Don't Say A Word (3 page)

    It sounded like a nightmare, especially with Liz overseeing the procedure. Unlike Julia, Liz was a big believer in organization. She loved making files, labeling things, buying storage containers and baskets to keep their lives neat as a pin. Since taking up residence on the living room futon after their parents' house had sold, Liz had been driving Julia crazy. She always wanted to clean, decorate, paint, and pick out new curtains. What Liz really needed was a place of her own, but Julia hadn't had the heart to tell Liz to move out. Besides, it would be only a few more months; then Julia would be living with Michael.

    "Unless you want to start now," Liz said, as she checked her watch. "We don't have to leave for about an hour. Is Michael coming to the party?"

    "He'll be a little late. He had a sunset charter to run."

    "I bet he's excited that you finally set the date," Liz said with a smile. "He'd been dying to do that for months." Liz tossed two of the magazines on the desk, then began to leaf through the one in her hand. "Oh, look at this dress, the satin, the lace. It's heavenly."

    Julia couldn't bear to look. She didn't want to plan her wedding right this second. Wasn't it enough that she'd booked the date? Couldn't she have twenty-four hours to think about it? Julia didn't suppose that sounded very bridal-like, but it was the way she felt, and she needed to get away from Liz before her sister noticed she was not as enthusiastic as she should be. "I have to run an errand before the party," she said, giving in to a reckless impulse. "When will you be back?"

    "I'm not sure how long it will take. I'll meet you at the restaurant."

    "All right. I'll pick out the perfect dress for you while you're gone."

    "Great." When Liz left the room, Julia walked over to her bed and picked up the catalogue from the photography exhibit. On page thirty-two was the photograph of the orphan girl. She'd already looked at it a half-dozen times since she'd come home, unable to shake the idea that the photo, the child, the necklace were important to her in some way.

    She wanted to talk to someone about the picture, and it occurred to her that maybe she should try to find the photographer. After researching Charles Manning on the Internet earlier that day, she'd discovered that he was deceased, but his son, Alex Manning, was also a photojournalist and had a San Francisco number and address listed in the phone book. She'd tried the number but gotten a message machine. There was really nothing more to do at the moment, unless…

    Tapping her fingers against the top of her desk, she debated for another thirty seconds. She should be planning her wedding, not searching out the origin of an old photo, but as she straightened, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Instead of seeing her own reflection, she saw the face of that little girl begging her to help.

    Julia picked up her purse and headed out the door. Maybe Alex Manning could tell her what she needed to know about the girl in the photograph. Then Julia could forget about her.

    Twenty minutes later, Julia pulled up in front of a three-story apartment building in the
Haight
, a neighborhood that had been the centerpiece of San Francisco's infamous "Summer of Love" in the sixties. The area was now an interesting mix of funky shops, clothing boutiques, tattoo parlors, restaurants, and coffeehouses. The streets were busy. It was Friday night, and everyone wanted to get started on the weekend. Julia hoped Alex Manning would be home, although since he hadn't answered his phone, it was probably a long shot. But she had to do something.

    She climbed the stairs to his apartment, took a deep breath, and rang the bell, all the while wondering what on earth she would say to him if he was home. A moment later, the door opened to a string of curses. A tall, dark-haired man appeared in the doorway, bare-chested and wearing a pair of faded blue jeans that rode low on his hips. His dark brown hair was a mess, his cheeks unshaven. His right eye was swollen, the skin around it purple and black. There were bruises all over his muscled chest, and a long, thin scar not far from his heart. She instinctively took a step back, feeling as if she'd just woken the beast.

    "Who are you and what are you selling?" he asked harshly.

    "I'm not selling anything. I'm looking for Alex Manning. Are you him?"

    "That depends on what you want."

    "No, that depends on who you are," she stated, holding her ground.

    "Is this conversation going to end if I tell you I'm not Alex Manning?"

    "Not if you're lying."

    He stared at her, squinting through his one good eye. His expression changed. His green eyes sharpened, as if he were trying to place her face. "Who are you?"

    "My name is Julia DeMarco. And if you're Alex Manning, I want to ask you about a photograph I saw at the Legion of Honor today. It was taken by your father-a little girl standing behind the gates of an orphanage. Do you know the one I'm talking about?"

    He didn't reply, but she saw the pulse jump in his throat and a light flicker in his eyes.

    "I want to know who the little girl is-her name- what happened to her," she continued.

    "Why?" he bit out sharply.

    It was a simple question. She wished she had a simple answer. How could she tell him that she couldn't stop thinking about that girl, that she felt compelled to learn more about her? She settled for, "The child in the picture is wearing a necklace just like this one." She pulled the chain out of her purse and showed it to him. "I thought it was odd that I had the same one."

    He stared at the swan, then gazed back into her eyes. "No," he muttered with a confused shake of his head. "It's not possible."

    "What's not possible?"

    "You. You can't be her."

    "I didn't say I was her." Julia's heart began to race. "I just said I have the same necklace."

    "This is a dream, isn't it? I'm so tired I'm hallucinating. If I close the door, you'll go away."

    Julia opened her mouth to tell him she wasn't going anywhere, but the door slammed in her face. "I'm not her," she said loudly. "I was born and raised in San Francisco. I've never been out of the country. I'm not her," she repeated, feeling suddenly desperate. "Am I?"

    Alex could hear the woman talking on the other side of the door, which didn't bode well for his theory that he was dreaming. That blond hair, those blue eyes, the upturned nose-he'd seen her features a million times in his mind. And now she was here, and she wanted to know about the girl in the photo. What the hell was he supposed to say to her?

