office. And then I recognized you when they brought you in. I just had to make sure you were all right.”

She smiled back.

After asking a few questions about what had happened to her, he squeezed her arm. “Well, glad to see you’re doing fine.” Then he left.

She’d just closed her eyes and sunk into the pillows when the nurse entered. “Look who I found.”

The firefighter who’d kissed Lauren’s hand was behind her. He’d cleaned up and changed into tight-fitting blue jeans, a green Nike T-shirt and sandals. Lauren had often watched the Courage Bay firefighters from her office window in the week since she began work, though she hadn’t met any of them. The whole rescue unit—fire department, police and hospital—was located in a small, two-block area, and was lauded as an exemplary prototype. Their comings and goings had fascinated her. Though macho, high-profile men scared the daylights out of Lauren—and Lily—they were exactly Deirdre’s type.

The firefighter’s hair was damp. He smelled like soap and citrus aftershave, despite the fact that there was still a growth of beard on his jaw. His smile was thousand watt as it broke through the shadow. “Hey, how’s our girl?”

Swallowing hard, she closed her eyes. This was ridiculous. “I’m fine, but I think you have me confused with someone else.”

The nurse and firefighter exchanged worried looks.

“Dana.” He picked up her hand again with that same tenderness as before. “Are you playing another one of your practical jokes on us?”

She shook her head.

As if he had a right to, the guy brushed the long bangs out of her eyes. His fingertips were callused. “And when did you cut all your hair off?”

“About twenty-five years ago,” she said dryly.

The nurse frowned. “Dana, does your head hurt?”

“Look, I’m not Dana.” Discomfited, she picked at the hospital sheet. “But in any case, thanks for rescuing me.”

“You know you were in a fire at the newspaper office. You remember that, don’t you?” The man’s tone was patronizing but concerned. “What were you doing there at three in the morning?”

“I work there.”

After exchanging another look with the firefighter, the nurse said, “Alex, maybe she got hit on the head.”

The man—Alex—raised his dark brows, and his eyes, the color of aged whiskey, narrowed. “Don’t you know who I am?” he said.

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Call Doc Murdock.”

“Who’s that?” she asked.

“A psychiatrist.”

“Look, I don’t need a psychiatrist. I know who I am. Lauren Conway. I just moved here from Benicia.”

Alex ran a big hand through his hair. If she had the chance, she’d paint the color with different tones of brown and gold to achieve his natural color. She’d call the painting “Confused Hero.”

He took her hand again. “Honey, no more jokes. We’re worried about you.”

“This isn’t a joke. Look in my purse. At my driver’s license.”

“You don’t carry a purse!”

“Of course I do. It’s got all my stuff in it.”

They just stared at her. She felt her heartbeat speed up. Whipping back the sheets, she made to get up but went into a fit of coughing.

Jackie stepped around Alex and stopped her. “Here, sweetie, get back in bed.” She eased Lauren against the pillows and started to draw up the covers.

But Alex held up his hand. “Wait a minute.” He grabbed hold of her left foot. “What’s this?”

Lauren felt uncomfortable. Right above her ankle, she had a small brown spot which resembled a leaf. “It’s a birthmark.”

“Dana’s birthmark is on her right foot,” Alex said. “But it looks just like this.”

“I told you, I am not Dana!”

Awareness dawned on Jackie’s face. “Wow. Except for your hair, you’re a dead ringer for Dana Ivie. She’s a friend and a firefighter on Alex’s squad.”

Alex peered closely at her. “Not exactly.” He reached out and tipped her chin. “Your features are more delicate. I can see that now that it’s light out and you’ve cleaned up.” He stared hard into her eyes. “And your eyes are a shade darker.”

Jackie frowned. “How could this be?”

Alex shook his head. Whipping out his cell phone, he punched in numbers. “Give me the San Diego Days Inn.” He looked at the nurse, then back to Lauren again. “Yeah, hi. Dana Ivie’s room, please.”

Lauren hugged the bedsheet closer to her chin.

