Winter's Edge by Anne Stuart Page A

clone of the woman Patrick loved?
    They were already seated when she walked into the dining room.
    “Molly, darling!” Mrs. Canning rose and enveloped her in a warm and highly scented embrace. Poison, Molly decided, a fitting enough scent, and then cursed herself for knowing the names of perfumes and not of her closest friends.
    “We missed you so much,” the woman continued, her heavy gold bangles digging into Molly’s back. She drew away and looked into her face, frowning.
    “You don’t look at all well, my dear. And where did you get those awful clothes?”
    From my room,” she answered lightly, drawing away as unobtrusively as she could manage.
    “It’s good to see you again.”
    Her luminous eyes were warm and friendly and just ever. so slightly assessing.
    “Darling, it’s so good to see you.t We were paralyzed when you ran off like that, absolutely paralyzed.” She moved back to the table and put one possessive hand on Patrick’s arm.
    “Weren’t we, darling?”
    Molly half expected to see painted fingernails like red claws. Wasn’t the Other Woman always supposed to have red fingernails? The hand on Patrick’s forearm was well-shaped, with pale, well-manicured nails.
    And not nearly as interesting as the tanned, muscular forearm beneath it, Molly thought hopelessly.
    Patrick had risen. He simply looked at her, an un-welcoming expression on his face. Molly thought of her room with a faint trace of longing, then steeled herself.
     
    He didn’t look like a man who could kill. He simply looked like a man surrounded by too many women.
    Another motive, though. If Molly died, Patrick would have her money and revenge for her running away with another man. He’d also have the beautiful Mrs. Canning, and Molly had to admit that most men would have found that incentive indeed.
    “Wouldn’t you rather have a tray in your room, Molly?” he asked in a cool voice.
    “You’ve just gotten out of the hospital, and you look tired.”
    “Heavens, no!” she said so brightly she wanted to wince.
    “I need to get back in the swing of things: I need to spend time with friends and family. Loved ones,” she added with a pointed, saccharine look at Patrick.
    She might have pushed him too far. He shoved back from the table, but once more Lisa put a restraining hand on his arm, and he subsided with a glare in Molly’s direction.
    “Pat says you have amnesia,” Lisa murmured.
    “How fascinating. It sounds like something out of a bad novel.”
    “It is,” Patrick growled.
    “I’m surprised he told you,” Molly said, ignoring him.
    “I get the impression that my husband doesn’t quite believe me.”
    His response was a disbelieving snort. Lisa’s hand tightened warningly on his arm, and Molly couldn’t tear her gaze away from that possessive clasp.
    “Of course he believes you, Molly. Why else would you have run off without a word to me, your dearest friend? Or to your husband, or anyone? You must have had a reason, and if you could only remember I’m sure you’d tell us everything.”
    Molly looked at them both. The dearest friend, with her phony, cooing concern and her possessive grip.
    The husband, watching her with stony distrust. They could have been in it together, Molly thought.
    Her disappearance benefited everyone. It was no wonder she’d run.
    “Of course,” she said calmly, helping herself to the plate of delicate sandwiches Mrs. Morse had provided.
    She was famished, and she didn’t care if her abstemious so-called friend watched as she devoured her lunch.
    Molly shoved a sandwich into her mouth, then reached for another.
    “So tell me,” she said in a conversational voice, “what’s been happening with you two while I’ve been away?”
    Patrick promptly choked on his coffee.
    IT HAD BV_~’~ an illuminating meal, Molly thought several hours later as she sat cross-legged on her bed, staring down at the telltale handkerchief. Lisa was obviously adept at awkward social situations,