THE WRONG MIRROR
by
Emma Darcy
From the back page:
Did he want her--or his son?
Karen Alyward hated Hal Chissolm. First, the newspaper magnate had refused to marry Kirsty, her pregnant twin sister.
And now, he wanted Kirsty's son--the son Kirsty had hidden from him until she lay dying. The son she'd allowed Karen to adopt.
Hal threatened to take the child away unless Karen agreed to marry him. She accused him of having no feelings, yet clearly, that wasn't true--the feelings he aroused in Karen were equally intense...
From the inside cover:
'I want the mother of my child as my wife.'
Karen's stomach heaved with nausea a Hal's suggestion. 'It's not me you want,' she said. 'Its Kirsty. Well, I'm not Kirsty,'
He appeared completely unperturbed. 'I'm well aware of that. Kirsty died in my arms, remember? It's you I want.'
'It's an impossible situation,' Karen whispered.
'Not al all,' he denied. 'It's quite clear cut.'
She stared at him, looking desperately for a chink in his armor. 'I've always hated you,' she said.
'Your last marriage was presumably based on love, but it didn't work. Perhaps hate is a better basis for starting with. After all, things can't get worse. They can only improve.'
CHAPTER ONE
KIRSTY was dying.
Karen knew it even as she struggled into consciousness. Shock jerked her upright in bed. It was not a nightmare. She didn't know how she could be so sure, yet she was. It was a truth as implacable as ... as a law of the universe. Inescapable.
And, just as relentless as that truth, came the second wave of shock, harder and more jolting than the first. Kirsty was dying in pain--terrible pain. And she was somewhere on the other side of the world in the Middle East ... Syria, Lebanon, Israel?
Karen scrambled out of bed, compelled to move, to do something. She wrenched her mind out of shock and tried to grasp a line of purpose. Hold on, Kirsty! Hold on! I'll get there somehow. Please God, let her hold on. I've got to see her, be with her. She can't die yet.
Frantic eyes darted a glance at the clock. Two seventeen. What could she do at this hour? It was the middle of the night. Ring the airport, get a seat. But to where? Where exactly was Kirsty?
The force of her need to reach her sister pushed back the panic that was scrambling Karen's mind. An answer flashed into it. Kirsty was with Hal--Hal Chissolm--and Hal's father would know where they were. She ran out to the family room, snapping on the light switch as she flew past. She snatched the telephone book from the shelf below the kitchen bar. Her hands fumbled through the pages in desperate haste. Chissolm ... Chissolm ...
Her finger was running down the page when the sense of loss hit her. An awareness of pain shut off, a cold emptiness that glazed her eyes and froze her finger to the page. No ... no ... no! her mind screamed. You can't die like that! You can't! Not without me, Kirsty. Oh God, please ... please ... don't do that to Kirsty. Not Kirsty.
She shook her head, refusing to believe. It wasn't happening. It hadn't happened. It was only a nightmare--it had to be. But she could not dispel the dreadful certainty. Kirsty was dead.
No use questioning it; no use doubting it. The knowledge was there in the loneliness of her mind, in the emptiness of her heart. The togetherness she had known all her life, the special togetherness that only identical twins knew and shared, was gone.
Why had it happened? Why? Kirsty was so young, so vital. The need to know drove Karen's finger on down the page. Owen Chissolm could find out faster than anyone; he had the power and the contacts. She found the number and dialled. It was an agonising length of time before her call was answered, and then she could barely drag out the necessary words.
'My name is Karen Aylward and I'm Kirsty Balfour's sister. I need to speak to Mr Owen Chissolm, please.'
'I'm sorry, madam. Mr Chissolm is unavailable. If you would telephone the television studio after nine o'clock, his secretary .. .'
Unavailable. The word rang hollowly around Karen's mind. 'I have to speak to him!' she cried in protest.
'I'm sorry, madam, that's not possible,' came the firm reply. 'If you'd like to leave a message .. .'
What could she say? If she blurted out that Kirsty was dead they would think it was a crank call. Impossible to explain how she knew. And no one was going to wake Owen Chissolm up at this hour of the night to deal with a crank call. It was futile even trying. Everything was futile. There was nothing she could do to help Kirsty now.