After a moment, Alex’s eyes widened. “Dana? Is that you?” He chuckled. “Nothing, I just wanted to make sure…okay, okay, I know it’s seven. Sorry for waking you. Go back to sleep.”

He clicked off.

“She’s there?” Jackie asked.

“Uh-huh.” He turned his interesting eyes on the patient. “So, Lauren Conway. Do you know you have a twin?”

“No. But I gather this Dana looks like me.”

Alex cocked his head, then reached around into his back pocket and withdrew his wallet. He leafed through several pictures before he stopped, pulled one out and handed it to her.

Lauren looked down. In the picture was a woman with long luscious hair and curves to die for outlined in a wild-print bikini. She held a surfboard and leaned on the smiling, sun-burnished man whose arm was around her. The man was Alex.

The woman looked exactly like Lauren.

The similarity made her light-headed and caused her heart to trip. What was going on here?

“THIS REALLY WASN’T necessary.” Lauren, dressed in baggy hospital scrubs, turned in the front seat of Alex’s Blazer to face him. She’d showered before she was released and her hair curled softly around her face. He didn’t know if she normally wore makeup, but without it, he could see the few freckles smattering her nose. Just like Dana’s. It was hard to believe she wasn’t related to his friend. “But I appreciate it.”

“I don’t mind. I was on my way home, anyway.”

“Still, it was nice of you.” She coughed. “I didn’t feel like driving.”

“Smoke inhalation can be bad. You should take it easy today.” He reached for the door handle. “The landlord said he’d meet you here, right?”

“Yeah.” She glanced down at her watch; her wrist so slender he’d be able to encircle it with his fingers. She touched the timepiece lovingly.

“A special possession?” he asked.

“My mother gave it to me.”

“Does she live in Courage Bay?”

“She and my father were both killed in an accident.” A shadow crossed her pretty eyes. “A little over a year ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

She gave Alex a half smile that did something to his insides. It was a smile similar to Dana’s when she was being soft and feminine. “At least the watch was spared in the fire.”

He smiled. “You’ll probably get your purse back. The flames were contained to the east side of the building. Smoke damage is the worst your office got, and that can be cleaned up.”

“Thank God I’d moved out of the side that burned. I’m lucky, I guess.”

“Well, at least you weren’t hurt badly.”

“When do you think I’ll be able to move back into my office?”

“As soon as the arson team finishes.”

Her eyes widened. “Arson team?”

“Yeah, we couldn’t determine the cause of the fire, so the arson investigator, Sam Prophet, was called in. It could have been an incendiary blaze.”

“That means set intentionally, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

She shivered.

“Come on, let’s get you inside.”

Rounding the car, he opened her door and helped her stand. She was trembling. It was about seventy degrees, warm enough at eight o’clock in the morning. “You cold?”

She rubbed her bare arms. “A little.”

“Shell-shocked, I’d guess.”

“It’s sinking in.” She peered up at him with doe eyes. “I could have died in that fire.”

That was true. People slept through fires and never woke up.

Something made him slide his arm around her. Just a little human compassion, he guessed. Still, it felt good when she leaned into him. She was slight—a lot slighter than Dana. That had registered when he’d carried her down the ladder, but didn’t make sense until now.

And she was a lot more fragile. Alex was accustomed to being around women who could beat him now and then at racquetball or who were at least worthy opponents in pickup beach volleyball.

The landlord pulled up, inquired after Lauren’s well-being, unlocked the house, then left them alone. She turned in the doorway. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she smiled at Alex. “What do you say to a man who saved your life?” she asked softly. Her voice was different from Dana’s, too—mellower, more feminine—but her speech patterns were the same.

“Thanks is enough.” But the scared look on her face made him add, “Or maybe offer him a cup of coffee. Us smoke eaters really need our caffeine, ma’am.”

Laughing, she stepped inside. “That’s the least I can do.”

She led him into her home. Studying the room, he let on a low whistle. It literally took his breath away. He’d never seen such a wide array of colors, textures and unusual furnishings. The living-room rug was raspberry and so thick that his sandals sank into it.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll fix the coffee.” Before she left, she opened two huge windows. The tinkle of wind chimes drifted in. Then, she disappeared into the kitchen.

