A Stranger's Wife Page 12

  Five minutes later Meg decided she would have to go back to the table and make another excuse to return to the rest room later. Spilled wine, perhaps.

  Jake rose and pulled out her chair for her. He made no comment about her lengthy absence, but when they were seated he said, “Capri, remember?”

  “Jake, why can’t we forget the past?”

  “Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.”

  Wishing she could read what was behind his enigmatic gaze, Meg didn’t respond. He looked both handsome and slightly sinister tonight. He wore a dark silk shirt and charcoal-gray suit, and women in the restaurant glanced repeatedly in his direction. He seemed oblivious as he fixed his gaze on Meg.

  Mercifully, at that moment, their first course arrived. Meg ate, but had no idea what she was eating. Jake evidently decided to let the subject of their visit to Capri drop. She wondered what could have happened there. She would have to remember to tell Rhea how persistently he spoke of Capri.

  Jake raised his glass. “Shall we toast new beginnings?”

  They touched wineglasses.

  He said, “You haven’t demanded any conciliations from me. Surely you have some?”

  “I’ll compile a list later.”

  The tension easing, he grinned.

  At 8:30 she nudged her wineglass and managed to spill a little into her lap, then quickly excused herself.

  The ladies’ room was again vacant. After ten minutes she had no choice but to return to Jake.

  He said, “That weekend in Capri had been perfect, right up until the moment you disappeared.”

  Meg bit her lip. “Did it ever occur to you that perhaps I needed to be alone for a little while?”

  A sudden gleam in his eyes disconcerted her, but he didn’t bring up the weekend in Capri again.

  Somehow Meg got through the meal, refused dessert and suggested they leave. “I’ll just wash my hands while you take care of the check,” she said, and made a final run for the rest room.

  An elderly woman was washing her hands. Meg stood beside her, rummaging through her purse, and covertly examining the other woman’s reflection in the mirror, wondering if Rhea could have disguised herself to that extent. The woman glanced at her, smiled and departed.

  More minutes dragged by.

  So Rhea wasn’t coming after all.

  Jake was waiting at the door, and they went outside. Clouds were obscuring the stars and the moon hadn’t risen.

  The parking lot, a narrow strip curling around the edge of the cliff, was almost full and dimly lit. The subdued lighting suggested that the proprietor wanted patrons to admire the distant lights across the bay rather than the rows of parked cars. The small family-owned restaurant did not use valet parking.

  Afterward Meg wasn’t sure what caught her attention—an alien sound, the shadow that suddenly rose up over the hood of a car scant feet away from them, or perhaps a split-second reflection of light on the barrel of a raised gun.

  She screamed, “Jake! Look out!” at the same instant that he grabbed her and flung her to the ground.

  As she went down, her head struck a concrete curb, stars exploded and then she was spinning into a black void.

  WHEN MEG OPENED her eyes, she was lying on a hospital bed and Jake was sitting beside her, massaging her hand. She could hear the bustle of activity beyond a curtain around the bed and realized she was in a hospital. Her head throbbed and she had trouble focusing her eyes.

  Jake gave her a reassuring smile that didn’t quite disguise the worry in his eyes. “You’ve a nasty bump on your temple and the doctors want you to stay overnight, in case you have a concussion. I’m sorry I didn’t see that chunk of concrete when I pushed you down.”

  “Are you all right? You weren’t hurt?” Her voice was hoarse.

  “No, I wasn’t hit. Although as close as the shooter was, I don’t know how he missed. Unfortunately, he got away.”

  Meg explored her forehead, her tentative touch connecting with what felt like a golf-ball-size lump. “You didn’t see who it was?”

  “No.”

  She was assailed by a wave of acute weariness and closed her eyes.

  Jake’s voice, sounding far away, said, “I’ll stay with you. I’m going to have to wake you up every couple of hours to make sure you aren’t unconscious...”

