A Stranger's Wife Page 4

  Turning to face her, he said, “We never were just friends. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “Perhaps it’s time, then,” she suggested softly.

  He gave a short derisive laugh. “Since we’re leaving tomorrow I guess we can be friends for a day. Maybe I need to prove to myself I’m not a complete slave to the dark gods of the loins.”

  He walked back to the table and stood looking down at her. “You are different, you know, in some way I can’t quite define.”

  She didn’t dare hold his gaze.

  “You seem so much...calmer,” he went on. “Yes, that’s the word I want. Less restless. What happened while I was gone to cause this metamorphosis, Rhea?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Meg said warily.

  “For one thing, you’ve stopped constantly fidgeting with yourself, running your hands through your hair, twisting your ring, smoothing your clothes, touching your body. Even your voice is more modulated—by the way, are you catching a cold?”

  “No, I think it was just the long plane ride. Made me a little dehydrated, you know.”

  JAKE STARED at his wife, marveling at her ability to project an appealing softness, not only in her voice, but in her entire attitude, that he had never seen before. What a damn fine actress she was! His asking for a divorce, of course, had jolted her. It might be interesting to allow her to play out her little charade, to see how long she could keep it up before she reverted back to the demanding, self-absorbed virago he had avoided as much as possible these past months.

  He allowed his gaze to linger on her face for a moment. Her beauty still had the power to heat his blood, even now that he knew that beauty was indeed only skin deep.

  In unguarded moments, Meg thought, he looked at her as if he still cared for Rhea—and he was solicitous of her well-being. Perhaps it was just a fight they had had that got out of hand. She had to steer him away from the subject of divorce before he divulged any intimate details of his relationship with Rhea that were none of her business. Drawing a deep breath, she said, “Jake, if I seem different, perhaps it’s because I missed you.”

  She realized her mistake when he frowned. “Don’t play that game with me. It no longer works.”

  “I’m sorry. Truce, okay?” Meg said quickly. “But since we are here to promote your honeymoon hotel and have to spend the day together for appearance’s sake, perhaps this would be a good time to find out what it would be like to just be friends.”

  He shrugged. “So be it. What would you like to do today?” An ironic grin appeared. “As friends, of course.”

  Meg glanced at the azure sweep of the sea. “I’d love to have a picnic on the beach and swim in the ocean.”

  His look of astonishment was instantly replaced by a ferocious scowl. “You’re suggesting that because you know that’s what I like. Damn it, don’t cater to me, Rhea. I don’t want to feel like a charity case. You’ve always hated the sand.”

  “What’s wrong with trying something your partner enjoys? That isn’t catering.” Meg almost choked on the word, but he couldn’t know catering was her profession. “It’s called give and take. Who knows, perhaps I’ll find sand isn’t so bad after all.”

  Jake considered for a moment, then nodded. “All right. I have a few business calls to make, then I’ll call the kitchen and order a picnic hamper.” His expression remained skeptical.

  Needing a private moment to call Mike Aragon, Meg decided to take another chance. “No, don’t do that. I’d like to see the kitchens. I’ll go and order lunch. What would you like?”

  Jake’s dark eyes lit up with amusement. “Surprise me. You seem determined to do that at the moment. Since when are you interested in kitchens?”

  THE GLEAMING HOTEL kitchen was bustling with early morning activity, but Meg was glad to find the head chef was not yet in his private office, which was separated from the cooking area by a wall of glass. A telephone sat temptingly on the chef’s desk.

  This time there was an immediate response to her call to California. “Aragon.”

  Unfortunately at that moment the office door opened and the head chef appeared. Meg waved nervously at him and said into the phone, “Hello, St. Maarten calling. Did you get my message?”

  “Meg? Damn, I’ve been calling you for hours but the manager wouldn’t put me through. He said you were sleeping. What’s going on? Can you talk?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Okay, answer questions. Is Jake there with you?”

  “No.” She partially covered the receiver with her hand and said to the chef, “I’ll be just a moment.” He reluctantly retreated, leaving the office door open.

