A Stranger's Wife

by Paige Phillips

  Her soak in a warm, scented tub revealed numerous bruises on her body, and her right ankle was badly swollen, no doubt from kicking at the back of the car trunk. At least, due to the rain, she’d had on boots, she thought, wondering what shape she’d be in if she’d been wearing tennis shoes when she kicked her way out of the car.

  She sipped the brandy-laced milk and felt its fiery warmth seep through her body and calm her a little. She ached all over, but reminded herself how much better she’d fared than had Jake.

  The big question in Meg’s mind was, what had become of Rhea during the struggle? Everything had happened so quickly, and the house had been so dark, but why hadn’t Rhea gone to Sloan’s aid? Perhaps her twin, at the last minute, realized the enormity of what she was doing and had a change of heart. Meg prayed that was so.

  When she emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a fluffy terry-cloth robe, Carmelita was waiting to show her to a cozy bedroom with daffodil-yellow walls and a white four-poster bed.

  For once, Carmelita didn’t maintain a steady stream of conversation. She clucked sympathetically, helped Meg into bed and tucked a whisper-light eiderdown quilt over her, then withdrew.

  Jessica and Huxley appeared minutes later. Jessica asked quietly, “Would you like a sedative, or maybe a pain pill? I understand you were roughed up.”

  “No, thank you. Just being warm and safe is all I need right now. Mrs. Chastain—”

  “Jessica,” the older woman corrected.

  “I’m so sorry for deceiving you, Jessica.”

  Jake’s mother stared at her for a moment, then shook her head slightly in an expression of disbelief. “I could still swear you are Rhea. You really are identical, aren’t you? At least as far as looks are concerned.”

  “I’ve never seen Rhea clearly. I only met her once, on a dark beach.”

  Jessica’s expression became grave. “I have to tell you something, Meg.”

  A frightening possibility occurred to Meg. “Oh, no! Sloan didn’t escape, did he? Do we have to worry about him coming after Jake again?”

  “No. Sloan is in police custody. It’s about your sister, Rhea.”

  Meg waited, her heart beginning to pound again. “Yes?”

  “When the police entered the house, they found her body crumpled near the top of the stairs.”

  “Her body...” Meg repeated, feeling dizzy again.

  “She’s dead, Meg. Apparently killed by a wild bullet from Sloan’s gun. She had a gun, too, but it hadn’t been fired. She was dressed in a nightgown, but she was also wearing gloves.”

  To ESCAPE THE MEDIA frenzy over the sensational news story, two days later Jessica and Carmelita were spirited away to an unknown destination, and Meg went back to her house in Los Angeles.

  She had spoken on the phone briefly with Jake while he was at the hospital. They reassured each other they were each all right, but since neither of them were alone, they didn’t discuss anything else.

  “We’ll talk when we can meet in private,” Jake had said. “Dan will take care of you in the meantime.”

  Meg was again interviewed by the detectives, and had to go over her story in even more detail. They listened with obvious disbelief, but did contact the Santa Ana homicide detectives investigating Mike Aragon’s death, in the hope that they had turned up something to confirm what Meg had told them about her introduction to the Chastains. But the Santa Ana detectives responded that none of Mike Aragon’s files had been recovered.

  Dan O’Rourke whisked her away from Jessica’s house, eluded the swarming paparazzi, took her to a car rental agency and rented a car for her.

  The rainstorm had scoured the city of its customary umber haze of smog, and Meg drove home in bright sunshine beneath sparkling blue skies.

  Arriving home, she unlocked her door and automatically stooped to pick up a couple of letters. She remembered that she hadn’t opened the mail that had been delivered the previous day.

  She flipped through the envelopes—bills, junk mail, as she expected. But then she came to a six-by-nine manila envelope, addressed to her in unfamiliar handwriting. There was no return address. Probably some unsolicited item she would be expected to pay for, or a CD urging her to subscribe to some Internet service. The handwritten address was a clever idea, she thought.