  SITTING BESIDE his wife’s hospital bed, Jake gently stroked her hair and silently fumed over his failure to protect her. When he’d gathered her limp body into his arms, unsure if she had been struck by one of the bullets fired at them, he had felt an agonizing fear like none he had ever known.

  Racing to the hospital, he had prayed as he had never prayed before, making extravagant bargains with the Almighty, Let Rhea live, please let her live, and I’ll do anything... even give her up. if I have to...

  The harried E.R. doctor had quickly assured him that she had not been shot, but looked at him dubiously and commented, “Nasty blow to the head, concussion maybe. What happened?”

  Jake knew that if he disclosed what had really happened, he would be facing reporters before morning. He hadn’t seen the shooter, nor even the shooter’s car, and both would be long gone. A police report seemed pointless. He would have his own security people look into it, possibly check on disgruntled ex-employees, although in these days of random violence the would-be assassin could have been a complete stranger.

  He told the doctor that she had tripped in a poorly lit parking lot and struck her head, which was more or less true.

  Rhea stirred and moaned softly, and he whispered, “I’m here. You’re safe now. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  When her breathing indicated that she was resting peacefully, he bent over and kissed her cheek lightly. Then he picked up her hand and drew it to his lips.

  Oh, Rhea, if only you hadn’t been playing a part these past few days...if only you’d been play-acting all those previous months. If only we’d met for the first time in St. Maarten. Could a leopard really change its spots? How he wanted to believe in miracles. But the shooting tonight changed everything. Just what was she involved in?

  And why had his mentioning Capri make her look like a deer caught in headlights? She acted as if she couldn’t remember being there.

  He looked at her bandaged brow, the seed of an idea growing. Perhaps she really didn’t remember? Was it possible she’d suffered some sort of memory loss? Or was he clutching at straws?

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Jake, unshaven and grim-faced, checked Meg out of the hospital.

  Meg, who had a fierce headache and felt queasy, decided she would confess her deception the moment they were alone. But as they emerged from the hospital, a Rolls-Royce driven by Mason glided to a stop.

  Jake opened the rear door. “Mason will take you home, Rhea. I’ll see you after a while.”

  “But...can’t you come, too? You’ve been up all night.”

  “I’ve a few things to do. I’ll try to get back in time for lunch, but don’t count on it. And Rhea...”

  “Yes?”

  “Better not mention last night’s incident to Jess.”

  He closed the door, and Mason pulled away. Meg had never ridden in a Rolls before and wished she felt better so she could truly appreciate the superb comfort of a car that seemed to float soundlessly above the road.

  She stared at the back of the butler’s head. His silver hair was as sleek as a steel helmet. He didn’t speak until after the Rolls was parked in front of the house and he came around to open her door.

  “Perhaps if madam is still feeling unsteady she would care to take my arm?”

  “I’m fine,” Meg began, then she caught sight of a familiar figure lurking near the terrace. “Mason, that gardener over there—the one with the blond ponytail—what’s his name?”

  He followed the direction of her glance. “Why, madam, that’s the man you hired yourself a few weeks ago. Have you forgotten?”

  “I’ve forgotten his name,” Meg said.

&nbs
p; “I’ve heard the head gardener call him Rick, madam. Did you wish to speak with him?”

  “No. Go ahead and put the car in the garage. I can get myself into the house.”

  Once inside, Meg went straight up to the bedroom and called Mike. Again he didn’t pick up, nor did his machine.

  She drummed her fingers on the desk. Where was he?

  It seemed that Mike’s evaluation of the situation had been correct, after all, although Meg hated to admit it. Rhea had lured them into an ambush last night. Now Meg wanted the private investigator at her side to answer Jake’s questions when she told of their deception.

  Meg was still wearing the black cocktail dress from the previous evening, so decided to shower and change. After her shower she slipped on pants and shirt, then called Mike again, with the same result.

  Recalling that his card had listed a Santa Ana address, she decided to drive over to his office. If Jake showed up while she was gone, it couldn’t be helped. She needed Mike to back up her story.

