Double Life Page 5

  When they reached the library, however, she rallied. It was amazing to watch her disguise the pain and exhaustion as her shoulders went back and her chin lifted in determination.

  Except for the cane she used to support herself, no one would ever know she’d been completely debilitated the year before. Her courage was undeniable.

  Emma hovered in the doorway for only a split second before she stepped back into the hallway. She’d planned to slip away once she saw Helen safely downstairs, but Wesley Corbett’s deep voice stopped her.

  “Emma! Don’t run away! Come in and have a drink with us.”

  The last thing Emma wanted was to be drawn into a Corbett drama. She had no idea what the family’s reaction would be to Helen’s news nor did she much care at the moment. She needed time to analyze her own emotions.

  “Thank you, but my father is expecting me for dinner.”

  “Surely one quick drink won’t run you late. Come on in. I insist.” Wesley stood at the fireplace, one arm propped casually on the mantel as he watched Emma from across the room.

  He was dressed in a charcoal suit with a silver tie, and his dark hair was combed straight back from a wide, intelligent forehead. His eyes were blue, like his mother’s, with the same shrewd—occasionally taunting—gleam.

  At fifty-five, he was an attractive, confident man with an easy smile and an approachable demeanor, but also like his mother, he had an air of mystery about him.

  He made no move to help Helen into a nearby chair because, like Emma, he knew better.

  His wife, Pamela, was seated on one of the white sofas that flanked the fireplace. She wore a green silk dress with thick gold chains coiled around both wrists and metallic high-heeled sandals.

  The smile she flashed Emma was cordial, but her emerald eyes were scathing and dismissive. “Yes, do come in and join us, Emma. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to fetch Mother a glass of wine. Theresa seems to be indisposed this evening.”

  Wesley took control before the moment became awkward. “I’ll do the honors,” he said cheerfully. “Mother, the usual? Emma?”

  “I really should be going—”

  “Nonsense, I won’t take no for an answer. I was hoping to run into you tonight.” He busied himself at the bar. Light from the chandelier sparked off the Waterford stemware as he poured two glasses of wine. “I’ve been meaning to tell you how much we appreciate all your hard work,” he said over his shoulder. “Mother says you’ve become indispensable around here.”

  “I never said anything of the kind,” Helen declared but the look she shot Emma was surprisingly benign. She fingered her necklace. “You may as well come in and have a drink,” she grumbled. “Wesley won’t stop harping until you do.”

  Emma came uneasily into the room. She noticed then that Wesley’s younger brother, Brad, and his wife, Lynette, were seated on the sofa opposite Pamela. They both murmured a polite greeting but Brad’s expression, as usual, was anything but warm.

  Settling into his early fifties, he had the faded looks of a man who had lived the good life for far too long without any of his older brother’s discipline.

  All those years, first in Reese’s shadow and then in Wesley’s, had undoubtedly taken a toll on his ego, Emma thought. From the little she remembered of Ash’s father, he’d been a charismatic man with sultry good-looks and a sometimes brooding personality. An irresistible combination as Emma knew only too well.

  Though not as handsome as Reese, Wesley had his own appeal. He possessed the kind of bigger-than-life personality that made everyone else, especially his younger brother, fade into the background.

  Emma had always liked Wesley. She’d never understood why he’d been attracted to a cold, calculating woman like Pamela…other than the obvious, of course. She was stunningly beautiful and at least fifteen years his junior.

  Like Pamela, Brad’s wife was blond, a quiet pretty woman with a voluptuous figure that in bygone days would have turned heads, but by contemporary standards, would probably be considered overweight, especially in comparison to the pencil-thin Pamela.

  She wore a simple black dress adorned with a single strand of pearls around her neck, and her shoes, while undoubtedly expensive, were low-heeled and sensible.

  Lynette sat very close to Brad on the sofa, her hand entwined with his as though she were afraid he might wander away from her if she released him. The smile she gave Emma seemed genuine, if somewhat distracted.