  Mike said, “I get the picture. Jake isn’t there, but you aren’t alone. Does he know?”

  “Not yet.” Unsure if she could be heard out in the kitchen over the clatter of pots and pans, she asked, “Is the other party en route?”

  “No, she isn’t. I haven’t been able to locate her. I’ve been up all night trying to track her down.”

  Lowering her voice to a whisper, Meg said, “Can you hear me? I’m worried the kitchen staff might be listening.”

  “The kitchen staff?”

  “Just listen—Jake doesn’t suspect me. At least, he’s acting as if he believes I’m his wife.”

  “Holy sh—” Mike began.

  “Not literally his wife. Mike, what we didn’t know was that they talked about divorce before he went to Europe. He wants to discuss the breakup, but I said it would be better to do that at home in California. Meantime, for the sake of appearances, I’ve suggested we just act like platonic friends on vacation for a couple of days.”

  “Smart thinking. Did he go for it?”

  “Yes. But you’ve got to get her over here as fast as you can.”

  “When are you due to leave?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Back to California?”

  “Yes.”

  “It might be easier if you could hold out until you got back here. Two Mrs. Jake Chastains on a small island would be hard to hide. That would also give me more time to find her.”

  The chef walked back into the office, looking impatient. Meg’s voice took on a slight edginess. “I suppose that would be all right.”

  “Somebody came back into the kitchen?”

  “Yes.”

  “What the hell are you doing in the kitchen anyway? Are you on some sort of busman’s holiday?”

  “I’ll call you when I get home.”

  “Be careful, Meg. And if you have to, tell him the truth. We can always say we thought the whole thing was an innocent prank that his wife wanted to play on him.”

  “Yes, of course. Goodbye.”

  Meg smiled apologetically at the chef, wishing she’d had time to tell Mike of Jake’s horrifying phone call from London. Jake had sounded concerned, compassionate, but hadn’t seemed to see any connection to himself or his company, despite the fact that the man had been killed in his suite. But Meg was beginning to wonder if Jake Chastain was facing a greater peril than a faltering marriage and a deceptive wife.

  MEG HAD NEVER worn a thong bikini in her life. Why hadn’t she remembered what Rhea had packed before rashly suggesting a picnic on the beach? There was nothing suitable to use as a cover-up, so evidently Rhea intended the bikinis for sunbathing and swimming in the suite’s private pool.

  Slipping a robe over the bikini, Meg opened the bedroom door. Jake, wearing swim trunks and a matching shirt, sat on the sofa, waiting. He wore reflective aviator-style sunglasses, so she couldn’t see his eyes.

  “I forgot to pack a cover-up. Could I borrow one of your shirts?”

  “Sure. I’ll get you one. I noticed your tan is fading a little, so it’s a good idea not to soak up too many rays.”

  Meg considered how many differences he’d tallied between her and Rhea, and wondered again if he was playing cat and mouse. But perhaps the differences between his wife and herself were more subtle than she imagined.
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  He handed her a white long-sleeved shirt. She went back into the bedroom to put it on, rolling up the sleeves, glad of the tails that covered her bare derriere.

  Meg had assumed they would walk the short distance to the beach, but a valet was waiting with a car. Jake said, “I know a little cove where we won’t have to share the sand with tourists and cruise ship passengers. It’s just a short drive.”

  He was right. The cove was deserted, the sand pristine, and a cluster of palms filtered the sunlight, providing shade. Jake unloaded beach chairs and towels from the trunk of the car, along with the hamper of food.

  He discarded his shirt. “Ready for a swim?”

  Meg had longed to plunge into the sea, and was glad that she and Rhea at least both liked to swim.

  Taking off his shirt she felt his eyes flicker over her. “Well, some things haven’t changed, I see. You still like to show off your body. I suppose you know that’s why I wanted to come here instead of using the beach in front of the hotel?”

  She dropped the shirt onto the beach chair and raced for the water. Splashing through the shallows, she was glad when she was submerged up to her neck.