  She almost tossed the manila envelope into the wastebasket, but curiosity won out. Ripping open the envelope, she pulled out a computer disk. Turning it over, she read the label, printed in the same script as the envelope, bearing a single word: DOMINO.

  Meg no longer owned a computer. It had been sold, along with everything else of value, in order to pay off the debts from the failed restaurant.

  DOMINO? What could it possibly mean? And who had sent it?

  On an impulse, she reached for her dictionary and looked up the word: “Domino...a masquerade dress, consisting of a loose cloak and half mask; the half mask itself; a person wearing a masquerade costume...”

  The public library had a computer she could use. She hurried out to the car for the short drive.

  AT THE LIBRARY, she inserted the disk into the computer and brought up the menu. It contained only one file, titled DOMINO.

  Opening the file, Mike Aragon’s name, address and private investigator’s license number appeared on the computer screen. This was followed by a series of dated entries, beginning with his first contact with Rhea Chastain.

  “Bless you, Mike,” Meg whispered. She scrolled down.

  He had recorded everything—details of his first meeting with Meg, along with a sly aside about how she’d clobbered him with her groceries and how that was when he decided she could probably take care of herself among the filthy rich.

  His search for Hal was covered, along with the results, although the name of the man who had supplied Hal’s forged identity documents was conspicuously absent.

  Mike’s conversations with Rhea were meticulously reported, together with all of the data he had collected on Rhea and Sloan. He expressed his fear that he had placed both Jake Chastain and Meg in danger, and stated for the record that he had urged Meg to end the deception when Jake unexpectedly arrived in St. Maarten.

  He also reported that after the fire at the beach house he had removed gasoline cans from a car rented by Rhea in Meg’s name, and stored the cans in his garage.

  At the end of the file he had written the following:

  Meg,

  One way or another I expect our business together to be concluded today, with a visit to the police, so I’m dropping this in the mail to you now. I don’t issue written reports, they tend to get lost or destroyed, or read by unauthorized people. I figure a computer disk is less accessible to snoops, especially since I always devise a name for the file that will have meaning only to my client. So I’m sending this copy of your file to your house. You might need it sometime.

  MEG WATCHED as a tabloid television show regaled viewers with details of the Chastain story, amazed that their reporters had assembled so much information.

  Sloan had been arraigned and was expected to be charged with conspiracy to commit murder, attempted murder, manslaughter in the case of Rhea’s death, and a long list of lesser charges.

  Apparently after the police received Mike’s disk from Meg and confronted Sloan with it, he had given up on his initial attempt to accuse Rhea of the shooting—a futile ploy in view of the gunpowder residue all over his hands.

  His lawyers had been unable to keep Sloan from talking to the media, and he was now blaming Rhea for everything. She was the brains behind the plot, he claimed; he, the manipulated dupe.

  She wanted Jake’s empire, had gone to. London to kill him herself, but instead had hired an assassin. When the hit man botched the job by killing the wrong man in Jake’s suite, she persuaded Sloan to torch the beach house, but Jake again escaped.

  Rhea had been furious when Jake and her twin took off somewhere together. She showed up at the house, told the staff to leave because fumigators were coming in.
She figured Jake would return some time and she wanted him to find the house deserted. She even flipped the fuses so the house would be dark.

  Late that night Rhea had learned via the staff grapevine that Jake was back, and that he had asked them to return the following day. She then ordered the exterminators to show up the following morning, and called Mason to countermand Jake’s request that he bring back the staff, telling Mason he could check with the exterminators to confirm that they were going in the next day. Rhea wanted to make sure Jake would be alone in the house.

  Jake and Meg Lindley had to be separated, so Rhea could take her place. Sloan’s only part in the plot, he insisted, was to deliver Meg to the house so Rhea could plant the murder weapon on her twin.

  The television anchorman pointed out that Sloan had unwittingly added kidnapping to the list of charges against him.

  Sloan’s story concluded that when he arrived at the house the power had suddenly failed, and the gun in his hand, which he was carrying only for protection, had discharged accidentally.

