Relative Strangers

by Joyce Lamb

  "You bastard. You let them take her so I wouldn't give you any trouble."

  "That was the idea, yeah."

  She wanted to shake him, to scream at him that he'd made a massive mistake that could get innocent people killed. But she knew he wouldn't believe her. So she tried another tack. "What happens when you meet with this Slater Nielsen?"

  He scowled, irritated at her questions, even more irritated that she was so adamant about denying her identity. Couldn't she see that he had her dead to rights? But then it registered what she'd asked. What would happen when he was face to face with the man who'd had Beau killed? What would he do, say? He imagined how satisfying it would be to point a gun at the man's head and squeeze the trigger. Sweet payback.

  On some psychological level, he knew it was wrong to want to kill so desperately, to avenge. But he was beyond caring. Someone needed to pay for Beau's death. There had to be justice, damn it. Somehow.

  He glared at his captive, telling himself that her wide-eyed fear was an act. A damned good one. He'd wondered how Beau had been so taken in by her, and now he knew. She was

  a first-class actress. "I'm finished talking," he said. "Get some sleep." "But—"

  "Don't make me repeat myself. My patience is gone." She was tempted to keep arguing, but he was becoming angrier and more agitated. So she decided to wait. It was sev-eral hours before morning. Eventually, he would let down his guard. And she would make another break for it.

  Chapter 5

  Margot stood at the customer service desk of a Sears store in Green Bay, Wisconsin, while an employee with frosted hair paged the woman she'd asked for. She considered walking out of the store and not looking back, but she didn't have anyone else to ask for help. Besides, she had already dumped the Cavalier, worried that she had kept it too long.

  "Can I help you?" a familiar voice asked from behind her.

  Pasting a smile on her face that felt more like a grimace, Margot turned. Before her stood a thin woman about her height dressed in khakis and a white blouse wrinkled at the waist. She wore little makeup, and her light brown hair needed combing. "Hello, Holly. Long time no see."

  Holly stared at her from behind black-framed glasses with small, round lenses. "Twelve years."

  The fake smile faded. Margot didn't know what she had hoped for. A smile and a warm hug? That was probably too much to expect from a friend she had more or less abandoned when they were teens. She'd assumed that Holly knew that running away had been an act of self-preservation. Inwardly, she acknowledged that she should have called long ago to let Holly know she was okay.

  Margot shifted. "Look—"

  "You've changed. Your hair—"

  "I need a place to stay," Margot cut in.

  "I see."

  Margot tried not to let Holly's knowing gaze rattle her. "You're probably thinking I wouldn't be here if I didn't need something. You're right."

  "At least you're honest."

  Margot clenched her jaw. "You're my last resort."

  Holly gazed at her a long time. "I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe I could have been there for you twelve years ago if you had given me a chance." She walked away.

  Stunned, Margot watched her go.

  Then Holly looked over her shoulder. "I get off in about an hour if you want to meet me in front of the store."

  Margot nodded, feeling very small and shallow.

  "Nice shirt," Holly said as she reached for another piece of garlic bread and sopped it through the spaghetti sauce on her plate.

  "Thanks."

  "I like the way the buttons are its only color. Where'd you get it? I'm always on the lookout for different clothing to suggest to our corporate buyers."

  Margot fingered the cloth-covered buttons. It had been twelve years since they'd seen each other, and they were discussing buttons on a blouse. "The shirt is from a store in Door County, and I made the buttons."

  Holly looked surprised. "I didn't know you liked to sew."

  "I don't. I just. . . needed to keep busy."

  "And you chose sewing. Interesting."

  There was an awkward silence before Holly cleared her throat. "I figured you were dead," she said. "After the one letter I got from you. Postmark said somewhere in Florida. I can't remember where."

  Margot stared at the pasta heaped on her plate. She should have been ravenous, but the thought of food made her feel sick.

  "Margot?"

  She looked up. "What?"

