by Joyce Lamb
She was no longer sweating. Her skin was dry and hot, her head pounding. Nausea came in waves, and she had to stop several times to catch her breath. As the sun beat at her, and her head grew heavier, she knew she was in trouble. The thought was frightening. She was not the kind of woman who got sick suddenly. And she had never fainted.
The scuff of footsteps brought her head up, and she saw a man approaching. He was older, with skin subjected to the Florida sun for so many years it had turned to leather. His shaggy hair was bone-white, and he had blazing blue eyes that were slits against the brightness of the sun. "You okay, miss?" he asked.
Margot tried to give an I'm-okay-go-away wave, but the ground beneath her feet rolled. "Oh, shit," she said.
Stopping before her, the old man cocked his head. "You don't look so good."
She opened her mouth to say that she didn't feel so good, but instead, she passed out at his feet.
When Margot came to, she was on a narrow bed, surrounded by curtains and covered with a light sheet. A device attached to the end of her index finger kept track of her pulse, and an IV line snaked from a pouch filled with clear fluid to a needle taped to the back of her hand.
A woman dressed in white pants and a pink top pushed aside a curtain. "Ah, you're awake. How are you feeling?"
The headache was only a vague throb in her temples. She still felt tired, but her stomach had settled. "Fine," Margot
croaked, and cleared her throat. "Thirsty."
As if she had anticipated her, the woman offered a plastic cup with a straw. "Sip slowly."
Margot obeyed, relieved when the cool liquid soothed her parched throat.
"Do you know where you are?" the woman asked as she jiggled the pouch of fluid that hung from a metal hook.
"Hospital?"
"Captiva Urgent Care. You fainted on poor Bailey."
"Bailey?"
"Old guy who fishes from the bridge that connects the islands. Said you dropped like a twenty-pound grouper jerked out of the water and smacked onto the pavement. Want to tell me your name? You didn't have any identification on you."
Margot swallowed. "Mary."
The nurse made a note on a clipboard. "Mary . . . ?"
"Louis."
"Know anything about heat exhaustion, Mary?"
"I'm not a tourist."
The woman smiled. "Had you pegged for one the instant you were brought in. They're usually the ones ignorant of such things. You were dehydrated." She gestured at the IV line. "We're taking care of that. You're lucky you fainted in a public place, Mary. You could have gone into shock and died."
Margot closed her eyes. Dying from shock rather than mind-bending torture or a bullet in the head—what a relief that would have been. "Tell Bailey I said thanks."
"We took some blood, ran some tests, just to be sure the heat was your only problem."
Hearing the woman's hesitation, Margot opened her eyes.
The nurse gave her hand a squeeze. "Honey, I hope you think this is good news."
Chapter18
Meg woke to a rocking motion. Ryan, in white shorts, a blue T-shirt and bare feet, sprawled in a white plastic deck chair next to the bed, his head fallen to one side as he gently snored.
She blinked, bringing the dark-wood ceiling into focus, then, turning her head, the rest of the room. She was surrounded by teakwood that looked familiar. The room swayed, and she remembered. Ryan's yacht.
As if she had poked him, Ryan jerked awake and stared at her for several moments. Realizing that she stared back, he smiled. "Hi."
"Hi."
Leaving the chair, he knelt by the bed so that they were at eye level. He resisted the urge to brush the hair off her forehead, fought the need to tangle his fingers with hers on the sheet. He had to remind himself that he still didn't know for certain that she was innocent. All he knew was that nothing in his life had stopped his heart like seeing her blood on his hands. "How're you doing?" he asked.
The deep concern she saw in his eyes was foreign to her. "Fine. How are you?"
His smile grew. He couldn't help it. He was so relieved to see her gazing up at him with clear eyes. "I'm fine, thanks."
She had a vague memory of being wheeled down a sterile-looking hallway in a wheelchair, then being carried out an emergency exit and bundled into the back seat of a car, blankets and all. She remembered someone holding her hand, stroking her hair, telling her everything would be okay, that very soon she would be safe. She'd felt no pain, no fear, only disorientation.
She wasn't able to recall anything after that. Sitting up would help, she decided, would get the blood flowing to her sluggish brain. She shifted, tensed her stomach muscles, and gasped. Suddenly, she was wide awake, slapped into full awareness by pain.
Wincing with her, Ryan reached for her hand. Her fingers clamped around his. "Relax and breathe evenly," he said. "Tensing up will make it worse."
"Easy for you to say," she said, clenching her teeth against another wave.
"If you relax—"
"I'm trying."
"Breathe with me," he said.
She thought he was kidding, but then he was staring into her eyes and breathing in an exaggerated way, as if they were having a baby. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to ignore him.
"Look at me, Meg."
The pain was not easing up, so she obeyed, thinking only of relief.
"Good. Now, breathe with me."
Eventually, as she relaxed, the agony in her left side receded to a sharp, gnawing pain. She concentrated on not tensing again.
Blowing out a long breath, Ryan pried her fingers from around his. He was lucky he was the stronger one or the bones
in his hand would have been dust.
As he rose, Meg asked, "Where are you going?"
