the Third Twin (1996)

In his gaze she saw profound longing. This man yearned for her with all his being. It turned her on. Her passion blew up like a sudden wind from the south, hot and tempestuous. She felt the sensation of melting in her loins that she had not had for a year and a half. She wanted everything all at once, his body on top of her and his tongue in her mouth and his hands everywhere.

She held his head and pulled his face to her and kissed him again, this time with her mouth open wide. She leaned backward on the couch until he was half lying on her, his weight crushing her chest. Eventually she pushed him away, panting, and said: “Bedroom.”

She untangled herself from him and went into the bedroom ahead of him. She pulled her sweater over her head and threw it on the floor. He came into the room and closed the door behind him with his heel. Seeing her undressing, he took off his T-shirt with one swift movement.

They all do that, she thought; they all close the door with their heel.

He pulled off his shoes, unbuckled his belt, and took off his blue jeans. His body was perfect, broad shoulders and a muscular chest and narrow hips in white Jockey shorts.

But which one is he?

He moved toward her and she took two steps back.

The man on the phone said: “He could visit you again.”

He frowned. “What’s the matter?”

She was suddenly scared. “I can’t do this,” she said.

He took a deep breath and blew hard. “Wow,” he said. He looked away. “Wow.”

She crossed her arms on her chest, covering her breasts. “I don’t know who you are.”

Comprehension dawned. “Oh, my God.” He sat on the bed with his back to her, and his big shoulders slumped dispiritedly. But it could have been an act. “You think I’m the one you met in Philadelphia.”

“I thought he was Steve.”

“But why would he pretend to be me?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“He wouldn’t just do it in the hope of a sly fuck,” he said. “My doubles have peculiar ways of getting their kicks, but this isn’t one of them. If he wanted to fuck you he’d pull a knife on you, or rip your stockings, or set fire to the building, wouldn’t he?”

“I got a phone call,” Jeannie said shakily. “Anonymous. He said: ‘The one you met in Philadelphia was supposed to kill you. He got carried away and messed up. But he could visit you again.’ That’s why you have to leave, now.” She snatched up her sweater from off the floor and pulled it on hastily. It did not make her feel any safer.

There was sympathy in his gaze. “Poor Jeannie,” he said. “The bastards have scared you good. I’m sorry.” He stood up and pulled on his jeans.

Suddenly she felt sure she was wrong. The Philadelphia clone, the rapist, would never start dressing again in this situation. He would throw her on the bed and tear off her clothes and try to take her by force. This man was different. This was Steve. She felt an almost irresistible desire to fling her arms around him and make love to him. “Steve …”

He smiled. “That’s me.”

But was this the aim of his act? When he had won her confidence, and they were naked in bed, and he was lying on top of her, would he change and reveal his true nature, the nature that loved to see women in fear and pain? She shuddered with dread.

It was no good. She averted her eyes. “You’d better go,” she said.

“You could question me,” he said.

“All right. Where did I first meet Steve?”

“At the tennis court.”

It was the right answer. “But both Steve and the rapist were at JFU that day.”

“Ask me something else.”

“How many cinnamon buns did Steve eat on Friday morning?”

He grinned. “Eight, I’m ashamed to say.”

She shook her head despairingly. “This place could be bugged. They’ve searched my office and downloaded my E-mail, they could be listening to us now. It’s no good. I don’t know Steve Logan that well, and what I do know, others might know too.”

“I guess you’re right,” he said, putting his T-shirt back on.

He sat on the bed and put on his shoes. She went into the living room, not wanting to stand in the bedroom and watch him dress. Was this a terrible mistake? Or was it the smartest move she had ever made? She felt a bereft ache in her loins; she had wanted so badly to make love to Steve. Yet the thought that she might have found herself in bed with someone like Wayne Stattner made her shaky with fear.

He came in, fully dressed. She looked into his eyes, searching for something there, some sign that would assuage her doubts, but she did not find it. I don’t know who you are, I just don’t know!

He read her mind. “It’s no use, I can tell. Trust is trust, and when it’s gone, it’s gone.” He let his resentment show for a moment. “What a downer, what a motherfucking downer.”

His anger scared her. She was strong, but he was stronger. She wanted him out of the apartment, and fast.

He sensed her urgency. “Okay, I’m leaving,” he said. He went to the door. “You realize he wouldn’t leave.” She nodded.