by Joyce Lamb
"It's just funny that you'd gravitate toward a movie about people who aren't who they appear to be."
Rachel laughed as she filled the glasses with tea. "Right. I like that guy." Picking one up, she sipped, her gaze on Alaina's face, assessing. "Is it okay if I ask how you're doing since ... everything?"
Alaina smiled as she gathered silverware. "You can ask anytime. And I'm doing just fine," she said. In the dining room, she started to set the table as Rachel distributed the glasses of tea then began to fold napkins for her.
It had been three months since Mitch had shot Layton -- at least he insisted that his was the bullet that had killed the man, though Alaina wondered whether he was simply sparing her. Nightmares still haunted her in which Layton pointed a gun at Jonah and Mitch, and she was helpless to get to them in time. But she and Jonah were in counseling, together and separately, and she was pleased with how that was going.
"Jonah seems to have weathered the storm, considering," Rachel said, handing over the last folded napkin.
Alaina agreed. Of the two of them, Jonah was bouncing back the fastest, though she worried about post-traumatic stress in the future. For now, he seemed to relish the idea of his mother taking on a bad guy and kicking butt. It helped tremendously that he and Mitch had become fast buddies. Jonah had even bonded with Mitch's seven-year-old son, Tyler, who had begun spending an occasional weekend with them at Mitch's, where she and Jonah had been living the past three months. Jonah had hinted several times already that having a second little brother or sister around would be okay with him.
The idea of having a child with Mitch made her stomach flutter. But they hadn't discussed where their relationship was going. There was no question that she loved him. Distance from the intensity of their first days together had done nothing to dull her feelings for him. If anything, they had sharpened, because now there were no distractions and no reasons for her to feel the need to distance herself. The danger, the running, the fear ... all were gone. Every day, she felt lighter, almost giddy with how suddenly uncomplicated everything seemed.
There were still complications, of course. It would probably take years to sort out the PCware issues, but she was leaving it to the lawyers and accountants her father had trusted over the years. Addison certainly wasn't in any shape to help figure it out, but at least she was improving. She was scheduled to be released in a few days from the private clinic she had checked herself into after spending a week in the hospital. Alaina had visited her often, knowing that her sister desperately needed a support network. While things were tense between them and Alaina didn't see them ever becoming the best of friends, she was satisfied with the progress they were making.
"Does he know?" Rachel asked.
Alaina focused on her friend. "I'm sorry?"
"Does Jonah know what his father did to you?"
Alaina shook her head. "Not yet. I'll tell him eventually, when he's older. But for now he needs time to adjust to other things."
"Such as the man in your life," Rachel said with a grin. "Have I mentioned how much I like that guy?"
Alaina laughed. "I think you mentioned it earlier."
"Well, I can't say it enough." Rachel checked her watch. "Where are they with the food anyway? I'm starving."
As if on cue, the front door opened, and Jonah bounded in, laden with sacks of Thai food that he dropped onto the table before launching himself at Rachel. "Hey, Aunt Ray."
Rachel laughed, grabbing onto him when he picked her up in a bear hug and spun her around. "Stop! You know I'm afraid of heights."
He set her down. "I'm not that much taller. Geez."
She ruffled his hair. "Are you kidding? What are you? Seven-five? Seven-six?"
Rolling his eyes, he plopped down on a chair, reached for a bag and tore it open. "Five-eight and counting. We have to start with the spring rolls."
"Hey, I thought your buddy Lucas was going to be here tonight," Rachel said.
Jonah shrugged. "We're doing a movie later." He lifted a spring roll out of the box. "This one's for Mom."
Alaina left them bantering and met Mitch as he came through the door Jonah had left hanging open. As usual, seeing him took her breath away. He looked especially good tonight in jeans shorts and a white T-shirt that hugged his muscles. His dark chocolate eyes told her he thought she looked pretty damn good, too, as he caught her against him and planted a warm kiss on her mouth.
"Hi, you," he said. "Miss me?"
