A Stranger's Wife Page 7

  Knowing she could hardly refuse, Meg didn’t dare imagine what would happen when Rhea arrived and learned she had to board the Doberman. She said, “Yes, of course. How did you get here? I didn’t see a car.”

  “Don’t drive. Caught a cab. Boy, he didn’t want no dogs in his damn cab but I told him I’d report him if he didn’t take us. The nerve of him. Anyway, it was an emergency and you wouldn’t answer your phone and I didn’t have no time to fool around. I gotta go, right away. You drive me to Orange County airport now?”

  “Have you called the hospital to tell Mrs. Chastain you’re leaving?” Meg asked.

  “Sure. She said bring Huxley to you.”

  I bet she did, Meg thought. “Okay, let’s go,” Meg said. She would have liked to call Jake, or at least leave him a note, but she had no idea how to reach him, and couldn’t leave a note in her own handwriting. Maybe she could make the trip to Orange County airport and be back before he was.

  HUXLEY SLURPED her neck all the way to and from the airport. By the time she arrived back at the beach house it was just about dark, but she was glad to see Jake had not yet returned. The question was, had Rhea arrived back in southern California and called while she was out?

  The telephone had a built-in message machine, and she pressed the retrieval button in case Jake had called. He hadn’t. But there were a couple of beeps that indicated somebody had called and hung up. Rhea?

  She washed the dog drool from the back of her neck, then found a large bowl and filled it with water, piled some dog food onto a china plate, and watched Huxley make both disappear. He then settled down for a nap.

  Meg turned her attention to finding table linen and setting the table. There were a couple of bottles of wine in one of the kitchen cabinets, and she considered whether or not to get it out, since Jake had expected wine with lunch the previous day. She decided to pretend she hadn’t found the wine, in order to keep a clear head.

  At the supermarket she had bought salmon steaks, which she would broil and serve with a cilantro-mushroom sauce. For a fast dessert she could caramelize bananas.

  Handling the food, as always, relaxed her. She had made an asparagus salad earlier, but as the evening chill settled along the coast with the return of the marine layer, she thought an asparagus soup might have been better, especially served with a dollop of crème fraîche.

  Crème fraîche...why had she thought of that now?

  She and Hal had come together because of crème fraîche.

  Hal Lindley had been the handsomest student at the Culinary Institute, with his fiery bronze hair, jade green eyes and cleft chin. He had the added distinction of having lived in France for a couple of years with a French mother who had left his military father, taking Hal with her.

  Their class was still studying basics when Hal asked Meg out on a date. His opening gambit had been, “I’d like to see what your hair looks like. Will you go to the movies with me?” They were required to wear chefs hats, with all of their hair covered.

  Meg had grinned and agreed. She’d carefully washed, conditioned and brushed her hair that day.

  The film had been a lighthearted romp, and afterward they’d gone to a little Mexican place that made great fish tacos. Hal had been charming, funny, with a certain sophistication that most of Meg’s contemporaries lacked. She had been instantly captivated.

  “I’m making crème fraîche next weekend,” he’d told her. “Would you like to join me?”

  She’d never heard of the dish, but hadn’t wanted to admit her ignorance and definitely wanted to pursue their acquaintance.

  “I live a block from the beach,” Hal added. “We’ll get the crème fraîche started, then hit the surf.”

  A man who shared her love of cooking and her love of the beach had seemed almost too good to be true. She had bought a new bathing suit.

  He was renting a room in a house owned by an elderly widow in Santa Monica, who gave him free access to her kitchen. The widow was away, visiting a friend in Pismo Beach, and so they had the house to themselves.

  In a tiny immaculate kitchen Hal had warmed five cups of heavy whipping cream. “The first time I had crème fraiche was at an aunt’s house in Normandy,” he told her. “She gave me a slice of chocolate cake with this stuff on top that looked sort of like sour cream but tasted like nothing I’d ever had before.”

  He removed the cream from the heat. “We want it just about lukewarm, 100 degrees. When it’s finished it will have a velvety texture and subtle flavor and it won’t curdle in soups and sauces.”

