A Stranger's Wife Read online

  “You don’t sound as though you particularly like her.”

  He shrugged. “I hardly know her. I just don’t admire the parasites of the world, especially the beautiful ones who use people.”

  “But she’s doing this in order to see her dying brother. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  “Yeah, I suppose her motives, this time at least, aren’t completely selfish.”

  “If you checked my situation, I suppose you know I’m hanging on by my fingernails. I’m trying to pay off debts. I wouldn’t want my creditors to think I’ve skipped out, too. I’d need time to contact them, and the people I work for, to ask for time off.”

  “You’re only going to be gone a couple of days. There’s no need to contact creditors. You’ll be back before they miss you. You can call in sick, or plead a family emergency to the caterer and the movie theater.”

  Meg played with her teaspoon. Doubts nagged, but refused to coalesce into rational objections. “All right,” she said at length. “I’m probably crazy, but I’ll do it.”

  “Before you leave I’ll need your husband’s social security number, driver’s license number if you know it, credit card numbers, a picture, general description and anything else you can think of that would help a search—names of any family and friends, for instance.”

  He glanced at his watch. “It’s after midnight. Maybe I’d better walk you home.” A faint grin plucked at his mouth. “We wouldn’t want any stalkers following you, would we?”

  WATCHING AS THE PI and the woman left the coffee shop, the man in the shadows nodded to himself, satisfied that all was going according to plan. Yes, he thought, she’ll do nicely. And since she’s alone in the world, she won’t be missed after she’s served her purpose.

  Chapter Two

  Meg caught a glimpse of her reflection in a window as she walked into LAX with Mike Aragon.

  The stranger she had become wore a casually elegant cream linen pantsuit and soft kidskin shoes, which, although brand-new, were luxuriously comfortable, even on her right foot. The nape of her neck felt strange minus her mop of hair, and the unaccustomed jewelry felt awkward, heavy. Having her hair shorn to within a couple of inches of her scalp had been less traumatic than the bleaching process. She’d closed her eyes and assured herself it would all grow out.

  Mike Aragon wheeled a cart bearing monogrammed leather suitcases. She hadn’t seen the contents; there’d been no time. In her shoulder bag was what appeared to be the real Rhea Chastain’s passport, credit cards Meg didn’t expect to use, and a bundle of cash. There was also a gold cigarette case and matching lighter.

  “But I don’t smoke,” she’d protested to Aragon.

  “Rhea’s been trying to quit—Chastain hates the habit,” he’d replied laconically.

  “I don’t know enough about her,” Meg fretted, as the enormity of what she was doing hit home.

  “You’ve got the prepared speech I gave you. Memorize it on the plane. Other than that, smile a lot.”

  He led her to the first-class check-in and she was asked for photo ID. Handing over Rhea’s passport, she held her breath until the clerk returned passport and ticket and wished her a pleasant flight. The monogrammed suitcases disappeared down the conveyor belt, en route to San Juan. From there she’d fly in a private jet to St. Maarten.

  “I’ll walk you to the gate,” Aragon said. “You don’t have much time before your flight leaves.”

  She walked beside him in silence, fighting an urge to turn and run. A couple of passing flight attendants—female—gave him appreciative glances. Must be those shoulders, Meg thought.

  When they reached her gate, he turned to her. “Well, good luck. The weekend should be a piece of cake. The money in your purse is your advance—you’ll get the rest when I meet your return flight on Monday.”

  “How can I be sure you’ll be here?” she asked nervously.

  “I’ll be here. I don’t get my final payment until then, either. But if you’re worried, this may reassure you.” He handed her an envelope.

  Inside was a receipt for a five-hundred-dollar retainer to be applied to a search for one Harold Lindley, formerly of Lindley Catering of Los Angeles, signed and dated by A. Michael Aragon, Licensed Private Investigator, with a Santa Ana address, and phone and fax numbers.

  “Good luck, Mrs. Chastain. See you Monday.”

