Relative Strangers (19 page)

"Did her parents have a house?" Ryan asked.

"Uh, hang on. Here it is. A big one in Barrington, a ritzy Chicago 'burb. Summer home in Michigan."

"Did she sell either one after they died?" Ryan asked.

"No."

"Rent them?"

"No."

"Do they exist?" he pressed.

"What are you getting at, Ryan?"

"I want to know more about Richard and Kari Grant. It's easy to create an identity for one person."

Nick didn't speak for a moment, as if weighing the advantages of what he was about to say. "Look, Ryan, there's something I need to tell you. Meg told me that she was adopted."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"She seemed to think that Margot might be related to her because they look so much alike."

Ryan didn't know what to say. It would make sense. But was it too easy? "You believe her?"

"I don't know. I don't know her like you do."

"I don't know her either," Ryan said.

"I think you do."

"It could be a lie, Nick. She's an expert, remember?"

"Margot's
the expert. Meg's the woman who almost died in your arms last night."

Ryan couldn't speak for a moment as the panic and help-lessness he'd felt then returned. When he had it under con-trol, he said, "Can you get proof?"

"I don't know," Nick said. "Adoption records are sealed pretty tight."

Ryan kneaded the back of his neck. "Meg and Margot don't just look alike, Nick. They look
exactly
alike."

"So if they're twins, then Margot might be adopted, too," Nick said, his voice rising as an idea struck him. "The FBI might have that in their profile of her. I'll check with Delilah."

"Delilah?"

"My FBI source."

"Oh. You've never mentioned her by name."

"We met in college. We still get together every so often for some fun. She's a bit of a tiger," Nick said, wistful.

"When can you talk to her again?"

"I'll give her a call when we're done here. Even if the feds turned up an adoption in Margot's past, it's unlikely they would have pursued the details without an apparent connec-tion to the crimes." He paused, and Ryan heard typing before Nick said, "Before I forget, Delilah told me the feds lost track of Turner Scott."

"Jesus. That guy isn't even the brightest bulb on the chandelier." Ryan wished he had something hefty to throw at a wall. "What about Margot? Are the feds making any progress locating her?"

"Delilah says not yet. I'm thinking that if they could have, they'd have found her by now. In the meantime, I've been working on something myself."

"Fill me in."

"Delilah told me that Margot has several identities that she's used over the years, all set up through Nielsen's network. Passports, credit cards, driver's licenses, bank accounts. The feds are watching them all for recent activity. So far, according to Delilah, no flags have popped up. Which means she's either staying put or she's using an ID that the feds haven't flagged. Which is what I've been working on."

"Haven't the feds been tracking Margot for a while? What makes you think you can turn up an identity that they haven't?"

"Couple of reasons. First, I'm a lot smarter than they are."

Ryan laughed, and some of his earlier frustration eased. "It's good to know your ego is under control."

"Hey, I earned this ego. But, seriously, it makes sense that if Margot is hiding out from Nielsen—and it appears that she is—she wouldn't use an ID that he set up for her."

"True, but I would think the feds have thought of this."

"Right. Well, I have an advantage that they don't. I was Beau's best friend. He told me things about Margot that they can't know."

"Such as?"

"Such as her nickname."

Ryan let his shoulders droop. He'd thought Nick might actually be onto something. "Her nickname is Mags."

"That's not what Beau called her," Nick said.

Ryan perked up. "What did he call her?"

"Mary Lou."

"How do you know this?"

"Beau and I talked, Ryan. He wanted to marry her."

Ryan was reminded of how little he knew his brother. "How does knowing Beau's nickname for Margot help locate her now?"

"I've fed all kinds of details like that about Margot and Beau into a database that sorts through it all and spits out hundreds of name variations. The software then combs data-bases throughout the country for sudden or unusual activity under those names."

"Wouldn't the feds be doing the same thing?"

"Yes, but you're missing my point. The feds are focused on Margot's details. They don't have the kind of access to Beau's personal details that I do. She didn't break from Niel-sen's organization until after Beau was killed, so it seems to me that if and when she creates her new identity, there's going to be some kind of influence from her relationship with him."

"Such as his nickname for her," Ryan said, doodling "Mary Lou" onto the pad of paper under his hand.

"I know it's a stretch," Nick said. "But it's something. Maybe the feds will find her, and I'll have wasted a whole lot of time. Either way, the woman can't hide forever."

"She can if she's made herself into someone else."

Nick was silent a moment.

"Are you still there?" Ryan asked.

"Why are you so reluctant to admit that Meg and Margot are two different women? It seems pretty clear to me. And it was clear to the feds or they wouldn't have let Meg go."

"It'll be clear to me when I can see the two of them side by side."

"You're in denial, my friend."

Ryan released an indignant sound. "Denial of what?"

"I saw what you went through when Meg got shot. You were a wreck."

"You were, too, as I recall," Ryan said.

"For different reasons. I was facing the realization of my mortality. You were facing the realization of hers."

"Yeah, if she ends up dead, I end up back at square one. Are we done with this conversation?"

"Just making an observation," Nick said.

"Let me know what you turn up on the Grants."

Margot was curled on a wooden chaise, facing the waves of Captiva as she dozed. The late afternoon sun was warm on her face. In the distance, she heard a mother calling to her small children and focused on their sounds.

A mother.
She
was going to be a mother.

