A Stranger's Wife

by Paige Phillips

  In order to avoid seeing the raw pain in his eyes, and show him her own inner turmoil, she looked down at his hands, folded around hers. Even as she spoke, she was hoping against hope that he would be able to say something, anything, to reassure her, to overcome her doubts.

  At length he sighed deeply. “I understand. You need time to put everything that happened into perspective. I want to be with you so much I’m not thinking of the adjustments you have to make. How can I ask you to pretend nothing happened and come away with me now? But could we at least make a future date? Three months, six, a year?”

  She was weakening, she knew, hovering on the brink of flinging doubt and caution to the wind, but that inner warning voice nagged insistently. You can’t be together now, perhaps not ever.

  What if, when he had time to really think about the upheaval she’d brought to his life, he decided they couldn’t build their love on a foundation of deception and lies? What if one day he came to hate her for what she’d done? She wouldn’t be able to bear it. Better to make a clean break now, while they were too much in love to worry about the tragic consequences of their coming together.

  Meg disentangled her hands and stood up. Her voice sounded hollow. “No. I don’t think it would be a good idea to make any dates, no matter how far in the future.”

  “Meg, don’t go. Not yet.”

  “Goodbye, Jake.”

  He rose to his feet, tried to speak, but couldn’t. He cupped her cheek, and she caught his hand and held it to her face for a moment.

  Walking away from him was the hardest thing she had ever done.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Eleven months later

  Yves, a swarthy, wiry, creatively brilliant French-Canadian, was bursting with excitement. He hovered over Meg’s shoulder, trying to contain himself as he waited for her to pour the chocolate soufflé into ramekins and pop them into the oven.

  Then he made his grand announcement.

  “I’ve found the location for our second bistro, chérie! A most unique outdoor mall in San Diego, and the bank approved our loan!”

  He seized her around her waist, and they danced a jig around the kitchen. When they stopped, breathless, Yves kissed her on both cheeks and gazed soulfully into her eyes.

  “You know that at least half of our success is due to you, chérie.” Yves had originally started using the French endearment in order to avoid calling her Meg while she was still hiding from the news media, and the habit had stuck. But almost a year had passed, and the story of Rhea Chastain and her twin was old news.

  The past year had been one of enormous progress, despite the heartache that Meg nurtured in private. She had moved beyond her grief and guilt. She had paid off all the debts she and Hal had incurred, she had a nice apartment and she loved her work. But secretly, she still yearned for Jake.

  So many times she had wanted to pick up the phone and call Jake, but resisted the temptation. Despite the fact that she had sent him away, perversely, she wanted him to make the first move. Her fear was that perhaps he no longer felt the same way about her. Surely, if he did, she would have heard from him?

  For the first few months she had kept track of him. It was difficult not to, since news of his various achievements reverberated throughout the business world. Sometimes she scanned the society pages and gossip columns, but Jake’s name was never linked with a woman.

  Then he just seemed to drop out of sight. One reporter picked up on the fact that, following his wife’s death, he had merely completed the Chastain projects that had been started earlier. When they were finished, he hadn’t ventured into anything new. There was brief speculation in the press that among the ruins of his personal life, he had lost interest in his global empire and gone into early retirement. Meg wondered and worried.

  Now, nearly a year after she’d last seen Jake, Meg said to Yves, “I know how much you wanted a second bistro. I’m so happy for you.”

  “Now, to come back down to earth,” Yves went on, “we have a request to cater a private party.”

  “You know we don’t have time—” Meg began. A Los Angeles Times food reviewer had given them such a glowing recommendation months earlier that they now had a nightly waiting list for dinner reservations.

  “Well,” Yves said, “as a matter of fact, chérie, the party is scheduled during the period our section of the mall is going to be closed for a few days for remodeling next month.”

  “Then how will the client’s guests be able to get in here?”

  “Ah, but the party wouldn’t be held here. It’s a housewarming. A new house, just finished on the Palisades. Chérie, we’ve been given carte blanche and offered an enormous sum of money.”