"You were gone only twenty minutes, but yeah, I missed you." Beneath the palm she rested on his chest, she felt his heart beating fast and hard.
He kissed her again, then set her away from him. "Let's eat," he said, and made a beeline for the table. "Hey, Ray," he said.
Rachel beamed at him in absolute adoration. "Hey, yourself."
Bemused by Mitch's abruptness, thinking he must really be hungry, Alaina followed him and sat in the chair he pulled out for her.
Jonah had already passed around spring rolls and was munching on his. Alaina thought he seemed unusually intent on it and exchanged a questioning glance with Rachel, who shrugged and went to work on dousing hers with sweet and sour sauce.
"These are so good," Rachel said, licking sauce from her finger. "Where's this place again?"
Alaina looked at Mitch, expecting he would answer, but his attention was focused on the spring roll she had halfway to her mouth. A glance at Jonah confirmed that he was, too. Her pulse tripped, then began to race, and suddenly she knew what they were up to. Humoring them, playing it cool, she bit into the crunchy Thai appetizer.
"This is the best spring roll I've ever had," she said, rolling her eyes in mock ecstasy.
Rachel arched an amused brow. "Geez, Al, you want us to leave the room so you can be alone with it?"
Alaina feigned a gasp, though she wasn't faking the tremor in her fingers when she plucked the glittering diamond out of what was left of the spring roll. "What's this?"
Rachel sat back on a laugh. "I'll be damned."
Alaina met Mitch's gaze, and smiled as emotion swelled in her chest.
Reaching across the table, he slid his hand over hers. "So, will you?" he asked.
She felt the dampness of his palm, and her heart went out to him. The poor guy was nervous. She decided to put him out of his misery quickly. Not that there was any question. "Yes. I will."
He turned his hand, gripped her fingers hard, and she saw his eyes shimmer.
"Excellent," Jonah said, beaming.
"Ditto," Rachel said, tears in her eyes.
"It was my idea to put the ring in your spring roll," Jonah said.
Alaina grinned. "You two plotted together." They were her men, she thought. Her beautiful, amazing men.
Jonah nodded. "He wanted to do something mushy and romantic, but I told him you weren't into crap like that."
Alaina's laugh faded when Mitch tugged her out of her chair and onto his lap. Taking the ring from her, he wiped it clean on his napkin, then slid it onto her finger, where it shot off sparks of color. "We'll do mushy and romantic later," he said, and kissed her.
Alaina closed her eyes, sinking easily into his embrace, finding there, in his arms, everything she'd ever wanted.
THE END
About Joyce Lamb(Excerpt for Relative Strangers is below)
I started writing as a teenager, plunking my dad's electric typewriter on my bedroom floor and pounding away at it in my jams. I'd just finished reading Rage of Angels by Sidney Sheldon and found the unhappy ending inspiring. So, naturally, I decided to write romance novels, where the ending is guaranteed to be happy. You can’t imagine how relieved I am that you will never, ever read that first novel, which was edited using scissors and rubber cement. At least the fumes were good.
The day I sold my first novel, Relative Strangers, I almost hung up on my agent’s assistant, thinking she was a telemarketer. See, I’d given up on getting published and had decided to learn how to play the piano. Apparently, the universe was not
impressed by my (in)ability to tickle the ivories.
My second novel, Caught in the Act, was a Rita finalist in the romantic suspense category. Nora Roberts won that year. She said she was “shocked,” so I must have had her worried.
My other novels include Found Wanting, soon to be an e-book, and three Berkley Sensation titles that are available now: Cold Midnight, True Vision and True Colors. True Shot, coming in December, is the third in my paranormal romantic suspense True trilogy.Besides writing, I love to play tennis and board games and grill out with friends. My guilty pleasures include The Real Housewives of New York, Project Runway and So You Think You Can Dance. I don’t have time to be ashamed.
I have two adorable puddies, Maddy and Allie, and plan to someday have a dog named Boo.
