Relative Strangers

by Joyce Lamb

  Now, she had a new responsibility to Beau. She carried his child. She owed it to him to live, to bring his son or daughter into the world.

  But Slater Nielsen wanted her dead. Undoubtedly, the police were looking for her, too. She wouldn't be able to hide forever. Even checked into this Captiva resort under another name, she knew she was not safe for long.

  And if the police found her first, Slater could easily have her killed in jail. Not to mention what he might do to her sister in the name of revenge.

  No one—not her, not Beau's child, not her sister—would ever know peace of mind as long as Slater breathed.

  It was clear what she had to do.

  She had to get a gun.

  Chapter19

  Piano music brought Meg to semiconsciousness. Easy, subtle, relaxing. She lay with her eyes closed, listening, trying to get her bearings. Fresh-brewed coffee teased her senses.

  "Are you awake?"

  She opened one eye, saw Ryan peering at her, and reluctantly opened the other. The last time she'd seen him, he'd helped her to the bathroom, then back into bed, where he'd given her two more pills. She didn't know how long ago that had been, but he wore different clothes now: denim shorts and a red T-shirt.

  "Is it morning already?" she murmured.

  "Afternoon, actually," he said, sitting on the plastic chair by the bed and resting his elbows on his knees. "How're you feeling?"

  Meg let her lids drop over her eyes. "Powerful drugs."

  "Don't get attached to them."

  "Wouldn't dream of it," she said, drifting away.

  He called her back. "Meg. Want to wake up and talk to me?"

  "Not particularly."

  With a soft laugh, he moved to the edge of the bed, where he tapped her cheek with gentle fingers. "Come on, you're

  hurting my feelings."

  Blinking sluggishly, she wondered whether she had the strength to smack him. "Is there a problem?"

  He gave her a tolerant smile. "Yeah, you're sleeping too much. The doctor said you should be up and moving around by now."

  "Sorry."

  "No you're not," he said. "How about some food? You need to eat something."

  "Okay."

  "Meg?"

  "You decide," she said.

  "How about a blowfish and peanut butter sandwich?" he asked.

  "Sounds great."

  "Want to sit up?"

  "Sure," she said.

  "Maybe a walk is in order," Ryan suggested.

  "Whatever."

  "A dip in the Gulf?" he asked.

  "Splendid."

  Leaning over her, he heard the evenness of her breath and realized that she had gone back to sleep already. He pulled back the covers, but she didn't stir. Wrapping a sheet around her, he scooped her up in his arms. She was slow enough to react that he began to wonder whether he should crank up the yacht's engines and steer back to shore and the hospital.

  But then she sputtered to life, throwing her arms around his neck. "What the hell?"

  Grinning, he was pleased to see color rushing into her pale cheeks and annoyance flashing in her green eyes. "We're going above deck for some cool, fresh air. It'll be good for you."

  When she saw the ladder with its eight rungs leading through the hatch to the surface above, she started protesting. "I don't think this is a good idea."

  "Why not?" he asked, playing innocent.

  "Well, that's a ladder."

  "I was a volunteer fireman in my younger days."

  "Firefighter is the PC term," she said.

  "I figured you for one of those women."

  "One of those women?"

  "Bleeding-heart liberal feminists, all of which is probably redundant, and which I'm sure you'll tell me is completely un-PC," he said.

  "If you're trying to bait me—"

  His grin cut her off.

  Meg bristled in his arms, conscious of the thud of his heart against her upper arm. His body was warm and solid, his scent—wind and soap—familiar. She noticed he had a bit of a sunburn, and his grin seemed to be widening. "What?" she asked.

  Enjoying the emotions that shifted through her eyes as she became more aware of him, Ryan was glad that he was not the only one affected by their proximity. "I see you're awake now."

  "You can put me down," she said, her voice an octave lower.

  He paused at the base of the ladder. "Think you can make it up this thing by yourself?"

  "Of course. It's only eight rungs, for God's sake."

