A Stranger's Wife

  Somewhat flustered, Meg broke the eggs into a bowl. “If we weren’t in a rush I could make something more interesting.”

  Jake said, “I hope I can look forward to that sometime. You know, I’m thinking that maybe we need to circle the wagons a little tighter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is a big house—sprawling grounds, all kinds of servants, gardeners, pool maintenance and other service people, coming and going. Even with the security system, it would be fairly easy for an assassin to get in. Especially since Rhea knows how to circumvent the security system. Perhaps we’d be better off somewhere else until I can track her and Sloan down.”

  “Do you have somewhere in mind?”

  “Yes. After we eat and while I drive over to Laguna, pack a few things and have Mason pack a bag for me. Just tell him I’m going to do an on-site construction inspection and will need boots and clothes suitable for rugged terrain. Since it would be too much of a stretch of anyone’s imagination to believe Rhea would accompany me on that kind of a trip, tell him you’re going to visit a friend. If Rhea has a spy in the house, this will get the word to her that we’re in two different locations. Since they need to know where both of us are for their plan to succeed, it might just make them show themselves, as they try to find us.”

  “Will we be in two different places?” Meg asked.

  “No. I want you near me.”

  THE LUGGAGE Mike had provided for Meg’s trip to St. Maarten was still in the vast walk-in closet off the master bedroom, and Meg decided to use it again. Presumably the rest of Rhea’s luggage was stored away somewhere.

  She surveyed the rows of color-matched outfits and shelves containing accessories. She would have preferred to use only the clothes provided for the trip to St. Maarten, which had been purchased for her, but a maid had unpacked her bags and taken those items away for laundering and dry cleaning. They had not yet been returned. Besides, since Jake had specified boots and rugged terrain, the tropical items would hardly be suitable.

  It seemed incredible to Meg that only a couple of days earlier she and Jake had been basking in the sunshine of a Caribbean island. A wave of unbearable guilt washed over her as she remembered Mike taking her to the airport. No matter what Jake said, nothing would convince her that Mike’s murder was not connected to her masquerade.

  She found a couple of pairs of designer jeans that looked new. There were also a denim jacket and some lightweight sweaters tucked away on a shelf at the back of the closet. She took one pair of jeans, the jacket, a shirt and a sweater. Surely they would be able to find Rhea in a couple of days, and this nightmare would be over.

  If only she had access to her own running shoes. Rhea wore a size smaller and so the only shoes Meg could wear were the kidskin flats, beach sandals and the evening shoes Mike had provided after she gave him her shoe size.

  Perhaps she could persuade Jake to stop by her house so that she could pick up her own clothes and shoes. How she would love to be Meg Lindley again, if only for a little while, to escape this feeling of having lost herself. Her own things would surely help.

  Snapping open the carry-on bag she had taken to St. Maarten, Meg packed the jeans and sweater and was about to stuff some toilet articles into an outside pocket of the bag when she saw two sheets of paper, stapled together.

  Knowing the bag had been completely unpacked, Meg’s heart began to thump again as she examined the two sheets of paper. The top page was a carbon copy of an application to buy a firearm, stating that the applicant had no history of mental illness or any criminal record.

  The applicant was Margaret Lindley, and Meg’s address, phone number, and all of her personal information was given.

  But it was the second sheet that sent a wave of fear racing icily along Meg’s veins. It was an invoice from a gun shop, dated the day before she left for St. Maarten, recording the purchase of a Smith & Wesson .22 caliber pistol.

  Not the .25 automatic I found in my purse.

  There was a second gun registered in her name.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Meg was surprised when Jake returned with Huxley, but she was glad to see the Doberman. Huxley greeted her like a long lost friend, almost knocking her down in his enthusiasm.

  Jake had changed into jeans, a sweater and a denim jacket. Despite the unaccustomed garb, he still managed to look as if he’d stepped from the pages of GQ. “Are you ready to go?”

  Meg nodded, indicating the two overnight bags packed and waiting. The gun application and invoice in her pocket rustled as she moved.

