To Love a Stranger (3 page)

“S
omeone call a doctor!”

“It's Thanksgiving. Where are we going to find a doctor to make a house call?”

Madeline wasn't sure, but she was almost certain the last exasperated remark had come from Tiffani.

“Wait. Look, I think she's coming around,” someone said.”

Moaning, Madeline pried open her eyes, but all she managed was a few millimeters when an explosion of pain forced her to close them again.

“Is she all right?”

That voice. It couldn't be.

No one answered the question, which led Madeline to believe that maybe she'd imagine it. Imagined Russell walking into the dining room as though he'd merely been gone on a fishing trip.

She opened her eyes again, this time forcing them as wide as she could manage. And sure enough she was staring straight into familiar inky black pools of concern.

“It's is you. I didn't dream…” She reached out a hand and winced when she met warm flesh. He was real.

Russell smiled tenderly. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to alarm you.”

Her shock gave way to anger and she whipped her hand hard across his perfectly chiseled features and relished the way his head snapped back. “How dare you?” She jumped up from the leather couch to see that someone had transported her to Christopher's private study. “What is this, some kind of joke?”

Madeline's chest heaved as the first waves of hysteria crashed to shore. “Christopher, are you behind this?”

When her gaze sliced toward her former brother-in-law, she found most of the color had drained from his face and he'd ditched glasses to drink his beloved Crown Royal straight from the bottle.

Shaw stepped forward and flashed everyone his yellow-toothed smile. “I assure you, this is no joke. This is your long lost husband, Mrs. Stone.”

“That's impossible,” Madeline said, clinging to denial. “Russell died in a plane crash.”

“I'm sure I don't have to remind you his body was never found.”

“So what? You're telling me he washed ashore on some desolate island with his bimbo mistress and they've been playing Tarzan and Jane for the past six years?”

Russell stepped back from her obvious hostility.

“Uh, Nova Scotia,” Shaw amended. “And there were no signs of the bimbo mistress.”

Madeline settled a hand on her hip in annoyance at the short man. “What are you—his publicist? How come he can't talk for himself?”

“Well, there's the slight hiccup,” Shaw said, stepping forward. “Seems Mr. Stone here is suffering from amnesia.”

“What?” Christopher and Tiffani asked at the same time.

“Oh, give me a break. No one ever has amnesia. That stuff only happens in soap operas. Christopher, this man is trying to take us for a pair of fools. He probably hired some actor and gave him an expensive face job,” Madeline said.

“Look, obviously coming here was a mistake,” the Russell clone said quietly.

“What was your first clue, Einstein?” Madeline challenged.

“All right. Settle down, Maddie.” Christopher finally broke away from his wife's side and approached the imposter. “Of course, tests will need to be done first.” He squinted and studied the man's features. “If this is a face job, it's one of the best I've ever seen.” He cast a glance over at Madeline. “But how do you explain the voice? I know Russell's voice when I hear it.”

She did, too. The realization forced her to swallow a chunk of doubt and look at the man in a different light. Finally, she approached, as well, and looked for any telltale signs in the beard and woolly hair that would give the imposter away.

There wasn't a single one.

“No offense, but this is a little too weird for me,” Russell said, stepping back.

A tear trickled down Christopher's face before he stretched out his arms and threw them around the man. “Welcome home, Russell!”

Stunned, Russell awkwardly hugged the man back, but his gaze returned to Madeline. The rage in her hazel-green eyes made her look like an angry goddess. The imagery fascinated him.

“Well, I'm not biting.” Madeline walked over and snatched the booze out of Christopher's hand. “I need a drink.”

“What are we going to say to all those people out there?” Tiffani questioned, hanging back from Russell.

“We're going to tell them that my brother has returned home.” Christopher pulled out his brother's embrace to take another good look. “I know my brother when I see him.”

Shaw clapped and rubbed his hands together. “There is still the issue of the reward money.”

Madeline groaned and rolled her eyes. “Nothing until a blood test comes back. I mean that.”

“Need I remind you that I'm the one who put up the reward money?” Christopher asked. “You never believed he was alive.”

Madeline caught the stab of hurt in Russell's expression before she could look away. “Waste your money if you want to,” she said, splashing out her drink. “Just keep him the hell away from me and my kids.”

“You mean, his kids, don't you?”

“Kids?” Russell looked to Shaw.

The short man shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, I didn't have any pictures of them to show you, but, uh, you have one boy and one girl.”

“How old are they?”

“Like you care,” Madeline snapped, and tossed back the amber liquid like a sailor.

“Why wouldn't I care?” Russell asked. He watched as the storm darkened in her eyes, but he trudged on. “Look, whatever differences we might have had in the past, I'm sure it's still no reason to try to keep me from my children.”

“
Your
children? It takes more than being a sperm donor to be a real father.”

He flinched.

“Maddie, please,” Christopher intervened. “The man says he's suffering from—”

“Amnesia. Yeah, I heard,” Madeline said.

“Then you know Russell is in no position to defend himself from your vicious attacks,” Christopher said.

“Vicious? Need I remind
you
that I was up in the hospital having his child when he disappeared with that—”

“Again. We don't know what happened that night his plane…” Christopher swallowed and then glanced back to his brother. “It had to have been awful to sustain this sort of trauma for this long.”

