Relative Strangers

by Joyce Lamb

  "Dayle," Meg hissed.

  "Yeah?"

  "I think we're in trouble."

  "Shit," Dayle muttered.

  "Our best bet might be to make a run for it."

  "Shit."

  "The pizza place is straight ahead. There's a red neon palm tree on the side of the building," Meg said.

  "Where are you going?"

  Meg heard the alarm in her friend's voice and glanced at her. She was paper white. "Just telling you in case we get separated."

  "Damn it, Meg."

  "Don't look back. It'll slow you down."

  "Meg—"

  "Go!"

  They broke into a flat run. Behind them, someone swore, and two pairs of heavy feet pounded the sand.

  A grunt sounded from the right, and Meg saw the man from the wall scrambling up from where he had sprawled in the sand. He charged toward her and Dayle like a greyhound after a mechanical rabbit.

  Dayle sprinted ahead of Meg and looked back.

  Meg waved her on. "Go, go, go!" she yelled.

  A high-rise towered several yards ahead, just beyond the low wall that was no longer being guarded. She was ahead of the third man now, having gained precious yardage when he'd fallen. Veering across the beach toward the wall, she prayed they would follow her and not Dayle and that she would be able to outrun them. The drier sand slowed her down, made the muscles in her calves cramp as the toes of her shoes sought purchase in the shifting granules. She heard Dayle call her name, a frantic warning.

  Shit shit shit.

  She was within feet of the wall, mere steps away, when a hand landed forcefully between her shoulder blades and shoved. She had just enough time to raise her hands as she crashed into the cobblestone wall. Pain exploded through her right shoulder—the point of impact—and her right knee, which took the rest of the brunt of the fall. She didn't have a chance to roll, play dead or scream before fingers caught in the back of her sweatshirt and tried to jerk her up. She wriggled out of the sleeves, found freedom and tried to scramble away before a hand landed hard on her shoulder and spun her around.

  A scream from the beach—Dayle!—choked off.

  Meg tried to fall back from the man who'd grabbed her, saw over his shoulder the third man racing toward them. He had something in his hand. A gun?

  A fist smashed into her jaw, and Meg hit the sand, her head striking the ground with a dull thud. Grit crunched in her teeth as she lay still, stunned.

  Fingers curled into the front of her shirt and hauled her into a sitting position. Battling a wave of dizziness, she tried to focus on the face thrust near her own.

  "Slater's gonna be happy to see you, Margot."

  Meg fought the tide of blackness that welled behind her eyes. And lost.

  "Let her go!" Ryan aimed the gun at the guy's leathery face. His hand was shaking, his dark hair in his eyes. The mad dash from the wall, where he'd been following the women at a discreet distance, had left him out of breath. He'd noticed the two men behind them, had watched, incredulous, when they'd made their move. He hadn't thought after that, just reacted.

  Now, one of the women, the blond one, was slung over the shoulder of the other man, who stood several feet away, silent and wary.

  The woman Ryan was interested in was unconscious, her assailant's fingers still curled into the front of her tank top, her head lolling on her shoulder. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. Her attacker glared at Ryan. "This isn't any of your business, mister."

  Ryan cocked the gun, not quite believing that he was threatening someone with the weapon he'd bought after his brother was murdered, a safeguard until Beau's killers were caught. When he'd left the car to follow the women, he'd stuffed it into the waistband of his jeans, feeling ridiculous but at least protected if something went wrong.

  "I'm making it my business," Ryan said. "Let her go and keep your hands where I can see them."

  The guy released her, letting her fall back into the sand, and raised his hands in a placating gesture. "You don't want to do this, man. Believe me."

  "Too late."

  "My boss is going to be really pissed if you don't back off," the man said. "You don't want this guy pissed at you." He nodded at the woman on the ground. "Ask her."

  Ryan glanced at her, saw her chest rise and fall, then focused on her attacker. "So you're working for someone. You and your friend aren't just out here looking for a little fun."