  Emma accepted the wineglass from Wesley and wondered when she could politely escape.

  “How much longer are you going to keep us in suspense about this big announcement?” Brad said to Helen. Emma thought his tone sounded a little condescending, but Helen seemed not to notice or take offense.

  “I’d prefer to wait for Maris,” she said.

  “That could be a while. She’s probably been held up at the hospital again.”

  “She does keep crazy hours, doesn’t she?” Lynette flashed a glance at her husband as if looking for approval for her observation.

  Helen’s daughter was the youngest of her children and a doctor. Brilliant and beautiful, Maris Corbett had always been kind to Emma, but something about her seemed off, as if her pleasant demeanor didn’t quite reflect the truth of her emotions.

  “Did I hear my name?”

  Everyone turned as she sailed into the room. She was a tall woman with the regal bearing of her mother and the easy smile of her older brother.

  She’d obviously taken time to change before she came over. No lab coats or sensible shoes for her. The white dress she wore was sleek and form-fitting and her matching three-inch heels had been designed for attention rather than comfort.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said as she hurried over to kiss Helen’s cheek. “There was an emergency at the hospital. I couldn’t get away.”

  “You aren’t late,” Helen said. “We’re still having drinks.”

  Maris straightened and turned to Wesley. “Oh, good, you’ve made martinis, I see. I could use one after the day I’ve had.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Maris’s gaze lit on Emma, and if she were surprised to see the hired help having cocktails with the family, she didn’t show it. “Why, hello, Emma.”

  “Good evening, Dr. Corbett. It’s nice to see you.”

  “Good to see you, too. How’s your father doing these days?”

  “He’s well, thank you.”

  Maris gave her a mock stern expression. “Are you seeing to it that he watches his diet and gets enough exercise?”

  “I’m doing my best. Actually, I was just on my way over to see him.” Emma placed her wineglass on a nearby table, anxious to make her exit as quickly and gracefully as she could. “I should probably get going. He’s expecting me.”

  “Well, be sure and give him my best,” Maris said with a smile. “Tell him if he needs anything to give me a call.”

  “I will, thanks.”

  “Good night, Emma.”

  “Good night, Dr. Corbett.” She nodded to the others and then hurried out before anyone, including Helen, could detain her.

  Crossing the marble foyer, Emma slipped through the front parlor and out the French doors into the garden. Darkness had fallen, but there was still a bit of color in the western sky where the sun had disappeared below the horizon.

  The estate was a quarter mile inland, yet Emma could smell the sea and a hint of rain in the warm breeze that blew in from the gulf. The moon was just rising over the treetops, a waxing orb half-hidden by the drift of wispy dark clouds.

  The evening was soft and balmy. Crickets sang from the grounds, stirring memories for Emma.

  As she moved along the flagstone path, her shoulder brushed a spray of jasmine and the explosion of tiny white stars released a heavenly aroma. She stopped and snapped off another sprig, then held the tiny white blossoms to her nose. The scent always reminded her of summer. And of…

  Ash.

  Ash.

  A sigh trembled in h
er chest.

  He was back. He was somewhere nearby at this very moment.

  Emma tried to imagine what he might be like now, but all she could see when she closed her eyes was the way he’d looked the instant before he kissed her for the very first time.

  His blue eyes had gone darkly intense as he lifted a hand to tuck a spray of jasmine into her hair. And then his fingers had slipped around the back of her neck and he pulled her to him. Emma’s heart had pounded as he lowered his head to hers.

  She’d turned seventeen that summer and had never been kissed. Not really kissed. Not the way Ash had kissed her that night.

  He was only a year older, but already experienced. Already a player with his pick of girls who were much more beautiful and sophisticated than Emma. Girls who were more suited to his station in life. Girls his grandmother would approve of.