  He couldn’t explain why he had accidentally fired so many times. One bullet had killed Rhea, another had wounded Jake.

  The T.V. reporters had uncovered background material on all of the principals, including Meg and her husband. They said the murder of the private investigator who had brought the twins together was being examined for a possible connection to the plot. There was also a great deal of prurient interest in what exactly had transpired between Jake Chastain and his wife’s twin during the days and nights they’d spent together.

  Meg switched off the T.V. set and hastily packed her bags. It would only be a matter of time before the media showed up on her doorstep. She didn’t dare risk contacting Jake now; the reporters would surely jump on any hint that there might be a relationship between them. Jake’s reputation had to be protected, and the world must never learn how she loved and yearned for him.

  She called Carrie Hooper, the caterer for whom she worked. “Carrie, it’s Meg—I don’t think I’d better work this weekend.”

  “Meg! I’ve been watching T.V....holy cow, I can’t believe what you’ve been up to. Are you at home?”

  “Yes, but I’m leaving before the reporters find me.”

  “You got somewhere to go?”

  “No, I’ll get a motel room, then hope I can find a job with somebody who won’t talk to the media. I’m thinking of going back to using my maiden name.”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to tell you this because I didn’t want to lose you, but I heard from an old acquaintance of yours from your restaurant days—remember Yves? He’s opened a bistro in a shopping mall. He’s aiming for a really high-class clientele, you know, sophisticated French cuisine like that bistro in the South Coast Plaza mall. Anyway, he wanted to know if I could put him in touch with you. He needs an assistant chef.”

  “Bless you, Carrie,” Meg murmured, envisioning donning a chef’s hat to disguise her Rhea coiffure, and losing herself in a large, impersonal mall.

  She would have to inform the detectives handling the case of her new address, as soon as she found one. Her deepest regret was that she couldn’t tell Jake where she was going, or explain to him that she had to disappear because she loved him too much to hurt him again.

  MEG RENTED A ROOM in a private house in a modest neighborhood, a bus ride away from the upscale mall. The long hours she worked helped assuage some of the anguish she felt, but did little to ease her longing for Jake. He was in her thoughts every minute of every day. Still, she was so busy that the time passed quickly.

  Then one evening when she returned to her room, her landlady said there was a telephone call for her. Expecting more questions from the detectives, she picked up the phone and heard Jake’s voice. Her heart skidded joyfully.

  “How did you find me?” Meg breathed, acutely aware of her landlady hovering nearby and undoubtedly listening in.

  “Mutual friends in law enforcement,” Jake answered. “I have to see you, but I can’t move without being followed by the press. I guess you know the newshounds are still in full cry. Have they discovered you yet?”

  “No.”

  “Could we meet somewhere? I’ll find a way to dodge the paparazzi.”

  “How about outside a bistro called Yves?” Meg was astonished that she managed to answer so calmly. “I’ll give you directions.”

  MEG HAD REMOVED her white chef s smock and hat, replacing the latter with the beret she always wore to hide the fact that her bleached hair was growing out. She paced nervously in front of the bistro, her gaze searching for anyone carrying a camera.

  Her heart leapt when she saw Jake coming toward her, wending his way through the crowd of shoppers. He was casually dressed in tan slacks and a leather jacket, and she noticed immediately that he was limping slightly. She wanted to race to him and fling her arms around him, but restrained herself, knowing they had to be careful not to draw attention to themselves.

  His dark eyes lit up when he saw her and he quickened his pace, obviously making an effort to disguise the fact that his leg hadn’t healed completely yet. When he reached her he opened his arms, and she went silently into his embrace, oblivious of the gawking passersby.

  For a long heart-stopping moment they simply held each other, not speaking. There was no need for words.

  Meg could have remained there forever, enclosed in the protective circle of his arms, breathing deeply the dearly recalled scent of him, feeling his warm breath against her forehead. But when he shifted his weight slightly, she remembered his injured leg, and said quickly, “Jake, let’s find somewhere to sit down and talk.”

