Counterfeit Wife
Rebecca York
Ruth Glick writing as Rebecca York
Prologue
The moon was a bloodred disk hanging in the dark sky. It was big. Scary. Like so many things in the child's young life.
She pulled away from the window and stuck the outside of her index finger into her mouth, sucking to comfort herself as she cringed from the terror waiting to swallow her up.
Big girls weren't supposed to suck their fingers. Mommy would be mad if she saw her doing it. But Mommy wasn't here. She had taken the car and gone...somewhere. With Nick.
She shivered as angry voices drifted to her from downstairs. It was Daddy, Uncle Vance, and the man named Doo Valve with the creepy voice and the mean eyes.
They had all come here to this broken-up house in one of the cars and the van with no windows, driving fast through the black night because Daddy was sick. He had wanted to call someone named Doc Wayne. Uncle Vance had said that was a bad idea.
Suddenly it was quiet. Maybe Doo Valve had taken the station wagon and gone away. The little girl ran down the steps, then tiptoed along the hall to the room where Daddy was lying down.
Uncle Vance was talking, and Daddy was stretched out on a sleeping bag near the window. In the light from the lantern, she could see blood soaking the bandage on his shoulder.
"Daddy!"
His head jerked toward her. "Lil' Bit," he said, his voice so low she could hardly hear.
Uncle Vance gave her a smile, but she knew he was worried.
"Is everything going to be okay?" she asked, trying to keep her teeth from chattering.
"Yes. Do you want to talk to your daddy?" Uncle Vance asked.
She nodded eagerly.
"Then I'll go find us something to eat."
Slipping into the room, she saw that Daddy's skin looked like paste with beads of water on it.
"Are you gonna die?" she blurted.
"I'm going to be fine."
"Mommy put ant septic on you. It smells bad."
He nodded.
"I'm scared."
"I know, Lil' Bit." His hand reached for her. "Come here so we can talk."
She crept closer till her ear was near Daddy's mouth, so he didn't have to talk loud. Then she heard footsteps behind her. It wasn't Uncle Vance; it was Doo Valve. The bad man.
"What did you tell her?" he growled.
"None of your damn business."
"You're dead wrong." Doo Valve grabbed her daddy by the front of his shirt and shook him, making him groan.
"No!" Rushing at the bad man, she pounded on him with her fists. He whirled, cursed and flung her away. Then everything happened so fast. One minute the lantern was sitting on the floor, the next it was broken on the pile of bandages.
They caught fire, the flames leaping up like bright, hot snakes. Hissing snakes. Doo Valve started beating at them with a blanket. But the blanket caught fire. He threw it down, and the floor began to smoke. Daddy rolled away. With a curse, Doo Valve dived though the window.
Lil' Bit ran toward her father.
"No, get back! Go out the door!" he shouted as the fire licked toward him across the wood floor, making a flaming wall between them.
The room was filling with thick, stinging smoke, and she couldn't see the door, couldn't even see her daddy. Confused, terrified, she spun around, unsure which way to run. The flames roared in her ears. Then she started to cough, her chest burning as she tried to fill her lungs. Flames danced toward her; heat seared her skin. She screamed.
Dimly she heard someone call her name. Then she felt arms grab her, pull her back from the licking orange tongues. There was something wet and cold over her head, and she couldn't see. She could only cling to the strong shoulders of her rescuer as he dragged her from hell.
Chapter One
Heat. Skin-searing heat.
Marianne Leonard hated days like this when the blistering July sun danced on her skin like flames. Slipping into her car, she winced as the seat cover scorched her thighs. Too bad she hadn't found a parking spot in the shade.
Maybe she should move to Alaska, she mused as she gingerly touched the steering wheel. It was worse than the seat, the hard plastic too hot for her fingers to get a good grip.
Lifting her damp golden hair, she leaned toward the vent as the first feeble wisps from the air conditioner stirred the sweltering air. There were a couple of problems with fleeing to the far north: She'd have to give up a great job. And she'd cut herself off from all contact with the Marco family.
Well, not the family, anymore. Mr. Marco had died six months ago. And, to be truthful, she hadn't seen Tony since the reception after the funeral.
She'd spotted him in the corner, isolated from the small crowd of people who had come to pay their respects, his broad shoulders slightly slumped and his chiseled features more daunting than usual. He'd never liked formality, never been comfortable with chitchat. Now he'd taken off his suit jacket and tie—making him stand out in sharp relief to the other men in the room who were still all buttoned up.
The mourners were friends and acquaintances. Not relatives. Like her, Tony was on his own now. Softly, she called his name, and he turned to her with a swiftness that had made her heart leap in her chest. He was tall and solid, yet dark smudges marred the skin under his eyes, and his cheeks had a hollow look that spoke of grief and sleepless nights.