  Once he’d been sent away to school and they’d stopped being friends, Emma had thought that he’d forgotten all about her. He seemed not to even know that she was alive.

  But as she’d gazed up at him that night, she somehow knew that the flair of intimacy between them wasn’t a fluke. Ash had wanted to kiss her for a long time. The longing was there in his eyes and in his voice when he murmured her name.

  Emma.

  She could almost hear his deep whisper in her ear, the feather of his lips along her neck, and she shivered at the memory.

  More kisses had followed and the intimacy deepened. And by the end of the summer, Emma was head over heels in love. And Ash had felt the same way about her. She’d been sure of it.

  But then he’d packed his bags one night and left home without a word to her or anyone else.

  For days Emma had sat by the phone certain that he’d call but he never had. He didn’t write to her, either, and after awhile, she’d put away all her mementoes—the spray of jasmine, the birthday necklace, the notes he’d left for her in the summerhouse—and somehow she’d picked up the pieces and gone on with her life.

  But she’d never forgotten him. Never gotten over him.

  And now he was back.

  She released a long breath as she closed the lid firmly on her memory box. It didn’t matter. Not anymore. What they had was dead and buried, and Emma would be a fool to still have hope. Not after all these years. Not after what he’d done.

  She felt a nostalgic pull for what they’d had; she couldn’t help that. But it didn’t mean anything. She wouldn’t let it. She couldn’t afford to.

  Tossing the jasmine aside, she turned and left the garden.

  THE CARETAKER’S COTTAGE WHERE EMMA grew up was almost hidden by the ancient water oaks that lined the private drive. She avoided the winding lane and instead took a path that led straight through the trees to the cottage.

  As she neared the house, she could smell the honeysuckle hedgerows that lined the nearby highway. Fireflies flitted through the bushes and the bats were out, swooping down from the treetops as their radar vectored in on the mosquitoes.

  Perched near the entrance to the Corbett estate, the one-story cottage was made of Texas limestone and draped on the northern side with ivy. It, too, looked like something from a dream, with casement windows thrown open to catch the breeze and a wind chime tinkling softly on the covered front porch.

  A light was on in the kitchen, and as Emma ran up the stone steps and opened the door, the aroma of chili and fresh-baked cornbread enveloped her like an old friend.

  “Dad?”

  “In here!”

  She threaded her way through the modest furnishings in the living room to the large eat-in kitchen in the rear. In the nearly twenty-five years that her father had lived in the cottage, nothing much had changed.

  The rugged pine cabinets and black barn door hinges were original to the house, as was the plank flooring. The old throw rug that had been strategically placed in front of the sink was faded from so many washings.

  No matter how threadbare and rustic, the cottage still seemed like home to Emma and probably always would.

  Her father stood in front of the old Magic Chef stove stirring the pot of chili. He was tall and still muscular with sparkling brown eyes and a thick, grizzled beard.

  “Smells good,” Emma said as she went over to the stove for a sample.

  “Before you get on my case, it’s vegetarian,” he said.

  “I’ll have you know, I wasn’t going to say a word.” Emma cooled a spoon of chili, then took a small bite. “Umm, not bad.”

  “Not good, either. Leave out the meat, leave out the flavor,” Dominick Novick said with a heavy sigh.

  “Yes, but your heart will thank you for it.” Emma patted his shoulder. “And so do I.”

  “Fetch the bowls and we’re ready to eat,” he said.

  Emma went over to the cupboard and got down one bowl. “Would you mind too much if I take a rain check on dinner tonight, Dad? I’m really not very hungry. I think I’d like to just go for a walk and then turn in early.”

  “A walk?” Her father frowned as he motioned toward the open window. “It’s dark out.”

  “I know, but I won’t go far. Just down to the gate and back.”

  Worry glinted in her father’s dark eyes as he studied her for a moment. “You aren’t trying to prove something, are you, Emmy?”