He bypassed the off-white, nubby couch and sat on a long chaiselike thing that conformed to his body when he stretched out. Plump rose-colored cushions enveloped him. Picking up one of the several geometric-patterned pillows that accented the blues, grays and pinks in the room, he scanned the rest of the place.

Jeez, look at that. In the corner was a full-size hammock. He got up and crossed to it. He’d never seen one indoors. The wall behind it was decorated with an array of mesmerizing paintings. He circled around the hammock to examine them closely. The artist’s signature read “LAC.” Delicate, wispy strokes etched out the water, the mountains, the forest. They were abstract, but he knew for certain what each painting portrayed.

“What do you think?” He turned to see her holding a small tabby kitten. As he watched, she rubbed her cheek on the animal’s furry little head. Another kitten scurried at her feet.

“Are you kidding?” He pointed to a small picture. “It feels like I’m wading in that lake. I can smell those flowers.”

Her smile was broad. “I’m glad you like them.” She set the kitten on the floor—it stayed at her feet like a toddler would its mother—and, crossing to the wall, reached up and took a painting down. “Here, as a thank-you for saving my life.”

“You don’t have to do that. Just tell me who the artist is and I’ll look him up.”

“The artist is a she.”

He cocked his head. She seemed…proud. “You, Lauren?”

She nodded.

“They’re wonderful. They should be in a gallery. For sale.”

Her frown was instantaneous. “No. I wouldn’t want to do that.” She fingered the delicate teak frame. “It would be like selling a child.” She handed him the canvas. “You can adopt it. It’ll be safe with you.”

Grinning, he took the painting. She was downright charming.

“Who’s this little guy?” he asked, squatting to scratch one kitten’s head. Both sidled against his legs, making him smile.

“Butterscotch. The other’s Caramel.”

He chuckled at the names.

When the coffee finished dripping, they sat together on the couch, sinking deep into the overstuffed cushions. Over the rim of his mug, also one of her works of art, he watched her drink. She’d made herself tea—Dana preferred it over coffee, too—and she inhaled the scent first, then sipped. She closed her eyes when she swallowed. Smiled. When she finally licked her lips, he felt his body respond. He had to look away.

“I hope you like hazelnut.”

“Hazelnut?”

“The coffee’s flavored.”

“Um, sure. I do.” He had no idea what he was drinking.

He searched the room for something to focus on instead of her mouth. A picture sat on the odd-shaped end table next to the couch. It was an eight-by-ten close-up of two older people and Lauren. He slid over so he could see it better. The couple was attractive; both had vibrant blue eyes, thick gray hair and they were smiling. In the photo, Lauren was laughing, too, her brown eyes sparkling. He stared at it for a minute, then glanced at her.

“Your parents?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You were adopted.” It wasn’t a question.

“What?” She grinned. “Oh, no. I wasn’t. I know I don’t look like them, but I wasn’t adopted.”

This was odd. “Lauren, you had to be adopted. Two blue-eyed parents can’t have a brown-eyed child.”

“That’s what they say. I studied eye-color genes in biology class. When I asked Mom and Dad about it, they said I must be some kind of mutation because she saw me come out of her body and Dad cut the umbilical cord. Actually, I saw it on the home video they took.”

Alex shook his head. “This goes against everything I know. I studied genetics—my mother’s a geneticist—before I decided to follow in Dad’s footsteps. From what I learned in my courses, this is a scientific impossibility.”

She shrugged. “I guess I’m a rare breed.”

He scanned her place again. He didn’t doubt that. But something wasn’t adding up. And it bothered him. What about her similarity to Dana? What were the chances of someone looking almost exactly like his friend? Slim. What were the chances of a genetic abnormality—impossibility, really—with that same person? Nonexistent, in his mind. But he said only, “Well, I’ll ask Mom about it to be sure.”

Her look was indulgent. “Don’t bother. I know who I am.”

Suddenly he hoped—for her sake—that was true.