Relative Strangers

by Joyce Lamb

  "Not in the illegal sense."

  "The FBI doesn't mind letting you peruse their files?"

  He flushed. "Not in the illegal sense professionally," he clarified.

  "So you're one of those people who hack into a company's network to show them where they're vulnerable."

  "That's part of what I do, yes."

  "You're also researching me for Ryan, aren't you? Going other places with that computer that you're not supposed to go."

  "He's my friend. Friends help each other out," he said.

  "Suppose I tell you something about me that your computer probably hasn't turned up? Something that might explain what's going on here."

  "I'm listening."

  She took a breath, held it. "I was adopted. I don't know anything about my biological family. Their name, where they live, who they are. I think Margot and I might be related, maybe even sisters." She paused, wishing she'd accepted his earlier offer of a drink. "Or twins."

  He opened his mouth to speak but seemed to think better of it and shut it.

  "Would you be able to look into that for me?" she asked.

  He sat across from her, his cheeks pink again. "Have you told Ryan about this?"

  "I'm afraid he would think I'm trying to trick him. But if you turned up the paperwork, the proof... he'd believe you."

  Leaning back against leather, Nick pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead, nearly dislodging his Marlins cap. "Jesus."

  She didn't give him a chance to dwell on it. "There's something else," she said. "A concern I have."

  He lowered his hand and sat forward. "I'm still listening."

  "What if Slater Nielsen just wants Margot dead? When I refused to deal with the lawyer who came to see me at the jail, he said to me, and I quote, 'It's time to choose a side.' I then accepted help from the brother of the man Nielsen's hit man allegedly killed. That's going to look to Nielsen like I made my choice, isn't it? I mean, what will he think if I let his men take me to him and pretend to be his little lost sheep after all the protesting I did with his henchmen and all the time I've been spending with his enemies?"

  Rising, Nick crossed to the door through which Ryan had

  escaped and stared outside.

  Meg cleared her throat to get his attention, and he turned his troubled brown gaze back to her. "I'm not stupid, Nick. This is a win-win situation for Ryan. I imagine you're going to hook me up with some kind of wire and a locator device. If I am Margot, then I know what I need to say to get Nielsen to incriminate himself, and your locator device leads you and Ryan right to him. If Nielsen just kills me, whether I'm Margot or not, it'll be on tape. Either way, you've got him on murder. Mine."

  Nick went back to peering outside, as if he could will Ryan to return. "Ah, here he is," he said, sliding the door open. He stumbled back when Ryan rushed in on a stream of salty air, blood wetting the front of his white shirt.

  Meg shot to her feet. "Are you all right?"

  Ryan swooshed the door shut behind him and hit a nearby light switch. Darkness claimed the room. "We've got trouble."

  "What is it?" Nick asked.

  "Two of my security people outside are dead."

  Meg stood frozen, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark. The moonlight outside was bright enough to outline the shapes of the two men by the door, and she told herself that Ryan didn't sound or act hurt. But she was certain she had seen blood, fresh and dark red.

  She didn't have a chance to analyze her fear for his safety before he was coming toward her. Grasping her by the arms, he gave her a firm shake. "Who did you call earlier?" His voice was low and urgent.

  Confusion paralyzed her. "What?"

  "You called someone to come get you, didn't you? I was such an idiot. I completely bought the tears. And now he's out there, or in here, and my employees are dead." He was hissing the words, so close to her face that she felt the warm moisture of his breath on her cheeks, smelled the whiskey he had consumed. "Was that the plan?" he demanded. "Get away from the cops, so it would be easier to stage an ambush to free you?"

  She shook her head. "No, I—"

  Nick was beside them. "Ryan, if someone's in the house—"

  Ryan released her on a vicious oath. "Goddamn it, I knew it. Goddamn it."

  Nick tried again. "Ryan—"

  "Close the blinds. I'll call the police." Ryan seized the cordless phone off the table by the sofa, but then a creaking sound near the stairs jerked his head in that direction.

  Meg saw the gunman pause on the steps, saw his white teeth reflect what little light there was, saw the gun in his hand. He raised it and started shooting.