  The nickname took her straight back to her childhood. Emma shrugged at his question, but her eyes broke and she looked away. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  But her father wasn’t buying her denial. “You know what I’m talking about. These nighttime walks of yours…they don’t have something to do with what happened in Dallas, do they?”

  He’d always been just a little too perceptive when it came to reading Emma, which was why she had no intention of saying anything about Ash’s return.

  “I don’t want to become a prisoner in my own home again,” she said. “So, yeah, I guess maybe I am trying to prove something.”

  “That’s crazy,” he said sternly. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”

  “I know that. But even after he was convicted, I let that animal take control of my life. I let him make me afraid of my own shadow. I don’t want to live like that, Dad. Not anymore.”

  “And you think walking around by yourself in the dark is the answer?”

  She shrugged. “Probably not. But it’s what I have to do.”

  “I wish you’d give yourself a break,” he grumbled. “What you went through would frighten anyone. You’re plenty brave, Emmy. I’ve always been proud of your courage.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. “I’m not brave. I wish I was, but I’m not.” She mustered a quick smile. “Kind of ironic, isn’t it? I moved back here to get away from the violence in the city and a week after I arrive another body gets fished out of the gulf.”

  Her father laid the wooden spoon aside and came over to where she stood by the table. “You don’t need to worry about that. It’s a terrible thing, but it doesn’t have anything to do with that filthy business twelve years ago. The sheriff’s already made an arrest. The woman’s husband has all but confessed.”

  “I know.” By all indications, the poor woman that she and Laney Carroway had seen on the beach over two months ago had been a victim of domestic abuse. The murder didn’t have anything to do with the bodies that had been found on Shell Island twelve years ago. It certainly didn’t have anything to do with Emma’s return to Jacob’s Pass.

  She gave her father a peck on the cheek, then tugged on his beard and said lightly, “You’re right. That creep is behind bars where he belongs so stop worrying about me. I won’t even leave the grounds.”

  He didn’t question whether she was talking about the husband who had murdered his wife or the stranger who had broken into Emma’s Dallas apartment and assaulted her. All he said was, “You’ve got your cell phone?”

  “Right here.” She patted her jacket pocket. “If I need you I’ll call you.”

  She left him staring after her at the front door. At the end of
the walkway, she turned and gave a quick wave, then headed up the winding drive that led to the main house.

  Emma tried not to hurry. She tried not to keep glancing over her shoulder as she reminded herself that she was out for an evening stroll. There was nothing to be afraid of.

  But the memories closed in on her and the hoot of an owl somewhere in the trees lifted gooseflesh on her arms. Her heart started to pound against her chest.

  He’s in jail. He can’t hurt you. There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore.

  She repeated the mantra over and over as she walked along in the dark. The man who had followed her home from work one night and pushed his way into her apartment had been apprehended fleeing the scene. Emma had picked him out of a lineup and then she’d testified against him at his trial. He’d been sent away for a very long time.

  And you were lucky, she reminded herself. He hadn’t had time to rape her as he had the other two women who had come forward. But he would have if a neighbor hadn’t seen him enter Emma’s apartment and called the police.

  The assailant had held a knife to her throat as he ripped open her blouse and shoved up her skirt. Paralyzed with fear, Emma hadn’t been able to fight him off. And that was what haunted her more than anything else. She’d been willing to submit rather than fight for her life.

  She fingered the scar on her neck where he had cut her. Make one sound and I’ll slit your throat.

  She’d done what she had to in order to survive, the counselor at the rape crisis center had told her. The man was obviously willing to use the knife. Emma couldn’t blame herself for what had happened. The attack wasn’t her fault.

  And deep down, she knew that. She hadn’t invited a stranger into her home and she’d certainly done nothing to provoke him. He’d singled her out because he liked her hair, he told her. So the very next day, Emma had cut it all off. She’d changed the locks on her front door and varied the routes she used to and from work. She’d done everything in her power to protect herself…except fight off her attacker.