Read Online Shadow Lover by Anne Stuart - Free Book Online
Authors: Anne Stuart
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looking at him as if he were a wild-eyed terrorist out to bomb everyone into oblivion. Tessa was tossing her auburn mane of hair every chance she got, glaring at him out of her magnificent, smoldering eyes, and doing everything she could to remind him that she was a) a highly paid and much sought-after fashion model and b) she didn't believe him for a moment.
She was getting a little long in the tooth for high fashion, Alex thought cynically. She had to be near thirty, though she looked a decade younger, fighting the encroachments of age with the dedication of her mother. The little sneer that pursed her collagen-enhanced lips was going to leave nasty little wrinkles if she didn't watch it.
Grace, the youngest of the cousins, would have been six when Alex left, and there was no way he would have remembered her. She seemed a cut above her self-absorbed siblings. He might even go so far as to say she was pleasant, except that she barely spoke to him, though when she did she was civil enough. She spent the entire time talking in a corner with Carolyn, while the other cousins concentrated on Alex and ignored Carolyn completely.
As did Sally. She hadn't felt up to sitting at the table, but she held court in her bedroom, and Ruben had wheeled her hospital bed to the French doors that opened onto the formal dining room so that she could be a part of it all. He could feel her eyes watching him, and he wondered what she was thinking. Whether deep in her heart she really believed he was Alexander MacDowell .
It didn't matter—she wasn't about to protest. Or call for proof, or DNA testing, or any of the like, of that much he was absolutely certain. She'd made up her mind that he was her son, and nothing would make her change it.
"Carolyn?" Her soft voice, weak from pain, nevertheless carried down to the end of the table, where Carolyn sat with Grace.
There was immediate, dutiful silence in the room. Carolyn rose, and as usual he had to admire her grace, even in the boring gray cocktail dress she'd worn down to dinner. Without effort she made Tessa seem overblown and obvious, and anyone with taste wouldn't look twice at the famous beauty.
But Carolyn wasn't interested in clothes, adornment, or his opinion, he thought wryly, watching her out of hooded eyes. As he'd watched her all night long, now that she was no longer capable of avoiding him so assiduously.
"Are you tired, Aunt Sally?" she asked solicitously. "I'll have Ruben bring you back to bed—"
"Don't fuss over me, child!" Sally's faint smile took most of the sting out of the reprimand. "I'm just fine. I'm perfectly capable of knowing when I'm tired or not. I have a favor to ask you, darling. If it's not too much of an imposition."
Alex kept his expression bland. He suspected Carolyn would have slashed her wrists for Sally, but they obviously preferred to keep up the polite fiction. He couldn't figure out what Sally had ever done to deserve such devotion, but Carolyn was obviously loyal to a fault.
"Anything," Carolyn said rashly.
"Alex and I were talking," Sally said, and Carolyn's eyes narrowed, though she kept herself from glancing toward him. "He wondered where that childhood portrait is? You remember, the one I had done when he was twelve?"
"You got rid of it," she said flatly.
"Don't be absurd, Carolyn," Warren protested. "That was a Wicklander portrait—they're worth their weight in gold. She wouldn't have thrown it out."
"I didn't mean that. I meant that she was so upset she couldn't bear to look at it anymore," Carolyn said, and this time she did toss an angry glare in Alex's direction. Not that it was particularly rational. She should be angry at the real Alex MacDowell for running away, not the man she knew was his imposter.
"Where is it, Carolyn? Is it in storage?" George demanded, sounding, if possible, even more pompous than his elderly uncle. George had been born with an old soul, sour and disapproving, a fact that was at odds with his strikingly
She was getting a little long in the tooth for high fashion, Alex thought cynically. She had to be near thirty, though she looked a decade younger, fighting the encroachments of age with the dedication of her mother. The little sneer that pursed her collagen-enhanced lips was going to leave nasty little wrinkles if she didn't watch it.
Grace, the youngest of the cousins, would have been six when Alex left, and there was no way he would have remembered her. She seemed a cut above her self-absorbed siblings. He might even go so far as to say she was pleasant, except that she barely spoke to him, though when she did she was civil enough. She spent the entire time talking in a corner with Carolyn, while the other cousins concentrated on Alex and ignored Carolyn completely.
As did Sally. She hadn't felt up to sitting at the table, but she held court in her bedroom, and Ruben had wheeled her hospital bed to the French doors that opened onto the formal dining room so that she could be a part of it all. He could feel her eyes watching him, and he wondered what she was thinking. Whether deep in her heart she really believed he was Alexander MacDowell .
It didn't matter—she wasn't about to protest. Or call for proof, or DNA testing, or any of the like, of that much he was absolutely certain. She'd made up her mind that he was her son, and nothing would make her change it.
"Carolyn?" Her soft voice, weak from pain, nevertheless carried down to the end of the table, where Carolyn sat with Grace.
There was immediate, dutiful silence in the room. Carolyn rose, and as usual he had to admire her grace, even in the boring gray cocktail dress she'd worn down to dinner. Without effort she made Tessa seem overblown and obvious, and anyone with taste wouldn't look twice at the famous beauty.
But Carolyn wasn't interested in clothes, adornment, or his opinion, he thought wryly, watching her out of hooded eyes. As he'd watched her all night long, now that she was no longer capable of avoiding him so assiduously.
"Are you tired, Aunt Sally?" she asked solicitously. "I'll have Ruben bring you back to bed—"
"Don't fuss over me, child!" Sally's faint smile took most of the sting out of the reprimand. "I'm just fine. I'm perfectly capable of knowing when I'm tired or not. I have a favor to ask you, darling. If it's not too much of an imposition."
Alex kept his expression bland. He suspected Carolyn would have slashed her wrists for Sally, but they obviously preferred to keep up the polite fiction. He couldn't figure out what Sally had ever done to deserve such devotion, but Carolyn was obviously loyal to a fault.
"Anything," Carolyn said rashly.
"Alex and I were talking," Sally said, and Carolyn's eyes narrowed, though she kept herself from glancing toward him. "He wondered where that childhood portrait is? You remember, the one I had done when he was twelve?"
"You got rid of it," she said flatly.
"Don't be absurd, Carolyn," Warren protested. "That was a Wicklander portrait—they're worth their weight in gold. She wouldn't have thrown it out."
"I didn't mean that. I meant that she was so upset she couldn't bear to look at it anymore," Carolyn said, and this time she did toss an angry glare in Alex's direction. Not that it was particularly rational. She should be angry at the real Alex MacDowell for running away, not the man she knew was his imposter.
"Where is it, Carolyn? Is it in storage?" George demanded, sounding, if possible, even more pompous than his elderly uncle. George had been born with an old soul, sour and disapproving, a fact that was at odds with his strikingly
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