I love hearing from readers, so please feel free to drop me an e-mail even if it’s just to say hi: [email protected]. My website is JoyceWrites.com.
Excerpt for Relative Strangers
By Joyce Lamb
(coming soon as an e-book!)
Twin headlights thrust the darkness aside as Margot Rhinehart steered the black Lexus into the long, winding driveway. The air conditioner was on full blast to combat both the unusual humidity of the October night and the nerves that made her palms damp against the steering wheel. She had directed the vent right at her face only minutes ago, hoping the steady stream of artificial breeze would help clear her head. The weight of her hair lay heavily against the back of her neck, and she pushed the thick length back. Southwest Florida was just too humid to have such long hair. If Beau hadn't liked it so much, she would have lopped it all off in an instant.
Thinking of him churned her stomach, and she gripped the steering wheel as the car rounded the last curve in the tree-lined drive and the house loomed out of the darkness. Jagged lightning flashed behind it, and the thunder that followed seemed to shake the car. Rain had yet to fall, but it would be only a matter of minutes.
As the car rolled to a stop, Margot studied the tall white columns, marble steps and floor-to-ceiling windows. It looked different, and she knew her perspective had changed. She was not the same woman she'd been when she'd first seen Beau Kama's estate.
But that wasn't it. The house wasn't supposed to be dark. She checked her watch. After nine. The lights should have been blazing by now, emphasizing the home's best features while discouraging burglars.
Her heart hammered as she shut off the car and rummaged through the glove box for a flashlight. Her hands began to shake, and she told herself to calm down. The storm had evidently knocked out the power. That was all. She remembered the many times she had huddled in Beau's arms on the second-floor balcony, watching as an afternoon thunderstorm raged above the Gulf of Mexico, a frightening yet spectacular show. But she'd been with Beau -- protected. Now, he wasn't here, and she couldn't help but feel jittery.
Margot wiped a damp palm down one jean-clad leg before stepping from the car into the heavy, wet air. A strong breeze blew the hair back from her face and rattled the palm fronds overhead. In the distance, she heard forceful waves breaking on the beach.
Her steps faltered when the lights blinked on, outside and inside. She glanced up at the corner of the porch and saw the red eye of a surveillance camera blinking at her. Switching off the flashlight, she stepped through the front door. Every light in the house seemed to be on.
"Beau?" she called. "Are you here?"
Silence.
She checked the living room and office. The huge square picture that hid the wall safe in Beau's office was just as she had left it that afternoon -- a tiny bit crooked. She considered returning what she had removed earlier but didn't know whether Beau was in the house somewhere. Better to wait until he was asleep. Then he would never have to know.
She mounted the steps to the loft, tapping the flashlight against her thigh. Thunder boomed, and she flinched.
"Beau?"
She told herself to relax. He was probably just playing with her as part of the surprise he had promised her that morning. Her birthday surprise.
At the top of the steps, she turned to go into the master bedroom but paused in the doorway. It appeared to be the only room in the house that was dark. "Beau? Come on, stop teasing."
No response.
She hit the light switch. Nothing happened.
"Damn it, Beau. This isn't funny."
She forgot the flashlight and stepped into the room, muscles tense, expecting him to jump out at her. Sometimes he had a sick sense of humor. "Beau?" She tried to sound pathetic to let him know he was getting to her.
Her foot encountered something soft but heavy. Lightning flashed, and she saw a bulky shape on the floor. A person. Her breath caught, her fingers clumsy as she fumbled for the button on the flashlight and pushed it. Thunder cracked.
She screamed and backed out of the room too fast, dropping the flashlight. It hit the floor and winked out.
Her back struck the wall across from the bedroom, and she slid down it, clamping a hand over her mouth. She could smell the blood now. Coppery, metallic. Bile surged into her throat. She choked it back. Maybe he was still alive.
Maybe it wasn't Beau.
She pushed herself up and staggered toward the dark bedroom. Light. She needed light. Picking up the flashlight, she shook it, but it was dead.
