A Stranger's Wife Read online

  Meg stared after him, her thoughts racing. He must have known she was not Rhea. The way he touched her ankle, that kiss... Her cheeks grew hot again. How could he not know? But he hadn’t said anything. No doubt, like her, he didn’t want to make a scene in front of the hotel guests and staff.

  In the back of her mind an intriguing question posed itself. What if he actually believes I’m Rhea? After all, the likeness was amazing, especially since the makeover. What if she could maintain the masquerade until she could call Mike Aragon and have him contact Rhea in San Francisco so she could fly out here and switch places with her?

  Even the slightest chance that she could pull off the impersonation until Rhea arrived tempted Meg to try it. The whole point of the deception was to keep Jake from finding out she’d gone to visit her brother, and Meg was being handsomely rewarded to make sure that didn’t happen.

  She decided to adopt a wait-and-see policy. If, as soon as they were alone, he asked her who she was and what she had done with his wife, then she’d simply have to tell him the truth. But if he didn’t...

  A prickly, someone-is-watching feeling made her turn her head. The same pony tailed waiter she had seen earlier moved hastily away, but she was certain the man had been hovering nearby. Had he been eavesdropping?

  She looked up to see Jake returning with her kidskin flats dangling from one hand. He was a man who came into a room like a matador entering a bullring: all lithe grace and lethal purpose.

  His dark eyes locked with hers, and she tried in vain to interpret the glance. Puzzled? Suspicious? Knowing? Or was she looking for something that wasn’t there?

  He dropped to one knee and slipped the flats onto her feet, stroking her ankle as he did so in a way that sent a ripple up her spine.

  “We should get some ice on your ankle. I’ll take you back to our bungalow and order a dinner tray for you. I’ll dine with our guests, and explain. I’m sure they’ll be as impressed as I am that you didn’t let a twisted ankle keep you from the grand opening. Do you think you can walk?”

  He looked up and gave her a sly smile as his fingers continued to move rhythmically. “Or shall I carry you?”

  “I can walk,” Meg said, wanting nothing more than to be alone so she could call California—but wondering how the real Rhea would behave. She decided a mild protest might be in order. “But I think I could hold out until after dinner.”

  To her disappointment, he said shortly, “Good, I was hoping you would.” He rose and signaled Ducane, who silenced the musicians and announced that dinner would be served.

  The guests were ushered into a charming walled courtyard with a tiled fountain at one end and a softly lit bar at the other. Mosaic tables were set out under the stars, but tonight the adjacent banquet room would be used for the large number of guests. Round tables for eight beneath crystal chandeliers, turned romantically low, were set with antique silverware and delicate china.

  Meg vaguely recalled Ducane introducing her earlier to the three couples now sharing their table, all of whom were apparently island residents. To her dismay, Jake addressed them in what seemed to be flawless French.

  She sat stiffly in her chair. Can Rhea also speak French? Recalling Mike Aragon’s advice, she smiled at everyone and picked up her water goblet. How little she knew about Rhea Chastain. She could never maintain this charade, it was impossible.

  To her great relief Jake said, “But let’s continue our conversation in English, shall we, so my beautiful wife can join in?”

  Wine was served—a premier Chablis—and one of the men proposed a toast to the Hotel Rhea. Ducane accompanied the waiter who served an appetizer of grilled vegetable terrine, and the manager returned again after lamb chops were served and sampled.

  Ducane hovered nervously, and Jake murmured, “You’d better comment on the food, Rhea. Put M’sieur Ducane out of his misery. Your reputation as a bon vivant preceded you.”

  Everyone smiled and watched her expectantly. Unsure exactly what bon vivant meant, Meg decided it must mean that Rhea was a gourmet.

  In familiar territory now, Meg smiled at the manager and said, “The vegetable terrine was excellent—I liked the colorful layering with eggplant and sweet red peppers, served with a dab of tapenade, and the vegetables had set long enough for the flavors to meld beautifully.”

  Ducane relaxed visibly. “And madame’s opinion of the lamb?”