He smiled, liking the note in her voice that suggested she didn't want him to leave. "The doctor gave me some drugs for you. Think you could use them, don't you?"
She managed a weak smile. "Drugs, excellent."
"Be right back."
The room seemed to expand without him in it, and she stared up at the ceiling. She knew she'd been shot. But she didn't know how long ago or how she came to be on Ryan's yacht and not in the hospital. Or how it was that she was wearing a T-shirt that wasn't her own and not a stitch of anything else.
Returning, Ryan sat on the edge of the bed. "Let me do the work," he said. Carefully lifting her shoulders, he slipped under her so that she was propped against him, then reached around to give her a glass and some pills. "Muscle relaxants and pain killers. The doctor said they'd put you to sleep."
She swallowed them, handed him the glass and felt him shift to set it aside. He didn't move out from under her, and it occurred to her that she didn't mind. "Are we at sea?" she asked.
He toyed with a curl of her hair feathering his forearm. It was dark brown with a flash of red sunlight. "Since late last night. What do you remember?"
"Not much. Did you kidnap me from the hospital?"
"Nick and Kelsey helped. Your doctor wasn't too hot about it, but Kelsey assured him he wouldn't be held liable for anything, and he'd already determined that once they'd given you blood and patched you up, your life was no longer in danger. He loaded us up with antibiotics and the other drugs before we took off."
"So Nick's okay?"
He could tell by the tiny catches in her breathing that the pain still clawed at her. "He's fine."
"Are you okay?"
He rested his chin on the top of her head. "I am."
"What time is it?"
"Just after seven," he said.
"In the morning?"
"Yes."
Closing her eyes, she let the rhythm of the waves lull her. "Does your boat have a name?"
"The Christina."
"Named after a woman," she said.
He heard the disappointment in her voice, and his pulse stuttered even as he realized that her system was soaking up the drugs, that she wasn't thinking clearly. "No
t a woman," he said. "A dog."
"Oh." Her head lolled against his chest, and he felt the caress of her breath on the inside of his elbow. "What kind of dog?" she asked, her lips barely moving.
"A retired racing greyhound. She and I sailed together for about six years."
"What happened to her?"
"She had arthritis, and the humidity made her miserable. I gave her to a retirement home about a year ago. It's air-conditioned, and she gets more attention from the residents there than she got from me alone."
"Why didn't you name the boat after Kelsey?"
He smiled. "You're full of questions."
"My job."
"Of course," he said.
"You loved each other."
"Sometimes love isn't enough." He listened to her breathing, which had slowed and deepened. "How're you
doing? Feeling better?"
"I'm your prisoner again."
He could tell by the way she slurred her words that she was almost gone. "What makes you say that?"
"Why else would we be on your boat?"
"Ah."
She dropped off.
Later, while Meg slept, Ryan checked in with Nick. "You didn't get a chance last night to give me details on what you turned up on Meg."
"Let me pull up her file," Nick said.
Hearing the clack of computer keys, Ryan picked up a pen and prepared to take notes.
"Here we go," Nick said. "Her parents, Richard Alan Grant and Kari Ellen Grant, died about six months ago when their car was struck by a drunk driver. They left her a shitload of money in a trust fund that she can't touch until she's married and has a kid. Richard was the president and CEO of a bank corporation based in Chicago. Kari headed up several local charities and had her eye on a political career—she was running for alderman when the accident happened.
"Meg doesn't have any siblings, aunts or uncles. Both sets of grandparents died naturally several years ago. Employment history is stable. She started working as a reporter at the newspaper in Arlington Heights just out of college before moving to the Fort Myers newspaper last month. I talked to a woman in the personnel office at the Arlington Heights paper, and she confirmed that a woman named Meg Grant worked there for six years. Had the usual jobs while in school—retail and college paper. Medical records don't go back that far, but that's not unusual if she's always been healthy. Only illness I could find was an emergency appendectomy about three years ago.
"Debt includes a two-year-old car loan and a somewhat hefty college loan. The house on Fort Myers Beach is a rental. Apparently, her very rich parents weren't providing any fi-nancial support. She's had two moving violations, and they occurred in the same year ten years ago at age eighteen, both in a '79 Jag registered to Richard Grant. No arrests, no outstanding warrants, no FBI file."
"She's too good to be true," Ryan said.
"Or she's one of those people who plays by the rules."
"Why did she move to Florida? She has no family here."
"Nope. The newspapers are affiliated, though," Nick said. "Maybe she wanted a change of scenery. She moved during the winter. Ever been to the Midwest this time of year? It's freaking cold."
"Did her parents have a house?" Ryan asked.
"Uh, hang on. Here it is. A big one in Barrington, a ritzy Chicago 'burb. Summer home in Michigan."
"Did she sell either one after they died?" Ryan asked.
"No."
"Rent them?"
"No."
"Do they exist?" he pressed.
"What are you getting at, Ryan?"
"I want to know more about Richard and Kari Grant. It's easy to create an identity for one person."
Nick didn't speak for a moment, as if weighing the advantages of what he was about to say. "Look, Ryan, there's something I need to tell you. Meg told me that she was adopted."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"She seemed to think that Margot might be related to her because they look so much alike."