As she crossed the room to stand in front of him, his expression changed, and she saw something flicker in the depths of his dark eyes—something that she'd seen only a few times: Need—basic and primitive—that set off a response deep within her.
"Tony, what can I do?"
At the sound of her voice, his tight expression eased, and he searched her face. "I saw you at the cemetery. You didn't have to drive all the way out there."
"Of course I did. Your dad was like..." She fluttered her hands fumbling for the right words. "He was like a...a kind of stepfather to me."
A warm smile bloomed as memories flooded through her. "He got me through Algebra II. He even taught me to drive. Remember when I stepped on the gas instead of the brake and almost went through the garage door?"
Tony laughed. "He had quite a bit to say about that afterwards."
"The key point is that he didn't bite my head off." She made a small sound of protest. "I'm going to miss him."
Tony nodded solemnly, his total concentration focused on her.
"Let me help," she whispered. "What do you need?"
He didn't answer. But his hand reached toward her in slow motion, and his knuckle stroked across her cheek, then her lips, in a light caress that she felt in all the hidden places of her body.
For several heartbeats, she couldn't move. Then she parted her lips a fraction, giving him the shadow of the kiss that she wanted to press against his mouth, although how she could be having such carnal thoughts at his father's funeral reception was beyond her.
She forgot where they were and why, as his gaze locked with hers, dark and potent. His hand moved to her cheek and then the sensitive line where her jaw met her neck— stroking lightly, sending hot currents through her.
He murmured her name, the barest of whispers. And for a few breath-stopping moments she was sure that his thoughts were running as hot and wild as hers—that he wanted to go someplace where they could be alone and do all the things she had imagined doing with him.
Then his hand fell to his side, and the too-familiar impenetrable mask was once again back in place.
"Tony?"
His shoulders lifted in the barest shrug; then, after a few seconds of stiff conversation, he excused himself and drifted off into the crowd.
The way he'd distanced himself had cut her to the bone. Remembering it still hurt her now—months later.
Unconsciously Marianne tightened her fists around the steering wheel, then loosened her grip as the hot plastic seared her palms.
One by one, she'd lost the people who mattered to her. She supposed her father didn't even count; he'd been out of the picture so long. But her mother had died last year. Then Silvio Marco.
Even before that, for all intents and purposes, she'd lost Tony. Once he'd been like her protective older brother— her defender, her confidant. Then she'd started to mature, and he'd rebuffed her first, shy efforts at changing the relationship. She'd told herself he thought he was too old for her. Maybe that was true when she'd still been a teenager and he was in his early twenties. But the gap had lessened now that they were both adults—for all the good it had done her.
Unconsciously, her lips pressed into a thin line. Really, she should stop obsessing about Tony Marco and try her luck with one of the other guys who wanted to get close to her.
Mom would like that, if she were still alive. Mom had warned her to stay away from him. But Mom hadn't been right about everything.
A flash of movement at the comer of her vision brought her back to the present. With a surge of fear, she swung her head to the side—and saw only a sheet of paper swirling in a sudden updraft.
On a sigh, she ordered her pulse to stop pounding as she pulled out of the parking lot and headed home. For the past few weeks she'd been on edge—seeing things, hearing things, afraid that someone was dogging her steps. Yet each time she whirled to catch sight of her stalker, no one was there.
The irrational anxiety was starting to interfere with her concentration at work—which was darn inconvenient, because as the newest social worker with the Light Street Foundation, she was still trying to prove herself.
Fifteen minutes later, she pulled up beside the kitchen door of the modest bungalow-style house she'd inherited from her mother. It needed fresh paint and a few minor repairs, but basically it was a comfortable place to live—a good place to raise kids, if she ever got married and had any.
Entering through the side door, she set her briefcase on the counter and stood in the middle of the kitchen, thinking that the house smelled wrong. Like stale sweat, she decided. Before she started dinner, she'd better wash the shorts and T-shirt from last night's workout.
She headed for the front door to check the mail, her pock-etbook still slung over her shoulder. Halfway across the living room, she stopped. The light in the upstairs hall was on—and she remembered switching it off before coming down.
All the nagging doubts of the past few weeks coalesced into sudden, choking certainty. Someone had been stalking her, all right. Now he was in the house.
"Little girl, do you remember me?" A soft voice wafted toward her, and she froze. She knew the voice. But it couldn't be. He was dead.
Goose bumps rose on her arms. "Mr. Marco?" she gasped.
The only answer was a laugh—a rich, ghostly laugh that rooted her to the spot where she stood.
"Gotcha!" The voice changed. It was rougher, deeper, mocking.
