Page 161 of Our Little Secret

He stopped, turned to face her, and in the light cast from the snow, he looked exactly like Gideon.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, darkness surrounding them, only the reflection from the light in the windows on the snow giving any illumination.

“Just needed a break, I guess.”

“With my dog?”

“He wanted to come.”

“Like before?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I know who you are.”

His eyes were shaded, his entire face in shadow, but she swore his jaw tightened. “Good.”

“Not Eli Stone.” Her pulse was pounding in her brain.

“No?” He didn’t sound surprised.

“Give it up, Gideon. What the hell are you doing with my sister? Why are you here?”

“Gideon?”

“For the love of God!”

“Again, what are you talking about?” His voice was harsh. Offended. And in the darkness she couldn’t be sure.

“I know you’re posing as Eli Stone.”

There were a few minutes when he didn’t answer, when the wind rushed through the surrounding trees, when, farther away, the surf was a dull, ever-present roar. “Why would I ‘pose,’ as you put it, as someone I’m not?” he asked. “Are you out of your mind?” He stared at her as if he really did think she was crazy.

And then she stopped.

What if, after all, she was wrong?

What if this man was a doppelgänger of the man with whom she’d been involved? What if he were someone who was almost identical to Gideon? There were those people in the world, but the odds of Leah being involved with a Gideon look-alike were astronomical. Impossible. No, she wasn’t wrong.

“Why?” he repeated.

“To get back at . . .”

“At? Who?” He let out a low whistle. “Oh, at you.” Shaking his head, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one as if he’d had the habit for decades. “That’s pretty self-centered, don’t you think? Leah warned me about that.”

“I know who you really are.”

“No. You don’t know a thing about me. Obviously.” He offered the pack to her. “Want one?”

“No, I don’t . . .” Of course she saw that the brand was Marlboro Lights, the brand she’d smoked once after making love to Gideon. He’d never even taken a drag. “Get that out of here,” he’d said. “There’s a reason my dad used to call them coffin nails.” And she’d never smoked around him again.

But now . . .

Eli drew hard on his cigarette, the tip glowing red in the night, noticed her staring. “Leah hates these things,” he said. “I said I’d give ’em up once we’re married.” He leaned against the post supporting the porch. The voice—too low for Gideon. From the cigarettes?

Nah. If he were Gideon—and he was—it was too soon to have developed a smoker’s voice. He was just disguising it.

“Look. I don’t know how, but for some reason we got off on the wrong foot.” Another long drag, then he threw the rest of the cigarette onto the lawn, where it fizzled and died in the snow. “Maybe we should start over.”