  Jake looked at the kidskin flats she wore. “There should be some tennis or exercise shoes somewhere.”

  “They’re a size too small,” Meg said. “I can’t wear anything tight on my right foot. I thought we could stop by my house and get a pair of my own.”

  “I don’t want to risk being tailed. I guess those flats will have to do.”

  Mason awaited them at the front doors. “Did you wish me to drive you to the airport, sir? Madam didn’t instruct me to call to have the Cessna readied, so I presume you are using commercial flights?”

  “We’re not flying,” Jake answered. “I’m taking the Jeep, and I’ll drive my wife to her friend’s place.”

  “And if I need to get in touch with you, sir?”

  Jake looked at him sharply. “Call my office, as usual.”

  Huxley trotted obediently behind them, sniffed the Jeep, and then jumped onto the back seat. Meg asked, “Did you tell anyone in your office where you’ll be?”

  “No. For the moment, I don’t trust anybody.”

  Meg slid into the passenger seat. Between the seats there were several boxes, on top of which Jake placed their bags. She noticed a hard hat on the seat and mentally tried it on Jake, who was revealing facets of himself that she hadn’t expected.

  Huxley trampled a small circle on the back seat until he was satisfied it was acceptable, then lay down, placing his head on his forepaws and relaxing.

  She asked, “How did your mother react to going away—and being separated from Huxley?”

  “Not well,” Jake answered. “But regulations prohibit dogs where she’s going. I told her I’m dealing with a deranged employee and expect to have him in custody in a couple of days. I put her on my private plane with my most trusted security man. Carmelita will join them later today.”

  Meg resisted the impulse to look back at the gracious house as they drove away. Jake hadn’t mentioned where Jessica was going, and the omission made Meg wonder if he still had doubts about her. If he did, she reasoned, who could blame him?

  She said, “Have I told you how very sorry I am that I’ve caused you all this turmoil?”

  He glanced sideways at her. “The turmoil began eighteen months ago when I married Rhea.”

  “Jake...I found something else when I was packing.”

  She told him of the gun application and invoice. “I suppose Rhea must have posed as me. She would have had all my personal information from Mike. The signature on the application doesn’t look like mine, but I’m sure the dealer, a gun shop in L.A. near where I live, would identify me as the buyer.”

  “Well, we knew about the gun,” Jake said.

  “Actually, no, we didn’t know about this gun. It’s a different one. Didn’t you say the gun I found in my handbag was a .25 automatic? The invoice is for a Smith & Wesson .22-caliber pistol.”

  “Another ladies’ weapon,” Jake commented.

  At the end of the private road he turned east, toward the mountains. Meg didn’t ask their destination. Huxley snored softly in the back seat, his tail thumping occasionally as he enjoyed his dreams.

  The two-lane highway snaked through the foothills, at times passing under canopies formed by the interwoven branches of ancient live oaks. Jake glanced frequently in the rearview mirror. There was little traffic in the late morning on a weekday, but Meg assumed he was checking to be sure they weren’t followed.

  As they climb
ed to the higher elevations, the live oaks gave way to pines and the air grew cooler.

  Jake reached for his cellular phone. He didn’t identify himself to the recipient of his call, but merely asked, “Any word? What about Sloan? Check with his parole officer again, although he was in violation when I called. Uh-huh, yeah. What about the murder investigation?”

  He listened without comment for several minutes, then said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  Meg waited, but he didn’t fill her in on what, if anything, he had learned. At length she said, “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

  “I bought some land up here a few years ago. It borders on the National Forest. I didn’t get around to developing it and probably never will. I figure I’ve given the world more than enough high-priced hotels and resorts and there’s no way man could improve on nature up here.”

  His approval rating in Meg’s mind notched upward again. She said, “So you weren’t kidding about the rough terrain?”

  “This particular piece of land has an abandoned campground on it. A landslide obliterated the road leading to it, but some of the cabins are still standing.”

