Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [128]
Driving through the sun-washed, crowded streets of Denver, a city she’d visited only a few times, Maggie felt isolated and alone.
A few years ago there had been so many people in her life; but her parents had died, her in-laws turned their backs on her when she’d decided to divorce Dean, her daughter didn’t trust her, and now her sister was missing. Glancing at a map on the front seat, she slowly maneuvered the rental car to the hotel, where a valet parked it, and she took the elevator to the suite she shared with Thane.
“Home sweet home,” she said, dropping her purse into a chair. Kicking off her shoes, she checked Thane’s bedroom. It was empty, the bed freshly made. Sighing, she leaned against the French doors and thought a second too long about falling asleep with his arms around her. How safe it had seemed. “Get over it, Maggie,” she mumbled, remembering that what she and Thane shared was lust, not love.
She placed a call to Marquise’s agent in Los Angeles but was snippily informed that “Mr. King is out of town for the rest of the week,” so she gave her name and was promised that Mr. King would call her “ASAP.”
“Dream on,” she grumbled, dialing Michelle Kelly, Marquise’s psychiatrist. On the third ring a recorder answered, and Maggie left a message requesting an appointment.
Frustrated, she looked at the clock and wondered when Thane would be back. Even if he was gone only for a few minutes, this might be her chance to try and find out more about him—the secrets she sensed he hid.
It was Thane. He did this to me. Don’t let him get away with it.
Did what, Maggie wondered. Ignoring the ridiculous sense that she was trespassing, she wandered into Thane’s bedroom and looked around for his bag. She found it in the closet, and, straining to hear if a key were inserted into the lock announcing Thane’s arrival, she rifled through the contents. Jeans, slacks, sweater, shirts, socks, and underwear. A small shaving kit. Nothing more. No papers, no address book, no clues as to what he was hiding.
“So much for being a master detective,” she muttered, replacing his things and pushing aside the fear that she was spinning her wheels, that no matter what she did, she wouldn’t be able to help her sister or unlock the secrets surrounding Thane Walker.
In the one day of walking in Mary Theresa’s shoes, she hadn’t gotten far—probably barely out the door. But what had she expected? To “crack the case” in twenty-four hours when the Denver police had been working for days? Rubbing the kinks from her neck, she walked into the bathroom and twisted on the gold faucets of the sunken tub.
“You’re a ninny,” she chided, catching sight of her reflection in the full-length mirror as she stripped out of her clothes. It was strange seeing herself through eyes that compared her to Mary Theresa. Stark naked she walked to the mirror and lifted her hand, pretending the image staring back at her was Marquise, who, raising the opposing arm, was the very mirror-image twin she was labeled at birth.
“Where are you?” Maggie asked, resting her head against the glass, forehead to forehead with her reflection. Marquise’s reflection. Mary Theresa’s reflection. Oh, Lord, it was all so confusing.
She took a seat on the edge of the sunken tub and massaged her aching feet. She wasn’t used to wearing heels or pretending to be her sister. Steam rose, filling the room as she wound her hair into a knot that she clipped to the top of her head and again caught sight of her image in the mirror.
How much did she really look like Marquise? Enough that Thane had been able to fantasize about her last night?
Don’t do this, Maggie. It’s dangerous. Dark. Creepy.
Settling into the tub, she let the hot water envelop her and replayed the night before in her mind.