  Jake caught up with her and they began to swim parallel to the shore. For Meg the gentle swells were tame compared to California’s surf, and while she enjoyed the swim, she missed the challenge of riding the breakers.

  When they returned to shore she quickly dried off and put on the shirt.

  Jake raised his eyebrows slightly. “Do you need that now? We’re in the shade. You’re not afraid I’m going to seduce you, are you? Didn’t I agree to be friends only?”

  “I know. For some reason, I’m suddenly shy.”

  He raised a mocking eyebrow. “If you say so. I’ll refrain from pointing out that you packed a thong bikini when you thought I wouldn’t be here to see you wear it.”

  Spreading his towel on the sand, he lay on his back with his hands folded under his head, staring up at the palm fronds fluttering in the breeze.

  For a split second Meg felt the skin of the absent Rhea slip over hers, and she said with some spirit, “If you hadn’t been here I’d have swum in our suite’s private pool and no one would have seen me.”

  “Touché. I’m sorry.”

  He rolled over onto his stomach, propped himself on his elbows and looked up at her. “So what do we talk about? Since we’re accustomed to either flirting or fighting, it might be difficult for us to have an ordinary conversation.”

  “Let’s try, shall we? Would you like to tell me about business?” Perhaps even mention a murder in your London suite?

  “No, I’d rather talk about you. You could tell me about your childhood. You’ve never spoken of it since the first time I woke you from the nightmare and you told me about the abuse.”

  Meg stiffened. Abuse. Her vision of Rhea shifted slightly.

  Jake said, “I’ve never pushed you for more details, but I can’t help thinking those early experiences must have a bearing on the troubles we’ve had in our marriage. It must have been difficult—probably still is—for you to trust people. I wish I could get you to see that your relationship with Sloan—shared childhood trauma or not—is unhealthy.”

  Sloan. Rhea’s adopted brother, dying in San Francisco. How could Jake be sympathetic about a murdered employee in London, and yet so callous about his wife’s brother?

  Meg was tempted to remind Jake that Sloan was terminally ill, but decided it would be impossible for her to express Rhea’s feelings about her brother. “I’d rather not talk about Sloan, or my childhood now, Jake. It’s just too beautiful here to dredge up unpleasant memories.”

  He sat upright, his face set in tight, angry lines. “You saw Sloan again, didn’t you? Despite your promise not to.”

  “No. I didn’t,” Meg said quickly. “Even though he’s so ill.”

  To her astonishment, Jake burst out laughing. “Ill? After pumping up with weights in prison for two years? He looked healthy as a horse when he was paroled two weeks ago. I suppose his sudden illness requires a specific drug to treat it? Cocaine, perhaps? For pity’s sake, Rhea, wake up and see him for. what he is.”

  Bewildered by this outburst, since it had the ring of truth, Meg said quickly, “Let’s not quarrel about him now. I’m hungry, how about you?”

  “Sure.” He reached over and lifted the lid of the hamper, surveying the contents, then glanced up at her. “Did you have the chef pack this, or did you have a hand in it?”

  She was unsure how to respond, since she had selected every item: chilled apricot soup and a salad of tiny shrimp tossed in fresh greens, all packed in ice; cold roast chicken; crusty French bread and Gruyère; hazelnut torte; and fresh fruit. Meg mumbled, “Well, it was a cooperative effort.”

  Jake looked at her for a moment. “You forgot the wine.”

  She managed to stop herself from responding, Wine in the middle of the day gives me a headache.

  At the same instant she caught a flicker of movement between the palms on the cliff above the cove: a silhouetted man who swiftly drew back out of sight. Meg’s heart skipped. Someone had been watching them. For how long? And why?

  She stared up at the cliff. The sand under her was still warm, the sun high in the sky, but she suddenly felt cold.

  Sure now that it was not her imagination, that she—in her guise as Rhea—had been under surveillance since leaving LAX airport, Meg’s skin crawled. And Jake had just blown a hole in Rhea’s “sick brother” story, so what was Rhea really doing this weekend?