  In the instant before she started down the concourse, Meg noticed a muscular man standing at one of the pay telephones, looking over his shoulder at her. Their eyes met for only a second, but there was something chilling and malevolent about the way the man’s flat gray stare flickered over her. Meg felt another qualm as it occurred to her that the woman she was impersonating had a circle of friends, relatives, acquaintances... and possibly, enemies.

  MEG HAD EXPECTED smiling, dusky-skinned islanders to meet her in St. Maarten, and was ashamed of her own ignorance when her driver—a freckled, red-haired young man—greeted her by saying, “Welcome to two countries, Madame Chastain...Holland and France. We will drive through Phillipsburg, the Dutch capital, and then proceed to Le Marigot, which is the French capital.”

  “I’ve had a long flight,” Meg said. “I’d like to leave any sight-seeing until tomorrow, after tonight’s grand opening. Perhaps we should go straight to the hotel?”

  “Oui, madame—but the route I mention is on the way. I merely thought you would like to know where you are going, and naturally, if you have any questions I would be pleased to answer them. I was born here, you see.”

  Feeling both wilted and chastened, Meg followed him to a waiting car—a French model she couldn’t identify.

  They left the quaint town and followed the coast, the car window framing lovely secluded coves, sparkling water and emerald foliage splashed with vivid blossoms.

  Glancing at her in his rear view mirror—somewhat disdainfully, Meg felt—her driver remarked, “When we reach Orient Bay, you will see the French Riviera of the Caribbean. There are no finer white-sand beaches anywhere in the world.”

  Jet lag, added to tension and fatigue, was beginning to catch up with Meg. She hadn’t slept the previous night, and was five hours out of sync with California time. She would have to be careful not to limp when she emerged from the car. She tended to favor her right foot when she was tired.

  Her driver hadn’t exaggerated the beauty of the beaches, which were fringed by coconut palms and sea grapes. She blinked as several bare-breasted women strolled nonchalantly by. Then the car drew to a halt on a wide brick driveway beside a trellis trailing purple bougainvillea.

  Waiting to greet her was a short, compact man, dressed in a white shirt, bow tie, a dark jacket and gray-striped trousers. His attire looked uncomfortably hot and formal, a sharp contrast to the bare-breasted tourists on the beach.

  The red-haired driver opened the car door, and Meg stepped out into warm, humid air.

  “Welcome, welcome, Madame Chastain. May I address you as Madame Rhea, since our lovely ‘otel is named for you?” The short man bustled forward, took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Andre Ducane, at your service. This way, s’il vous plaît.”

  Ducane. The hotel manager, she reminded herself. He led her into a marble-floored lobby filled with white rattan furniture, bright chintz pillows and a veritable jungle of plants.

  “Your suite is ready, madame,” Ducane said. “I am sure you will wish to rest until the opening ceremony, which will begin at sunset. I have taken the liberty of ordering a light meal for you.”

  “Please, no food,” Meg said quickly.

  Ducane looked hurt. “But the chef as prepared your favorite.”

  Meg gave him a weak smile. Rhea’s favorite what? The prospect of tonight’s dinner loomed ever more menacingly. Why hadn’t she thought to ask about Rhea’s preferences? Was she knowledgeable about wines? What if she slipped up and exhibited a caterer’s know-how of food and wine—would that give the game away?

  The Hotel Rhea consisted of individual b
ungalows set into the verdant hillside. Each bungalow had its own terrace and small pool, complete with jacuzzi. All would have a spectacular view of the indigo ocean. Lobby, lounges, banquet and exercise rooms were housed in a long, low brick building softened by lush plantings.

  Ducane and a pair of bellhops carrying her luggage hovered nervously as she was shown into her bungalow, and she realized they were expecting her to inspect every inch of the luxuriously appointed suite of rooms.

  Her feet all but disappeared in the thick carpeting of the living room, which was fragrant with masses of fresh flowers. Baskets of fruit and boxes of French chocolates were also liberally scattered throughout. A bottle of champagne was chilling in an ice bucket next to a three-tiered dish of petit fours.

  She walked into the bedroom, which was dominated by an enormous circular bed covered with a satin spread. A quick glance into the adjacent bathroom revealed gold fixtures, a sunken marble tub, a separate shower and more flowers.