  "I said I thought you were dead, but then, I was only sixteen and feeling very dramatic." Holly sipped from a glass of wine and searched Margot's face over the rim. "How'd you find me?"

  "I called your mom."

  "Ah. How was she? Cranky as usual?"

  "We didn't chat," Margot said.

  "So, what happened to you?"

  Scooting her chair back, Margot stood and picked up her plate and glass. "Do you have a dishwasher?"

  "Just put them in the sink."

  With her back to Holly, Margot stared into the drain as the garbage disposal chewed up her food.

  "I went to college," Holly said, apparently tired of waiting for Margot to ask her what she'd been doing all these years. "In Madison. Retail management. Took the first job offer I got and ended up here. I bought the Mustang last month brand new, got this great little apartment and a stable enough job. I don't have much to worry about, and I don't have to see my parents more than once every few months and on special occasions. There's a guy I work with—Tom. He's honest, and he likes me. The job's a bitch most of the time, and I'm not the company's best employee, but it's a living. I figure I'll marry a nice guy—maybe even Tom—in the next few years and have some kids. Maybe my parents will take more of an interest in my kids than they did in me. I've got it all planned,

  Margot, and you know what?"

  Margot closed her eyes, gripping the edge of the sink. "What?"

  "I did it in spite of you. After you left without saying goodbye, without even letting me know you were still alive after that first letter, I was real down on human nature. I mean, if you can't trust your best friend, who can you trust? But I'm getting over that now, with Tom. I had friends in college, but I was never as close to them as I was to you. We had a deal, Margot."

  "We were sixteen."

  "So it didn't count? I hated my parents and school. I hated living in that small town. I wanted out just as much as you did. Maybe it was typical teen stuff, but we said we'd get out together, run away to New York or wherever and make it on our own. And you went without me."

  "I'm sorry." It came out a whisper. Margot wasn't sure Holly heard her, but she didn't say it again.

  "They looked for you," Holly said.

  Margot bowed her head. "I don't want to talk about it."

  "You never wanted to talk about it. Maybe if you had, you wouldn't have felt like you had to run away."

  "It's a little late now, isn't it?"

  "Some wounds don't heal without help, Margot."

  "Well, I have new ones now, all right?" Turning, she leaned against the counter and pushed hair back from her damp forehead. "I don't want to argue."

  Holly drummed her fingers on the table through an awkward pause. "It wasn't your fault, you know."

  Margot blew out a ragged breath. She felt the need to sit down but didn't trust her knees to carry her to a chair. She supposed the visit to the past was inevitable.

  Holly sat forward. "Margot, your uncle killed himself because he was fucked up."

  "He killed himself because I told on him."

  "He was raping you. What else were you supposed to do?"

  The pressure in her chest grew. "Afterward, Dad was so angry he wouldn't even look at me. He said it was my fault."

  "Jesus," Holly said. "I didn't know."

  "There was no way I could stay there. I know running away wasn't the only option, but I didn't realize it then. I was scared."

  "What about now?"

  "What about now?" Margot asked.


  "You're on the run again. You have that same hunted look in your eyes."

  Margot swiped at tears that hadn't fallen. "Someone's looking for me."

  "How can I help?"

  Margot hesitated, realizing that she couldn't ask Holly to get involved in a dangerous situation she knew nothing about. All she really needed to do was wrap up the emeralds in a package and address it to Beau's brother. She could hire a stranger to walk into KamaTech, plop it on the receptionist's desk, and walk out. She silently acknowledged that coming here hadn't been about that anyway. "You can't help me," she said.

  The compassion in Holly's eyes went flat. "Then why did you come here?"

  "I don't know."

  "You need a friend."

  Margot released a soft laugh and rubbed her hands over her face. Holly was right. But she also needed to hang on, and unburdening herself now would undoubtedly knock her into the void she had managed to skirt for three long months. She couldn't afford that until she had returned the emeralds.

  After that, there would be no reason to keep fighting. "I just need some sleep."

