Relative Strangers (15 page)

"We're done here," he said. "Let's go."

Half an hour later, Ryan was letting them into a house that wasn't as large or as elegant as Beau's but was still the home of a wealthy person.

This house, unlike Beau's, was airy and clean and felt lived in. Sand trailed across the black tile where sliding glass doors opened onto the beach, the waves of the Gulf caressing the beach several yards away beneath a bright moon. An elaborate computer station that included two laptops, a printer, a fax machine and a multiple-line phone was set up in what would normally be a formal dining room. Hundreds of papers were strewn across the surface of a massive desk.

"Who lives here?" Meg asked.

"You'll meet him soon enough. Guest room is upstairs."

It was simple but contained all the necessities, from a double bed and dresser to a bedside table with a phone. Ryan gestured at a bag that sat on the bed. "Kelsey picked up some clothes for you. Shower's through there."

Once he left her alone, Meg didn't waste an instant getting into the shower. With the spigot blasting needles of hot water at her body, she started to feel human again for the first time in days. Afterward, she didn't dry herself off but wrapped the towel around her body to let time do the job. Then, sitting on the edge of the bed, she thought about sleep. She needed it. Her body demanded it. But there was something else she had to do.

She picked up the phone and dialed.

Ryan chugged down several fingers of whiskey. He didn't feel it burn its way down. He didn't enjoy it. He wanted its anesthetizing effect. After another liberal gulp, he clunked the highball glass on the black, glossy surface of the bar and braced his hands on its edge.

Tension had settled in his shoulders, and he rolled them, stretching stiff muscles. He tried not to think about the woman upstairs, tried not to think about how he was using her, how his mistakes in judgment had almost gotten her killed. Her friend was probably dead because of those same mistakes. He tried to think of a way to cut her loose, racked his brain for a way to walk away and forget she existed.

But Beau's image was there every time he squeezed his eyes shut. Not the smirking twenty-something Beau who'd chided him about his lousy luck with women. Not the happy Beau telling him about his beautiful Margot, the catch of the century. Not the shrewd, business-minded Beau who had kept KamaTech afloat after their father died.

No, the image that assailed him was a dead Beau with a gaping red hole in the center of his forehead.

Margot Rhinehart was responsible, at least in some way, for that gaping red hole. And Ryan wanted her to pay for it. And he wanted the man she worked for to pay. He wanted them all to pay. He didn't care how.

Meg Grant, whoever the hell she was, could help with that. If he walked away from her now, he was nowhere. He had accomplished nothing. Beau's killers were that much closer to getting away with the murder of a good man.

He sloshed more whiskey into the glass and tossed it back before reaching for the phone. That's when he saw the tiny red light that indicated someone else in the house was using a line.

He charged up the stairs.

Meg was hanging up the phone when Ryan slammed open the door and glowered at her as if he could have snapped her in two. She self-consciously checked the security of the towel's end tucked between her breasts and rose from the bed.

Standing in the doorway, he attributed the rapid banging of his heart to his race up the stairs. It had nothing to do with the way the skin across her chest glistened with moisture. Or the way a few remaining drops of water dribbled unchecked down her toned arms.

Meg shifted her weight from one bare foot to the other. She'd had her share of hungry looks before, had returned plenty. But this man was so ravenous that it took her breath away. Even as her head didn't trust him, her body responded. How could it not? He was a rugged, gprgeous guy with that cleft in his chin, angular jaw, thick, messy hair, and dark, sensual eyes. She could see that he was having an explicitly sexual idea. It was exciting, and frightening.

"Did you want something?" she asked, her voice husky.

Ryan forced himself to look down at the floor. He had to clear his throat of the tightness there before he could look at her without mentally ripping that towel away. What the hell had he come up here for? he asked himself, then remembered. She'd been using the phone. Suspicion replaced all thoughts of her naked. "Who did you just call?"

The disappointment she felt as his mood changed surprised her. Or perhaps she had just imagined the lust that had darkened his eyes.

When she didn't respond, he stepped into the bedroom. "The light was on on the phone downstairs. Tell me who you called."

She moistened her lips. "I made two calls. One to my boss to explain that it could be several weeks before I can return to work. And the other to Dayle's family to tell them—" She broke off, unable to finish as emotion swelled into her throat. Damn it, she was going to cry. Right in front of him.

As the first tears trickled down her cheeks, his suspicion abated. He thought of Dayle, and the guilt was crushing. "I'm sorry," he said, taking a step toward her. "I'm so sorry about Dayle. I was stupid." His voice cracked. "I wish I could take back what happened."

His words nearly shattered what was left of her control. He moved toward her again, and Meg edged back in alarm. Her hip bumped the bedside table before he caught her elbow and drew her to him gently. Putting his arms around her, he cupped the back of her neck and urged her to put her head on his shoulder.

Holding her breath, she closed her eyes, the heaviness in her chest close to bursting. No man had ever touched her like this. She couldn't recall ever
allowing
a man to touch her like this. She had had lovers, though not many, but she had always held her emotional self back from them, preferring a relationship that was physically, rather than personally, intimate. She had learned that no real personal investment equaled very little pain after the breakup. And the breakup had seemed inevitable somehow—perhaps because she had realized that no investment also meant no chance of a future.

"It's okay to cry," Ryan murmured.

She relaxed against him in slow degrees, telling herself her resources were so depleted that she had no strength to step back. Because she was so tired, she let him hold her, let the clean scent of him soak in. It was tempting to let the emotion go, but she didn't trust herself to keep it under control.

As the tension in her chest eased, she became aware of his fingers sliding under the damp curls resting against her neck. She felt the brush of his lips at her nape, felt the graze of his tongue as he sampled the flavor of her skin. His teeth followed, just a slight, teasing nibble that sent a shudder through her knees.

