To Love a Stranger (4 page)

“Russell Stone.” He tried the name on for size and even waited for that magical click of recognition. But the click never came.

In bed, Madeline Stone returned to his thoughts. He imagined what it would be like to pull her body into his arms. What did her full lips taste like…feel like?

B
lack Friday—the day after Thanksgiving—lived up to its name.

Madeline not only woke to a massive hangover, but also to find Cecelia glowering down at her.

“What's this nonsense all over the news about Russell Stone rising from the dead?”

“A little louder, Mom. I don't think the people down in Florida heard you,” Madeline said.

“They don't have to hear me, I'm sure they're getting the news from CNN just like
I
did this morning. Why didn't you call me? Why are you still in bed? It's noon,” Cecelia chided.

“What?” Madeline sat up and squinted at the clock on the bedside dresser. “Oh, God. I told the kids I would take them to the mall.”

“It's okay. I told them you were sick. They're over at a neighbor's house, doing whatever kids their ages do.”

Madeline groaned. “Your parenting skills always dazzle me.” She reached for the phone. “Which neighbor?”

“Stop your bitching. I raised you, didn't I?”

Madeline wasn't going to go near that trap with a ten-foot pole.

“They're fine.” Cecelia took the phone out of her hand and hung it back up. “Now, I've waited long enough. Tell me what the hell is going on.”

“There's nothing to tell. Yesterday at dinner, this detective walks in announcing he'd found Russell and a man looking just like the son-of-a-bitch walked in behind him.”

“Well, is it him?”

Madeline didn't want anything to do with that question, either.

“Oh, my God.” Cecelia sat down on a corner of the bed. “It is, isn't it?”

“I didn't say that.”

Her mother sighed with relief. “Oh, good. Then it isn't him?”

“I didn't say that, either.”

“What
are
you saying?”

Madeline threw her legs over the side of the bed and climbed out. “I'm not saying anything.” She rubbed at her eyes. “I don't know what I believe.”

“Did he at least say where he's been all this time? What about the woman he'd disappeared with? Did he finally get tired of her and leave her on some deserted island somewhere?”

Madeline slowly pivoted back toward the bed. “Wow, Mom. What a big imagination you have.”

“What else can I use in a situation like this? How many men do you know that rise from the dead?”

“Good point.”

“But that's not the point that really matters. If he's who he says he is what happens with the money?”

“Moooommm.”

Cecelia straightened in her sharp Armani suit. “Madeline, I'm being serious. I suggest you do the same. We need a good offensive
and
defense on this one.”

“You're into football now?”

“I'm into winning. And you should be, too.” Cecelia stood and picked up the empty liquor bottle from the nightstand before her sharp gaze impaled Madeline. “You didn't do anything stupid last night, did you?”

“I'm not ready to deal with this.” Turning, Madeline tried to stomp her way to the bathroom, but it was more like a wobbly walk.

Cecelia marched behind her. “You have to deal with this right now. And frankly, either way you look at it, it's best to get on this man's good side,” her mother said.

“Easier said than done.” Madeline piled her hair on the top of her head and clipped it in place. “We weren't exactly June and Ward Cleaver. Nowhere close. And let's not forget, he disappeared with his ‘ho' of the month, Lola.” She squeezed toothpaste onto her brush and began scrubbing like she had a vendetta against plaque.

“Oh, God. You're starting to sound like a broken record. Were you not handsomely rewarded for his ‘little' indiscretion?”

Madeline spat out the toothpaste. “Now look who sounds like a broken record,” Madeline said.

“I wouldn't have to if you'd start paying attention to me. If you wanted loyalty you should have married Christopher. You ignored me and went after the playboy.”

“Christopher—loyal? I should be asking you what you've been drinking this morning.”

“Fine. At least, he's more discrete. How's that?”

She grudgingly let her mother score a point while she filled her mouth with mouthwash.

“Plus, you made the mistake in thinking you could change Russell Stone.”

Damn. She's two for two.

“You are exactly the kind of woman who gives women in our profession a bad name.”

“Mom, I'm in a crisis here,” Madeline said, hoping to cut off the Gold digger's anthem.

“Right. And I say play it safe. You get more bees with honey.”

“I don't want anything to do with him,” Madeline said as she headed to the shower.

“It's not what you
want.
It's about what you
need.
You
need
the houses, the cars, the maids—”

“Moooommm.”

“All right. You need the financial backing for the fashion line. Once that's launched, and if it's a success, then you could walk away a rich woman on your own merits. If he's who he says he is and if you push him toward a divorce, he could have most, if not all, your assets frozen for God knows how long, and then where will you be?”

The pulsing in Madeline's head accelerated.

Sensing victory, Cecelia's smile bloomed. “Now, why don't you start from the beginning and tell me about this dead man walking and let your mother help you to get through this and to come out a winner.”

The phones were ringing off the hook while news vans and helicopters surrounded the Stone estate. So the natural thing for the family to do was to remain walled up in the lavish, two-story mansion. With butlers, maids and cooks, it wasn't the worst place in the world to be stuck. And yet, Russell felt bad for imprisoning everyone there all the same.