  "Think you could have taken eight rungs right after you had your appendix out?"

  Staring at him, she tried to figure out how he could know something so personal. Then it struck her that he'd seen her scar. Her face grew hot. "You're a pig."

  The blush made her eyes all the more green, and God help him, he wanted her. He felt like a jerk. She'd just spent two days drugged in his bed, and assuming she was indeed as innocent as everyone thought, she was a marked woman at least partially because of him. But all he could think about was how she was wearing one of his T-shirts and there was not much in the world that was sexier to him than a woman in one of his shirts.

  "Can you handle the ladder?" he asked.

  She nodded. Even if she found she couldn't, she would die trying to get up it to avoid having him put his hands on her. She couldn't think with him touching her—at least beyond what it would feel like to have those strong hands skimming across her bare skin. She swallowed against the constriction in her throat, wondering at what point she had stopped thinking of this man as a threat and begun thinking of him as, well, naked.

  Ryan let her legs slide down his body, shifting her in his arms to allow her to test the strength of her limbs before he released her. It was sweet torture, and he silently lectured himself for letting so much time pass since his last encounter with a woman. Perhaps then this ache for her would not have been so powerful.

  When her feet touched the floor, Meg discovered that her knees had mutated into a substance similar to Silly Putty. "Damn," she said, clinging to his shoulders for balance.

  He held her around the waist, careful to steer clear of her injured side. "Carrying you is not a problem."

  "You just want to show off what a macho stud you are."

  "Naturally. So put your arms around my neck and hang on."

  She complied, certain her knees were close to wobbling out from under her anyway, which would be one more embarrassment she did not need.

  He smiled down at her. "Can you at least pretend to be an impressed chick?"

  She suppressed an answering smile. "I don't do the chick thing."

  "My ego may be irreparably damaged."

  "Get over it."

  "You're so tough," he said.

  "As nails."

  "Upsy daisy." He lifted her as she was laughing at the absurdity of those words coming out of his mouth. When the laugh dissolved into a small moan, he froze, paralyzed by the helpless sound. "Am I hurting you?"

  Clenching her teeth, she shook her head.

  "Liar."

  "Just don't make me laugh," she said.

  "Hang on tight."

  They climbed the ladder without incident, and as he set her on a chaise, she was impressed by his strength and agility. While he disappeared below deck, she searched for a com-fortable position. He returned with a pillow and a blanket that he tucked securely around her. "Can't have you catching a chill."

  "You think of everything." She let her head sink into the pillow, exhausted from the little amount of activity.

  "How about some coffee?" he asked, reading the fatigue in her eyes.

  "How about some sleep?"

  "Maybe later."

  She closed her eyes. "Now would be good."

  He snapped his fingers in front of her nose. "Stay awake, Meg, come on."

  She opened her eyes to narrow slits. "Are you trying to ag-gravate me?"

  "I'm not going to leave you alone until you eat something and drink some coffee."


  She sighed. "Fine."

  "Would you like a bagel?"

  "A bagel, great. Am I going to have to leave you a tip?"

  "Yeah, and it had better be a good one," he said. "Don't go anywhere."

  "Cuba is just a short swim, isn't it?"

  His answering chuckle faded away as he scooted below deck.

  Meg gazed up at a sky crowded with fluffy, gray clouds that looked heavy with moisture. Water quietly sloshed, the boat shifting on its surface. The air, fresh and salty, held a slight chill that was warded off by the blanket. At any other time, all would seem right with the world.

  But nothing was right. Dayle was probably dead, and even if it was not Meg's fault directly, she bore at least some responsibility. If she had not moved to Fort Myers. If she had not invited Dayle to visit. If she had not had the burning need to find her biological family, which was what had brought her to Florida to begin with—

  "Still doing okay?" Ryan asked, interrupting her thoughts as he set a tray of bagels and coffee on a white table that matched the chaise and the few other chairs on the deck.

  "Fine."