  Holly studied her for a moment. "Who's looking for you?" "The guy I used to work for," Margot said. "What'd you do to him that he's out to get you?" Margot laughed bitterly. "I quit."

  Chapter 6

  Ryan stared at his captive, trying to keep his exhausted mind blank. It was difficult, though, not to feel like a jerk. At some point during the night, she had curled into a protective ball, the wall at her back. Hair fell in curling tangles across her face, not quite obscuring the bruise along her jaw where the goon had slugged her. Her hands were fisted, held close to her chest as if for added protection. Faint purple marks circled each wrist. Caused by his hands.

  Shoving aside the guilt, Ryan told himself that she deserved what she got. He prodded her calf with the toe of his shoe. "Get up."

  Meg's eyes snapped open, and she saw him towering above her. She braced herself, her heart banging in her head. He hadn't slept—his eyes were rimmed with red. Day-old stubble darkened his features, and he was even more attractive with that shadow tempering the angles of his face.

  "What time is it?" she asked.

  Her voice was rough with sleep, dark circles underscoring her green eyes. Ryan hardened his jaw. No mercy. "Time to go. Get up."

  She gritted her teeth to keep from grimacing as sore muscles protested.

  He turned away, annoyed at the way his stomach clenched when her top stretched taut across her breasts. "Bathroom's through here if you need it," he said with a curt gesture.

  Meg followed him through the door with rounded corners, the demands of her body more important than anything at this point.

  The "bathroom" had just enough room for a toilet and a sink. It was enough for her, and she started to close the door. Ryan cleared his throat.

  "Give me a break," she said. "Where am I going to go?"

  "Two minutes."

  She slammed the door with relief.

  She was washing her face when the door swung open behind her. She took her time rinsing away soap, determined to gain some kind of control of the situation. Drying her face on a towel, she turned from the sink.

  Ryan leaned against the doorjamb, watching her casually.

  The walls of the room closed in, and her breath started to lodge in her chest. "I'm done now," she said.

  He tried to enjoy the panic flitting through her eyes. Any discomfort he caused her would be only a tiny payback for what she had cost Beau. "My brother always had great taste in women."

  The rim of the sink pressed into the small of her back. "I told you I didn't know your brother."

  "Before you, his women were all the same. Classy, articulate blondes with killer red nails."

  He was so close, it was difficult to draw a breath. "Then any idiot can see that I'm not his type."

  "That's what makes you different. They didn't mean anything to him. He didn't love them."

  "He didn't love me, either, because I never met the man."

  "He was head over heels for you."

  "Then he had a rich fantasy life. Do you mind? I'm done in here." She tried to edge past him. He didn't budge, and she came dangerously close to making frontal contact with his chest before stepping back, careful not to touch him. "You need a shower."

  That made him smile, just a little. "Perhaps you think that if you convince me I stink, I'll take a shower, and while I'm occupied, you'll find a way out of here."

  Damn it. "I just thought you should know since we're going to be around other people who might be offended."

  "Somehow I don't think your pals are that particular about who they hang out with."

  "They're not my pals."

  "You're so convincing."

  "We'll see how convincing I can be when your ass lands in jail for kidnapping and aggravated assault."

  He turned away. "Come on."

  Meg, grateful to be able to breathe again, followed him. "Where are we going?"

  He just steered her by the arm into a larger, more elaborate sleeping area. She had a glimpse of a queen-size bed and windows that looked out over blue-green water. They passed through another door into a compact kitchen and small dining area. Camera equipment—a case, two thirty-five millimeter cameras and several lenses—was piled on a dining table for two.

  Snagging a White Sox baseball cap from a chair, Ryan shoved it into her hands. "Stuff your hair under this. No telling how many slime balls out there are after that pretty head of yours."

  She did as he said, remembering the thug who had looked her in the face and called her by someone else's name.

  Ryan nudged her up a ladder, his hand lingering a second longer than necessary, the heat of his fingers seeping through the denim of her jeans.