Christopher stared out his study's windows toward the iron gate. “You can't blame them,” he said, turning and crossing the room to the empty chair across from Russell. “You are a big story.”

“I feel more like a freak at the circus.”

“Aw.” He waved off his concern. “It won't last long. Real news has a life expectancy of four to seven days. The tabloids, however, can and will stretch this baby out a good six months.”

“That long?”

“I'm sure even our dogs will be interviewed before the whole thing is over with.” Christopher laughed.

Russell just forced an awkward smile. He grew even more uncomfortable when Christopher's laughter died and he appeared content to just stare at Russell.

“It's really good to have you back home,” Christopher said for the hundredth time.

Mercifully, a knock sounded at the door and Coleman, the butler, entered the study.

“Dr. Rountree is here to see you,” he said.

“Yes, yes.” Christopher clapped and rubbed his hands together. “Send him in.” Then to Russell. “It's time to get this show on the road.”

Dr. Rountree, a short and robust black man, charged into the room with chunky glasses and a lion's mane of white coarse hair. His gaze immediately fixed on his patient. Then Russell discovered the doctor had a voice that could be undoubtedly heard in every room of the house.

“My God, it is you!” Rountree continued his charge toward Russell. “I didn't want to believe it until I saw with my own eyes. Where have you been, son?”

“In Canada, if you can believe it,” Christopher answered for him.

“A private dick, Terry Shaw, found him at hospital in Nova Scotia. Said he barely recognized him with this full beard and moustache. Thing is, he doesn't remember a single thing.”

“Amnesia?” Rountree said the word with wide-eyed wonder. “That's a rare thing, indeed, despite what Hollywood would lead you to believe,” he added with a laugh that was as loud as a thunderclap.

“Well, I can tell you on this end, it's not exactly a walk in the park,” Russell informed him. “As soon as we get the blood test back, I'll at least feel like I'm moving in the right direction.” He caught the flash of disappointment in Christopher's face and he went on to amend, “Although everyone has been pretty nice to me….”

“Hell, it looks like this test is just a formality. I've known you since you were born. You and your brother used to gobble up every piece of candy in my office when you came to see me.”

Christopher perked up again at Rountree's words. “I told you on the phone it was a miracle.”

“That you did,” Rountree agreed. “Well, let's get started. The faster we draw the blood and everything, the faster we can get the results back. Unfortunately because of the holiday, we won't have the results back until Monday. But again, it's just a formality.”

“W
hat if it is him?” Madeline mumbled under her breath. She stared into her vanity mirror almost hoping that her mirror image would supply an answer, but all she received was her own cool, blank stare.

“Frankly, I don't see how it could be,” Lysandra said, perched on the edge of Madeline's enormous bed. She had arrived while Madeline showered and Cecelia had quickly filled her in on the details. “Why should we believe it's him?” she continued. “Look how many scams and con artists we've been through in the last six years. Why would this time be any different?”

“I agree,” chimed in Cecelia, while she paced around the room. “But there's nothing wrong with playing it safe. It won't take long for the blood test to come back.”

Madeline nodded, but she was quickly developing a migraine. This simply couldn't be happening. For six years she had been free from Russell Stone and the idea, however small, of returning to captivity was enough to threaten her sanity.

Madeline took a deep breath and then whispered, “Maybe I should go back.”

“Where?” both Cecelia and Lysandra questioned.

“To Christopher's. To take another look. To make sure.” Madeline stood from the vanity table and joined her mother in pacing around the room. “I'll go crazy if I stay here, wondering.” She stopped pacing. “I can't lose everything I've worked so hard for now. I've come too far. I'm too close to the label's launch.”

“If you're going then I'm going with you,” Cecelia announced. “I want to see this man for myself.”

Madeline groaned.

Lysandra jumped up. “I want to go, too.”

“I need one of you to stay here with the children,” Madeline said.

“She can do it,” Cecelia and Lysandra responded, both pointing to the other.

Madeline turned her imploring eyes toward her cousin. Both knew that it wasn't fair to subject Russ and Ariel to Cecelia's burnt or under-cooked meals and constant nagging.

“Fine,” Lysandra relented, plopping back down on the bed. “I'll stay, but I expect a full report on what's going on.”

“You got it,” Madeline promised. “One way or another, I'm getting to the bottom of this.”

Dark sky. Angry clouds. Falling, losing altitude, losing control. Smoke. He could smell smoke.

“Mayday! Mayday!”

A voice, his voice, cried for help. Twisting and clawing, he struggled to fight his way out of the nightmare; however, the more he wrestled the faster he fell.

“We're going down! Dear God, we're going down!”

Suddenly he was plunging out of the sky at an alarming rate. He tried to scream again, but now he couldn't squeeze air through his lungs. Blood rushed and then threatened to burst his eardrums, while every muscle in his body clenched in preparation for the inevitable crash.

A second before impact, Russell's eyes snapped open and his heart leapt at the sight of a lone figure hovering above him. Without thinking, he shot out his hand and gripped the stranger's slim neck. He had every intention of squeezing until the small bones snapped in two, but a woman's husky whimper parted the thick fog, clouding his judgment.