The bathroom light. Taking a deep breath, she plunged into the room, careful to steer clear of the body. When she stumbled over an object that clinked, she dropped to her knees and ran her hands over the smooth, cool surface of a lamp base. The cord flopped in her hand. It was unplugged.
She crawled toward the wall, where she knew there was an outlet next to the bureau. It took her several tries to align the prongs with the outlet and plug it in. Without its shade, the light nearly blinded her. Still on her knees, she turned.
It was Beau.
A neat, black hole between his eyes.
Blood everywhere.
Margot couldn't move. His eyes were open, and there was no mistaking the blankness of that stare.
Compelled by the need to be sure, she reached forward and pressed trembling fingers to the place in his neck where there should have been a pulse. Nothing. Just blood that wet her fingers.
He was still warm.
She gagged, crabbing back on all fours. The heavy dresser halted her retreat, and she used it to pull herself to her feet. Gasping, she snatched up the bedside phone and called nine-one-one.
A woman answered.
"I need help," Margot said.
"What is the nature of your emergency?" the woman asked.
Margot heard the tap-tap of computer keys. She swung around to look at Beau in the unnatural light cast by the shadeless lamp on the floor. The shadows made his eye sockets look empty. Her chest convulsed with a dry sob.
"I'm dispatching emergency vehicles to your address right now. Please tell me the nature of the emergency so they can be prepared to help quickly," the woman said.
Margot forced herself to look away from Beau and froze.
Blood on the mirror.
Scrawled words.
"Happy Birthday. Love, Slater."
She saw her own image reflected through the blood, dark hair wild, green eyes wide with shock. And she saw the snapshot of her and Beau that he had pressed between the mirror and the frame a week ago.
"Oh, God." Her knees buckled, and the phone clunked to the floor.
"No," she whimpered as her fingers curled into the carpet. "You son of a bitch. Son of a bitch."
Sirens drove her to her feet. With another hoarse denial, she smeared the words on the mirror, erasing the message, then stumbled out of the bedroom. She skidded halfway down the stairs, her feet almost sliding out from under her in the tiled entryway.
The door was still open. Sirens wailed closer as Margot leapt down the porch steps and raced for the Lexus. Her fingers slipped on the door handle, and she realized why as she wiped them on her jeans. They were smeared with Beau's blood.
Moaning, she yanked the door open and dove into the car, fumbling for the keys in her front pocket. The jeans were tight, the way Beau liked, and she had to arch her back, straightening her body in the confines of the driver's seat, to cram her fingers into the pocket.
Her hands trembled violently, but she managed to get the key into the ignition on the first try as fat raindrops began to splat against the windshield. When she jammed it into gear, the car jumped forward.
Hurry, damn it, hurry.
She didn't ease up on the accelerator even as she rounded the first curve of the driveway and banked too high. Tires bit into the lawn, spun for a second, churning up grass and dirt, then caught on the edge of the asphalt. At the end of the drive, she jerked the steering wheel to the left, leaving mud and tread marks in her wake.
Flashing red lights appeared behind her, and she pressed the accelerator to the floor, tears burning her eyes. Her chest felt heavy with pain and guilt and fear.
The vent blew icy air at her face, but Margot barely noticed as her brain began to decipher what had happened.
Happy Birthday.
Love, Slater.
* * *
Three months later
Meg Grant rolled down the car window and propped her elbow on it, unable to tame the smile of satisfaction that curved her lips. It was January tenth. Seventy-five degrees. Not a cloud in the dazzling blue sky. Life was good. Damned good.
In twenty minutes, she would be at Southwest Florida International Airport to pick up Dayle, her first visitor in Florida. Meg was looking forward to sharing with her closest friend the excitement of a new city. She had lived in Fort Myers a month and was just learning the courthouse beat at the newspaper. Although it was all very new and thrilling, she missed home. Not the cold, of course. Christmas had seemed odd without snow, but that hadn't been the only strangeness this year -- it had been her first Christmas since her parents had died.