  On the top rung, she paused to raise a hand against the glare reflecting off water. The boat was anchored in a marina. "Where are we?" she asked.

  His impatient hand at her lower back urged her out onto the deck. The air was still and warm as he directed her into a motorized, inflatable vessel that bobbed in the water next to the yacht.

  As he steered the craft toward a dock several hundred yards away, Meg calculated her chances of diving into the water and out-swimming him. One glance at the muscles challenging the seams of his T-shirt told her to wait. She was better off staying put until she knew where she was.

  The morning breeze swept stray hair across her face, and she pushed it under the cap. "Will you at least tell me where we're going?" she asked.

  "You'll see."

  "An abandoned warehouse? An old factory?"

  "Sorry to disappoint you."

  On land, he led her to the driver's side of a black Jaguar in the marina's parking lot. "You're driving," he said.

  Within minutes, they were moving with the flow of traffic, and Meg was relieved to recognize her surroundings at last. They were in Naples, a community about thirty miles south of Fort Myers, where a number of celebrities and other wealthy people had winter homes. She didn't recognize the name of the road when she saw it on a street sign, and she cursed her ignorance of the area. She had only been here once, for a meeting at the newspaper's Naples bureau.

  "I need to know where we're going," she said.

  "Just drive until I tell you to stop."

  "You're not going to get away with this, you know." Even as she said it, she realized how stupid it sounded. After all, he was getting away with it.

  "I don't suppose you could just shut up."

  "Look, I'm a reporter. My name is Meg Grant. Call the newspaper in Fort Myers and ask them."

  "You have the number handy, I presume."

  "Call Directory Assistance if you don't trust me."

  He cast her a sidelong glance, eyebrow arched. "If I don't trust you?"

  "You know what I mean."

  "Take a right at the stop sign," he said.

  Downshifting for the turn, she cursed under her breath when the gears ground. "I haven't driven a stick in
a while."

  "Seems to me you're driving this car with some familiarity."

  He'd tested her, and apparently she'd failed. "This was your brother's car?"

  "He often let his women use it."

  "My father had a Jag. He taught me how to drive it." It had been one of the few times that father and daughter had connected. She had enjoyed driving the expensive car, and he had adored that she appreciated, for once, something his money had bought.

  Ryan was impressed with how easily she lied. "What color?"

  "Taupe. Well, that's what Mother called it. It looked light brown to me."

  "Nice touch." "What?"

  "The mother thing. That's a very nice touch," Ryan repeated.

  "I'm not lying."

  "Sure." He glared straight ahead, wondering how far she

  could take the lie before giving herself away. "What year?"

  "79."

  "Where is it now?"

  Meg coasted to a stop. "Which way?"

  Ryan glanced at her, saw her swallow. For the first time, he noticed the stress lines etched on either side of her nose. "Straight. What happened to the car?"

  "You're testing me," Meg said.

  "So what if I am?"

  "So maybe I don't like it."

  "So maybe you don't have a choice," he said. "You're the one insisting that I've got the wrong woman. I happen to think that I don't. Prove it."

  She drew in a slow breath and prayed that her voice wouldn't shake. "It was totaled."

  He interpreted the tremor in her voice as fear of being caught in the tall tale. "Daddy's little girl wrecked the precious Jag?"

  Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the steering wheel. "No, a drunk driver wrecked the car," she said. "Am I still going straight?"

  "I'll tell you when to turn." She looked genuinely distressed, and Ryan marveled at her acting ability. "When?"

  "When what?"

  "When did the drunk driver wreck the Jag? Make it good, now."

  "You son of a bitch."

  He leaned closer to her. "Excuse me?"

  Meg swerved onto the shoulder and jammed on the brakes. She had her seat belt unbuckled and the car door open before he grabbed her arm.

  "Where do you think you're going?"

  She yanked away and would have taken a swing at him if there'd been room in the car, or if that had been her goal at the moment. As it was, she just had to get out. Now.