  She had memorized his phone number, but couldn’t recall his address. His card was in the handbag she’d been using before switching to the beaded purse the previous evening, and she had left it on a closet shelf.

  The handbag felt heavier than she remembered it being. Snapping it open, she stared disbelievingly.

  A small handgun nestled amid the familiar objects.

  Her heart pounding, Meg let the bag slip from her fingers. It landed with a soft thud, and she reflexively drew back.

  Having no knowledge of guns, Meg didn’t know how to check to see if it was loaded. In either case, she didn’t dare leave it behind. Picking up the bag, she carefully slipped the strap over her shoulder and went downstairs.

  Mason was crossing the hall, and she said to him, “Will you get a car out of the garage for me, please? Not the Rolls.”

  He hesitated. “I believe Mr. Chastain mentioned you should take it easy today, madam.”

  “I won’t need you to drive. Please bring a car to the front door.”

  Mason frowned, obviously reluctant to disregard Jake’s instructions.

  She stared him down. The weight of the bag on her shoulder seemed unbearable. She would not have asked him to bring a car had she known where the car keys were kept

  “Your Mercedes, madam?” the butler inquired at length.

  “Yes, please get it immediately.”

  Mason finally did as he was asked, and minutes later brought a cream Mercedes from the garage, and parking it—the engine running and keys in the ignition—in front of the house. She could feel Rick the gardener watching her climb into the car and drive away.

  Meg drove carefully, observing the speed limit. Glancing at the bag on the seat beside her, she hoped she wouldn’t attract the attention of any cruising squad cars. She didn’t know much about guns, but she did know it was against the law to carry a concealed weapon.

  She had expected the address in Santa Ana to be an office building, but found herself in an older residential neighborhood hemmed in on all sides by freeways.

  So, Mike operated out of his house, which proved to be a twenties-style stucco bungalow set back from the street by a wide lawn and shaded by mature trees. She could see a couple of newspapers on the front porch, and the mailbox was overflowing.

  For a moment she sat in the car, staring at the house, a sick premonition immobilizing her.

  Finally she picked up her bag and got out of the car. She stepped over the newspapers and rang the doorbell.

  Waiting, she wished she’d enquired as to the name of his friend on the force. Could Mike have been abruptly summoned out of town? If so, why hadn’t he let her know? Why had his answering machine been turned off?

  The front door remained closed, but as she pressed her ear close, she could hear a ragtime tune playing inside. Perhaps Mike hadn’t heard the doorbell? Could he be asleep inside?

  She walked around to the rear of the house, and found herself in a forest of trees. The back door was almost obscured by an orange tree laden with fruit. There was a glass panel in the door, and she peered through it.

  Meg’s heart leapt into her mouth and ice flowed through her veins. She gripped the door to try to keep the world from spinning away from her.

  The slightly grimy glass panel offered a clear view of a kitchen, and she could see Mike’s body, sprawled on his back on the floor, his eyes wide and staring, and a dark stain surrounding his head.

  There was no doubt that he was dead.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Heart pounding, Meg stared in horror at the motionless body of the investigator, a part of her willing him to get up and walk to the door even as rational thought told her Mike would never walk anywhere again.

  Oh, dear God, no, please no! Had she uttered the words aloud? She jammed her fist against her teeth to keep from screaming.

  She felt rooted to the spot, unable to tear her eyes away, despite waves of shock-induced nausea washing over her. She realized that she was panting, as if she’d been running, and forced herself to wrench her gaze from the blood-spattered room.

  Turning away, she leaned back weakly against the kitchen door.

  Her first instinct was to run to a neighbor’s house and call 911. But then she remembered the gun in her purse. That pool of dark blood under Mike’s head could have come from blunt-force trauma, but it also could have come from a bullet. What if she were carrying the gun that had killed the investigator?