A raw, primitive cry broke from her throat as she put the telephone down. She wrapped her arms around her chest, holding in, wildly clinging on, every instinct clawing to keep what had been lost. Come back ... come back ... come back... The mindless chant went on and on and she rocked herself in timeto it. A beat of terrible need, unanswered.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her chest was tight with an agony that no tears could expel. She couldn't bear it--couldn't bear the loss, the loneliness, the emptiness, the pain. Nothing in her life had been as bad as this, not even the death of their parents. She and Kirsty had still had each other then. And when Barry had walked out on her marriage, it was Kirsty who had supported her then too. But Kirsty wasn't with her any more, and never would be again.
Karen had no awareness of walking through the house to David's room. The need to hold someone was compelling. Gently she lifted the bed-covers away from his body and picked him up, hugging him closely, cradling him against her shoulder as she wrapped a blanket around him.
'Mummy .. .' he complained drowsily.
SHe forced out soothing words. 'Hush, darling, it's all right. Mummy's got you.'
She carried him over to the rocking-chair and sat down. He snuggled around on her lap until he settled comfortably. The softness and warmth of his beautiful little body and the gentle rise and fall of his breathing somehow eased the pain of her loss to a tolerable level. But the tears kept coming, welling out of the black chasm which Kirsty had left behind.
And rage swelled out of Karen's grief. Why had Kirsty died? Where had Hal been when Kirsty had needed help? Why hadn't he been there to saveher?
And with all the force of her devastating loss a wave of hatred crested the rage. Six years Kirsty had given him, loving him and sharing his life, but Hal Chissolm had never offered her any protection or security. A man who loved a woman should look after her. The only permanence Kirsty had got from him was death. Damn him! Damn him to hell!
Karen's feet automatically set the chair rocking.
This was how she had nursed David to sleep when he was a new baby, and in the same way she had nursed him through hurts and upsets and sickness for three years. So now she nursed him through the long, dark hours of her grief, taking back from him the comfort she had always given.
Kirsty was dead, but Karen kept her alive in her mind, remembering. The daredevil tomboy, game for all manner of scrapes ... the schoolgirl stirring rebellion for the fun of it ... the university student throwing herself into every worthy cause on campus ... the globetrotting reporter who had to be where it was all happening ... her exciting sister, her adventurous sister, her beloved sister.
Some time before dawn Karen's tears dried up.
Her body was stiff from sitting in the one position and her arms ached from holding the child so closely to her. But she rocked on until the light of morning filtered through the curtains. Then quietly and smoothly she laid David back into his bed and walked out of his room. To stand alone.
She wondered if she could get some news from a radio station or a newspaper office, but common sense told her that Owen Chissolm would get the facts first. Hal would report back home, she thought bitterly, as the hatred surged back, gorging her throat. Hal Chissolm, the headline-maker, sending his stories back to Australia from all the trouble spots in the world. Kirsty would probably only be another headline to him-the hard, callous bastard!
Nine o'clock would come soon enough. She would wait. And she would insist on speaking to Owen Chissolm personally. After all, he was Kirsty's employer--had been Kirsty's employer, Karen corrected herself, gritting her teeth as another wave of grief hit her.
She dragged her feet out to the kitchen, made herself a cup of coffee and switched on the radio. She sat on the stool at the breakfast bar, her ears filtering out the music and the announcer's breakfast banter. She felt a vast, numb emptiness, but her mind was alert to any mention of the Middle East. There was none, not in the six o'clock or the seven o'clock news. She would have to stir herself shortly, ring the pre-school kindergarten and say she wouldn't be there today. Impossible to even think of going to work.
'Boo!'
Karen's head jerked up.
David giggled in triumph and ran to her for his morning kiss. Much to his delight she picked him up and whirled him around. Then she hugged him so hard he complained she was squeezing him.
'That's what you get for frightening me,' she chided, blinking back a stinging prickle of tears before loosening her embrace.
David's grin was full of playful mischief. 'I got you that time, didn't I, Mummy?'
'You surely did,' she agreed, loving him with a fierce mother-love.