  She felt a sharp tug, followed by quick, burning pain.

  Ryan, lunging for Nick, heard several more shots before he and Nick hit the floor behind the sofa. He had a glimpse of Meg dropping and rolling behind a chair and wondered what the hell she was doing—shouldn't she be racing for the door while the gunman had him and Nick covered?

  Fumbling with the phone still grasped in his hand, Ryan called nine-one-one, the silence a roar as he strained to listen for footsteps coming toward them or approaching from another direction. Maybe there was more than one gun-man.

  The ringing seemed to go on forever. Why the hell did it take so long to get an answer? Then footfalls thudded against ceramic tile, followed by the slamming of the front door. Silence again.

  Ryan fixed his gaze on the chair so he would see her when she ran. He'd take her down so fast her head would spin. His hands shook with the anticipation of it.

  Finally, an answer. He barked the address into the phone, still watching the chair, waiting for her to make a move. But she made no attempt to escape. What was wrong with her? The gunman had bolted. She should have been right behind him.

  Nick scrambled to his knees beside Ryan. "The son of a bitch ran." He released a jittery laugh of relief. "What a lousy fucking shot."

  Dropping the phone, Ryan stumbled over Nick to get to the chair a few feet away where, behind it, he discovered what he had feared: the gunman was not a lousy shot.

  Propped against the back of the leather chair, Meg had one hand clamped to her left side, blood seeping between her fingers.

  Seeing Ryan standing over her, she felt a moment of panic that his head could get blown off at any instant. "Get down," she rasped.

  He dropped to his knees beside her, fighting back the terror at the sight of blood on her, yelling at Nick to get help. Seeing consciousness fading from her eyes, he clasped her shoulder. "Don't do that, Meg. Stay with me."

  Nudging her bloody hand aside, he searched for the source of the blood. Her soaked T-shirt was in the way, and he shredded it. She gave a weak protest, but he ignored it as he clamped his hand over the wound along her left side, not allowing himself to ease up at her whimper of pain. Her fingers gripped his wrist, tried to pry his hand away, but he kept the pressure on, knowing there was too much blood, way too much.

  Looking into her green eyes, he sought assurance that she was not bleeding to death right in front of him. Shock had

  knocked them out of focus. "Are you with me, Meg?" She didn't respond. "Nick! Hurry!"

  With each second that ticked by, Ryan felt the life of the woman under his hand trickle further away. As if verifying his fear of how fast it was happening, her head rolled to the side, her fingers slipping away from his wrist.

  "Don't give up," he said under his breath, then raised his voice. "Don't you give up, Meg. Are you listening? Don't give up."

  "Ambulance is on its way."

  Ryan glanced up at Nick. "Jesus, Nick. I thought the bastard was after us." "So did I."

  "I thought—" He choked off and looked down at her, at her face, bloodless and slack, and his heart tilted in his chest. "Where the hell are they?"

  A siren in the distance answered.

  Chapter 16

  Ryan was dead tired. He knew he looked it when he walked into the waiting room and saw the concern in the faces of Nick and Kelsey
.

  "How's she doing?" Nick asked. He had not recovered his color since the shooting.

  "Doctor said the bullet went right through her, didn't hit anything important. They're giving her blood, but she'll be okay."

  "Thank God," Kelsey said.

  Ryan could tell by the sheet creases on her face that she had been in bed when Nick had called. "Thanks for coming so fast," he said.

  Now that the worry was over, Kelsey's anger surfaced. "How the hell did she get shot, Ryan? You said she'd be safer with you."

  Ryan started to rub both hands over his face but stopped when he saw them. They were coated with dried blood. Meg's blood. His stomach lurched. "Shit."

  Nick put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You should sit."

  While Ryan and Kelsey settled into a corner of the waiting room, Nick went in search of coffee.

  "What happened, Ryan?" Kelsey asked, her tone gentle now.

  "I don't know. I saw the guy on the stairs. It was the son of a bitch who came to see her at the jail. Someone had to let him know where we were. I thought it was her."

  "If it wasn't her, then who?"

  "Hell if I know. One of my guards. One of the cops. It could have been anyone. Who knows who this Nielsen guy controls?"

