by Joyce Lamb
With a slight shake of her head, Meg turned on the CD player. Nothing like a Melissa Etheridge tune to steer her mind away from depressing thoughts.
She made it to the airport with minutes to spare and marveled at how convenient it was to zoom into a parking space just yards from the terminal. No parking garages, no confusing signs, no impatient drivers and rude hand gestures. Fort Myers was blessedly laidback compared with the harried pace of the Chicago suburbs. She had yet to regret the move, had yet to miss the smog and sub-zero temperatures.
In the terminal, Meg boarded the escalator, grinning at the three papier-mâché manatees suspended from the ceiling. At the second level, she checked the overhead monitors. Dayle's flight would arrive at any moment.
Meg hurried to the gate, imagining her friend on the plane, cramming legal pads and her PalmPilot into her black leather briefcase. Dayle, even though this was supposed to be her vacation, had probably not left her work at home. Meg couldn't blame her. She was the same, dragging a laptop with her pretty much wherever she went. You never knew when a Pulitzer Prize-winning news story would break right in front of you.
Pausing in front of the windows, Meg saw airport personnel preparing to unload the plane's cargo. The first passengers were trickling through the gate when a black limousine glided to a stop on the tarmac. Curious, she watched as the back door opened and a man stepped out.
A businessman, she assumed. A well-paid businessman, by the cut of his suit. He wore sunglasses and shoes as shiny black as the car.
Standing next to the limo, a breeze blowing tangles of dark hair across his forehead, he reminded her of a model in an advertisement for men's cologne. He had the body -- broad shoulders suggested muscles that rippled under that tailored jacket, and a lean waist spoke of regular workouts and skipped desserts. His jaw was angular and clenched as if in perpetual anger, his chin nearly square, with a cleft.
Yes, he definitely had the "I'm-a-great-smelling-guy" look. All he needed was a blond, too-thin goddess in a form-fitting red dress clinging to his arm.
He removed his sunglasses, and Meg realized with a jolt that he did it to see her better. The blazing Florida sun made him narrow his eyes, and she resisted the urge to shift under the probe of his gaze. She wanted to glance away but couldn't, as if the stare-down had become a dare to see who would buckle first.
A reflection in the window caught her eye, and Meg pivoted, grinning at the woman she'd known since they were both gangly, looking-for-trouble kids living on the same block. Instantly, the man and his limo were forgotten.
Dayle dropped her carry-on, and they hugged.
"God, it's great to see you," Meg said.
Dayle, a small woman with blond hair, brown eyes, and a shrewd gaze, drew back to look her friend up and down. "Jesus, you're even more stunning than usual. What is that? A tan?"
Meg's smile grew at the compliment. She didn't think of herself as beautiful. Her slimness was more athletic than willowy. Her dark brown hair -- auburn-streaked now that she had spent some time in the sun -- was long, curly and in her face if she didn't tie it back into a loose ponytail. A former lover had said her green eyes reminded him of the ocean off the shores of Jamaica, a more-green-than-blue shade that hid the undercurrents of emotions too well.
She wore simple clothes by necessity -- slacks and flat, comfortable shoes -- because chasing after defense attorneys and prosecutors for quotes wasn't practical or comfortable in a fancy dress and heels. Dayle had once kept a tally of her male lawyer acquaintances, who, knowing the women were friends, had pumped her for information about Meg. Although Meg assumed that Dayle exaggerated, the compliments never failed to give her confidence a boost.
"Yes, believe it or not, I have a tan line," Meg said. "First one since high school. But then, I live on the Gulf. What's a girl to do in her free time but hang out at the beach?"
"Yeah, right. I can see you lounging on a towel, computer planted on your lap." Dayle glanced around. "I'm starving."
Meg laughed as she scooped up Dayle's carry-on. "You're always starving. First, your luggage. Follow me."
They took their time walking to the baggage claim, discussing Dayle's flight and the frigid air she had left behind. On the escalator, Meg slipped an arm around her waist and gave her another hug. "I've missed you."