  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the anxiety that had impressed a crease just above the bridge of her nose. Some of the earlier shine in her eyes had dulled, and he suspected she was thinking about her friend. He wished he could tell her that the pain of loss would, if not go away, at least ebb with time. But he knew from experience that it didn't ease. Not when the loss was so senseless and violent. If anything, the pain worsened, the firestorm of it fanned by rage at the injustice. He didn't imagine that anything could vanquish the fury except vengeance.

  Handing her a coffee mug, he waited while she ventured a sip.

  "You make good coffee," she said.

  The compliment pleased him. "Thank you."

  "What day is it?"

  "You've been in and out for two days."

  "I don't remember much."

  "Not much to remember."

  "You remember the scar."

  He put half a bagel on a plate and brought it to her. "Relax. Kelsey is the one who helped you into my T-shirt, and I was a very good boy the entire time you were snoozing."

  "But you know I had my appendix out. If you didn't see the scar, how did you know?"

  "Nick told me about it."

  "Oh. Right."

  Returning to the table, he snagged the other half of her bagel and his own coffee and settled onto a chair that faced the chaise. "Comfortable?"

  She nodded and tried the bagel, not at all certain she wanted it. Her stomach expressed disinterest at first, then growled for more. She washed down a bite with a sip of coffee. "So what are we doing in the middle of the Gulf? I as-sume it's the Gulf."

  "You assume correctly, but we'll have plenty of time to talk about it when you're feeling better."

  "The gunman screwed up," she said.

  He set aside his food. "The only thing he screwed up was not inflicting a mortal wound."

  "He wasn't shooting at me."

  "Let's not talk about it," he said.

  "He was aiming at you and Nick. I must have been hit by a ricochet."

  Lowering his coffee, he said, "I thought he shot you on purpose."

  "No. I saw him on the stairs. He shot at you. I was hit by accident."

  He held her gaze over the rim of his cup. The food and caffeine were agreeing with her. Normal color had seeped into the hollows of her cheeks, and the soft focus of her eyes had sharpened. "We'll talk about it later," he said. "Right now, we need to concentrate on getting you back on your feet."

  "We?"

  "Yes," he said. "We."

  "Why?"

  He smiled, pleased that she was fishing. "Why not?"

  "You're wasting time. The longer we're at sea, the colder Margot's trail gets."

  "Her trail has been cold for months."

  "Unless you still think it leads to me," she said.

  He arched a dark brow. "Does it?"

  She refused to look away, wondering how many times she would have to return that stare without flinching before he believed that what she said was the truth. "No."

  "Then our only concern at this point is healing."

  "You could have left me in the hospital under police guard," she said. "I might have been fine."

  "Perhaps I was looking for a guarantee."

  "Why?"

  "You're an intelligent woman," he said.

  The implied "you figure it out" was all the more frustrating with a groggy mind. Letting her head drop back to the Pillow, she closed her eyes. "You exhaust me, Ryan Kama."

  She didn't hear him move until she felt the warmth of his

  breath on her face. Firm lips settled on hers.

  The surprise kiss was over too soon. One moment, his lips nudged hers apart, his tongue, quick and coffee-flavored, grazed hers, and the next, he was gone. She opened her eyes to see him on his knees next to the chaise, confusion shadowing his expression. The drugs were clinging to her system, she decided. She wanted him to kiss her again, only longer.

  It stunned him that a quick kiss could have the same devastating effect as their deeper, more explicit embrace three nights before. He had acted on impulse to prove to himself that the thrill, the heat of that first kiss, had been a fluke, the result of stress and lack of sleep. But the plan had backfired.

  Now he wanted more.

  Chapter 20

  All her life, Meg had healed quickly, and this time was no exception. By day seven, she could take the ladder as if it had never turned her muscles to jelly. Nightmares still tugged her awake at night, but she spent less time in bed each day. While she was not ready to run a race, even a short one, she was ready for the next step. If she only knew what the hell the next step was.

