Chapter 1

You will be met, the letter said.

No ifs, no maybes. Just be there. And certainly not please come. The voice of a seventy-three-year-old autocrat with all the money in the world. Who expected, when he said "Jump!", only to hear "Certainly. How high?"

Well, I told myself grimly, Victor Korbeck was about to find that a different breed of frog had jumped to his command this time. Tucking Laura's handbag more securely under my arm, I walked down the steps of the private jet, and looked around for the promised--or threatened--welcoming committee.

Let it be some taciturn chauffeur, I requested the Universe silently. Let it be someone who will neither expect nor invite conversation, so I'll have a chance to get my bearings. At the very least, let it be someone who wouldn't recognize Laura on sight.

"Mrs. Marsden," said a masculine voice from directly behind me.

I froze for a second. Then I exhaled the breath I hadn't realized I was holding, and turned around slowly.

"Mrs. Marsden?" The upward inflection made the words a question, but there was no question in the hard black eyes of the man waiting for my sister Laura.

Not Victor Korbeck after all. This man could have been a bouncer in some glossy Vegas nightspot. He had a stubborn chin, a straight uncompromising mouth, aggressive cheekbones. Only quirky peaked eyebrows suggested that a human being lived inside there somewhere.

He studied me silently. No one of this man's description had been mentioned in Laura's hasty briefing.

"You don't remember me, do you?" His voice was perfectly neutral, without a trace of warmth or friendliness.

For a moment, I despaired. It was too soon to be confronted with someone from Laura's other life. Then I stiffened. Begin as you mean to go on, I told myself. Don't let these people get you on the run.

I raised my eyebrows. "Should I remember you?"

His immobile face gave nothing away. "Maybe not," he said finally. He reached in his pocket and handed me a business card. T.R. Mitchell, it said. Korbeck Security

He looked past me. "Where's the boy?"

"I came alone," I said.

Black eyebrows drew together. "You were told to bring him with you."

I nodded.

He waited for an explanation. I didn't respond. Finally he tipped his head toward a dark gray minivan parked in the weeds beside the runway. "I'll get your luggage out of the plane."

"It's lavender paisley. Four pieces," I added, my voice as cool as his.

Four suitcases full to bursting. Laura had insisted. "No, Kate, they'll never believe for one minute that you're me if you show up at the island with just an overnight bag," she'd said. And took time from her own packing to haul out her second-best things for me.

So. Four suitcases. Another sharp reminder of the difference between Laura's life and my own.

I climbed into the front seat of the minivan, not an easy thing to do wearing Laura's high heels.

At least Victor Korbeck was not part of my welcoming committee. You will be met apparently didn't refer to the Old Devil, as Laura invariably called him. I wouldn't have to face that particular interrogation quite yet.

I took a firmer grip on Laura Marsden's purse--and Laura Marsden's persona--and settled back gingerly against black leather seat cushions.

T. R. Mitchell stowed the bags in the back of the van, then slid in behind the steering wheel.

I had unthinkingly tucked myself into the corner; there was plenty of space between us. Yet the roomy interior felt suddenly crowded. This man was not simply a person, but a presence. A questioning, judging, disapproving presence.

As we drove away from the airstrip, he said, "Where is the boy?"

I debated my answer. There was no possibility that I would tell him--or any of these people--where Laura had taken Peter. I couldn't reveal what I didn't know. I had told Laura to take him somewhere quiet, and low profile. Where, if worst came to worst, solid citizens could be called upon to testify that Laura Marsden and her son Peter had never set foot on Victor Korbeck's private little island on this day. Or this week. Though I devoutly hoped this would be over long before a week was done. This was not a masquerade I could hope to sustain for long. No, I needed a quick in-and-out, just long enough to discover what the Korbecks were up to. And then I would decamp before they realized they had opened their gates to the wrong Marsden sister.

Right at this moment, I needed to concentrate on the man beside me. In spite of his studied neutrality of voice and action, I had picked up the clear message that this was a person of some force and power. One who remembered Laura Marsden from seven years ago--and had some reason to dislike her.

I could see no advantage in antagonizing him further.

"Peter is being well taken care of," I said quietly, reasonably certain that I spoke the truth. Laura certainly had her faults, but this was one time she would have to act responsibly.

"Mr. Korbeck expected you to bring the boy with you," he persisted, his voice still flat.

Well, He Who Must Be Obeyed wasn't going to get his way this time, I thought mutinously. I compressed my lips tightly to keep from saying it out loud. Flippant or angry remarks about Victor Korbeck would only open myself to this cold and probing intelligence beside me.