"I wish you could have made it home for the holidays. My family was asking about you," Dayle said.
"Someone had to cover the news."
"I just felt so bad that you spent Christmas by yourself."
"I was too busy to notice."
Dayle took the cue that Meg wasn't ready to talk about her first Christmas since she'd lost her parents almost six months ago. "Well, the Midwest isn't the same without you," Dayle said.
"Still cold, though, I presume?"
Dayle grinned. "As hell. Good God, what are those?"
Meg glanced up at the papier-mâché sea cows dangling over the escalator and laughed. "Manatees. They're endangered."
"Uh-huh."
"They're so ugly they're cute. You can buy license plates with a manatee on them, and the extra money goes to a wildlife fund. You can even swim with them."
After the escalator deposited them on the first level, Dayle made her way to a baggage carousel that had yet to start. Meg hovered at the edge of the crowd of newly arrived vacationers and took the moment to check in with her editor at the newspaper.
She had just turned off her cellphone when a hand grasped her upper arm. "We have to talk," a man said near her ear.
Startled as she was, Meg felt no real fear. People often mistook her for someone they knew -- she had one of those faces. But when she turned toward him, recognition stole the words from her lips. He was even more gorgeous up close, taller than she had guessed, and he did indeed smell good, like soap and wind. His jaw was set, muscles bunching into knots at his temples. Sunglasses were perched on his head.
His fingers dug into her flesh as he herded her toward a short hallway that branched off the baggage claim area.
"I'm afraid you --"
"Shut up and come on."
His rudeness erased her courtesy. "Look, pal --"
"I'm not your pal. Walk."
She saw that the area where he was steering her was deserted and relatively secluded. Suddenly afraid, she dropped Dayle's bag and whacked his forearm with her phone. "Let go."
His grip loosened, then tightened. "You're making a scene."
"No shit. Let me go." She whacked him again, more startled by his nerve than his strength. "Help!"
The clatter of a baggage carousel as it started up swallowed her cry. Catching her wrist, he twisted her arm behind her back and forced her toward the hallway. Any effort to jerk away increased the pressure he put on her arm and the certainty that he would not hesitate to break it.
"You're making a big --"
"Save your breath and walk."
They were at the mouth of the hall when Meg rammed her head back into his jaw. Stars burst before her eyes, and she heard him grunt before she was free. She whirled. A wild punch snapped his head back, sent sunglasses flying and pain singing up her arm into her shoulder.
Unfazed, he shoved her back against the wall. She opened her mouth to scream, but his lips muffled the sound. She pushed at his chest until he pinned her wrists to the wall on either side of her head, deepening the kiss even while she tried to wrench her head to one side.
Meg clamped her teeth together, narrowly missing the tip of his tongue. When he eased back, she hitched in a breath.
"Don't scream," he said. "Or I'll do that again to shut you up."
"Let me go." She struggled against him, alarmed to discover how intimately his body trapped her against the wall. Evidently, he didn't trust her to keep her knees to herself.
Fear shuddered through her. She was at his mercy unless someone entered the small hallway. Even then, with him pressed against her, they no doubt looked like just-reunited lovers stealing a passionate embrace.
She drew
another quick breath, but he crooked a finger across her lips. "Don't."
He didn't appear to be a man who would need to assault a woman to get what he wanted from her. He was wearing an Armani suit, for God's sake, and he smelled as good as he looked. "What the hell are you doing?" she demanded, twisting her hands in his grasp.
"Stop fighting. You're only going to end up with more bruises."
Meg almost laughed. "Give me a break."
"All I want is to talk. But not here."
"Yeah, okay. Just let me go, and I'll follow you right to your limo." She jerked her hands just to see if he was on guard. He was.
"Are you finished?"
"Did you think I was going to stand here quietly while you attacked me?"
"If you would stop struggling --"
"Sorry," she snapped. "I have a thing about self-preservation."
He yanked her forward until their noses nearly touched. "Just shut up and talk to me," he snarled.