  Meg watched as he transferred the warm cream to a plastic container and then stirred in five tablespoons of buttermilk. He covered the container loosely and set it aside. “Okay, let’s hit the beach.”

  “You’re not going to refrigerate it?” Meg asked.

  Hal gave her a slightly superior grin. “No, it stays at room temperature. The lactic-acid-making bacteria in the buttermilk will produce a mellow complexity and luxurious texture.”

  If he’d quoted a love poem, Meg could not have been more dazzled.

  He added, “We’ll stir and taste in about eight hours.”

  “Eight hours,” Meg had repeated, blissful at the prospect of being with him all day.

  Hal nodded. “It will take twelve to thirty-six hours to thicken. Then it will keep in the refrigerator for up to ten days. But we’ll sample it tomorrow.”

  AS MEG PREPARED dinner in Jake’s beach house, and the setting sun painted the flagged patio and west-facing windows with a wash of gold, it came to her with startling clarity that she and Hal had married too young, too soon, and that she had never truly loved him. She’d been dazzled by his expertise in the kitchen and in the surf, and by the time she came to her senses and realized how self-centered and critical he was, it was too late.

  And she knew why she was thinking about how she and Hal had gotten together. It was because it would be so easy to believe what had turned out so wrong then with Hal, could be so right now with Jake Chastain.

  If only he didn’t belong to someone else.

  Please, Rhea, call. Call now, before Jake returns. Call before I do something I’ll regret.

  Huxley stirred and whined softly, then gave a sharp bark. He lumbered to the front door as a key turned in the lock.

  THE SETUP WAS PERFECT. No security system and easy access up steps cut into the cliff. This time there’d be no mistake. He should never have trusted a woman to do the job. She’d been too squeamish to do it herself and had hired some goon instead.

  He’d have gone to London himself if he’d been able to leave the country, but he couldn’t while he was on parole.

  He waited impatiently, down on the darkening beach, hiding behind the rocks, watching the house. Waiting for the lights to go out.

  Chapter Eight

  Jake looked at Huxley, groveling at his feet. “How did he get here?”

  Huxley wagged his tail and fawned.

  Listening to his wife’s explanation, Jake battled an urge to sweep her into his arms and carry her into the bedroom. He forced himself to remember the hell of the past months, but the sweetness of the past weekend intruded. Then he reminded himself of their agreement to be “just friends,” and when that didn’t help he focused on her hastily terminated phone call at the hospital.

  This was all part of an elaborate scheme to lull him into a false sense of security. She didn’t want a divorce, she wanted to maintain the status quo. And why not? She’d never let her marriage vows get in the way of doing whatever she pleased.

  Despite this knowledge, Jake couldn’t help but regard his wife with a quizzical half smile. “The old Rhea would have called the nearest animal shelter and boarded him,” he said, patting the Doberman’s head, “then given Carmelita cab fare. Instead you haul her to the airport and take care of Huxley. You know, I’m beginning to have this secret fear that you’re going to rip the mask off your face and underneath you’ll be a reincarnated Mother Teresa, or definitely somebody
I shouldn’t be lusting after.”

  There seemed little point in denying that he lusted after her, since he’d made it pretty obvious. Besides, Rhea knew that any deeper feelings he’d had for her were long gone, if indeed they had ever existed beyond the realm of fantasy.

  She seemed to bite back a grin. “Oh, come on, it isn’t that big of a deal. Your mother will be out of the hospital in a day or two and I didn’t think it was worth upsetting her, or Huxley, by refusing to take care of him. But I am wondering who will take care of Jessica while Carmelita is in Mexico.”

  “Maybe she’ll let me hire a live-in nurse, although I doubt she will. You’d better call Mason in the morning and have him send one of the maids over to her house.”

  Something flickered in Rhea’s eyes—a hesitancy, or slight confusion. He’d seen that look a couple of times during the past weekend and it puzzled him, because it was so out of character for her to be uncertain about anything. Was it possible that she was genuinely trying to make amends for the hell she’d put him through these past months?

  No. More likely she was trying to assess his reaction to her new facade. Well, let her keep guessing.

