“In that case,” he said, “I’d rather run away with you.” She sighed, her voice low and throaty, quite sexy really. “Ah, so many elegant cuff links, so little time.”
He laughed. “Do you know I think I’ve worn French cuffs maybe three times in my life?”
Judge Sherlock, calm and aloof, looking like an aristocrat—a lot like a younger Chappy, Dix realized—walked into the living room, kissed his wife’s cheek, told her she was gorgeous, and shook hands with Dix. He looked him up and down, examined him the way a father might a son who was bent on impressing a future boss. He nodded. “You’ll do just fine, Dix. You’ll get through this. Now, you want something to drink?”
“No, thank you, sir—”
“Call me Corman.”
Dix nodded. “I don’t think my stomach can handle it. Thank you for the loan of the shirt and tie. And the cuff links.”
The doorbell chimed and Dix felt his belly fall to his newly polished shoes. If he’d been holding a drink he would have dropped it. Evelyn patted his arm as she said easily, “I do believe the Pallacks are here. Dix, you will be all right. You already know everything that’s important to know, and they don’t. You’ll see immediately if she’s your Christie and then it will be over. If she is Christie, naturally, you’ll both know it.”
Dix supposed that advice fit well, but he stopped thinking altogether when he first saw Charlotte Pallack come into the entry hall. Her smile was Christie’s smile, lighting up every corner, her teeth were straight and white, Christie’s teeth. Jules Advere was right—it was Christie, down to the pale peach nail polish he liked on her long thin fingers. He swallowed, tried to keep a hold of himself, be the polite stranger being courteous to guests, nothing more. He had to get closer to the woman whose hair was darker than Christie’s, but that didn’t mean much. She was as tall as Christie, big-boned, but thinner—no, that wasn’t important either. He had to look her in the eyes, then he’d know. They had to see each other close.
Judge Sherlock lightly touched Dix’s sleeve, drawing him forward. “Dixon, do meet our friends, Thomas and Charlotte Pallack.”
CHAPTER 12
Dix stepped forward, hand outstretched, a well-bred, beautifully mannered gentleman. “Mr. Pallack, Mrs. Pallack,” he said, his voice smooth and calm as the bay was that evening beneath a half moon and a perfectly clear sky.
He shook Thomas Pallack’s hand, then turned to his wife and took another half-step because he couldn’t stop himself. He wasn’t a foot from her. She smiled at him, gave him her hand. He never looked away from her face. And she never looked away from his.
There was no recognition in her eyes. She doesn’t know me. She isn’t Christie.
But she was Christie’s twin, no doubt about that. He could see now why Jules Advere had fallen over from the shock of seeing her.
Her eyes were blue-green, pale, like Christie’s, but the shape was subtly different. Her expression was warm and interested, but there wasn’t that extra flash Christie had—it didn’t matter if she was angry, happy, sad, or brimming with pleasure, a unique joy shone out of Christie’s eyes every single day he’d known her. His Christie wasn’t behind those eyes. Dix had studied a photo of his wife all the way from Richmond, reminding himself of every detail, the nuance of every feature in every mood. He saw that Charlotte Pallack’s nose was a bit thinner than Christie’s. Christie had Chappy’s nose, and this nose in front of him wasn’t it. But it was very close. If he’d seen her from six feet away he might well have fallen over in shock himself. But what if she’d lost her memory, had cosmetic surgery—no, no, that was asinine. She wasn’t Christie, she simply wasn’t.
He felt immense sadness, felt something breaking inside him, and realized it had been an outlandishly impossible hope that this woman was his long-missing wife.
But no, this woman was a stranger.
“Mr. Noble? Is something wrong?”
Her voice. Damn, it was very nearly Christie’s voice. Her fingers tightened around his. He abruptly released her hand, aware that Mr. Pallack, a man older than Chappy, pushing seventy, and on the portly side, his paunch neatly hidden in his beautifully styled suit—this woman’s husband—was eyeing him, actually staring at him, eyebrow raised, suddenly suspicious of him now because he’d held his wife’s hand too long, was too intense, wasn’t—acting normal, Dix supposed. Perhaps he was wondering if this stranger was sexually interested in his younger wife.
Dix quickly stepped back and managed an impersonal smile.
It’s over. It isn’t Christie.
He said, “Forgive me for staring, Mrs. Pallack. You remind me of someone I knew very well a long time ago. Like her, you’re very beautiful.”
That was a perfect thing to say. Thomas Pallack seemed to get his suspicion back under control. It seemed to Dix that he now preened in the face of the younger alpha male who openly admired his wife, but he couldn’t have her because she was his. As for Charlotte Pallack, she cocked her head to one side and continued to stare up at him, both surprised and pleased with the compliment. She didn’t know him, didn’t have a clue who or what he was. It isn’t Christie.
Evelyn Sherlock said in a light, social voice, “This twin business—I wish I could find mine. I wonder if she’s in a loony bin or perhaps a Mother Superior in an Italian abbey. What do you think, Corman?”
Judge Sherlock laughed, a deep, full-bodied laugh that gave Dix time to regain full control and perspective. “Please, Evelyn, not a Mother Superior, Italian or not, I couldn’t handle that. Do you think you’d make the wine at your convent?” He added with a smile to Thomas and Charlotte Pallack, “Do come into the living room. We’ll have a drink and some of Isabel’s delicious hors d’oeuvres before a dinner that will make us all loosen our belts.” It isn’t Christie.
But he found himself walking behind her, studying her walk, comparing it to Christie’s. There were subtle differences, but the thing was, it wasn’t that different, almost as if she’d observed Christie, copied her—no, he had to get a grip here, he had to cut it off right now. He would go home tomorrow and finally do what he had to do to clear up his marital status. He’d go in front of a judge and actually say the word abandonment. Oh God, he didn’t know if he could bear that—no, it was time, past time. He would do what he had to do. He would stop living in limbo. It wasn’t fair to Ruth. He prayed she would be his Ruth, that he was lucky enough to have found two extraordinary women in his life. Nor was it fair to his boys. They’d all been in limbo for too long.
Dix tried to keep his eyes off Charlotte Pallack during dinner, and succeeded for the most part. It was Charlotte, however, who was sneaking looks at him.
He listened to Thomas Pallack speak, amused at how the man wore his wealth like a royal robe. He knew his own importance, his own power, and best of all, he knew how to hide it enough so that people didn’t resent him. He had a lot in common with Chappy, except Chappy was better at it.
Dix accepted a glass of the excellent merlot Judge Sherlock served with dinner. He was pleased he could sip at it and not have his stomach rebel on him. He was still finding it difficult to keep his eyes off Charlotte Pallack—and both she and her husband knew it. Dix knew that if he were Thomas Pallack, he’d want to break the interloper’s face. But the fact was the older man appeared to remain fatuously pleased. Trophy wife, Dix supposed, was the unflattering term for Charlotte Pallack.
He looked up from his plate and said, “Mrs. Pallack—”
“Oh, since you’re a friend of the Sherlocks, do call me Charlotte.”