The contradiction of what he'd said seemed lost on him, but the look in his eyes -- rage tinged with desperation -- reined her in. Meg swallowed. If he was telling the truth, and he just wanted to talk, then she only had to ride out the moment. An airport full of people was just beyond the wall at her back. The chances of him causing her significant harm without drawing attention were slight, and it was obvious he was not going to let go until she complied. "Fine. Talk."
"Tell me what happened three months ago."
Meg's mind raced. October. She'd been living in Arlington Heights, working night and day to avoid dealing with the aftermath of a late-night car accident that had claimed the lives of her parents a few months before. She couldn't imagine that that was what this man wanted to know about.
When she hesitated, he shook her by the wrists. "Don't tell me you don't remember."
"But I don't...what --"
"Don't lie to me, lady."
"I'm not lying," she said.
"Beau is dead, and you were there. I want to know what happened. What the hell happened?"
"Who's Beau?" Her voice rose with fear. "I don't know anyone named Beau."
"He was my brother."
"I don't know him." She winced as he leaned into her, her ribs protesting under his weight. "You're hurting me."
"Meg? Hey!" Dayle was beside them, pushing him away from Meg even as he released her. "Are you all right?"
"This isn't over," he said, backing out of the hallway.
Meg and Dayle watched him edge around the corner, as if afraid one of them would draw a gun and shoot if he turned his back.
"What the hell was that about?" Dayle asked.
Meg rubbed a bruised wrist. "I don't know."
"Do you know that guy?"
"No."
"Jesus, if I hadn't been looking for the bathroom..." Dayle stopped, her gaze on Meg's face. "Should I call the police? Maybe they can grab him in the parking lot."
Meg shook her head. "I just want to get out of here."
"Are you sure? He really shook you up."
"I'm okay. Let's just go."
As they walked to the car, Meg scanned the area, spotting a black limo parked at the curb. His?
"Hey, slow down. I can't keep up," Dayle said.
"Sorry." She slowed her pace, replaying the scene in her head. Obviously, he had mistaken her for someone else. He must have realized his mistake by now.
At the car, she glanced sideways at her friend. "Welcome to Florida."
"Want to tell me what happened?" Dayle asked. "You're white as a sheet."
"The tan's fading already?"
"I'm serious, Meg."
She shrugged it off. "I guess he thought I was someone else. End of drama. Hey, you're on vacation. How does pizza and a walk on the beach sound?" She was sure she sounded as awkward as she felt.
"Perhaps a walk on the beach and a drink."
Meg laughed as she unlocked the car. "Make mine a double."
* * *
In the back of the limousine, Ryan Kama poured himself a drink. His hands were shaking, and Absolut dribbled over his knuckles. Putting the glass aside, he took several deep breaths, conscious of how his heart knocked against his ribs.
It was her, damn it. It had to be.
"Downtown, Mr. Kama?"
He glanced up at the driver. "I'm sorry?"
"The benefit, sir?"
Remembering the reason he had flown into Fort Myers instead of Naples as usual, he checked his watch. A photo exhibit featuring his work and benefiting a local children's clinic would start in half an hour.
He glanced out the window and saw her getting into a silver Honda. He had never met her before, but he'd seen a picture. And he was certain this was the woman his brother had told him about. She had the same dark hair with auburn highlights, the same striking features, the same stunning green eyes.
He was perplexed by her reappearance in Southwest Florida. Why had she returned? Did she think enough time had passed and she was safe? Did the feds even know she was back?
Ryan shook his head. It didn't matter why she was here. What mattered was that she knew what had happened to his brother and why. He had spent three long months trying to figure it out. The police had been little help, parceling out only tiny pieces of information just to find out what he knew. Which was nothing. All he had was the one picture.
Once the FBI took over, Ryan had found himself almost completely shut out of the investigation. His one source of information had proved minimal so far. The helplessness, the questions, the need for justice -- they were driving him crazy.
"Follow her," he said, reaching for the vodka he had poured.