When you don't know what to say--say nothing. I studied the scenery gliding past the window. The clouds outside seemed to have grown thicker, pressing down lower, darker than before.

"Are you sure he's safe?"

"Safe?" I looked at him. "What kind of a question is that? Why shouldn't Peter be safe?" I turned to face him. "What's going on?"

What's going on?

There it was, thrown down like a challenge between us. My reason for being here.

I had come to find out what was going on.

Mitchell was silent for a moment. I waited, tense with expectation.

"You'd better take that up with Victor Korbeck," he said.

Mr. Inscrutable sidestepped my question very neatly. Those hard grey eyes met mine and I looked away quickly. My resemblance to Laura was close--but hardly perfect. I had to count on people seeing what they expected to see. If I wasn't quite as they remembered, that could be laid to the seven years since any of them had encountered Laura Marsden.

Even Laura might be expected to grow up a little from twenty-two to twenty-nine. But no one who had known Laura, even seven years ago, should look at me as intently as this man was doing. Laura's eyes were a clear warm brown; mine were more hazel, brown flecked with gold. Eye color is not something that changes with time.

How much of a threat was this Mitchell? How well had he known Laura? Had he perhaps at one time stood very close and looked deeply into those warm brown eyes? Deeply enough to remember them forever? Laura was like catnip to men. It was the source of her greatest triumphs. And perhaps the reason for her downfall, too. Though that remained a mystery, since Laura was still tight-lipped about what had happened to end her marriage to the wealthy son of the even wealthier Victor Korbeck. Laura called herself Mrs. Marsden since Peter's birth. The divorce settlement apparently hadn't included the use of the father's name.

I was working in the dark, here. Because of Laura, as usual. Because Laura was still acting true to her own nature, fleeing whenever real trouble showed up on the horizon. Leaving me to pick up the pieces. As usual.

It wasn't going to be enough to look like Laura, to wear Laura's clothes. I had to act as Laura would act, to use softness and fluttering eyelashes and sex appeal. My normal incisiveness and quick tongue could give me away, could be more dangerous than the gold flecks in the brown of my eyes.

In an attempt to discourage further conversation, I fixed my brown eyes straight ahead. Even silent, the man beside me made his presence felt. That speculative gaze seemed to weigh heavily on my profile. I turned my head away and acted absorbed in the scenery of Orcas Island and the gray waters of Puget Sound.

To the west, out of sight, would be the sprawling bulk of Vancouver Island. And beyond that, the endless expanse of the Pacific Ocean. Here, gray water ran to the horizon to meet a grayer sky. Low down in the water I could see a darker smudge that indicated one of the multitude of small islands that dotted the Sound.

Our brief drive took us to a marina lined with pleasure boats, small craft that were dwarfed by a much larger one. A great white shark among minnows, to my eyes.

Mitchell put an impersonal hand under my elbow to steady me as I stepped onto the boarding platform at the rear of the boat. My--Laura's--Italian shoes with four-inch heels gave me precarious footing. A muscular crewman gave me a helping hand up to the aft cockpit.

The boat got under way. Seeing Orcas Island dwindle behind us, I felt a sudden shudder of nerves. Where was I going armored in nothing but my own determination and Laura's second-best summer wool suit?

"You're cold," Mitchell said. "We'll go into the cabin. You'll be comfortable there."

An empty cabin all to myself would be one thing. Being cooped up with him in another small confined space would be worse than standing here in the cold wind. "No, thanks," I said quickly. "I'd rather stay on deck in the fresh air." Let him think I might get seasick.

He looked at me without expression before turning to the stocky blond deckhand who had helped me aboard. "Doug, go down below and bring up a coat for Mrs. Marsden."

Doug bounced down the circular stairway, all freckles and athletic energy, and bounded up again with a woman's ankle-length coat, padded and roomy.

He held the coat for me to slip into. I relaxed into its comforting warmth. Hardly Laura Marsden's customary chic, I thought. But the real Laura would never be standing out in the cold like this. If she were here, she'd have made herself cozy by now. She'd be tucked up in some easy chair, giving T.R. Mitchell long meaningful looks from under lowered lashes.

Though perhaps her efforts would have been wasted. From all I could see, the man beside me definitely remembered Laura Marsden--but his memories were anything but fond ones. Or was I just so accustomed to seeing that foolish, doting look come into men's eyes whenever they looked at Laura, that I mistook this man's indifference for dislike?