Ryan didn't know what to say. It would make sense. But was it too easy? "You believe her?"
"I don't know. I don't know her like you do."
"I don't know her either," Ryan said.
"I think you do."
"It could be a lie, Nick. She's an expert, remember?"
"Margot's the expert. Meg's the woman who almost died in your arms last night."
Ryan couldn't speak for a moment as the panic and help-lessness he'd felt then returned. When he had it under con-trol, he said, "Can you get proof?"
"I don't know," Nick said. "Adoption records are sealed pretty tight."
Ryan kneaded the back of his neck. "Meg and Margot don't just look alike, Nick. They look exactly alike."
"So if they're twins, then Margot might be adopted, too," Nick said, his voice rising as an idea struck him. "The FBI might have that in their profile of her. I'll check with Delilah."
"Delilah?"
"My FBI source."
"Oh. You've never mentioned her by name."
"We met in college. We still get together every so often for some fun. She's a bit of a tiger," Nick said, wistful.
"When can you talk to her again?"
"I'll give her a call when we're done here. Even if the feds turned up an adoption in Margot's past, it's unlikely they would have pursued the details without an apparent connec-tion to the crimes." He paused, and Ryan heard typing before Nick said, "Before I forget, Delilah told me the feds lost track of Turner Scott."
"Jesus. That guy isn't even the brightest bulb on the chandelier." Ryan wished he had something hefty to throw at a wall. "What about Margot? Are the feds making any progress locating her?"
"Delilah says not yet. I'm thinking that if they could have, they'd have found her by now. In the meantime, I've been working on something myself."
"Fill me in."
"Delilah told me that Margot has several identities that she's used over the years, all set up through Nielsen's network. Passports, credit cards, driver's licenses, bank accounts. The feds are watching them all for recent activity. So far, according to Delilah, no flags have popped up. Which means she's either staying put or she's using an ID that the feds haven't flagged. Which is what I've been working on."
"Haven't the feds been tracking Margot for a while? What makes you think you can turn up an identity that they haven't?"
"Couple of reasons. First, I'm a lot smarter than they are."
Ryan laughed, and some of his earlier frustration eased. "It's good to know your ego is under control."
"Hey, I earned this ego. But, seriously, it makes sense that if Margot is hiding out from Nielsen—and it appears that she is—she wouldn't use an ID that he set up for her."
"True, but I would think the feds have thought of this."
"Right. Well, I have an advantage that they don't. I was Beau's best friend. He told me things about Margot that they can't know."
"Such as?"
"Such as her nickname."
Ryan let his shoulders droop. He'd thought Nick might actually be onto something. "Her nickname is Mags."
"That's not what Beau called her," Nick said.
Ryan perked up. "What did he call her?"
"Mary Lou."
"How do you know this?"
"Beau and I talked, Ryan. He wanted to marry her."
Ryan was reminded of how little he knew his brother. "How does knowing Beau's nickname for Margot help locate her now?"
"I've fed all kinds of details like that about Margot and Beau into a database that sorts through it all and spits out hundreds of name variations. The software then combs data-bases throughout the country for sudden or unusual activity under those names."
"Wouldn't the feds be doing the same thing?"
"Yes, but you're missing my point. The feds are focused on Margot's details. They don't have the kind of access to Beau's personal details that I do. She didn't break from Niel-sen's organization until after Beau was killed, so it seems t
o me that if and when she creates her new identity, there's going to be some kind of influence from her relationship with him."
"Such as his nickname for her," Ryan said, doodling "Mary Lou" onto the pad of paper under his hand.
"I know it's a stretch," Nick said. "But it's something. Maybe the feds will find her, and I'll have wasted a whole lot of time. Either way, the woman can't hide forever."
"She can if she's made herself into someone else."
Nick was silent a moment.
"Are you still there?" Ryan asked.
"Why are you so reluctant to admit that Meg and Margot are two different women? It seems pretty clear to me. And it was clear to the feds or they wouldn't have let Meg go."
"It'll be clear to me when I can see the two of them side by side."
"You're in denial, my friend."
Ryan released an indignant sound. "Denial of what?"
"I saw what you went through when Meg got shot. You were a wreck."
"You were, too, as I recall," Ryan said.
"For different reasons. I was facing the realization of my mortality. You were facing the realization of hers."
"Yeah, if she ends up dead, I end up back at square one. Are we done with this conversation?"
"Just making an observation," Nick said.
"Let me know what you turn up on the Grants."
Margot was curled on a wooden chaise, facing the waves of Captiva as she dozed. The late afternoon sun was warm on her face. In the distance, she heard a mother calling to her small children and focused on their sounds.
A mother. She was going to be a mother.
Her stomach muscles twitched at the thought, and she put a hand on her abdomen. Beau's child was in there. Thinking of it left her dazed. She couldn't grasp the concept, even after a week.
When she had thought Beau was gone, that she would never hold him again, she hadn't wanted to live. She had kept going because she'd had unfinished business—returning the emeralds she had taken from him. Giving them back was a poor substitute for what she wanted most to return—his life. She would gladly have given up her own in exchange for his. If only she could.