It wasn't Mr. Marco. Reflexively, she took a quiet step toward the door, then turned and fled. Before she made it across the rug, a hand shot out and grabbed her by the throat, cutting off the scream of terror that rose toward her lips.
Gasping for air, she struggled to wrench herself away, clawing at the hard-as-steel hands that choked off her breath. But the unseen attacker held her fast.
No oxygen reached her lungs, and she felt her vision dim as burly arms dragged her away from the windows. The man was strong, his body rank with sweat.
Black dots danced before her eyes, and she knew she was going to die. Then, just before she passed out, he eased up on the pressure enough for her to gulp in a blessed draft of air.
Keeping his hand clamped on her throat, he lowered himself to the sofa and brought her with him.
Horror was like a wire tightening inside her chest as he held her against his body, her face turned away from him.
"I'm going to take my hand off your windpipe," he growled, his foul breath puffing against her cheek. "If you scream, I'm going to kill you. Nod if you understand."
She managed a small nod, and the hand shifted from her neck to her upper arm. Gasping, she waited to find out what he was going to do, even as she calculated her chances of escape. Next to zero.
She could see his feet encased in black running shoes and his black sweatpants. The sleeve of his T-shirt was also black. It seemed he was dressed for breaking and entering.
Her heart was pounding like a jackhammer inside her chest, but she struggled for calm, trying to take in details.
"I've been waiting a long time for this," he growled.
"For what?" she managed.
"You know damn well."
The words and his confident tone brought a wave of total confusion. "I—I don't know what you're talking about," she croaked, then tried to steady her voice. "And you'd better get out of here because my fiance is on his way over for dinner."
He laughed again, this time it was a nasty sound that scraped the raw edges of her nerve endings. "Don't play games with me, Miss Marianne Leonard. I've been watching you. I know you don't have any fiance. You're all alone now that your mom is dead."
He cut her off with a snarl, then began to talk in a low, rapid voice that she could hardly follow. He was babbling about her father, saying he had told her a secret. As he spoke, he gave her a shake that rattled her teeth.
Her father? Another ghost from the past. Total mystification fogged her brain. Her father had left their family stranded when she was just a baby—so long ago that she couldn't even remember his face.
"You were there. You know. He told you." The voice in her ear brought her back to the present
She cringed. "Are—are you sure you have the right woman?"
"No mistake. Even if you did change your name."
"What? My name?"
1Meaty fingers dug painfully into her arm. "Don't play games with me. Where is it? Where are you hiding it?"
Marianne tried to keep her brain from going numb, knowing her life might depend on figuring out what this guy was talking about. The only thing she knew for sure was that whatever he wanted she didn't have.
Her mind scrambled, came up with a desperate plan. "You don't think it's here in the house, do you?" she asked in a voice that shook only a little.
"Keep talking!" he growled, and she wondered how she'd ever mistaken his voice for kindly Silvio Marco.
"I...have a letter he left me," she lied, then improvised quickly. "He said not to open it unless I needed his help. It's...it's upstairs. In my room."
He hauled her to her feet, held her as she stood swaying on legs that felt like cooked spaghetti. "One wrong move and I'll shoot you," he warned.
When he gave her a push toward the stairs, she grabbed the lamp table to keep from falling on her face. Did he really have a gun? She hadn't seen it. Maybe he was lying.
She wanted to ask him how he'd get what he wanted if he killed her. She didn't dare confuse him with logic as she stumbled toward the steps, then climbed them slowly, breathing deeply, knowing that she'd better get this right.
A kind of deadly calm descended on her as she reached the upper hall, then took a steadying breath, waiting for him to catch up before she turned right and headed for the spare room.
When she reached the door, she pretended to stumble, her hand going down on the floor as she grabbed for one of the barbells she'd left lying on the exercise mat. Half whirling, she slung the twenty-pound weight at the madman.
It hit him in the stomach, and he gasped, crumpling in surprise as she slammed the door and spared precious seconds to lock it behind her.
Shots sounded, and bullets splintered the wood as she wrenched open the window and flung herself onto the porch roof.
Too bad he hadn't been lying about the gun.
Using the downspout, she slid to the ground, rounded the house and jumped into the car, her hand fumbling for the keys in the pocketbook that amazingly still dangled from her shoulder.
Angry shouts pursued her to the car. Then the intruder was leaping to the ground like a movie stuntman. In a minute, he'd be on her again.
Her breath coming in ragged gasps, Marianne started the engine, backed out of the driveway, and cannonballed down the block, turning the corner with tires squealing. At the cross street, she turned again, weaving through the familiar neighborhood like a mad dog.