  She said, “Dinner can be ready in ten minutes, if you’re hungry. I imagine you’ll want to visit your mother this evening.”

  “I stopped at the hospital on my way home, so we don’t need to go back this evening. Jessica had a room full of her Laguna artsy-craftsy types, all of whom regard me as some sort of changeling the gypsies left on her doorstep.”

  He sniffed the air. “Something smells good. Do I have time for a fast shower before we eat? It’s been a long haul since we left St. Maarten.”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  Jake managed to resist asking her to join him.

  MEG WONDERED how she was going to be able to take the call from Rhea. Perhaps she’d call while Jake was in the shower, although it was probably too early for her to have flown in from the north.

  The telephone was silent while Jake was in the bathroom. When he returned, Meg was carrying the asparagus salad to the table. He went straight to the cabinet where she’d seen the wine, took out a bottle and followed.

  “Chardonnay okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  The dining room was furnished in Spanish Colonial style, and he pulled out one of the tall-backed mahogany chairs for her. A wrought-iron and amber glass chandelier over the table cast a golden glow.

  Jake paused to look around the room, then shook his head in baffled wonder. “I once thought all this stuff was cool. Did I ever tell you that this was the first house I ever bought?”

  “You might have mentioned it,” Meg said carefully.

  “The furniture belongs in a Mediterranean-style house, but I got it cheap in Tijuana. Jess calls it my Joaquin Murrieta period. She felt I had a lot in common with the wily bandit.”

  Meg smiled. He poured the wine, handed her a glass and raised his. “To amicable solutions.”

  The telephone rang. Before she could move, Jake, who was still on his feet, had reached it.

  “Chastain.” He paused, then said, “Hello?”

  He hung up the phone. “Nobody there.”

  Rhea, Meg thought.

  He looked at her levelly. “You expecting a call, Rhea? Are we dealing with that old cliché—if a man answers, hang up?”

  “No, I’m not expecting any calls,” Meg said, feeling the lie flood her face with color.

  He sighed audibly. “Why do I bother to ask?”

  Returning to the table, Jake sat down. “We’ll have to answer the phone, since Jessica might decide to call. After we’ve eaten, I’ll call the hospital and tell her about Huxley.”

  “She didn’t mention that she’d sent Carmelita here with him when you were at the hospital?”

  “No. I imagine she expected you to turn them both away. I’m looking forward to telling her he’s here.”

  At the mention of his name, Huxley eased himself down beside Meg’s chair and laid his head protectively over her right foot.

  Jake raised an eyebrow. “If I didn’t see it, I wouldn’t have believed it.”

  As he began to enjoy the food and wine, it seemed to Meg that he relaxed, became less hostile. Several times Meg looked up to find him watching her and thought she saw regret in his eyes. He doesn’t really want to divorce his wife, she thought. He’s hoping they can reconcile. It wasn’t me he wanted last night, it was Rhea.

  The telephone rang again just as they were finishing eating. Meg leapt to her feet. “I’ll get it. Have some more dessert.”

  Grabbing the phone, she wondered how to let Rhea know that Jake was with her. But it was Jessica’s voice that came over the line. “Have you killed my dog yet?”

  “Hello, Jessica,” Meg said. “Huxley’s fine. How are you feeling?”

  “Like I was hit by a truck. Oh, silly me. I was! Let me speak to my son.”

  “It’s your mother,” Meg said, handing him the phone.

  As she began to clear the table, she heard Jake say, “Yes, I know, me too. Now, Jess, be nice. They’re getting along famously. Did you eat anything? Yes, I know all about hospital food. Shall I send something over? Rhea ordered in the best meal I’ve had lately. I could call and have them—what? All right. Tomorrow perhaps.”

  Meg slipped the plates and cutlery into the dishwasher. She had washed all of the cooking utensils earlier. He thought I’d ordered the food in. Rhea evidently didn’t cook. Why hadn’t she surmised that? Was it because she secretly wanted to impress him? Meg felt a wave of guilt wash over her. What was she doing?