  “In that case...” Meg said, grinning.

  “Très bien! Just un petit problème.” Yves smiled wickedly. “I shall have to go down to San Diego that day. Can you manage on your own, chirie? It’s just a small party. Six guests only. The client’s name is Mr. Ogilvie.”

  THE SOLIDLY BUILT brick house was spacious, but not ostentatious, with a breathtaking view of the Pacific Ocean. The grounds had not yet been landscaped, but a swimming pool and spa had been installed.

  Meg unlocked the front door with a key that had been provided. Stepping inside, she saw that like the grounds, the interior of the house was also unfinished. The hardwood floors were bare, the walls unadorned. The house smelled new, unsullied, waiting for the scents and sounds of people to bring it to life.

  She smiled. The owner must be eager to show off his new home, inviting his friends to a housewarming before landscape gardeners, decorators, or the moving van arrived.

  Although the house was unfurnished, a large room on the ground floor with French doors that opened to a patio had been set up as a temporary party room. There were folding tables and chairs, a buffet table, serving carts and what appeared to be a truckload of fresh flowers.

  The concealed lighting was tinted a soft rose, and Meg was glad to see crisp linen tablecloths and napkins, china dishes and beautiful antique silverware and candelabra. Outside on the patio, white wicker chairs and couches were adorned with brightly striped cushions. There was also a white wrought-iron patio table with six matching chairs.

  Moving into the kitchen, she noted that it was equipped with everything that a dedicated cook might need, and even many exotic appliances not usually found in the average home. She began to bring in the supplies from Yves’s van.

  Since Yves had taken the order to cater the party, she had not spoken directly to the new homeowner, who had expressed no preferences in regard to the menu.

  Meg hummed to herself as she worked. It was fun to be the first to use this bright kitchen, with its shiny new appliances, pristine counters and sun-splashed windows. There was a greenhouse window over the sink, already filled with thriving pots of herbs. Mrs. Ogilvie, Meg decided, was a lucky woman indeed. A new bride perhaps, since her husband had ordered the catered meal? Or perhaps he was the cook in the family.

  With all afternoon to prepare for the evening event, Meg baked a trio of rustic breads: rosemary, caraway, sourdough. She’d decided to begin with a roulade of phyllo and poached lobster on a bed of perfect mashed potatoes and wild mushrooms.

  For any guest who didn’t care for shellfish there would be an alternative appetizer of poached pears with blue cheese on wisps of frisée and arugula, dressed in black pepper gastrique.

  The main course would be duck breast with fingerling potatoes, pearl onions and baby turnips.

  For dessert she would offer a delicate little wrapping of brik dough filled with chocolate and cherries. She had also brought her own vanilla-bean ice cream.

  Cooking for half a dozen people was a pleasant change from the nightly madhouse of the bistro, and Meg enjoyed the solitude of the quiet kitchen. Yves had wanted to send a busboy to help her, but she’d declined. Nor did Mr. Ogilvie require a waiter. He would serve his guests himself, he’d said, and would also bring his own wine.

  At eight o
’clock she had everything ready. She slipped off her apron and was about to take her unused supplies out to the van, when she heard the front door open. A voice called, “Hello? It’s me—Ogilvie.”

  She went out into the hall. A dignified-looking middle-aged man, who would not have been out of place presiding over a state dinner somewhere, was closing the front door. He smiled at her.

  Meg said, “Hello, Mr. Ogilvie. Everything’s ready. May I show you?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. I know whatever you’ve prepared will be wonderful. I’ve dined at Yves, you see, although I’m sure you don’t remember. You have so many faithful clients.”

  “Well, in that case, I’ll collect my supplies and be off,” Meg said.

  “Please, don’t leave.”