He stood close to me, our shoulders almost touching. I couldn't tell if he was supposed to be my protector or my jailer. Whenever I glanced sideways at him, he was studying the open water around us, or scanning each wooded island that slid by and disappeared behind us in the dusk.

The trip seemed to take forever. I checked my--Laura's--diamond wristwatch. A little before seven o'clock. Another eternity went by. I started to look at the time again, but stopped myself. Better not let my keeper see my nervousness.

Each time another island loomed up in the watery expanse ahead of us, my heart gave a double beat. But the boat would forge on by, and keep going.

It was almost a relief when our course finally altered and we swung in toward a set of steep cliffs. I dared to hope that this whole encounter would soon be over. With luck, I might be on my way home before darkness fell, with questions answered and Laura's four suitcases still unopened.

We curved in closer to the southwest side of the island. The steep cliff approaches gradually flattened, giving way to gentle wooded slopes, a rocky beach, a small weathered house, and a landing dock with a stone boathouse that looked as though it had stood there for a hundred years.

No big house in sight. No mansion.

Just a new-looking gray utility vehicle standing on a blacktopped road that led back into the trees.

I stepped onto the dock and paused to shrug out of the coat. Doug took it from my hand.

A pot-bellied man with a large black dog on a leash had come out of the trees and was watching us.

The man had Security Guard written all over him. I had no doubt that his loose jacket concealed guns and radios and other tools of his trade.

And there was the dog, of course.

My steps slowed as we neared the motionless animal. Even on this sunless day the black coat glistened with vitality, and the deep-chested body seemed to quiver with held-in ferocity.

Though the leash hung slack in the handler's grasp, the dog stood tense, straining forward against whatever training held him in check. The cold black eyes never wavered from me, the stranger. The upper lip lifted in a silent snarl, showing a gleam of white teeth underneath.

I am not normally afraid of dogs. But this seemed less a dog than an animal out of a nightmare.

"Hi, Mitch," the dog handler said.

Mitchell nodded. He turned to me. "Don't pet the dog," he said, misinterpreting my hesitation. "Brio is nobody's friend."

To the older man, he said, "How's he shaping up?"

"Not bad." The man opened his hand to show a gleam of metal. I expected to see a weapon, but it was only a whistle. "Another week or two and I may be able to trust him off the leash. Right now I wouldn't vouch for him."

"Does he understand what you're teaching him?" said Mitchell.

"Brio understands, all right." The guard gave the dog a look that held respect without affection. "He knows what I want--he just doesn't always feel like doing it."

The waiting vehicle was another gray minivan. Doug climbed in the back with the bags. Mitchell drove us up a narrow black ribbon of road through tall trees that grew unrestrained on either side. Willows, cedars, madrones, pine trees, all in a silent struggle for light and air. In places, their branches met overhead and we drove through green tunnels in a sort of premature twilight.

The last twist in the road brought us out on a long straightaway. The trees gave way to shoulder-high masses of wild blackberry vines and nettles.

A long, two-story house of chiseled stone faced west at the highest point of the island. No trees blocked the view of the sunsets, should the clouds ever lift. Broad shallow steps led up from the road to heavy double doors under a stone archway. The house presented a high, blank face to arrivals, as welcoming as a prison.

Leaving Doug to bring the luggage, Mitchell and I reached the ponderous doors just as a gaunt grey-haired woman opened them. We stepped into a huge foyer with black and white tiles on the floor, double doors leading off in every direction, and a massive oak stairway curving up to the second floor.

"It's late," the woman spoke to Mitchell, turning her shoulder to me. "I've had to put dinner back twice."

In her floor-length dress of sober dark blue, she might have been the housekeeper. But the material looked expensive, and the pearls were probably real.

I guessed this was Victor Korbeck's sister-in-law, the widow of his younger brother. Though I wouldn't have expected her to open her own front door, not from Laura's description. "Watch out for that Old Witch, Kate," Laura had said. "She hates me."

I gave the older woman a cool stare. "Hello, Eunice," I said.

Eunice Korbeck looked slightly disconcerted at having the conversational ball handed to her so firmly. She had to acknowledge my presence. "You won't have time to change before dinner." She said it with satisfaction. To Laura that would have been bad news.

"We're having cocktails in the library," she added. And took a step backward, leaving me to lead the way. I cast a quick nervous glance from right to left. All the doors leading out of the foyer were closed tight. My hasty briefing had not included the layout of the house.

Mitchell and Eunice waited.

Was I about to ruin the whole masquerade by picking the wrong door?

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