  She was still standing in front of the dishwasher when Jake came up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. He kissed the nape of her neck, the warm pressure of his lips sending a shiver through her entire body.

  He murmured, “Just a little thank-you kiss, Rhea, for the perfect dinner. How about I light a fire and turn on some music? Let’s just relax this evening. No postmortems on dead marriages, no recriminations or explanations.”

  Meg nodded, without turning around. He lingered, his arms around her, for a moment. Then he withdrew, and she heard his footsteps cross the tiled floor.

  When she joined him minutes later, the living room was filled with flickering firelight and the soft strains of Debussy. Jake was sitting on one of two couches arranged on either side of the brick fireplace, and she took the opposite one.

  In the firelight his expression was watchful, brooding. “It isn’t possible for us to be detached from one another, is it? We generate too much electricity for that. More than ever, it seems, since we talked of divorce.”

  Meg said cautiously, “We’re both tired and wound up tonight, Jake. We need to be home and rested before we... before—”

  “How easy it would be to fall in love with you, Rhea. Really in love this time. When we first met I believe we both mistook physical attraction for love. But now...I didn’t think it was possible to feel this way after all you’ve done, but how I want to believe this change in you isn’t just superficial.”

  His simple declaration, from across the room, stunned her with its sincerity. He loves Rhea, not you, a voice in her head warned. But the demon on her shoulder pointed out that he had been about to divorce Rhea.

  She had to respond. As Rhea. Not as Meg. She said, “I believe we can love each other again, Jake. But we need to have some serious discussions about our problems. Not tonight, though. Let’s just be friends for one more evening.”

  The mask descended over his face again. “Sure. Whatever you say. Is the music all right?”

  She replied without thinking, “I love Debussy. ‘Afternoon of a Faun,’ isn’t it?”

  Jake was silent for a long minute, then he asked quietly, “Who are you?”

  Meg’s stomach lurched. She was about to babble something, anything, when he started to speak again.

  “You’ve been an enigma since the day we met. I never knew what to expect from one day to the next, which new facet of yours
elf you would be showing. But this past weekend... you’ve shown me what I always hoped was your true self. And I believe I could love you more deeply than you’ll ever know.”

  He stood up and walked over to a cabinet, opened it to reveal a CD player. A moment later the music changed. A Latin beat, sensual, compelling.

  Turning, he extended his hand to her. “Will you at least dance with me? If you won’t let me make love to you, at least let me hold you in my arms for a tango.”

  Chapter Nine

  Meg didn’t move. The log crackled in the fireplace, the flames sending golden images dancing on the walls in accompaniment to the erotic beat and dramatic pauses of the tango.

  Jake still stood, his hand extended toward her, waiting.

  In that instant Meg would have given anything to be able to stand up, slip into his arms and dance with him.

  “No ulterior motives,” Jake said. “We always danced well together, at least.”

  Meg rose slowly, and he took her hand.

  Now he’s going to realize I’m not Rhea, and I can’t do anything to prevent it, Meg thought.

  As if in a dream she felt his arm slip around her waist. He took her right hand in his left, but before she realized what was happening there was a pause in the music and he bent her backward over his arm in a dip almost to the floor, his mouth so close to hers that she held her breath, anticipating a kiss. But he merely smiled and pulled her upright again.

  Several months earlier she had helped cater a party at a dance studio and had caught fascinating glimpses of dancers demonstrating the graceful turns and dips of several ballroom dances, including the tango. There was no way she could fake the complicated steps.

  Jake’s arm tightened around her, and as the music resumed she felt his left thigh press against her as he tried to move forward. But when she didn’t slide her right foot backward as he expected, he stopped short, looking at her in surprise.

  JAKE STARED at his wife, seeing confusion and a certain wistful longing written on her lovely face, and for an instant he had the odd feeling he had never really known this woman. He had slept with her and they had fought like tigers... but he had never truly learned what drove her, what was important to her, nor had he come close to understanding her mercurial moods. Yet in this one moment, as she went rigid in his arms, ignoring the music, the expression on her exquisite face told him that she might finally be ready to reveal herself to him.