  Meanwhile, Ryan was impressed, and a little troubled, at how quickly she bounced back. He had thought he would have more time to plot his next move, but her bruises had al-ready faded, replaced by a darkening tan and a healthy glow. She was anxious, asking questions, pumping him for infor-mation.

  Her inability to sleep well concerned him, and he noticed that her gaze often turned inward. He knew that those were the times when she was thinking about Dayle, struggling to manage the grief and lingering anger. He felt helpless, unable to lend comfort because he knew what she was feeling and that there wasn't a damned thing anyone could say or do to make it go away. So they didn't speak of it. Instead, they dis-cussed the recent Florida heat wave, current events, politics, Pop culture. Sometimes, like now, they just sat and watched the clouds, content in a silence that was surprisingly compan-ionable.

  Meg, wearing a white T-shirt tucked into a pair of his khaki shorts loosely secured at the waist, sprawled on her back on the chaise that she had claimed as her own. Sleeves and shorts were rolled up to allow maximum sun exposure. A pair of sunglasses, also his, shaded her eyes.

  "How long do you think this heat wave will last?" she asked without looking at him. She didn't have to. The image of him standing over a gas grill, tending to a pound of barbecued shrimp, was firmly in her head. He wore denim shorts and nothing else. The sculpted ridges of his body had been too much for her. And there was something about this man in bare feet that made her breath catch. So she pretended in-terest in the mounds of fluff in the sky.

  "Weather report says a few more days," he said.

  "Then what? Back into the low seventies?"

  "Probably."

  "Even that beats the Midwest in January any day."

  He chuckled. "I imagine it would."

  Tipping the sunglasses down, she eyed him. A light sheen of moisture glistened on his skin, and she marveled at the ache in her belly that had nothing to do with healing. She'd never bothered much with men. She knew what she liked, and the few times that she had been lucky enough to en-counter it, she had enjoyed the good times and bailed at the first sign of bad.

  When it came to relationships, she wasn't a fighter, mostly because she had never felt anything that was
worth fighting for. All of her relationships had ended with the requisite "let's be friends" and a final kiss good-bye. No raging, no tears, no broken, or even slightly damaged, hearts. She'd always been proud of that. It felt adult, mature. Safe. If the relationships lacked passion, she figured it was because passion existed only in books and movies. She could live with that. Besides, she had a career—that was something she was passionate about—and the hours she devoted to it left little time for emotional entanglements. She liked it that way.

  Glancing over, Ryan saw her watching him and smiled. There was something satisfying about having her gaze follow him.

  Caught, Meg slid the glasses back in place and told herself the mysterious ache was simple restlessness. "I'm starving," she said. What an understatement.

  Ryan grinned at her, noting the huskiness of her voice. I know what you 're thinking, and I'm right there with you, he thought, liking the way her hair caught rays of sunlight and translated them into bold red sparks. "Almost done."

  "You're a great cook. In case I haven't mentioned that." He was a master with a grill and had served up meals of grilled grouper, crab legs, and a fish called amberjack that had tasted like steak. Meg had not eaten so well since moving away from the professionally prepared meals of her childhood.

  "You've shown your appreciation with a hearty appetite," he said.

  "Are you saying I eat too much?"

  "Nope."

  "It's best you don't," she said.

  "Hadn't planned on it."

  She studied a cloud that had taken on the shape of a duck with a very large bill. "What do you do? For a living, I mean." She was surprised that she had not thought to ask him that sooner.

  "Started out as a photojournalist but had my fill of that after dodging bullets covering a war. Now I'm an artist."

  She remembered the camera equipment she'd seen strewn

  «

  across the table that first night on his yacht. "There was a photo at Nick's that had your signature on it."

  "Yes. The kids on the beach."

  "I liked it."

  "Thank you. It reminded me of when Beau and I played on the beach when we were little."

  She twirled a curl of her hair around one finger as she watched the cloud shift, become a blob with frayed edges. "Are your parents alive?"