  “Wonderful,” Meg assured him. “The mustard-and-rosemary sauce was perfection, and the potato and celery-root gratin delicious. Please give our compliments to the chef.”

  Ducane bustled away wearing a satisfied smile, and Meg picked up her fork again, acutely aware that Jake was staring at her. Had she said too much? Too little? She wished she knew.

  Under other circumstances Meg would have thoroughly enjoyed the meal, but her throat seemed to have fused shut. Jake, on the other hand, ate heartily and obviously relished the food.

  Walking back to the bungalow shortly after midnight under a star-studded sky, with Jake’s hand firmly under her elbow, Meg felt such a complete sense of unreality that it was difficult to think. Ducane’s arch comment about a second honeymoon reverberated around her mind like jungle drums. Dare she plead that old standby: a headache? Menstrual cramps?

  A sudden quarrel followed by the silent treatment had been Hal’s solution when he wanted to sleep in the guest room, but Meg loathed that particular ploy. Still, she would have to do something to ward off any amorous advances. She couldn’t sleep with another woman’s husband, even though she was uncomfortably aware that Jake Chastain exuded an animal magnetism that appealed to some hitherto untapped primitive urges within her.

  “Beautiful night,” Jake commented.

  “Yes. The hotel is magnificent, by the way. You must be very pleased and proud.”

  He turned his head to look at her. “You’re showing a side of yourself tonight I’ve never seen before.”

  Alert to possibly dangerous ground, Meg didn’t comment.

  He added, “I’ve never known you not to find fault with either a meal or its presentation. I didn’t think you were capable of unabashed praise. And I’m curious about your unexpected analysis of the food. How did you manage that?”

  Damn, she had said too much. “Oh, I checked on the meal ahead of time so knew what the chef was doing,” she said, aghast at how quickly she was acquiring the unwanted ability to lie.

  “I was especially surprised at your compliments after the way you picked at your dinner.”

  “Oh, the food was wonderful. I just wasn’t very hungry. The long flight...”

  “And twisting your ankle, of course. You’re limping a little even in the flats.”

  Meg was glad the concealing darkness hid her guilty flush.

  They turned onto the brick pathway leading to their bungalow, which was set off, away from the others. Screened from the rest of the hotel buildings, the only sound here was the gentle soughing of the ocean, and Meg turned her head as another sound intruded. A soft footfall on the bricks behind them.

  “What is it?” Jake asked.

  “I thought I heard somebody coming this way.”

  He looked back. “I don’t see anybody, and I doubt any of the staff would dare disturb us. This is our honeymoon hotel, remember?” Again, the mocking tone.

  But Meg was more concerned with whoever was surreptitiously following them, convinced now that she, or more likely, Rhea, was under surveillance.

  They reached the bungalow, and Jake unlocked the door.

  Her heart beating rapidly, Meg went inside.

  In the living room she turned to face him. “I’m really tired, Jake. I hope you understand—I am very happy to see you—but...”

  Jake yanked off his bow tie, shrugged out of his dinner jacket and tossed it to a chair. “Just what the hell are you playing at?”

  Meg’s stomach lurched. So he did know, after all.

  Jake said, “Let’s cut the pretense, shall we?”

  �
�I’m sorry,” she said inadequately.

  He looked at her sharply, and she had the distinct impression he had not been expecting an apology. She was about to plead with him to try to understand Rhea’s motives, when he suddenly caught her wrist and pulled her close to him.

  His face was so near hers that she felt his breath fan her cheek. He said softly, “If I thought you really meant that...”

  Feeling the intensity of his emotions and empathizing with his shock at the deception, Meg couldn’t speak, but she looked down at his hand enclosing her wrist. A fine shading of dark hairs almost disappeared into his tanned skin, and if it had not been for his perfectly manicured nails, she would have guessed that those strong fingers with callused tips were accustomed to heavy manual labor.

  At her glance, he released her and a mocking smile replaced the raw emotion she had just witnessed. He said, with elaborate casualness, “Perhaps we could maintain the charade for a couple of days, so as not to destroy the ambience of the hotel we’re touting worldwide as the idyllic honeymoon hideaway.”