    Don't ever talk to anyone about the photo or the girl.

    His father's words returned to his head. Words that were twenty-five years old. What would it matter now if he broke his promise? Who would care? For that matter, why would anyone have cared?

    He'd never understood the frantic fear in his father's eyes the day the photo had been published in the magazine. All Alex knew for sure was that he'd made a promise in the last conversation he'd had with his father, and up until this moment he'd never considered breaking it.

    His doorbell rang again. She was definitely persistent.

    Alex opened the door just as she was about to knock. Her hand dropped to her side.

    "Why did you say I was her?" she demanded.

    "Take a look in the mirror."

    "She's a little girl. I'm an adult. I don't think we look at all alike."

    He studied her for a moment, his photographer's eye seeing the details, the slight widow's peak on her forehead, the tiny freckle by one eyebrow, the oval shape of her face, the thick, blond hair that curled around her shoulders. She was a beautiful woman, and dressed in a short tan linen skirt that showed off her long, slender legs, and a sleeveless cream-colored top, she looked like a typical California girl. He felt a restless surge of attraction that he immediately tried to squash. Blondes had always been his downfall, especially blue-eyed blondes.

    "Did your father know the little girl's name or anything about her?" she persisted.

    "He never said," Alex replied. "Can I see that necklace again?"

    She opened her hand. He stared down at the white swan. It was exactly the same as the one in the photograph. Still, what did it mean? It wasn't a rare diamond, just a simple charm. Although the fact that this woman looked like the orphan girl and had the necklace in her possession seemed like a strong coincidence. "What did you say your name was?"

  
 
"Julia DeMarco."

    "DeMarco? A blond Italian, huh?" "I'm not Italian. I was adopted by my stepfather. My mother said my biological father was Irish. And she is-was-Irish as well. She died a few months ago." Julia slipped the necklace back into her large brown handbag.

    
Adopted
. The word stuck in his head after all the rest. "You didn't know your biological father?"

  
 
"He left before I was born."

   
"And where were you born?"

    
"In Berkeley." Her lips tightened. "I've never been out of the country. I don't even have a passport. So that girl in the photo is not me."

    "Just out of curiosity, how old were you when you were adopted?"

    "I was four," she replied.

    
And the girl in the photograph couldn't have been more than three.

    He gazed into her eyes and knew she was thinking the same thing.

    "I was adopted by my stepfather when he married my mom," she explained. "And she wasn't Russian.! She never traveled. She was a stay-at-home PTA mom. She did snacks for soccer games. Very all- American. There is no way I'm that girl. I know exactly who I am."

    She seemed to be trying damn hard to convince] herself of that fact. But the more she talked, the morel Alex wondered.

    "You know, this isn't your problem," she said with, a wave of her hand. "And I obviously woke you up.” Her cheeks flushed as she cleared her throat and looked away from him.

    Alex crossed his arms in front of his bare chest, not bothering to find himself a shirt. "I just got off a plane; from South America."

    "Were you taking photographs down there?"

    "Yes."

    "How did you get hurt? Not that it's any of my business."

    "You're right. It's none of your business."

    She stiffened at his harsh tone. "Well, you don't have to be rude about it."

    Maybe he did, because he didn't like the way his body was reacting to her. The sooner she left the better. He was smart enough to avoid women who wanted more than sex, and this woman had "more than sex" written all over her.

    "Are you sure there's nothing else you can tell me about the photo?" she asked.

    He sighed. Obviously, he hadn't been rude enough. "Look, you're not the first person to wonder who that girl was. There was quite a hunt for her when the photograph was first published. Everyone wanted to adopt her."

    "Really? What happened?"

    "She couldn't be found. Our governments weren't cooperating at that time. International adoptions were not happening. It was the Cold War. In fact, no one was willing to admit there even were orphans in Moscow." It wasn't the whole story, but as much as he was willing to tell her. "Besides the fact that you have blond hair and blue eyes, and you have the same necklace, what makes you wonder about that photo? Don't you have family you can ask about where you were born? Don't you have pictures of yourself in Berkeley when you were two or three years old? What makes you doubt who you are?" Once the questions started, they kept coming.

    "I don't have family I can ask," Julia replied. "My mother was estranged from her parents. They washed their hands of her when she got pregnant with me. And there aren't any photos, not of her or of me, until she married my stepfather. She said they got lost in the move from Berkeley to San Francisco." "That's not much of a move. Just over the
Bay
Bridge
."

    Her lips tightened. "I never had any reason to believe otherwise."

    "Until now," he pointed out.

    She frowned. "Damn. I can't believe I'm doubting my own mother just because of a photograph in a museum. I must be losing my mind."

    If she was, then he was losing his mind right along with her, because everything she said raised his suspicions another notch. A familiar jolt of adrenaline rushed through his bloodstream. Was it possible this woman was that girl? And if she was, what did that mean? How had she gotten from Moscow to the U.S.? And why didn't she know who she was? Was she the reason his father had told him to never speak about that photo? Was she part of something bigger, something secret? Had his father found himself in the middle of a conspiracy all those years ago? Alex knew better than anyone that photographers could get into places no one else could.

    "I wish I could talk to my mother about this," Julia continued. "Now that she's gone, I have no one to ask."

    "What about your stepfather?"

    "I suppose," she murmured, "but he's had a rough year. My mom was sick for a long time, and he doesn't like to talk about her."