  French doors opened to a terrace. Frosty drinks were set out on an umbrella-covered table, and delicate white flower petals floated on the surface of the pool.

  “Very nice,” Meg told Ducane inadequately. “Now if you’ll excuse me...”

  The manager looked disappointed, and Meg wondered if she should have offered tips, despite Mike’s instructing her that the owner’s wife would not do so. Perhaps Ducane had been expecting more lavish words of praise for his efforts?

  He quickly ushered the bellhops out of the room.

  Meg exhaled slowly.

  CITING SHORTAGE of time and Meg’s need for a lengthy session in a beauty salon, Mike Aragon had asked for her dress and shoe sizes, and Rhea had provided clothes for the trip—so unpacking proved to be interesting.

  Rhea’s taste in clothes apparently ran mainly to tailored trousers and shorts. One suitcase yielded silk-and-lace underwear, two sheer nightgowns with matching peignoirs and three thong bikinis. It seemed overkill for a two-day trip.

  After she showered and washed her hair, she dressed in fitted white satin leggings and a matching tunic decorated with tiny seed pearls. In Meg’s mind, any further jewelry was unnecessary, but Mike Aragon had instructed her to wear outsize gold-and-pearl earrings, a matching necklace and trio of bracelets.

  Meg thought that psychologists might have an interesting take on the man-tailored suits worn over feminine underwear, not to mention the excess of jewelry.

  She winced as she unpacked spike-heeled rhinestone-studded evening sandals, and hoped she’d be able to make it through the party without limping. The evening clothes were such a far cry from the day wear; she wondered if husband Jake had selected the satin outfit for his grand opening.

  When she was dressed, except for the sandals, she noted that, as usual, she was ready way too early. She went out onto the terrace to study Rhea’s speech, but her mind soon wandered. She realized then that this was the first time since Hal had left her that she’d had a moment to sit and think.

  She was stunned by the wave of pain that washed over her. Hadn’t she put behind her, months ago, all the denial and the rage and the grieving? But no, it came rushing back—from the day she returned from taking a wedding order to find Hal and all his clothes gone, to the frantic phone calls, the rationalizations, the fruitless searches, the midnight tears, the humiliation of seeing her house and car repossessed.

  If only Hal at least had talked to her first, or left a note or phoned.

  “No!” she said aloud, sharply. No more agonizing. It doesn’t help. Determinedly she picked up the prepared speech again, but the words blurred.

  As the setting sun splashed the sky with vermilion and gold, the manager tapped on her door and announced it was time for her to accompany him to the lobby for the opening ceremonies.

  Meg was glad of his short strides as she hobbled on the high heels. Aragon had not briefed her on whether the guests had been checked in prior to the ribbon-cutting, but she presumed they had, since it would have placed a damper on the party if they had to stop the festivities to register.

  When she reached the lobby, she saw that the terrace beyond was crowded with dinner-jacketed men, women in designer evening dresses, and waiters dispensing champagne and hors d‘oeuvres.

  A wide red ribbon had been draped across the entrance, and a flower-bedecked dais was positioned behind the ribbon. Surveying the scene, Meg felt panic rise in her throat. She couldn’t remember her speech, indeed had never spoken in public before. Hadn’t she read somewhere that public speaking was the number-one fear of the entire population of the world?

  Ducane led her to the dais and she saw an outsize pair of silver scissors nestled amid the flowers. He rang a bell and the guests fell silent.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor and privilege to present Madame Rhea Chastain, whose name graces our magnificent hotel. Please, let us welcome her to the St. Maarten Hotel Rhea....”

  Polite applause greeted her as she wobbled up to the dais. She cleared her throat. “Good evening, ladies and gentleman. I am so happy to be here with you...” Her mouth was dry, the prepared speech completely forgotten.

  The sea of faces blurred, receded, returned. “This is the finest of all the Chastain hotels and my husband and I want to thank you all for coming...” What am I supposed to say next?

  She swallowed. The pause lengthened.

