The Unknown Twin. Kathryn Shay

right?”

      “Uh-huh.”

      She shivered.

      “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

      Rounding the car, he opened her door and helped her stand. She was trembling. It was about seventy degrees, warm enough at eight o’clock in the morning. “You cold?”

      She rubbed her bare arms. “A little.”

      “Shell-shocked, I’d guess.”

      “It’s sinking in.” She peered up at him with doe eyes. “I could have died in that fire.”

      That was true. People slept through fires and never woke up.

      Something made him slide his arm around her. Just a little human compassion, he guessed. Still, it felt good when she leaned into him. She was slight—a lot slighter than Dana. That had registered when he’d carried her down the ladder, but didn’t make sense until now.

      And she was a lot more fragile. Alex was accustomed to being around women who could beat him now and then at racquetball or who were at least worthy opponents in pickup beach volleyball.

      The landlord pulled up, inquired after Lauren’s well-being, unlocked the house, then left them alone. She turned in the doorway. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she smiled at Alex. “What do you say to a man who saved your life?” she asked softly. Her voice was different from Dana’s, too—mellower, more feminine—but her speech patterns were the same.

      “Thanks is enough.” But the scared look on her face made him add, “Or maybe offer him a cup of coffee. Us smoke eaters really need our caffeine, ma’am.”

      Laughing, she stepped inside. “That’s the least I can do.”

      She led him into her home. Studying the room, he let on a low whistle. It literally took his breath away. He’d never seen such a wide array of colors, textures and unusual furnishings. The living-room rug was raspberry and so thick that his sandals sank into it.

      “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll fix the coffee.” Before she left, she opened two huge windows. The tinkle of wind chimes drifted in. Then, she disappeared into the kitchen.

      He bypassed the off-white, nubby couch and sat on a long chaiselike thing that conformed to his body when he stretched out. Plump rose-colored cushions enveloped him. Picking up one of the several geometric-patterned pillows that accented the blues, grays and pinks in the room, he scanned the rest of the place.

      Jeez, look at that. In the corner was a full-size hammock. He got up and crossed to it. He’d never seen one indoors. The wall behind it was decorated with an array of mesmerizing paintings. He circled around the hammock to examine them closely. The artist’s signature read “LAC.” Delicate, wispy strokes etched out the water, the mountains, the forest. They were abstract, but he knew for certain what each painting portrayed.

      “What do you think?” He turned to see her holding a small tabby kitten. As he watched, she rubbed her cheek on the animal’s furry little head. Another kitten scurried at her feet.

      “Are you kidding?” He pointed to a small picture. “It feels like I’m wading in that lake. I can smell those flowers.”

      Her smile was broad. “I’m glad you like them.” She set the kitten on the floor—it stayed at her feet like a toddler would its mother—and, crossing to the wall, reached up and took a painting down. “Here, as a thank-you for saving my life.”

      “You don’t have to do that. Just tell me who the artist is and I’ll look him up.”

      “The artist is a she.”

      He cocked his head. She seemed…proud. “You, Lauren?”

      She nodded.

      “They’re wonderful. They should be in a gallery. For sale.”

      Her frown was instantaneous. “No. I wouldn’t want to do that.” She fingered the delicate teak frame. “It would be like selling a child.” She handed him the canvas. “You can adopt it. It’ll be safe with you.”

      Grinning, he took the painting. She was downright charming.

      “Who’s this little guy?” he asked, squatting to scratch one kitten’s head. Both sidled against his legs, making him smile.

      “Butterscotch. The other’s Caramel.”

      He chuckled at the names.

      When the coffee finished dripping, they sat together on the couch, sinking deep into the overstuffed cushions. Over the rim of his mug, also one of her works of art, he watched her drink. She’d made herself tea—Dana preferred it over coffee, too—and she inhaled the scent first, then sipped. She closed her eyes when she swallowed. Smiled. When she finally licked her lips, he felt his body respond. He had to look away.

      “I hope you like hazelnut.”

      “Hazelnut?”

      “The coffee’s flavored.”

      “Um, sure. I do.” He had no idea what he was drinking.

      He searched the room for something to focus on instead of her mouth. A picture sat on the odd-shaped end table next to the couch. It was an eight-by-ten close-up of two older people and Lauren. He slid over so he could see it better. The couple was attractive; both had vibrant blue eyes, thick gray hair and they were smiling. In the photo, Lauren was laughing, too, her brown eyes sparkling. He stared at it for a minute, then glanced at her.

      “Your parents?”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “You were adopted.” It wasn’t a question.

      “What?” She grinned. “Oh, no. I wasn’t. I know I don’t look like them, but I wasn’t adopted.”

      This was odd. “Lauren, you had to be adopted. Two blue-eyed parents can’t have a brown-eyed child.”

      “That’s what they say. I studied eye-color genes in biology class. When I asked Mom and Dad about it, they said I must be some kind of mutation because she saw me come out of her body and Dad cut the umbilical cord. Actually, I saw it on the home video they took.”

      Alex shook his head. “This goes against everything I know. I studied genetics—my mother’s a geneticist—before I decided to follow in Dad’s footsteps. From what I learned in my courses, this is a scientific impossibility.”

      She shrugged. “I guess I’m a rare breed.”

      He scanned her place again. He didn’t doubt that. But something wasn’t adding up. And it bothered him. What about her similarity to Dana? What were the chances of someone looking almost exactly like his friend? Slim. What were the chances of a genetic abnormality—impossibility, really—with that same person? Nonexistent, in his mind. But he said only, “Well, I’ll ask Mom about it to be sure.”

      Her look was indulgent. “Don’t bother. I know who I am.”

      Suddenly he hoped—for her sake—that was true.

      CHAPTER TWO

      THE FIREHOUSE WAS a kaleidoscope of sights, sounds and textures. As Lauren stepped through the open door into one of four bays and onto the cold concrete floor, she ran her free hand over the rough wall. And sniffed. Gasoline. Oil. The faint acrid smell. The bays were full. Huge red trucks towered over her; they were different sizes and shapes and, she assumed, performed different tasks, as one had ladders, the other hoses. Another was the medical truck she’d ridden in. Walking up to it, she ran her hand over the cold steel surface, sensing the strength emanating from it. Everything here was so big and powerful. Intimidating. Still, she had a delivery to make. She crossed to the station house and entered the building proper. She found the kitchen by scent. It was noontime, and somebody was making lunch. The aroma of cooking beef, French fries and coffee made her stomach growl.

      The