Relative Strangers

by Joyce Lamb

  "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 this 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."

  "My 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 of little help, parceling out 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."

  Chapter2

  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 booze," Dayle said, laughing.

  Meg's hands trembled as she dropped ice cubes into a rocks glass and added 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 as 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 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 cold—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 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, his last-ditch effort to regain the control he'd lost when, as a college student, she'd changed her major from business to journalism without consulting him. It probably hadn't helped that she informed him over the phone after drinking a couple of beers to boost her flagging courage.

  "I'm paying for your college education," he'd thundered at her. "And you'll get the education that I choose for you."

  "I'm paying for it, so you'll do as I say." It was his stock response, and it never failed to make her feel angry and helpless. He had a plan for her life, had it all mapped out what she would do for a living, when she would marry, when she would bear his grandchildren, and never once had he consulted her. The resentment, building for years, boiled over, and she told him to go to hell, that she didn't want or need his goddamned money.

  She would never forget the stony silence that followed before her mother's voice came on the line, a tremor in it that Meg had never heard before. Later, she chastised herself for losing her cool, but she wasn't sorry for fighting for her freedom. 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 her insisting on making her own choices had been something she'd done to hurt her father.

  Her mother's attitude was just as frustrating as her father's. Both made her feel as though she were a bad child because she wanted to live her life the way she chose.

  In spite of their objections, she had done quite well as a journalist and looked forward to a promising career. But, according to her parents, success could be measured only in dollars and cents. The size of her paycheck was a pittance compared with the one waiting for her at her father's investment banking firm. She was a failure in their eyes.

  Over the years, Meg had remained stubborn. She was civil to her parents, spent holidays with them, and exchanged mostly pleasant phone calls at least once a month with her mother. She loved them. They were her parents, her family. They were all she had. But she'd often wondered what life would have been like if her father had had no money or had never equated money with power.

  Of course, she'd never know. Her parents had died in the accident, and she had inherited their money. Every last penny, certificate of deposit, bond, mutual fund and stock. Except her father took one last stab at trying to force her to live the life he'd planned for her: no money until you're mar-ried and have a kid. Take that, you ungrateful brat.

  Dayle joined her at the balcony's railing. "Did it help to move more than a thousand miles away from the memories?" she asked.

  Meg nodded. "A little. I didn't like who I was there."

  "Are you different here?"

  Meg laughed softly. "Not yet. It's only been a month."

  "So there's still time."

  "Yeah." She tipped her glass to capture an ice cube and crushed it between her teeth.

  Dayle turned and braced her elbows on the railing so she could see Meg's face. "Where are you in the search for your biological parents?"

  Meg held up her empty glass. "I need a refill. How about you?"

  "No, thanks."

  Meg went inside to mix herself another drink. "Mother didn't leave me a hell of a lot to go on. Just the letter in the safe-deposit box that said I was adopted from a Fort Myers couple." The alcohol in her system made her feel clumsy, but the shaking had subsided.

  Dayle leaned a shoulder against the door. "Have you turned up anything yet?"

  "I have no idea where I was adopted, in what county or state, so I haven't gotten very far. My parents' lawyer is still trying to track down the paperwork." She swirled the alcohol in her glass. "How about that pizza? There's a place not far up the beach. Want the usual?"

  "Double everything. I might waste away."

  Meg laughed as she picked up the phone to place the order. When she was done, Dayle was holding up an ashtray that she'd found on the balcony. "What the hell is this?"

  Meg chastised herself for not getting rid of it. "What's it look like?"

  "Since when do you smoke?"

  "I tried it briefly," Meg said.

  "Why?"

  Meg shrugged. "It was something different. I was bored."

  Dayle gave her an incredulous look. "That's messed up, Meg."

  Taking the ashtray from her, Meg dumped it in the trash in the kitchen. "Don't worry about it, Dayle. I did it for a week and couldn't stand it. It's a filthy habit. Okay?"

  "What other filthy habits have you been trying on for size?"

  "Nothing. It was stupid. Where were we?"

  Dayle paused, her gaze searching Meg's face. Apparently satisfied by what she saw, she said, "We were talking about your mom's letter."

  Meg nodded, remembering that that subject wasn't necessarily attractive either. "Right."

  "What else did she say in it?" Dayle asked.

  "Standard stuff. 'We always thought of you as our own. We wanted to tell you, but we didn't want you to be hurt.' Blah blah blah."