"Sir?"
"The silver Honda."
"But the benefit --"
"The photos will sell even if I'm not there. Go."
* * *
Dayle dropped her bag on Meg's living room floor and looked around. "This is nice."
Leaving her purse and unopened mail on the desk by the door, Meg retrieved a liter of tonic water from the refrigerator and an almost-full bottle of gin from the cupboard above the refrigerator.
"Don't waste any time breaking out the alcohol," Dayle said, laughing.
Meg's hands trembled as she dropped ice cubes into an on-the-rocks glass and splashed them with a liberal amount of alcohol. She topped it off with tonic and drained it in two gulps, grimacing as the alcohol burned its way down her throat.
Dayle watched with an arched eyebrow. "You okay?"
Meg nodded. "Better. Thanks."
She made a drink for each of them, taking an extra minute this time to slice small wedges of lime and drop them in. Her hand was steadier when she handed a glass to her friend.
Dayle wandered over to the dollhouse perched on an antique table. It had been freshly painted. "You're finishing it."
"Mother never had time."
"She loved it just because you gave it to her."
"Whatever."
Kneeling, Dayle checked out the gray, wooden crate under the table. MOMS KRAFT BOCKS had been stenciled in black on the weathered wood. "I always thought this box was so cool. And you left the spelling alone all these years. How unlike you."
"She wouldn't let me fix it." Meg sipped her drink this time, conscious of Dayle watching her as they plopped down on the sofa.
"Have you had any luck?"
Meg knew what she was referring to and was surprised that Dayle had waited so long to ask. "I haven't found my biological parents yet, no."
"Oh." Dayle's shoulders sagged. "I'm sorry."
"It'll take time, but I'm prepared for that. It's why I moved here."
"Not entirely."
Meg smiled. "You don't let me get away with anything, do you?"
Dayle smiled back, and her eyes were warm with affection. "Why should I?"
Meg pushed herself off the sofa and strode to the sliding door that led to a balcony. Drawing the vertical blinds aside, she slid the door open and stepped out. Even at night in January, it wasn't col
d -- just cool and slightly humid. Heavy clouds hung low in the sky, and a haze had settled over the Gulf, its waves crashing onto white sand only yards from the balcony. She leaned on the railing and gazed out at the darkness.
The beach house had been a lucky find. She'd been driving by when the owner was pounding the "for rent" sign into the front yard. She wouldn't mind trying to buy it in the future but knew she wouldn't be able to afford the coveted beach property on a reporter's salary. Securing a mortgage probably wouldn't be that difficult, though. Her parents had left behind a hefty sum when they died, though the money was in a trust fund that she couldn't touch until she married and had a child.
It was yet another way that her father had used money to try to control her. For years, she had let him.
Growing up, it seemed that she spent most of her life in boarding schools. The longer she was away from family and friends, the more she became convinced that her parents were not interested in raising a child so much as they were interested in having a child. She'd often wondered whether they regretted having a daughter rather than a son.
She found the will to rebel after her father sent her away, again, this time to the college of his choice. They had had their first serious run-in when she changed her major from business to journalism and brazenly informed him by phone. A couple of beers before the fated call had helped to boost her flagging courage.
"I'm paying for your college education," he'd thundered back at her. "And you'll get the education that I choose for you."
"I'm paying for it, so you'll do what I say." It was his stock response, and it never failed to make her feel angry and helpless. Powerless. And she'd had enough. She told him to go to hell, that she didn't want his goddamned money. In those words.
She would never forget the stony silence that had followed before her mother's voice came on the line, a tremor in it that Meg had never heard before.
Later, Meg chastised herself for losing her cool. But Dayle said that it likely was the harshness of the words that got through to the man, that he had not heard her until she became aggressive.
Her mother had begged Meg to apologize to her father, to accept his generous offer to work for him at a ridiculously huge salary once she finished a business degree. All would be forgiven. As if insisting on making her own choices had been something she had done just to hurt her father.