  Chapter Five

  “Do you remember that weekend in Capri?” Jake asked.

  Meg said cautiously, “Of course.”

  “Well?”

  The afternoon was hot, the sunlight shimmered on the sand and cast sparkling diamonds on the sea. “Well, what?”

  He gave a sardonic smile. “Nothing, I guess. Aren’t you hot in that shirt?”

  “I was thinking of going back in the water.”

  “Isn’t it too soon after lunch?”

  “Did your mother warn you about that?”

  He laughed shortly. “Hardly. I’m surprised you ask, knowing how unmotherly she is.”

  Meg blinked behind her sunglasses. She hadn’t pictured a mother in Jake’s life. She wondered how Rhea got along with her.

  Another quick check of the cliff revealed no further sign of the watcher. Still, Meg had the uneasy feeling that he was still up there, keeping out of sight but observing them.

  “Lunch was incredible,” Jake mused. “If that’s a sample of the chef’s expertise maybe I should transfer him to California. Since he made it to your specifications, we’ve obviously been wasting your talents. How would you like to plan some menus?” He added quickly, “A business arrangement only, of course—unaffected by our marital status, or lack thereof.”

  “I’d love to—” Meg realized almost at once that she was responding as herself. Would Rhea have loved to? Probably not, from what Mike Aragon had said about her. She objected to doing any kind of chores, preferring to spend her time with personal trainers and voice coaches, attending fashion shows or hosting parties.

  But it was too late. Jake was nodding his approval.

  “If you think I’m capable,” she added.

  “After today’s lunch? Rhea, that lunch blew me away. I knew you liked good food, but I thought your only talent was the ability to reduce a chef to tears—sorry, that slipped out. You’re trying to be nice and I keep delving into the past.”

  “No delving,” Meg said. “Per our agreement.”

  Glancing up at the cliff again, she saw no sign of anyone spying on them, so peeled off the shirt and ran to the water, the sand burning her feet. She’d worry later about the rash promise to work for Chastain Enterprises. There were more pressing problems to handle.

  JAKE WATCHED HER splash into the water, his blood churning. This new Rhea continued to puzzle him. It was going to take every ounce of control he possessed to keep his hands off her. She m
ust know the effect her near nakedness was having on him, which was only enhanced by the brief glimpses of her body that he had caught when she discarded his shirt before swimming. Was this a test she was putting him to, to see if he could still feel desire for her? Or was it his punishment for asking for a divorce? Either way, Jake vowed not to play her game. Rhea obviously believed she still had the power to captivate him. She was wrong, but it would be amusing to watch her try.

  MEG AND JAKE DINED that evening in the walled courtyard of the hotel beside a softly lit fountain, separated from a pair of honeymooners by several large urns trailing flowers. The moon had not yet risen and the sky was studded with stars.

  The impossibly romantic setting was having an unexpected effect on Meg. She was dining with a handsome, dynamic stranger who was charming, witty, and attentive to her every need. She told herself that Jake was obviously trying to keep to their agreement and that no man could consistently be this well-behaved.

  But it was impossible for her not to compare Jake Chastain to Hal, and to see, perhaps clearly for the first time, that her marriage had been doomed from the start.

  Hal had been one of the stars of culinary school who expected to become a world-famous chef, but wasn’t willing to climb the ladder step by step. He refused to accept the dismal statistics of new-restaurant failure, persisted in borrowing money long after it was no longer propping up the business, wouldn’t cut back on his extravagant lifestyle, alienated everyone who tried to help him, and closed his eyes to the ruins around him.

  Meg was sure that they could have made a go of the catering business, but Hal was devastated by what he perceived as loss of status. He missed strolling through the restaurant, greeting people, being complimented, flirting with the women. In the catering business he was expected to inconspicuously provide the food and then fade into the background. There simply wasn’t enough glory for him.

  Still, Meg had not seen his defection coming.

  She sipped champagne and wondered how many setbacks Jake had overcome to get where he was today. She was also becoming intensely curious about Rhea. What sort of woman was she that she could resist this man’s incredible appeal?