  This explained the choice of the four-wheel-drive Jeep for the journey, Meg thought, as he turned the wheel and they bumped over a rutted dirt trail that soon disappeared into a shallow stream. After crossing the stream they zigzagged between trees and outcroppings of rock.

  Meg felt an urge to drop breadcrumbs out of the Jeep window, in case she needed to find her way back.

  “This seems remote,” Jake remarked, “but we’re less than two hours from town.”

  “Yes, I realize that,” Meg said. “But I wonder if in hiding out here we’re just postponing a showdown.”

  “If my people haven’t located Rhea and Sloan in the next twenty-four hours, then I’ll go back home and stake myself out to lure them to me. You, my dear Meg, will join Jess on the island until this is all over.”

  “The island?”

  “Off the coast of Baja.”

  “Which you own.”

  “Actually, no. The Mexican government doesn’t allow foreigners to own their land. But neither Sloan nor any of his cronies would be allowed to land, even if they knew about the island—which they don’t, because Rhea doesn’t know about it. There’s no way to get in by boat and I do control the airstrip, since I built it.”

  “I always wondered how the other half lives,” Meg murmured.

  In the back seat Huxley awoke and sat up, sniffing the fragrant pine-scented air appreciatively.

  Jake glanced over his shoulder at the Doberman. “He couldn’t go to the island, because it’s being turned into a bird sanctuary. In fact, in a few more months, we won’t be able to fly in.”

  The remains of a rustic wood sign, tottering on rotting posts, came into view. Meg could make out most of the letters burned into the wood: Tall Pines Family Campground. Ten RV spaces with full hookups, six cabins, twenty tent campsites.

  Jake said, “I’m thinking of rebuilding the access road, then renovating the place and turning it into a camp for abused and neglected kids. What do you think?”

  I think I love you, but it’s a forbidden love. Aloud, Meg answered, “It’s a wonderful idea. Kids would love it up here.”

  Jake drove past crumbling concrete pads designed for recreational vehicles, and grassy tent sites shaded by tall trees, then came to a row of redwood cabins. He stopped in front of the last one, which, unlike the others, still had its front door and window shutters intact. There was a fire ring in front of the cabin with a barbecue grill. A redwood picnic table stood nearby, its surface covered with a thick mat of pine needles.

  Huxley leapt out excitedly to explore these alien surroundings, spotted a squirrel and chased it up a tree, then began to mark his territory.

  Jake offered his hand to help Meg down from the Jeep, an old-fashioned courtesy she accepted gratefully. She was unprepared for the impact of his warm grip, or for the way he continued to hold her hand after she was on the ground, his dark eyes expressing feelings so intense that her heart fluttered against her ribs like a caged bird.

  They stood like that, staring at one another, transfixed by a force more powerful than reason or propriety. It seemed to Meg that the world fell away, swept aside by the ancient imperative that had driven man and woman since the beginning of time.

  For one giddy, euphoric second Meg thought that perhaps there would be a way for Jake to love her, for her to love him.

  Then Jake said huskily, “Meg, what if we were to—”

  Huxley pushed between them, a pinecone in his mouth. The Doberman’s presence instantly brought back into focus the other players in this drama. Recovering her senses, she said quickly, “No, don’t say it. Jake, please don’t say anything we’ll both regret.”

  Jake raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them. He said ruefully, “Why is it that all the qualities in you I so admire are also obstacles to getting close to you?”

  She sighed deeply. “We don’t have the right, Jake, and probably never will. Shall we unload the Jeep?”

  Reluctantly he released her hand. He had to put his shoulder to the cabin door to get it open, then he led the way inside and opened the shutters. The window glass had long ago disappeared.

  Meg brushed aside dangling cobwebs and looked around. A Franklin stove stood in one corner. There were two chairs, and a table with three legs. The fourth leg lay on the floor. A sink stood alone, bereft of drain board. A second, smaller room, visible through a missing interior door, appeared to contain bunk beds. Meg could see another door that probably led to a bathroom, the condition of which she didn’t dare imagine.