  "Right. We're on a job." His weathered skin wrinkled as he smirked. "Retrieving the one that got away."

  "Well, I'm not backing off."

  "Maybe we can work something out."

  "Seems to me I'm the one holding the cards here," Ryan said, gesturing with his gun.

  "My friend back there, he's got one of those, too. I'm pretty sure he could get to it faster than you could shoot."

  Ryan narrowed his gray eyes at the other man and clenched his square jaw, trying to look menacing but fearing they saw a guy who didn't know what the hell he was doing. "Go for it."

  No one moved, and Ryan's lips formed a satisfied smile even as his stomach constricted. "The deal is this: I want to meet with your boss. All I want are answers. He tells me what I want to know, he can have her. If he fails to show, I turn her over to the feds and she can give them the answers they're looking for."

  "You're nuts, man. You don't know what you're dealing with."

  "Then I'm about to find out, aren't I?"

  Chapter3

  Throwing back the heavy layer of covers tangled around her body, Margot Rhinehart sat on the edge of the bed. The clock read seven-thirty a.m. She had slept fifteen hours.

  Running a hand through her hair, she was surprised by its shortness, still not used to it. She hadn't gotten used to a lot of changes.

  Fending off the threatening despair, she went to the sliding glass door that looked out on a frozen Lake Michigan and slid it open. The frigid Wisconsin breeze rushed into the room, and she shivered, missing the heat of Florida.

  Getting here had been remarkably easy. She had driven Beau's Lexus to the Florida-Georgia state line, where she had cut her hair and dyed it black. Next, she'd abandoned the Lexus and paid cash for a used Cavalier, tapping her backup bank account and the new identity she'd been setting up for a while. She'd considered going home before realizing the futility of returning to a family she had not seen since she'd been a troubled teenager. She didn't even know where they were or if they were still living.

  She'd nearly let the grief and the panic overwhelm her. Where could she go? Who could she turn to? There was no one.

  She'd chosen to go north, thinking that Canada might offer a fresh start. But in Wisconsin, she couldn't stand driving anymore and went instead to Door County, a jut of land that extended into Lake Michigan. It reminded her of Captiva Island, only frozen, and she had stopped, almost undone by the memories of the tiny barrier island off Florida's Gulf Coast where she and Beau had often escaped.

  For once, luck had been with her. She had found a se-cluded lodge halfway between Baileys Harbor and Sister Bay, a private resort with a golf course, tennis courts, and sandy beaches. Its isolation had caught Margot's eye. Small, intimate cabins were tucked behind a thick grove of trees, invisible to passing traffic on the highway. She checked in, and for three months, no one bothered her, except the ghosts of her past. She wondered whether they would haunt her forever.

  She replayed it in her head, over and over, knowing where she had screwed up, knowing exactly what she had done that had cost Beau his life. She had let emotion control her. For once in her life, she'd let herself think she could be happy, that a decent man could love her.

  Leaving the door open and settling onto a chair, she drew her legs up and shivered in the frosty air. Closing the door or at least getting a blanket to wrap around herself required energy she didn't have. Besides, maybe she deserved to die of a raging fever. It would be a welcome reprieve from the staggering guilt.

  Hugging herself, she closed her eyes and le
t the memories come, seeing them as punishment for the tragedy she had been too weak, and too foolish, to prevent.

  When she met Beau Kama nine months ago, she had expected him to be like the other men Slater Nielsen assigned her to: filthy rich, rude, sexist, overconfident, cold. They were so easy to con, ridiculously susceptible to the attentions of a beautiful woman because they thought they were irresistible.

  Beau Kama was different. Rich, yes, but not pretentious. He liked money because he enjoyed the luxuries it provided rather than the power that it gave him. Yes, he reveled in the attentions of beautiful women, but he was a handsome man: tall with broad shoulders and thick, dark hair that looked as if someone had just ruffled it. His eyes were blue and kind. She had liked his hands best: big and smooth and gentle.