  People were staring curiously now, and at least one pair of eyes seemed hostile. Their owner, a waiter with a sun-streaked ponytail, moved away quickly when he realized that she was looking in his direction.

  “I...I know that the Hotel Rhea will be the jewel of my husband’s hotels...” Meg stammered. “I am delighted to welcome you all...”

  At the far side of the terrace, a tall, dark-haired man in a black dinner jacket emerged from behind a cluster of potted palms. The latecomer stood still, staring at her with eyes as dark as obsidian, a faintly mocking smile hovering about his sensually full lips.

  The dark-haired man’s stare was the last straw. Completely unnerved now, Meg grabbed the scissors and approached the ribbon. Flashbulbs exploded as she snipped the ribbon, then handed the scissors to Ducane. Suddenly she found herself holding a glass of champagne, engulfed by people offering congratulations and good wishes.

  She hadn’t eaten since breakfast on the plane, and the first sips of champagne caused her head to swim. Minutes passed as she responded to the compliments of the guests.

  Then all at once the crowd fell back, and the dark-haired man stepped forward. She saw now that his features were lean, chiseled, and his dark eyes were hooded, the kind of eyes she imagined should belong to a hypnotist—or maybe a Mafia hit man.

  He didn’t smile at her. He simply walked up to her and took her in his arms, bent her backward over an arm that felt like a steel coil, and kissed her full on the mouth—a long, intimate kiss that forced her lips apart, his tongue insinuating itself between her teeth.

  When he finally released her, she was too breathless to speak, or even react. She realized then that the surrounding guests were laughing and applauding wildly, and that Ducane was jumping up and down, unable to conceal his glee.

  “Surprise, surprise!” Ducane exclaimed. “I swear my staff to secrecy. Madame ‘ad no idea that you would be coming, M’sieur Chastain. Ah, it is so romantic that now you spend your second ‘oneymoon in our beautiful ’otel!”

  M’sieur Chastain. Jake Chastain.

  Rhea’s husband, who was supposed to be in London.

  CARRYING A TRAY of hors d‘oeuvres and moving inconspicuously among the guests, the pony tailed waiter was as startled as Meg by the appearance of Jake Chastain. Something had obviously gone wrong. Discarding his tray, the man headed for the nearest phone to report to his boss.

  Chapter Three

  Jake Chastain snapped his fingers, and a trio of musicians magically appeared. They began to play a throbbing rhumba.

  Taking Meg’s hand, Jake said, “Shall we dance?”

  Meg felt color f
lood her face. She had no idea how to dance, especially not a Latin number. She thought rapidly and then said, “I—twisted my ankle.”

  He glanced down at her slender ankles above the spike-heeled sandals, and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  She said quickly, “It isn’t bad...I mean, I can walk okay, but I was hoping to sit down soon.”

  For an interminable moment he stared at her, and she held her breath. Ducane and the other guests were still close enough to overhear their conversation; otherwise, she might have been tempted to blurt out there and then that she was not his wife.

  Jake slipped his hand under her elbow. “Then let’s find a place for you to sit, angel.” Was there a touch of mockery in his tone? Meg wished she knew.

  He led her to one of the chintz-cushioned rattan sofas. When she was seated, he bent down to unfasten her sandals, then slip them off. “Which ankle? Neither seems swollen.”

  Her cheeks flaming now, Meg answered automatically, “The right,” then immediately wondered if he would be able to detect that it was not his wife’s foot that he was holding and gently massaging.

  She said, “Please...it’s nothing. I wouldn’t have mentioned it, except I didn’t think I could dance.”

  Jake straightened. His movements were smooth, effortless, and she sensed he would be a wonderful dancer. Absurdly, she felt a twinge of regret that she’d never learned to dance. Self-consciously, she began to slip her feet back into the sandals.

  “Leave them off,” Jake ordered. “You’ll twist your ankle again if you try to walk in those ridiculous things.”

  So much for the theory that Jake selected the outfit, Meg thought.

  “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll go and find some flats for you to wear.”

  Scooping up the evening sandals in one sinuous movement, he was gone before she could speak.