  Meg scarcely remembered jumping into the car and driving away. The image of Mike’s body with his staring eyes eclipsed everything else. She had liked Mike, he’d been honest and decent, in spite of the clandestine nature of his profession.

  She felt adrift, unsure what to do or where to go. There was a cellular phone in the car and she thought of calling the police, but then they would trace her call, and how could she possibly explain her part in this to them? Especially since she hadn’t yet told Jake.

  Her head ached and her thoughts were a confused jumble of impressions from two very different lives that had converged with tragic consequences.

  Mike had been the only one able to confirm her story, but all she had from him was a receipt for a retainer hiring him to locate her missing husband.

  Perhaps he had a file detailing the case? Still in a state of shock, Meg wasn’t sure if that would be a good thing or not. What had Mike suggested—about a bad twin wanting to take the good twin’s place? That story now sounded more plausible than hers.

  When Meg’s racing thoughts took her back to the previous night’s shooting at the restaurant, she decided that before she did anything else she had to make a full confession to Jake.

  She headed for his house.

  JAKE WAS PACING back and forth on the terrace when she arrived. He ran to the car and opened her door.

  Sweeping her into his arms, he said, “You shouldn’t be driving yourself. Why didn’t you let Mason take you wherever you wanted to go? I’ve been going out of my mind worrying about you. Where were you?”

  She looked up at him helplessly, unsure where to begin.

  He gripped her shoulders and held her at arm’s length, staring at her. “Who are you?”

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see Rick the gardener peering from behind one of the bushes. “Not here,” Meg said. “Let’s go inside.”

  Jake kept his arm around her, almost as if he were afraid she would slip away again. He led her to a ground-floor room that was obviously his study.

  Meg had a quick impression of a handsome mahogany desk, several leather wing chairs, bookcases, a computer. She sank into the nearest chair.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Jake asked.

  “A glass of water, please.”

  Jake pressed a button on the paneled wall behind the desk and a small bar, complete with sink and refrigerator, appeared.

  Meg tried to collect her thoughts, as Jake dropped ice cubes into a glass and filled it with water. Handing her the glass, he per
ched on the edge of his desk, regarding her with genuine concern.

  “Rhea, I know the blow to your head last night probably added to your confusion, but I’m convinced something else happened to you after I left for London. Ever since I surprised you in St. Maarten, you’ve been acting almost like someone in a state of fugue.”

  “Jake, let me explain—”

  “Before you do, I’m going to ask you to be honest and truthful. We both know you haven’t always been. Tell me, are you aware of your apparent lapses of memory lately?”

  “I haven’t lost my memory.”

  “No? Then why did you pretend you couldn’t remember that weekend in Capri? Rhea, that was the only stress-free time we’ve spent together since we were married. But every time I tried to recapture the mood when we were in St. Maarten, you withdrew. I’ll admit to a little deception last night when I asked why you disappeared in Capri, just to test my theory that perhaps you’re suffering some slight amnesia... Rhea, you never disappeared. We were together every minute. But you don’t remember, do you?”

  Meg drew a deep breath. “No, I don’t...because I was never in Capri with you. Jake, I’m so sorry—if I’d known what was going to happen I never would have agreed to this masquerade.”

  His dark eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m not your wife. I’m not Rhea. I’m her twin sister. My name is Meg Lindley.”

  Conflicting emotions registered on Jake’s face, culminating in one of disbelief.

  “Twin? A nice story, Rhea, but you don’t have a twin. I checked on your background pretty thoroughly before we were married. I’m not proud of being suspicious, but the corporate lawyers insisted. Sloan is your only sibling and you aren’t even blood-related to him. You were both adopted by the Pensbys.”

  Meg said quickly, “After she married you, Rhea decided to search for her biological mother. Apparently she didn’t tell you. When she learned about me, she didn’t tell me either. I didn’t find out until I came here and discovered a letter from the adoption agency...Jake, you have to let me start at the beginning.”