  “While I feast my eyes on you,” Jake said, smiling. He traced the contour of her cheek, touched her lips lightly with his fingertip, as if making sure she was really there with him. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve dreamed of this moment?”

  They found a bench under the domed sunroof of the mall, among fully grown potted ficus trees and half barrels of flowers. Occasionally, shoppers hurrying in or out of nearby stores glanced in their direction, but failed to recognize the well-known Jake Chastain. Nobody expects to see him in such a setting, Meg thought.

  Echoing her view, Jake said, “You covered your tracks very well. A shopping mall is a great place to lose yourself. It wasn’t easy tracking you to your new address either.”

  “I was lucky Yves gave me this job.”

  “Meg, when we spoke on the phone while I was in the hospital, I’m not sure I thanked you properly for saving my life.”

  “From what I saw, you were handling Sloan pretty well without me.”

  “If you hadn’t plunged the house into darkness, Sloan would have shot me. The only reason I’m alive is because he couldn’t see me. Besides, I was weakening when you belted him with the statue.”

  “Let’s not talk about that night, Jake. It’s just too painful to think about. After all, if I hadn’t agreed to impersonate Rhea...”

  Jake reached over and picked up her hand. “All right, but keep in mind that when you save someone’s life, it’s yours to do with as you will.”

  Meg closed her eyes briefly, willing herself to have the strength to say what she knew must be said.

  As if sensing her doubts, Jake said, “I love you, Meg. I have from the moment we met. I haven’t been able to think about anything but you. Now that I’ve found you again, I’m going to make up for all you’ve been through. There are no more obstacles, Meg. We can be together now.”

  How his words made her heart sing, and how she longed to tell him how deeply she loved him in return. But she’d almost ruined his life once. She couldn’t risk doing it again.

  She said slowly, “You must know there’s a lot of speculation and nasty innuendo in the press about us. It will all flare up if we’re seen together again. That’s why I covered my tracks so carefully. That’s why I wanted to meet you here, where the media wouldn’t find us.”

  Jake’s expression said that he sensed what she was abou
t to say, and he tried to assuage her fears. “Perhaps you haven’t heard yet. Sloan’s lawyer is going to plea-bargain rather than risk a jury trial. That computer disk you gave to the police, along with forensic evidence they found at the scene, ties him to Aragon’s murder. That should be the end of the media’s interest in the case.”

  “I think you’re being too optimistic, Jake.”

  “Another news story will break, Meg, and we’ll be out of the headlines. Until then, come away with me. Anywhere in the world you want to go. I don’t care where, as long as we’re together.”

  She turned her head so that she could look directly into his eyes. She wanted to say, Yes, yes, I’ll come with you. I love you more than life.

  Instead she forced herself to say what she’d carefully rehearsed. “We have to face the fact that sometimes the timing just isn’t right. I think that’s the saddest part of life—missed connections. We didn’t meet at the right time. This isn’t the right time either. I’m not sure there ever will be a right time for us.”

  “Meg, don’t say that—”

  “Please, hear me out. You are too well-known, and this case is too sensational. There will always be some reporter wanting to add more scandal—an affair between us—to the story.”

  Jake said quickly, “I understand your concern about the media ripping us to shreds, and I can’t deny they might, but I can wait until they lose interest. For as long as necessary. Forever, if I have to. But that doesn’t mean we can’t see each other—discreetly—does it?”

  “Yes, it does. We can’t see each other again after today.”

  “Do we really give a damn what the rest of the world thinks? Let them find out I love you. I’ll shout it from the rooftops.”

  Meg bit her lip. “Jake, apart from the trashing we’d take from the media, there’re other equally compelling reasons why we can’t be together.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s just too much tragedy surrounding us. I need time to grieve for a sister I never knew I had. I have to deal with my guilt over Mike’s death and grieve for him, too. I can’t do that until I separate myself from everything that reminds me of them...especially you.”