  "They must have had reasons that seemed like good ones at the time, Meg."

  "Guess I'll never know, will I?" She choked up but forced the emotion back. She shouldn't have had so much alcohol so fast. Her feelings were much harder to control when her guard wasn't solid.

  "It's okay to be upset," Dayle said.

  Meg dumped the rest of her drink in the sink and rinsed the glass. "They denied me the right to know whether someone else out there belongs to me, Dayle. Now that they're gone, now that no one is left..." She trailed off, swallowed. "I'm alone now. Truly alone."

  "You're not alone," Dayle said.

  Meg looked up and smiled. Dayle was one of her few real friends. She loved Dayle's whole family, seeing in their closeness what she had longed for in her own. Those qualities had drawn her to the Richmonds when she and Dayle had been kids: warmth, caring, and laughter. The chaos of their home—Dayle had four brothers and two sisters—had been a welcome respite from the silent chill at her own house. The Richmonds had made a fine surrogate family, and Meg sometimes wondered what kind of person she would have become had they not been there for her.

  Dayle said, "I understand your need to make a connection with someone after what happened with your parents. But do you think this hunt for the people who gave you away twenty-eight years ago is the answer? I hope you're not expecting to find an instant family to replace the one that let you down."

  "Hell, I don't know what I'm looking for. An anchor, I guess. A connection of some kind. Distraction maybe. I have to do something besides work and think about how they died before my father and I could resolve our issues."

  "You resolved them as much as possible, Meg. I know it wasn't to your satisfaction, but you did what you could. He wasn't willing to accept your choices, and that's not your fault. You tried to make him understand. He should have been proud of you, and I think he was."

  "Why would he have been?"

  "Why not?" Dayle demanded. "Your life will calm down eventually. Give it time." She blew out a breath. "God, I know how trite that sounds."

  Meg smiled, loving her for being everything she could have asked for in a friend. "Don't worry about it. You're a good listener, and that's exactly what I needed. I'm going to change out of these work clothes before I go pick up the pizza." At Dayle's questioning look, she gave a rueful shrug. "Carry-out's cheaper, and it's a short walk."

  Dayle laughed. "Think you'll be so frugal when that trust fund kicks in?"

  "Like it ever will."

  "Optimism, Meg. I'll introduce you to it sometime."

  In the bedroom, Meg pulled on faded blue jeans, a white tank top, and a black
sweatshirt that she left unzipped. She put on her favorite pair of ragged Nikes. On her way to the door, she slipped some money and her keys into a pocket. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll only be a few minutes."

  "Want some company? I'd feel better if we went together," Dayle said. "Considering."

  Meg thought of Mr. Armani. "Okay."

  Joyce LamB * * ★ * *

  The beach was dark. Clouds hung low overhead, muting the scuffing of their shoes as they walked along the water's edge where the sand was packed and easier to navigate.

  "It's so peaceful," Dayle said. "Listen to the waves."

  For thirty nights, the rhythmic beat of the waves had soothed Meg to sleep. The immensity of the Gulf awed her, making her feel vulnerable and content at once. On a bad day, its vastness had a way of snapping life back into perspective. She'd needed that, depended on it.

  Dayle glanced over her shoulder.

  "What is it?" Meg asked.

  "I thought I heard something."

  "Probably tourists." She turned and saw the dark outlines of two men about ten yards behind them. They were casual, unhurried. One of them was smoking, and she heard laughter.

  The scrape of shoes on sand-covered rock drew Meg's gaze to a low cobblestone wall that separated the beach from a vacant lot. Another dark outline, also a man, was less casual, somewhat furtive.

  "What the hell?" Dayle said under her breath.

  "They're tourists," Meg said, but she wasn't as certain as she sounded. In the past month, she had taken many solitary walks along this stretch of beach and had not once felt uneasy. If it had not been for the bizarre encounter at the airport, she wouldn't have thought twice about sharing the beach with strangers tonight.

  "Just keep walking," she said. "The pizza place isn't that far. There'll be people all over."

  A minute later, Meg glanced back. The men were less than twenty feet away. No longer casual. No longer laughing. The one with the cigarette flicked it away, and

  she heard the sizzle when it hit the water.

  Fear made her breathing shallow. She and Dayle were pretty much surrounded, with the Gulf to their left, the two behind them and the other one on the wall who seemed to be guarding the quickest route to public places and safety.