“Rus-sell,” the woman gasped, while long, slender fingers raked at his hand. “Please…stop.”

“Madeline,” he whispered. Recognition snapped into place and his hand dropped away from her neck as though it was a hot poker scorching his skin.

Madeline jetted backward and toppled over the edge of the bed and hit the floor with a loud thump.

“Oh my God, Madeline,” Russell rasped, and then rushed out of bed and raced to her side.

Madeline scrambled away from him. “Don't touch me!” she screeched, her hands covering her bruised neck.

Russell held up his hands so she could see that he meant her no harm.

“You tried to kill me,” she accused, her tone unforgiving.

“I was startled. I'm sorry…I didn't know,” he apologized. His guilt and his repulsion at what he'd done, what he'd been seconds from doing, ripped at his soul.

Madeline's beautiful eyes blazed with disbelief and mistrust. He could hardly blame her. Reluctantly, he backed away from her. “I'll call for someone to come up and help you,” he whispered in remorse, and turned to reach for the phone.

“No. Don't,” Madeline barked.

Surprised by the command, Russell turned and stared at his beautiful wife. His wife, he thought incredulously. Since when did he start believing that she truly belonged to him?

“It's okay,” she assured in a strained whisper. “I'm okay.” She climbed up on her visibly shaking legs. “It looked like you were having a bad dream.”

Was he?

“What were you dreaming about?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

He stared back at her, his mind a blank. “I don't remember,” he said. It was only partly true, but until he could make sense of everything, he elected to keep his disturbing dreams, or rather nightmares, to himself.

It didn't matter. The look on Madeline's face clearly said that she didn't believe him. Backing away, she said, “It was a mistake to come back here.” She pivoted on her black heels, but didn't walk far.

“Then why did you?” he asked, his curiosity getting the best of him. “You made it pretty clear last night you hate my guts.”

She stood frozen with her back toward him. “I never said that.”

“You didn't have to.”

Madeline straightened her shoulders and lifted her head before she dared turn and face him again. “Are you really my husband?”

Russell met her leveled gaze with one of his own. “I don't know. I came here hoping that you could tell me.”

Madeline stared into the man's liquid black orbs with a racing heart and a million butterflies fluttering in her stomach—neither of which had anything to do with fear, but had everything to do with a burning attraction. “You're not my husband,” she said, forcing each word out of her mouth. At the moment, she believed it. Her husband had never affected her like this.

Russell dropped his gaze to stare at a vacant spot on the floor. “Do you believe that, or do you simply want to believe it?”

Their eyes met again, and this time, Madeline felt the acidic burn of rising tears. “I want Russell Stone to remain dead and buried.”

He physically flinched from her bitter words and in the next second, his entire posture slumped with disappointment. “Then I hope for your sake that he is.”

Guilt stabbed Madeline's heart. She had never seen a man look so remorseful and tortured. The old Russell Stone knew how to stand toe to toe with her and engage in a verbal combat that left everyone in New York with their ears ringing.

That was what she had halfway expected when she raced back to Christopher's. She wanted to scream, rake his eyes out, if need be. But now, she had to fight all that was holy not to take him in her arms and comfort him, tell him that everything was going to be all right.

Even though it was far from the truth.

“Why don't you just go back to wherever you came from?” she asked as fat drops of tears rolled down her face. Better to get through this ugliness now than to drag it out. She wanted him gone.

While she waited for him to respond, the silence in the room condemned her for being so ruthless. This man may or may not be her husband, but one thing she was certain of, this man was lost.

He was not an actor and he was not faking his amnesia.

“I'll leave,” he finally said, and somehow managed to lift his shoulders a few inches. “If and when the blood test proves I'm not Russell Stone.”

It was Madeline's turn to be disappointed.

“Do cheer up,” Russell said, stepping forward. “The last thing I want to do is hurt you.” He cupped her chin between his fingertips, locking their gazes once again. “I do have a confession though,” he said.

“What is it?” she asked though she was scared to hear it.

“I hope I am your husband. So I don't have to ask permission to do this.”

Before she could react, he leaned forward and planted his pillow-soft lips against hers. She sighed, melting into the kiss and gave no resistance when his hands fell and wrapped around her waist.

He didn't pull her closer, he didn't have to. She willingly pressed her body against his with a carnal lust that shook her very core.

One knock, and then the bedroom door bolted open. “Russell, Madeline is…” Christopher froze just as Madeline and Russell sprang apart.

“Back,” Christopher finished his sentence with a lopsided smirk. “Well, well, well. Look who's kissed and made up.”

“Go to hell,” Madeline said, finally feeling her anger, however misdirected, return. She marched from Russell's side, and breezed past Christopher with a rough bump to his arm.

He laughed in her wake and then turned his amused gaze back toward his brother. “You still got the touch.”

Russell flushed with embarrassment. “I think things are looking up.”

Christopher just shook his head as he approached. “Let me remind you of something you have obviously forgotten: never underestimate a woman with a plan. And right now, you're all that stands between Madeline and a hell of a lot of money.”