though it didn’t need it.
That gave things a different perspective, Dix thought, staring down at her a moment, and marveling again how very different she was from her daughter. Then she tilted her head to the side and said, “I do love a man in French cuffs.” He’d seen Sherlock tilt her head in exactly the same way.
“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.
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.
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
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.”