  He looked a little sheepish. “You see, we got you here under—well, not exactly false pretenses—but... well, perhaps the real owner of the house can explain. For myself, I can only say if his intentions had not been thoroughly honorable, his cause worthwhile and his integrity above reproach, I wouldn’t have been a party to this little deception.”

  “Deception...” Meg repeated faintly, a faraway drumbeat beginning to sound in her ear.

  Ogilvie opened the front door again and waited.

  A moment later Jake appeared, carrying a magnum of champagne. His dark gaze sought and found Meg. He smiled in a way that stopped her breath in her throat.

  “Hello, Meg. Forgive the way I handled this, but I was afraid you wouldn’t come if I approached you directly.”

  Meg’s heart was singing far too joyfully to care about the white lies. How handsome he looked! He wore a cream silk shirt and dark slacks, and the sea breeze had ruffled his black hair. He looked both elegant and casual. Meg wanted to drink him in with her eyes for a long moment, then pull him into her arms and kiss him. But her feet seemed to be rooted to the spot and all she could do was murmur, “I would have come, Jake. But tell me, was Yves in on this?”

  “please don’t chastise him. I presented my case in such a way that he couldn’t refuse. Yves being a Frenchman and I’amour being of paramount importance...”

  Beaming, Ogilvie said, “May I go now, sir?”

  “Yes, thank you. I believe Meg and I can handle things.”

  After Ogilvie left, Jake explained, “He took Mason’s place. Mason retired this past year.”

  “You still have the other house, then?”

  “No. I could never live in it after... what happened there. I moved into a smaller place, but kept Mason and Cook on. I built this place and another just like it farther down the coast. I’m not sure yet which I’ll keep as my main residence. I might even build another somewhere...it all depends.”

  They stood staring at one another in spellbound wonder.

  Meg said, “You look very well, Jake. I, on the other hand, probably have flour on my nose.”

  He smiled. “You look like a dream come true, flour on your nose and all. I especially like your hair now that it’s back to its natural color.”

  Meg resisted the urge to untie the shoestring that kept her honey-colored hair out of the way while she prepared food. Her hair was now almost to her shoulders.

  She thought fleetingly that it was just like a man to show up unannounced when a woman was clad in a faded cotton dress and tennies, sans makeup. She said awkwardly, “I’d better get out of here before your guests arrive.”

  He laughed. “There are no other guests tonight, Meg. Just you, me and m’sieur Dom Pérignon. Although Jess would have come in a flash if I’d invited her. She’s been after me to do this for a year now. I told her I had to find out how you felt about us first.”

  “But you had me cook for six!” Meg protested lightly. She was delighted that she evidently had the approval of Jake’s mother.

  “A small housewarming sounded more plausible than dinner for two. If I promise to clean my plate, will you forgive me?”

  “We’ll see. Speaking of your mother, how is she?”

  “Her arm healed completely and she’s painting again, so she’s happy.”

  “And Huxley?”

  Jake grinned. “He’s a father. Four of the most handsome pups you’ve ever seen—five weeks old now. Say the word and I’m sure Jess will give you the pick of the litter, which she gets for providing Huxley. for stud service.”

  “I’d love to have Huxley’s firstborn son,” Meg said. “It sounds almost biblical.”

  “Good. Jess and Huxley will be pleased to hear that. Now let’s get the champagne on ice and then enjoy whatever it is that smells so good. Did you bake bread?”

  It was a mild evening, so Jake took a tablecloth and the champagne bucket out to the patio table overlooking the ocean. He lit candles and carried out china and a vase of roses. Meg took the opportunity to slip into the powder room and comb her hair.

  They dined under the stars, sipped the marvelous champagne and talked with the ease of two people who were completely in tune, not always agreeing but always interested in the other’s opinion. The past year might never have happened. It was as if they were continuing a conversation begun only yesterday.

  “Jake, there’s been no word on what you’ve been doing for months now,” Meg said finally. “Is it true to you’ve retired?”