He was so beautiful, with all the little-boy zest for life; always on the go, asking endless questions, wanting to see and hear and experience everything. He filled Karen's life, giving it a sense of satisfaction and achievement that no career could ever match. She had often worried whether Kirsty had ever regretted her decision to renounce motherhood. It was somethi.qg that Karen would never know now.
'I'm thirsty,' David informed her, wriggling to be set free.
Karen put him down. 'Milk or orange juice?'
'Juice.'
'Say please.'
'Please,' he repeated with a funny wrinkle of his nose.
Karen shook her head warningly. Sometimes she suspected that David was deliberately forgetful about his manners--as if he was playing a teasing game with her, or testing her out to see how far he could go. She smiled down at him as he downed his orange juice. She wished, quite savagely, he had not inherited his father's eyes. They were so distinctive, such a clear, silvery grey and thickly lashed. Other mothers had told Karen they were wasted on a boy. Except for that one feature he was her son through and through, even to the chestnut gleam in his brown hair.
'Is it painting today, Mummy?'
A bleakness cut through Karen's maternal thoughts. Today was not like every other day. Today was the first day of her life without Kirsty. 'We're not going to kindergarten today, David. We're going to play at home instead. You can paint if you like. Now let's go and get dressed, and then we'll have breakfast.'
David chattered on, oblivious to the dark emptiness in Karen's soul. Karen dressed him in his best play-clothes. For herself she chose a brown gaberdine skirt and a beige silk shirt. She pulled on a pair of tights and slid her feet into low-heeled, fashionable shoes. Her mind was assessing the possibilities as she brushed her thick, shoulder-length hair. She might have to go to the teievision studio. She had to see someone, do something positive.
'Are we going out?' asked David, eyeing her clothes hopefully.
The question was not unreasonable-usually Karen wore jeans around the house. She put down her hairbrush and took his hand. 'Perhaps. Ready for breakfast now? Would you like banana on your cornflakes?'
'Mmmh. Please.' He beamed at her to emphasise the 'please'.
A smile tugged at her mouth as he broke away to run ahead of her. He was so alive and could very easily become a cheeky little brat if she let him get away with too much.
He had climbed up on to her stool and picked a banana out of the fruit bowl by the time Karen reached the kitchen. He handed it to her and then set himself down at his own little table in the family room. It had been the breakfast room when Karen had been married to Barry, but she had cleared it to make a good play area for David. It was the brightest, sunniest room in the house. Most of David's toys resided in its cupboards and the walls were decorated with his artistic efforts. It also adjoined the kitchen, which made it handy for Karen to keep an eye on him when she was cooking.
She set his cornflakes in front of him and was intending to go and telephone the kindergarten when the doorbell shrilled its summons. Karen's heart contracted as her gaze lifted to the wall-clock. Seven fifty-two. Five and a Half hours. Would it be someone about Kirsty?
'David, I have to answer the door. Eat your breakfast and then play with your building blocks. Okay?' she said quickly, struggling to keep her voice steady and natural.
He nodded, his mouth already full of cornflakes. Karen shut the family room door behind her. David could open it by standing on his chair, but she wanted to discourage any impulsive move to follow her. It would be easier if he did not overhear anything about Kirsty's death. She would tell him in her own good time.
Be calm and dignified, she told herself sternly. The how and the why of Kirsty's death could not alter that fact. Just accept the news and find out what had to be done. She took a deep breath and opened the door with decisive swiftness.
She saw the shock in his eyes even while she fought to recover her own. Hal's father, Owen Chissolm himself. The media magnate's face was too well publicised for her to be mistaken, though this morning it seemed an older face, strained and greylooking.
Incredulity and a flicker of hope chased across his eyes. It took Karen a moment to realise what he was thinking ... that Kirsty was alive and well, standing there right in front of him. He was seeing her mirror-image; the thick, straight chestnut hair; the wide hazel eyes; the eyebrows with their offset arch; smooth, creamy skin, and the chin with the slight dimple ... all the features that belonged to Kirsty Balfour.
'I'm Karen Aylward, Mr Chissolm. Kirsty's sister,' she stated firmly.
He lifted a hand that trembled to his face. It was a curiously vulnerable gesture from such a powerful man. 'Forgive me. For some reason I had surmised you were a younger sister. I had no idea you were identical twins.'