Her stomach muscles twitched at the thought, and she put a hand on her abdomen. Beau's child was in there. Thinking of it left her dazed. She couldn't grasp the concept, even after a week.

When she had thought Beau was gone, that she would never hold him again, she hadn't wanted to live. She had kept going because she'd had unfinished business—returning the emeralds she had taken from him. Giving them back was a poor substitute for what she wanted most to return—his life. She would gladly have given up her own in exchange for his. If only she could.

Now, she had a new responsibility to Beau. She carried his child. She owed it to him to live, to bring his son or daughter into the world.

But Slater Nielsen wanted her dead. Undoubtedly, the police were looking for her, too. She wouldn't be able to hide forever. Even checked into this Captiva resort under another name, she knew she was not safe for long.

And if the police found her first, Slater could easily have her killed in jail. Not to mention what he might do to her sister in the name of revenge.

No one—not her, not Beau's child, not her sister—would ever know peace of mind as long as Slater breathed.

It was clear what she had to do.

She had to get a gun.

Chapter19

Piano music brought Meg to semiconsciousness. Easy, subtle, relaxing. She lay with her eyes closed, listening, trying to get her bearings. Fresh-brewed coffee teased her senses.

"Are you awake?"

She opened one eye, saw Ryan peering at her, and reluctantly opened the other. The last time she'd seen him, he'd helped her to the bathroom, then back into bed, where he'd given her two more pills. She didn't know how long ago that had been, but he wore different clothes now: denim shorts and a red T-shirt.

"Is it morning already?" she murmured.

"Afternoon, actually," he said, sitting on the plastic chair by the bed and resting his elbows on his knees. "How're you feeling?"

Meg let her lids drop over her eyes. "Powerful drugs."

"Don't get attached to them."

"Wouldn't dream of it," she said, drifting away.

He called her back. "Meg. Want to wake up and talk to me?"

"Not particularly."

With a soft laugh, he moved to the edge of the bed, where he tapped her cheek with gentle fingers. "Come on,
you
're

hurting my feelings."

Blinking sluggishly, she wondered whether she had the strength to smack him. "Is there a problem?"

He gave her a tolerant smile. "Yeah, you're sleeping too much. The doctor said you should be up and moving around by now."

"Sorry."

"No you're not," he said. "How about some food? You need to eat something."

"Okay."

"Meg?"

"You decide," she said.

"How about a blowfish and peanut butter sandwich?" he asked.

"Sounds great."

"Want to sit up?"

"Sure," she said.

"Maybe a walk is in order," Ryan suggested.

"Whatever."

"A dip in the Gulf?" he asked.

"Splendid."

Leaning over her, he heard the evenness of her breath and realized that she had gone back to sleep already. He pulled back the covers, but she didn't stir. Wrapping a sheet around her, he scooped her up in his arms. She was slow enough to react that he began to wonder whether he should crank up the yacht's engines and steer back to shore and the hospital.

But then she sputtered to life, throwing her arms around his neck. "What the hell?"

Grinning, he was pleased to see color rushing into her pale cheeks and annoyance flashing in her green eyes. "We're going above deck for some cool, fresh air. It'll be good for you."

When she saw the ladder with its eight rungs leading through the hatch to the surface above, she started protesting. "I don't think this is a good idea."

"Why not?" he asked, playing innocent.

"Well, that's a ladder."

"I was a volunteer fireman in my younger days."

"Firefighter
is the PC term," she said.

"I figured you for one of those women."

"One of
those
women?"

"Bleeding-heart liberal feminists, all of which is probably redundant, and which I'm sure you'll tell me is completely un-PC," he said.

"If you're trying to bait me—"

His grin cut her off.

Meg bristled in his arms, conscious of the thud of his heart against her upper arm. His body was warm and solid, his scent—wind and soap—familiar. She noticed he had a bit of a sunburn, and his grin seemed to be widening. "What?" she asked.

Enjoying the emotions that shifted through her eyes as she became more aware of him, Ryan was glad that he was not the only one affected by their proximity. "I see you're awake now."

"You can put me down," she said, her voice an octave lower.

He paused at the base of the ladder. "Think you can make it up this thing by yourself?"

"Of course. It's only eight rungs, for God's sake."

"Think you could have taken eight rungs right after you had your appendix out?"

Staring at him, she tried to figure out how he could know something so personal. Then it struck her that he'd seen her scar. Her face grew hot. "You're a pig."

The blush made her eyes all the more green, and God help him, he wanted her. He felt like a jerk. She'd just spent two days drugged in his bed, and assuming she was indeed as innocent as everyone thought, she was a marked woman at least partially because of him. But all he could think about was how she was wearing one of his T-shirts and there was not much in the world that was sexier to him than a woman in one of his shirts.

"Can you handle the ladder?" he asked.

She nodded. Even if she found she couldn't, she would die trying to get up it to avoid having him put his hands on her. She couldn't think with him touching her—at least beyond what it would feel like to have those strong hands skimming across her bare skin. She swallowed against the constriction in her throat, wondering at what point she had stopped thinking of this man as a threat and begun thinking of him as, well, naked.

Ryan let her legs slide down his body, shifting her in his arms to allow her to test the strength of her limbs before he released her. It was sweet torture, and he silently lectured himself for letting so much time pass since his last encounter with a woman. Perhaps then this ache for her would not have been so powerful.