Ryan moved slowly, prepared to stop if she pushed him away. But even if she did, he'd felt the leap of her pulse when his lips had closed on her skin. "You're shaking," he whispered.

"I'm not."

He let his hands move over her back, up under her hair where the towel ended and damp skin warmed beneath his fingers.

Lifting her head from his shoulder, she met his dark gaze. "What are we doing?"

"I don't want to talk about it." He lowered/his head and kissed her, his mouth tentative at first, then growing more demanding.

The kiss tasted like whiskey and carried a hint of desperation. When he trailed damp kisses from her mouth to the hollow of her throat, she dropped her head back and let herself enjoy it.

He hooked his fingers in the top edge of the towel so that even a slight tug would loosen it. She grew still, held hostage by his fingers and his mouth and not caring. His lips burned a path to just below her ear lobe. God, he knew the right spots, the right amount of pressure. By the time his tongue found her ear, she was ready to strip the towel away herself.

Frustrated with his leisurely pace, and a little amazed at her own need to hurry, she dragged his T-shirt free of his jeans, ran her hands up the ridges of his—

The phone rang.

They sprang apart, and Meg grasped the towel to keep it from falling.

Ryan seized the phone next to the bed and spoke only two words—"Yeah" and "Fine"—before hanging up.

"Nick's on his way," he said, shoving a hand back through his hair. He watched her tuck the end of the towel back in place and wished he had time for a cold shower—or something hotter and steamier—to quell his desire. One time would be all it would take, he thought. Just to get her out of his system.

Meg put some distance between them. Her cheeks felt too warm, her pulse erratic. "Who's Nick?" she asked.

"Get dressed. You'll meet him soon enough."

Chapterl5

Meg sat on the bed long after he walked out of the room. What had just happened? What had she been thinking? But she hadn't been thinking. That was the problem.

She was feeling alone and cornered. Perhaps it was a given that she would respond to a human touch. She didn't know for sure because she had never been in such a situation. But then, she had never been drawn to a man the way she was drawn to Ryan Kama. She would have been lying to herself if she didn't admit that she was attracted to him. What red-blooded woman wouldn't be? He was a beautiful man.

But it was more than that. She had known beautiful men, had dated a few. But even as well as she had known some of them, she had never experienced such an overwhelming urge to rip their clothes off. Not like what she had felt moments before.

That was it, she thought. Lust. It made sense. Ryan had saved her from God knew what when he'd intervened in her kidnapping. He'd shown concern for her well-being. He'd comforted her when she'd been at her most vulnerable, her most needy. He hadn't bolted at the first sign of emotion. He had come right to her, had taken her into his arms. Because that was what
she
had needed.

She closed her eyes. So was her response to him lust or something else, something she'd never felt before? And did it matter? She was exhausted and scared and confused. Whatever she was feeling was no doubt a product of everything that had happened leading up to that moment.

Getting up from the bed, she shoved the questions aside. There were more important things to worry about right now.

After dressing in jeans and a white T-shirt from the bag of clothing that Kelsey had provided, Meg left the bedroom. In the hallway, she heard voices in the living room below and paused at the head of the steps.

"I don't know what the hell to think, Nick," she heard Ryan saying. "Maybe I'm just too damned close to it all. I've lost my objectivity. But, damn it, that slimy lawyer at the jail looked her right in the eye. So did those thugs on the beach that first night. All of them looked her right in the
face
and couldn't tell the difference. Even if the two women look that much alike, don't you think one of those guys would have noticed
something
different?"

"Maybe none of them know Margot that well," said a man Meg couldn't see. Nick, Ryan had called him. Nick went on, "You asked me to turn up what I could on Meg, and so far she's clean. I've got the details on the computer—"

"Meg Grant
comes up clean, but
Margot Rhinehart
works for a very sophisticated, well-resourced operation that no doubt churns out new identities for people like Margot all the time."

"The feds cleared Meg," Nick said. "Her prints and Margot's don't match. I verified it during my last scouting trip through the FBI's computer network."

"How difficult would it be to go in there and change a set of fingerprints on record?"

"You're reaching, Ryan. Even I wouldn't be able to do that."

Ice clinked in a glass. "What about your FBI source?" Ryan asked. "Anything new there?"

"Afraid not," Nick said.

"She wouldn't lie to you, would she?"

"Jesus, don't you trust anyone?"

"I don't trust the FBI," Ryan said. "They shut me out of the investigation, and it pisses me off. Another drink?"

"Maybe you should slow down with the drinks," Nick said.

Meg decided now was a good time to interrupt. As she entered the living room, she noted the black leather sofa, large armchairs, matching ottomans, and glass-topped, wrought iron tables. Framed, black-and-white photos adorned the walls. One in particular caught her eye—two toddlers playing on a beach. "Ryan Kama" was scrawled in the bottom corner. Before she had a chance to wonder at that, both men turned toward her.

Meg focused on the man Ryan had called Nick because it saved her from having to see Ryan's scowl. Nick wasn't as tall as Ryan, but he was as darkly handsome. His silver-streaked black hair stuck out around the ears where a teal Florida Marlins baseball cap had flattened it to his head. He had warm brown eyes and ruddy cheeks covered with a light growth of beard. The laugh lines in his face were numerous. As he took her in, his eyebrows arched.

"Nick Costello, Meg Grant," Ryan said. "Nick is the chief of security at KamaTech. He designed the camera that caught Margot helping herself to the emeralds in Beau's safe."

Nick crossed to her and looked her in the face, neither friendly nor combative. "Beau Kama was a good friend of mine," he said.