Karen felt a twinge of compassion for him; he had shouldered an unenviable task. His hand dropped to his side and his shoulders squared into a stiff, dignified bearing. The pale blue eyes were washed with pain, but they met hers unflinchingly.
'I've come to see you about your sister. Please, may I come in?'
'Yes, of course.'
He frowned as he stepped inside. 'Is your husband home as well?'
Karen shut the door and turned to find Owen Chissolm looking distinctly ill at ease. 'I have no husband now, Mr Chissolm. We were divorced two years ago,' she said quietly.
Before she turned away to lead him into the living room, Karen got the oddest impression that Owen Chissolm had felt relief to learn that there was, no husband. Which seemed absurd. Karen shrugged off the idea; it was irrelevant.
'Please sit down.' She gestured to an armchair and seated herself on the sofa. Although she knew what was coming her nerves were stretched taut with the effort to stay composed.
Owen Chissolm did not sit down. He was a big man, over six feet tall and bulky. He wore a dark pinstriped suit, a white shirt and a red, grey and navy tie. His sombre clothes and the greyish tinge to his face robbed him of his much-vaunted colourful personality. He had been handsome in his youth, probably more handsome than his son. He could still be called striking with his strong features and thick, snowwhite hair. But he looked old this morning, old and sick and tired. He made a stiff, uneasy gesture.
'I don't come with good news, Mrs Aylward.', She held his gaze steadily. 'I know. You don't have to break it gently. I know Kirsty is dead, Mr Chissolm. I don't expect you to understand, but I. .. I felt her die early this morning. I tried to contact you then, but I was told you were unavailable. I would appreciate it if you'd just give me the facts.' Even as she spoke, Karen had to fight the grief she was controlling so rigidly.
Owen Chissolm stared at her for a long moment. before he sat down. He sank back into the chair and passed a hand across his forehead as if clearing his mind. 'It was a terrorist bomb. Not directed at anyone in particular, planted in a parked car across from the hotel where your sister .. .'
He paused and cleared his throat. So far he had recited the facts quietly and calmly but his voice shook a little as he continued. ' ... where your sister ... and my son ... were staying in Tel Aviv. Kirsty and Hal were leaving to go out for dinner. They'd just passed through the doors to the street. Kirsty was slightly ahead of Hal. She .. .'
'He's alive!' Karen could not control the surge of bitterness that drove her to her-feet. 'He's alive and Kirsty is dead. She was in front of him and she took the brunt of the explosion, didn't she?'
Owen Chissolm displayed no emotion. 'As far as I know my son is still alive, Mrs Aylward. A team of surgeons have been operating on him for some three hours now. There's a slight chance that he might live.'
Karen turned away, regretting her outburst. Her hatred of Hal Chissolm was shot into fragments by the realisation of his father's pain. Shame burnt scorching heat into her cheeks. 'I'm sorry,' she muttered, and dropped back on to the sofa. She stared down at her hands for a few fraught moments until suitable words formed in her mind.
'It was good of you to visit me personally when you must be ... so worried. I hope the operation is successful.' She sucked in a deep breath and plunged on. 'Can you tell me what I should do about ... about Kirsty?'
He did not answer. She glanced up to find a strange mixture of compassion and determination in his expression. 'Your sister lived for several minutes after the explosion.'
The memory of the pain and the frantic futility of those few minutes shadowed Karen's eyes. 'I know.'
Owen Chissolm cleared his throat, obviously discomfited by a knowledge he didn't understand. 'Mrs Aylward, Kirsty died in Hal's arms. She was able to speak to him before she died.' He paused, seemingly uncertain as to how best to continue. 'Even if Hal survives this operation, the doctors have warned that various complications can arise. He'll be on the critical list for some time. I've come to ask you to grant my son's most urgent request. Possibly his last request.'
The look in his eyes ... the question ... Suddenly Karen's stomach curled into knots.
'Hal wants to see his son.'
No! No, no, no! The scream rocketed around Karen's brain. Other questions darted into it. Why, Kirsty? Why did you tell him? It was a sacred trust between us. You vowed secrecy. Never to tell anyone, ever.
Owen Chissolm's eyes were boring into her, watching, waiting. 'Kirsty told him before she died that they had a son, and the boy was with you.'
...
suaba