  Over their first dinner together, Beau had told her about his company, KamaTech, which helped companies protect themselves from high-tech crime. His eyes shone with excitement when he described the firewalls his top security adviser constructed to secure corporate computer networks. He laughed when he told her that the same man had hacked into a major corporation's system in less than an hour just to show the firm's chairman how easy it was and ensuring KamaTech a lifetime client.

  Margot thought that Slater must have been playing a little joke by sending her to fleece the CEO of a security company. At the same time, she realized that it was the perfect opportunity to get the inside track on the kinds of devices she might be dismantling in the future. Perhaps that was what Slater intended.

  The more she got to know Beau, however, the more she didn't care what Slater had intended. Beau's enthusiasm for his career charmed her. His energy, his love of life swept her off her feet. The way he treated her—as if what she had to say mattered to him—was new to her. He didn't immediately try to get her into bed either. Instead, he invited her to dinner several times, even preparing the meals himself. They went sailing on his yacht. They walked on the beach and held hands. Everything they did was only for the two of them.

  There were no pesky dinner parties, no annoying social events. Beau, who told her how much he hated the spotlight, said that he wanted her all to himself.

  During one of their walks on the beach, he told her about his younger brother. They had been close as children, he said, but drifted apart over the years because they were so different. Beau wanted his brother to take an interest in KamaTech because their father, who had died young from a heart attack, had built it. But his brother, Beau said, had other career plans. First, he had become a photojournalist, traveling to exotic places to take wrenching pictures of war and famine, refugees and soldiers. After seeing too much bloodshed and dodging too many snipers' bullets, his brother had turned to a more creative endeavor. Now, he took incredible pictures that sold for hundreds, sometimes thousands, of dollars.

  Beau told her that it amazed him that he and his brother were even related. His brother was far more introspective and could spend weeks at a time on his yacht in the middle of the Gulf, all alone. If Beau took one day off, he'd lay awake all night thinking about all the projects that he needed to take care of once he returned to the office. Margot sensed that, despite their differences and estrangement, Beau admired his brother's courage and ability to live his life the way he wanted. She also sensed that Beau had not shared these feelings with anyone before her.

  Shortly thereafter, Beau seduced her. With flowers and music and candlelight. It was the most romantic night of her life.

  Margot remembered Slater's anger when she told him it was going to take more time to get the job done, that Beau Kama was not like the other men Slater had sent her after. Beau was decent.

  She tried to talk Slater out of carrying through with the plan, but he had refused to change his mind. "The Kama em-eralds are worth millions," he'd said. "The extra effort will be

  worth it."

  But it wasn't the extra effort that worried her. Beau had the ability to touch her in ways that no one ever had. She looked forward to being with him, reveled in his attention, relished his company. He made her laugh, which was something she rarely did.

  And then she started lying to Slater. "He's not responding," she told him after spending a full day of love-making with Beau on his yacht. "But I'm close to cracking him." Even as she said it, she anticipated her next night with Beau with a flutter in her stomach.

  "Just do it," Slater said, his ice blue gaze intent on hers. "You're taking too long."

  "I'm working as fast as I can," she said.

  "Maybe you're losing your touch."

  "I don't think that's the problem," she said.

  He offered her a snifter of brandy. "Join me for a nightcap?"

  She looked at his large, tan hands, remembered how skilled they were, and realized that she wouldn't miss them. In fact, she wouldn't miss anything about him. True, he was an attractive man, with thick dark hair and a well-toned body. The tiny mole on his right cheek had turned her on not that long ago. But Beau was so much more.

  "I'm exhausted," she said. "Another time?" She edged toward the door.

  "You've been doing that a lot lately."

  "What?" she asked.

  "Putting me off."

  She feigned surprise. "Have I?"

  "Is there a problem?" he asked.

  "Of course not. Why would there be?"

  "I only want what's best for you, Margot. If things have changed, you should tell me."

  She paused at the door. "I do have a question for you."

  "What is it?"

  "Why Beau Kama? He hardly fits the profile," she said.