  Nick returned with three cups of steaming coffee. They each sipped, then grimaced in turn. Kelsey set hers aside. "So what now?"

  Braving another sip, Ryan was rewarded with a burned tongue. The pain startled him, and he realized that he had been numb since Meg had been shot. "She can't stay here," he said. "She's a sitting duck."

  "Even with twenty-four-hour security?" Nick asked.

  "I had that set up at your place."

  "Then what? Who can you trust?" Kelsey asked.

  "No one. We just have to get her out of here."

  "The woman's been shot," Kelsey said. "She's not going anywhere."

  "I can take care of her. We just have to get her away from here before Nielsen's henchmen find out the job's not finished. They could be crawling all over this place already."

  "I don't like this," Kelsey said. "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to make sure she's not dead before dawn."

  Chapter17

  Jake parked the Mustang in an unauthorized space and shut it off. He and Margot sat staring out the windshield at the green-blue water, fascinated by its expanse. This was Margot's fa-vorite part of the Gulf off Captiva, where the waves were a little more urgent than the ones that rolled onto the shore of Sanibel, the island they had just crossed to access Captiva.

  The water was prettier here. Greener, with white caps. The sand was made up of partially demolished shells. Walking barefoot could be treacherous, but to Margot, it was beautiful. It was on this beach that she had fallen in love with Beau Kama. In the distance, anchored several hundred yards out in one of Captiva's marinas, was his yacht.

  "Christ, it's hot," Jake muttered, slipping a finger between his collar and neck. "What is this, a freaking heat wave?"

  She glanced at him with disdain in her green eyes. "You'd think you'd be used to Florida by now, Jake."

  "Whatever." He began inspecting his fingernails. "Okay, we're going to take a dinghy out there and get the emeralds," he said. "Once I've got all twelve of them in my hand, I let you go. I go back to Slater and tell him you gave me the slip. You ever meet up with him, this never happened. Are we clear?"

  "Slater will send someone like you after you when he finds

  out you swiped them out from under him."

  "I don't think so, Mags. He's more interested in retrieving you than he is in the jewels. They didn't come up once in our conversation."

  Margot did the rowing while Jake hung onto the sides of the boat as if he expected to get tossed into the water at any moment. She ignored him, thinking instead about what she was going to do about the woman Slater was tracking. He was going to use her sister against her for revenge. How can I stop him? What can I do to protect her?

  Glittery green lettering on the yacht's hull caught her eye, and she squinted, wishing she'd grabbed Holly's sunglasses. As she realized what it was, she stopped rowing, her heart in her throat. Emblazoned on the hull was the new name of Beau Kama's yacht: The Emerald Eyes. He'd promised her a surprise the morning he was killed. This evidently had been it.

  "Why the hell are you stopping?" Jake demanded.

  She bent forward, afraid she was going to be sick.

  Jake grabbed for the side of the boat as it rocked. "What the fuck are you doing? Get up."

  She straightened, fighting the weakness back by slow degrees, and fumbled with the oars.

  Jake glared at her. "We need to get there sometime today. Move it."

  Sweat trickled down one side of her face, and she swiped at it with a shoulder. "Don't worry, Jake. I'm fine. Thanks for asking."

  "Shut up and row."

  At the yacht, she hauled herself up the ladder that hung suspended over the side and staggered onto th£ deck. While Jake climbed up behind her, she dropped onto a cushioned bench to catch her breath. Her heart drummed

  in her temples, and she still felt ill.

  "Where are they?" Jake asked.

  Pushing herself up, she tried the door that led to the inner cabin and found it locked, as she'd expected. She quickly tripped the locking mechanism with the paper clip from her bra. Inside, the unmoving air was sweltering. She bypassed the living room area while Jake oohed and aahed over the expensive leather furniture and plush carpet. In the stateroom, she ignored the memories that surged to life at the sight of the queen-size bed and windows that framed the shimmery water of the Gulf. Her focus was on a cubbyhole near the side of the bed.

  She had Beau's gun in her hand and was aiming it at Jake's head when he ambled through the portal. He froze. "What the—"

  Surprisingly, her vision blurred with tears that she blinked back, but her hand was steady. "You know I'll pull the trigger."