  He paused, and she saw something flickering in his eyes that suggested he was not as controlled as he wanted her to believe. “What do you say, Rhea? Shall we pretend our marriage isn’t on the rocks?”

  Chapter Four

  Jake said lightly, “Don’t look so stricken. I don’t expect any conjugal rights. We’ll simply put on a show for the guests and the staff. I’ll sleep out here on the sofa.”

  Meg found her voice at last. “Yes, that would be best.” “I’ll just take a shower first, then you can have the bedroom and bath to yourself.”

  “I noticed extra bed linen in the closet,” Meg said, her voice slightly breathless. “I’ll make up the sofa.”

  He gave her a bemused glance before disappearing into the bedroom.

  Meg listened until she heard the shower running, then closed the bedroom door and grabbed the phone.

  It took precious minutes to access an outside line, then learn the dialing codes for California. With a five-hour time difference, making it only a little after seven o’clock in California, she hoped she’d catch Mike Aragon at home.

  His phone rang six times and then to her dismay his recorded voice announced, “A. Michael Aragon, private investigations. I’ll get back to you.” She then listened to a tinny ragtime tune until the message machine beeped that it was ready for her to speak.

  She whispered into the phone, “Call Rhea. She has to fly out here immediately. Her husband arrived tonight.”

  The water had shut off in the shower. She dropped the phone and ran to the closet, pulling out sheets, a blanket and pillow. She was spreading the sheet on the sofa when Jake reappeared, a towel wrapped around his middle, his dark hair damp.

  Her heartbeat thundering, Meg averted her eyes from a sculpted chest and well-developed biceps. She plumped the pillow and placed the blanket at the foot of the sofa. “There’s another blanket if you need it.”

  “What happened to your voice, Rhea? It seems to have dropped about an octave.”

  “I think I may be catching a cold.” She resisted an impulse to cross her fingers behind her back.

  “That’s too bad. I hoped that voice coach was finally earning his fees.” He paused. “You haven’t commented on my unexpected arrival.”

  “I was surprised, of course,” Meg answered, wondering if she should ask why he had changed his plans. But that might bring a response that was for Rhea’s ears alone. Perhaps it would be better to say as little as possible. “I thought you were going to be in London at least a week.”

  “I managed to wrap things up early.”

  “Jake, I’m really wiped out. Good night.”

  She had to brush past him as she entered the bedroom. It was a little like passing too close to a panther who had not yet been fed. He murmured softly, “Sleep well. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  MEG AWAKENED with a start in the unfamiliar bed. She could hear the ocean breaking on the shore, but the sound that had brought her from shallow sleep was Jake’s voice, speaking softly in the adjacent room. He was on the telephone, and his tone was urgent, concerned.

  “...have they caught him? Anyone see or hear anything? Damn, I thought the hotel had better security.”

  The luminescent dial of her bedside clock showed 2:10 a.m. Slipping out of bed, she pressed her ear to the connecting door.

  Jake said, “No, I didn’t authorize Roland to use my suite. He’s a new man in London, and I believed our people there had checked him out. Yes, I suppose it’s possible he let an assailant into the suite himself.”

  There was another pause, then Jake asked, “Was he dead when they found him? What? Uh-oh, execution style. You’d better see what we missed in his background check. No, I don’t think there’s any connection to Chastain Enterprises—let’s not get paranoid. Be sure to find out if Roland had a wife or dependents and take care of them, okay? I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  Meg leapt across the room and back into bed.

  A phone call in the middle of the night about a murdered employee would surely be sufficient reason for a husband to come and talk over the tragedy with his wife, despite their personal problems. But there was silence in the next room and minutes ticked by without Jake knocking on her door.

  Too troubled to relax completely, Meg dozed intermittently. Then just before dawn she awoke to find sunlight gilding the window shutters.

  “YOU’RE DIFFERENT,” Jake said suddenly.