  "Of course he does," he said. "He has twelve of the most perfect emeralds in the world, worth millions."

  "But he isn't the type we usually go after. I don't imagine his business dealings are as dirty as what we're used to."

  "He's told you about his business dealings?"

  "Not specifically," she said.

  "Am I paying you to imagine, Margot?"

  There was a note in his voice that she couldn't identify. Suspicion? Jealousy? Impatience?

  Three months after that conversation, Beau Kama proposed marriage. He said that working ninety hours a week was no longer satisfying. He said he realized that there was more to life than his career. He wanted to cut back on work, settle down, start a family. And he wanted to do that with her.

  The next day, Margot went to Slater and said she wanted out.

  "You're quitting?" he had asked, and she'd nodded. None of the rage she expected showed in his face or eyes, but she knew him too well to be relieved. "What about your responsibilities?" he asked.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You have a job to do, Margot."

  "Slater, you don't understand. I'm going to marry him."

  "I heard." His voice was as smooth as steel. "But you have a job to do."

  "You're not going to let me quit, is that what you're saying?"

  "I don't allow an employee to quit in the middle of a job."

  An employee. That had stung, but she brushed away the hurt, focused only on being with Beau. "What if I finish the job?"

  "Fine." His face gave away nothing.

  "Fine? That's it?"

  "What more do you want, Margot? I'll ask you to stay if you want me to."

  "I love him, Slater."

  "Maybe you do." The ghost of a smile curved his lips. "Is that all?"

  She nodded, her heart thundering in her chest.

  "Congratulations, Margot. I hope you and Mr. Kama are happy together."

  He had left the room without looking back, and she had watched him go, fear and excitement see-sawing through her. He was letting her go. She couldn't believe it. Perhaps deep down, considering the years she had watched Slater operate, she had known it was too good to be true.

  Tumbling back into the present, Margot shuddered and hugged herself harder. Faint nausea churned, and she closed the door, no longer interested in freezing to death. She wasn't ready to face hell just yet.

&
nbsp; Rummaging through the cupboards turned up some coffee and bread for toast. The dirty dishes had piled up, and she was down to the last clean coffee cup. In it was the small suede pouch that held eleven marquise-cut emeralds, each about the size of a dime. They were the reason Beau was dead, the prize Slater had sent her to steal nine months ago. Except there were eleven, not twelve, as Slater had told her.

  Margot didn't know what to do with the stones. She thought about them every day, feeling their presence in the tiny cabin, eleven shimmering reminders that she'd betrayed the only man she had ever loved. They were unfinished business.

  Yet she didn't know how to finish it. She couldn't return them. No doubt, Slater's henchmen were gunning for her, along with the police. Even her altered appearance wasn't enough protection. She needed an ally, someone who could return the emeralds for her.

  Someone she could trust.

  And only one person came to mind.

  Chapter 4

  Meg tried to blink the room into focus. She sensed she was alone but couldn't be sure. The floor rolled under her, and she braced herself on sand-caked hands. As wood creaked and water sloshed, she realized she was on a boat. A very close, warm boat, she thought, pushing hair damp with perspiration back from her forehead.

  Cursing herself for losing consciousness, she got to her feet. Pain flashed through one shoulder and knee, and she took a moment to rest and look around. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, revealing the outline of a lamp on the other side of the room. She limped over and switched it on.

  She'd thought she might be on a fishing boat, but this was far more impressive. She didn't know much about boats but was certain this classified as a yacht.

  The room was small, maybe ten feet square, with a low ceiling and doors with rounded corners at each end. Drawing a calming breath, she fought down the claustrophobia that threatened to grab her by the throat.

  Storage cabinets ran low along one wall, a narrow bed against another. A fire extinguisher hung by one of the doors. A lamp, a digital clock, and a cell phone sat on a storage cabinet that met the right side of the bed.

  It was nine. Had it been less than two hours since she and Dayle had stepped out to pick up their pizza? Or was it morning? Could a day, or more, have passed?