  “Not exactly. I’ve just managed to keep a low profile on my projects. Remember the abandoned campground where we hid out? It’s now a camp for abused and neglected kids. There’s a second one under construction in northern California and another in South America. My name is kept out of it because I set up a charitable association to handle the construction.”

  “But I bet you’ve been very much involved,” Meg commented.

  “Well, I had to keep busy. It’s an antidote of sorts, isn’t it?”

  Meg didn’t have to ask what it was an antidote for. She knew only too well.

  Jake tried every dish and she complimented him on his hearty appetite, but even he couldn’t dispose of all the food.

  Meg felt pride in the meal, but being there with Jake was the fulfillment of her most heartfelt dream. The lonely months had served to define how wholly and completely she loved this man.

  “You know,” she remarked, “if they hadn’t had to close the mall to do some remodeling, I could never have been here today.”

  His gaze shifted away from her and a grin plucked at the corners of his mouth.

  “Wait a minute,” Meg said, realization dawning. “Surely you didn’t arrange that, too?”

  “Well...that particular mall is one of my earlier projects. It was due for a face-lift.”

  She digested this information silently. Since Yves had hired her for the bistro, it wasn’t as if Jake had done her any favors. Still, she couldn’t resist asking, “You don’t own any malls in San Diego, do you?”

  He shook his head. “No, why?”

  “We’re opening a new bistro there. I’ll be the head chef.”

  “Congratulations. But I hope you’ll have time for other pursuits.”

  “What do you have in mind? I wouldn’t have time to moonlight at your hotels, the way we discussed once.”

  Jake stood up. “That isn’t what I had in mind. But we’ll talk about it later. Now will you excuse me for a minute?”

  He disappeared. Minutes later the haunting beat of a tango drifted through the open patio doors.

  Meg stood up and walked into the house, drawn by the lure of the sensuous music.

  Jake waited for her in the empty living room. He had dimmed the lights, and rows of flickering candles now adorned the mantelpiece and hearth. He extended his hand to her. “May I?”

  Meg looked down at her tennis shoes.

  “Take them off,” Jake said.

  Slipping off her shoes, Meg melted into his arms, feeling a fire ignite in her veins. They moved slowly to the music, her socks sliding easily on the highly polished wood floor.

  Her heart pounding, Meg whispered, “I dreamed of dancing with you again.”

  J
ake murmured, “You’re light as a feather in my arms, and so beautiful you take my breath away.”

  One of the dramatic pauses in the music gave him time to kiss her forehead, then her eyelids, and press his lips lightly to the hollow of her throat. Every sensory nerve in her body responded.

  He held her close, guiding her around the uncluttered floor of the softly lit room, gliding, hesitating, dipping.

  Then all at once, although the music continued, they were standing still, wrapped in a close embrace. They began to kiss, and the kiss went on for a very long time.

  At length, breathless, they broke apart.

  Meg said, “Could this be the beginning for us, Jake? Are you all over...”

  Jake halted the question with another quick kiss. “Yes. I am. Are you?”

  She nodded. “I realize now that we couldn’t have avoided the outcome, sad though it was. And wishing it could all have worked out differently doesn’t help. At least we found each other.”

  He placed his hands on her cheeks, holding her face tenderly. “I memorized your face, thought of you every single day, longed for you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I love you, Meg, more than I can ever express.”

  He kissed her again, a passionate meeting of lips that expressed more desire than any words.

  “Marry me, Meg, please,” Jake breathed. “Right away. Let’s not waste another minute apart.”

  “Oh, Jake, there’s nothing in the world I want more...I love you so much, but I have an obligation to Yves. The new bistro—I can’t let him down.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to. Your loyalty and integrity are part of what I love about you. Meg, my darling, I can run my business from anywhere I choose. We’ll find a house in San Diego near your new bistro.”

  Grinning, he added, “Of course, I’ll probably show up at your new place for every meal so I can enjoy my wife’s cooking.”

  “I’d like that. We’ll need a house with a big fenced yard for Huxley n,”