  Startled, Meg looked up from a crystal dish of sliced mango and papaya. They were having breakfast on the patio under a brilliantly blue sky.

  Is Rhea a bacon and eggs woman? Meg said, “I just felt like fruit this morning...”

  “I’m glad to see you eat anything at this hour, but that wasn’t what I meant—and you know it.”

  She waited tensely, wondering if this was the moment he’d end the masquerade. Was he playing cat and mouse with her? Had he known from the start? Why didn’t he tell me about that late night call from London?

  He said, “I’m glad you’ve quit smoking.”

  Feeling some comment was necessary, Meg said, “So am I.”

  He was watching her so intently that she looked away, her gaze sweeping the beautiful bay. Perhaps he was keeping the grim news from London to himself so as not to worry his wife, or spoil the interlude on this perfect island.

  After a moment, to break a silence that was heavy with unspoken feeling, she said, “The view is spectacular. This is a wonderful place for a hotel.”

  “You can stop acting now,” he snapped. “We’re alone.”

  She said quietly, “I meant what I said. This is a beautiful island.”

  He leaned forward, his expression hard. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? Last night I gave you time to get over the shock of my unexpected appearance. Now I want to know if you’re ready to discuss the situation calmly.”

  “I...don’t know,” Meg answered. Her hand was unsteady as she picked up her coffee cup.

  He gave an exasperated sigh. “I meant what I said the night before I left for Paris. We can’t go on eating each other alive. You wouldn’t listen when I said our marriage was a mistake and we should file for divorce. But I was deadly serious.”

  Meg listened in stunned silence.

  “I agreed to wait until this hotel had been officially opened because I figured a couple of weeks apart would give us both time to make our decisions about the future.”

  Jake pushed aside his plate and stood up, pacing slowly around the small patio. A breeze caught his black hair and tousled it, and his tanned features momentarily lost the expression of cool detachment and looked strained.

  “I couldn’t stand the waiting, Rhea, the uncertainty. We agreed there’d be no phone contact, and I didn’t want to discuss our problems long distance anyway. But I have to know if you’re ready to end this marriage amicably, with as little publicity as possible, to avoid a media circus. That’s why I cut my trip short and flew her
e.”

  Meg felt like a non-swimmer, out of her depth in a raging torrent. Incredibly, he really believed she was his wife. But how could she possibly respond to the revelation that they were on the brink of divorce?

  She cleared her throat. “I... didn’t expect you to come to St. Maarten. I thought we’d talk about it at home. I suppose I’ve fallen under the spell of the island, but...do we have to discuss it here?”

  He stared at her for a long minute, then said slowly, “No, I guess not. Breaking up a marriage is a serious step. Maybe a honeymoon hotel isn’t the right place to arrange a divorce.”

  Questions hammered Meg’s brain. If they were on the verge of divorce, why was Rhea so concerned about keeping her visit to her dying brother secret? It didn’t make sense.

  During her sleepless hours the night before, she had also wondered if, when Jake learned she was not his wife, she could be charged with some crime. She would have to stall somehow until she could contact Mike Aragon.

  Drawing a deep breath, she said slowly, “Jake...could we just pretend to be friends until we get home, so that we can both think over what we really want? You know, not talk about our problems, or our marriage, or anything... Make believe we’ve only just met.”

  He gave her a mocking smile. “Not let passion get in the way, you mean? Our problems are way beyond fixing with a roll in the hay, Rhea. I know you don’t want a divorce. But I do.”

  No, Meg thought, this can’t be happening. I can’t be a party to their breaking up. Her mouth was dry. She said hesitantly, “Surely we could postpone talking about it for twenty-four hours? Couldn’t we just act like friends until we’re home?”

  His detached expression slipped back into place and he shrugged indifferently. He walked to the edge of the patio and stood looking across the pool toward the sweep of white sand beach glimpsed through the palms.

  “You know, Rhea, while I was in Paris I’d begun to consider the possibility that passion was all we’d ever had. I even wondered if all the fights were some sort of twisted prelude to sex and if our marriage could survive without either.”