Sparing a quick glance in the rearview mirror, she saw no signs of pursuit—for the moment. Slowing only slightly, she felt between the seats, found her sun hat, and jammed it down over her head. A poor disguise—but it would have to do.
Her first thought was to drive straight to a police station and make a report of the attack. Yet when she actually pictured herself sitting down face-to-face with a detective, she felt a sudden painful tightening inside her chest.
Not the police. She couldn't go to them—because she'd known for as long as she could remember that something about the law had struck a deep, abiding terror in her mom.
A shuddering sigh wracked her chest. Mom was dead. It shouldn't matter. But it did.
There had been so many things she and her mother had never discussed, buried truths simmering below the surface of their seemingly normal existence. And the law was one of those off-limits subjects.
But she'd sensed things, seen things, like the way Mom went rigid when a patrol car pulled up beside them at a red light. And the way her face lost its color when they passed a patrolman at the shopping center.
The police were supposed to be your friends. But Marianne had always known on some deep, subconscious level that they were the enemy. And she'd better stay as far away from them as she could get if she valued her life.
The knowledge brought a kind of terrible despair. She was alone, with no hope of rescue. Then an image of Tony Marco stole into her mind and some of the tightness eased in her chest. Although they had grown apart in the past few years, she still believed he would protect her—the way he had when she'd needed him most. Like when he'd beaten up a gang of boys who were teasing her on the way home from school, saying she didn't have a father. Or when he'd chased off a big black dog that was snapping at her heels.
He would know what to do now, she told herself with a surge of relief. Making a quick right turn at the next intersection, she sped toward the impressive redbrick house he'd bought several years ago. When she pulled up at the curb, however, she saw all the lights were off. And when she rang the bell and pounded on the front door with her fists, there was no answer.
A mile from Marianne Leonard's house, Arlan Duvalle pulled to the curb, his angry curses reverberating in the confines of the stolen car.
He'd thought he could pick up the bitch's trail—until she'd vanished into the maze of streets surrounding her house. Half of them were one-way, and that had made him lose even more time as he tried to figure out which way she'd gone.
Savagely he pounded his fists against the steering wheel, stopping only when pain shot up his arms. He'd been so close, close enough to wrap his hands around her slender white throat. Then she'd pulled that stupid trick with the barbell. He reached down to rub his gut where she'd slammed the weight into him.
He'd had plenty of time in prison to think about what her family had done to him. Today there was more damage to add to the score, and before he finished with her, he'd make sure she understood what she owed him.
He glanced back over his shoulder. No use flapping around in circles now like a chicken with its head cut off. Better to toss her house, find that letter. If she wasn't lying about that, he thought, his fists making another violent assault on the steering wheel.
Struggling to contain his fury, he took a deep breath. There was no percentage in getting riled. Anger was dangerous. So was overconfidence.
He ordered himself to relax as he thought about the good parts of their encounter. Like that trick with the voice— making her think he was her good old friend Silvio Marco. He'd always been a great mimic, and he'd had years to perfect the skill. Maybe he should have played her father instead of Marco. Wouldn't that have been a hoot!
He smiled as he thought about the fun he could have with her when he caught her again. But first he'd have a nice dinner and a couple of beers while he made some plans. Then he'd drive by the house and check things out. If Ms. Leonard was stupid enough to have come back, so much the better. But it didn't really matter. Either way, he'd catch up with her soon enough.
Tears of frustration stung Marianne's eyes as she leaned her head against the door. Tony wasn't home. The idea flashed through her mind of driving around back and waiting for him. But she reconsidered almost immediately. He had built up a very successful import business, which meant he went on buying trips several times a year. He could be in Europe or Asia for all she knew. He could be gone for weeks.
With leaden steps she made her way back to the car and started the engine again, this time with no idea where she was going or what she was planning to do. The only thing she knew was that she had to put as much distance as she could between herself and the madman.
Dimly it registered that the sun was setting. As the sky turned navy and then black, she kept driving in a kind of trance until she saw a highway sign—and realized with a jolt of recognition that she was on Route 50, heading for the shore. For Paradise Beach, to be exact. It seemed that if she couldn't get help from Tony, her subconscious had served up this substitute—the summer place he'd inherited from his father, where she'd spent at least a month every year. It was set back from the road. Isolated. The perfect place to hide while she figured out what to do.
After filling her almost-empty gas tank at a station on the edge of town, she turned onto the two-lane country road along the Severn River and scanned the mailboxes.
When she found the one that said "Marco" she let out a little sigh, turned in at the drive that wound through the woods, and pulled around to the back of the comfortable white and green Victorian house. After cutting the lights, she got out and stretched her cramped muscles.
She was starting for the front walk when...
allforjesus2001