  He raised his hands, his face ashen. "Let's talk about this."

  "There's nothing to talk about. You're going that way." She used the gun to gesture toward the door at the other end of the room. "Move."

  His gaze was fastened on the gun as he edged backward through the portal into a small room lined with storage compartments. "On your knees," she ordered.

  Instead, he attacked. She jerked the trigger, but nothing happened. They hit the floor hard, Margot on the bottom, Jake grappling for her hands. He was laughing. "Who's the moron, Mags? The safety's on."

  She drove her elbow into his face and felt a satisfying crunch. Grunting, he grabbed for the gun, jerked it out of her hand, then backhanded her across the mouth.

  Stunned, Margot lay still while he lurched to his feet, blood

  streaming down his face. "You bitch! You broke my nose!"

  Enraged, he yanked her to her feet and thrust the barrel of the gun into the flesh under her chin. His thumb flicked the tiny lever that was the safety as he got in her face. "I could make your pretty little head disappear in a cloud of blood and bones and gray matter right this minute. How'd you like that?"

  "Fuck you, Jake."

  He shoved her away, and her body crashed against a door. It popped open as she fell to her hands and knees, various supplies spilling onto the floor. Trying to get her breath, she focused on the fire ax that landed just inches from her hand.

  From behind her, Jake seized a handful of her hair, pulled her head up, and pressed Beau's gun to the back of her skull. "Any last words, Mags?"

  If she was dead, she thought, it'd all be over. There would be no need for Slater to try to use her sister against her. Granted, the emeralds might not make it back to their rightful owner, but she'd rather die now than let Jake get them. "Do it," she rasped, and braced for the bullet.

  Laughing, Jake released her hair and uncocked the gun. "Yeah, you'd like that. But then I wouldn't get what I want, would I? I can retire on those stones. Get your ass up."

  When he bent down to grab her ar
m, she swung the ax up like a croquet mallet. The flat side of the blade struck him under the chin with a sharp crack, and he crumpled to the floor, unconscious, the gun falling harmlessly to his side.

  Margot dropped the ax and staggered into the main state-room, where she slammed the portal to the storage compart-ment and threw the latch used to secure the door during rough weather. That would hold him for a while, but she had to work fast.

  As she unbuttoned her blouse, she sought a clean T-shirt among the clothing she'd kept on the yacht, then went into the galley in search of a knife. It took her only a minute to re-move all the buttons of her blouse and slice through the fabric covering each one. When she was done, eleven dime-sized gems glittered dark green on the black marble countertop.

  Rummaging through kitchen cupboards and drawers for a hiding place, she found a mini flashlight. She unscrewed the bottom and dumped out the batteries. Gathering up the emeralds, she spilled them like ice cubes into the slim barrel, then replaced the bottom and dropped the flashlight back into the drawer. Mission accomplished.

  Breathing normally now, her head and back aching from her tussle with Jake, she looked around and regretted. She and Beau would have had a good life together, she thought. With laughter and love, warmth and understanding. Children.

  Her stomach clenched, and she pressed a hand to it. The cabin was suffocating. After grabbing a cell phone out of the same cubbyhole where Beau had kept his gun, she shakily climbed up the ladder onto the deck. The sun shot diamond shards of light into her eyes, and she narrowed them, shocked when her head started to spin. Damn, she was going to faint. Sitting down, she dropped her head between her knees. It couldn't be the heat, she thought. The heat had never affected her this way.

  The dizziness passed, and she raised her head, ready to sink it again if the weakness returned. She felt clammy and tired, and sat for a moment, thinking about what to do next. She would have liked nothing more than to return to the bed below and curl up for the next twenty-four hours. But who knew how long she had before Jake woke up, pissed off and ready to kill?

  Rowing back to shore drained her remaining energy. On solid ground, the first thing she did was call nine-one-one to let the police know where they could find an unconscious professional hit man. Then she checked the Mustang for keys and found that Jake must have taken them with him out to the yacht. Hot-wiring a car was not among her talents, so she started walking along the side of the road, her legs like lead.