  Jake said, “Not exactly the Hotel Rhea on St. Maarten, but last time I checked, the plumbing was working. I’ll get a fire going after I’ve unloaded the Jeep. It gets cold up here at night this time of year.”

  He went back outside. Meg found a broom propped in one corner and routed the cobwebs, then began to sweep the floor. Jake returned with two cardboard boxes, Huxley at his heels. In short order he unloaded a pair of sleeping bags, a box of cleaning materials and cooking utensils, and a small ice chest. Then he brought in a toolbox and proceeded to reattach the table leg.

  Meg observed this activity with some astonishment, but then he surprised her still further by producing an axe and going outside to chop firewood.

  Meg filled a bowl with water for Huxley. The sink was by the window, and she saw Jake strip off his shirt before placing a log on the stump of a tree. She watched, transfixed, as he swung the axe over his head, the muscles of his deeply tanned back rippling. The blade flashed through the air and cleanly split the log.

  As he worked, his skin began to glisten with sweat. Meg had seen Jake’s powerful shoulders and well-developed biceps on the beach in St. Maarten, but she had not felt then as she did now. Perhaps she had been too nervous about her deception to be fully aware of his masculine appeal, which now hit her like a thunderbolt. Realizing she was breathing unevenly, she forced herself to move away from the window.

  When Jake returned, his arms loaded with firewood, Meg was glad to see his shirt was back on. Her cheeks still flamed at the unbridled lust she had felt. She had attempted to counteract the wild direction her thoughts had taken her by furiously scrubbing the sink and tabletop. When Jake reappeared, she was unpacking trail mixes, jerky, dehydrated meals in packets, coffee, cereal, some canned goods, bread, apples. Opening the ice chest she found steaks, juice, a carton of stay-fresh milk.

  Jake said, “I picked that stuff up on the way back from taking Jess to the airport. It’s been a while since I did any camping, so I hope I haven’t forgotten anything. The water comes from a deep well and is safe to use.”

  He raked ancient ashes from the stove, cut up one of the cardboard boxes for kindling, and placed the smallest logs on top. The fire flared to life.

  Meg said, “I’m impressed. I wouldn’t have thought you’d ever been camping in your life.”


  He smiled. “You’d be surprised.” Straightening up, he said, “I’ll bring in the dog food.”

  Huxley wagged his tail and licked his lips in anticipation.

  WHEN THE CABIN was habitable they made sandwiches for lunch, and after Meg reassured Jake that she could handle walking in the less than ideal shoes, they went for a short hike.

  When he took her hand to help her negotiate stepping-stones across a narrow stream, she managed to hide the way his touch resonated throughout her entire body, but when they had to clamber over an outcropping of rock and Jake seized her around the waist to lower her to the ground, Meg was sure her composure would desert her. She dared not let herself look into his eyes.

  How could she possibly spend the night alone with this man, here in this wildly beautiful and isolated place, and keep from succumbing to a yearning that wiped out all rational thought? She pulled away from him, and stumbled down the trail after Huxley.

  That evening Jake lit a fire in the barbecue ring outside the cabin and expertly broiled the steaks, while Meg opened a can of beans and reconstituted a package of pasta with sauce. They took the chairs outside and dined by the fire as stars began to pierce the night sky.

  Meg felt a pleasant languor. The afternoon of exercise and fresh air had at least temporarily relieved her tension. Up here, on top of the world, it seemed nothing could touch them. For a little while she could pretend they were two ordinary people escaping workaday routines and enjoying each other’s company.

  The moon rose and the pines became silhouettes moving restlessly, like dark dancers. Nocturnal animals began to stir.

  They ate in companionable silence, then gave the steak bones to Huxley, who buried one and then settled down to gnaw the other.

  A wisp of a cloud drifted like gray chiffon across the moon, and in the diminished light Jake stirred the remnants of the campfire so that it flickered to life again.

  He asked, “When we resolve this mess we’ve drawn you into, will you consider a position in my organization?”