Madeline rolled her eyes and splashed another inch of whiskey into her glass. “Let's not forget how convenient it is for him to have lost his memory.”

“I think it's wonderful,” Tiffani piped up.

“You would.”

“Baby, you always knew he was alive out there somewhere. You never gave up hope,” Tiffani said, sucking up to Christopher.

Put a sock in it.
Madeline thought she might begin to heave at any moment.

Christopher proudly puffed up his chest. “I did believe. As close as we've always been I just knew you were out there somewhere.”

Madeline washed down the rest of her second drink and headed toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Christopher asked before she reached for the doorknob.

“Home. I've had about enough of this bs.”

“Aren't you going to bring the children in here so they can see their father?”

“I certainly am not. We're leaving,” she decided.

“Aren't you forgetting something?” Tiffani crossed her arms while holding on to her smug smile. “Your husband? I believe it's his house. And after the blood test, don't stray too far from the phone, the insurance companies will probably want to talk to you.”

Madeline nearly wobbled out of her pumps.

Tiffani sauntered up behind her like a lioness closing in on her prey. “If memory serves me correctly you have a lot to lose if he really is Russell. The house, the cars, the money. And no money means no fashion line,” Tiffani taunted.

Tiffani's words were like a flurry of surprise left hooks. Madeline tossed a look over her shoulder at her alleged husband. The faker still wore a deer-caught-in-headlights look in his eyes.

“You know. I'm starting to believe you just might be Russell. You always have had an uncanny way of ruining my life,” she said as she jerked open the door and stormed out.

Everyone jumped when the door slammed behind her.

“Wow,” Shaw said. “She's really a firecracker.” He moved over to Russell and slapped him hard on the back. “Sounds like you were really an asshole.”

“Aw. Don't let her worry you,” Christopher said, as he came to stand beside Russell. “She's no Girl Scout. Trust me. Tiffani called it right. She's probably worried about losing her money—or rather your money. If you are Russell, my advice is to find a good lawyer, file for divorce and hope that she doesn't beat you to it.” He laughed.

Russell shook his head. “She's hurt and it sounds like it's my fault.”

The room fell silent.

“Is there anyway I can…see my children?”

“Sure, sure. Wait until you see how much Russ has grown. I tell you, everyone says he's the spitting image of you.” Christopher hooked an arm around his brother's neck and led him toward the door.

“Wait. I just want to see them…from a distance. I don't want to upset Madeline any more than she already is. At least not until the test comes back.”

“Hey, I already know you're my brother. I'd know you anywhere,” Christopher said.

Russell pulled out of his embrace. “But I don't know you.” The moment the words where out of his mouth he regretted them. Christopher's pain was raw and open for anyone to see. “I'm sorry, but I just don't remember any of you.”

After a brief silence, Christopher's magnanimous smile returned. “You will. I'm certain of it.”

Russell wanted to believe him…

It was hard to dispute he wasn't who they claimed he was, when photos of him sat on nearly every shelf in the house. He followed his brother out onto the office balcony and he'd just caught glimpse of the top of a little girl's head before she climbed into the back of a large silver SUV.

Madeline leaned over, probably to connect the child's seat belt before she quickly slammed the door. After she rushed to the driver's side, she glanced back at the house and spotted Russell.

Despite the distance between them, their eyes locked. His wife's warning to stay away pulsed across the cold fall night as if she had shouted the words at him.

But if the blood test proved he was Russell Stone she might as well get used to him. Because, there was no way he was going to stay away from his wife, or his kids. No way at all.

“M
ommy, was that man really our daddy?” Ariel asked after twenty minutes of silence.

Madeline started to answer with an emphatic “no,” but what if the blood test made her out to be a liar? What then? “I don't know, baby,” she settled on saying.

“You mean, he could be?” Russ questioned with simple caution. “He looks like him,” the little boy said.

“Yes, baby. I know he does.”
And he sounds like him, too.

“Well, where has he been?” Ariel asked. “Why are we going home?”

“How come he's not coming home with us?” Russ inquired. “Did you say something to make him mad?”

“What?” Madeline glanced up into her rearview mirror to seek her son's gaze. “What makes you think I would say something to make him mad?”

Russ lowered his eyes and shrugged.

Madeline returned her attention to the road, stinging from her son's words.

“How come we didn't get a chance to talk to him?” Russ questioned.

“Because…”

“Because why?”

“Just because.” She could think of nothing better to say.

“That's no reason,” Russ mumbled.

This was exactly what she wanted to avoid.

Ariel started sniffing and Madeline now searched for her in the rearview mirror. “Baby, what's wrong?”

“I want to talk to my daddy,” she said between whimpers.

Damn it.
Madeline released a long breath and fought back tears. How in the hell was she supposed to fix this?

She couldn't. In the end, she just had to be the bad mommy. Thanksgiving was ruined because of her. Her children were being denied their father because of her.

The children fussed the rest of the way home. They fussed during their baths and were still fussing when she tucked them into bed. When she finally pried herself away from their inquiring minds she made her way down to the bar and poured herself stiff drink.

What was she going to do if the blood test proved this man was indeed her husband? She took a healthy gulp of her rum and coke. Tiffani was right. His resurrection would reinstate that damn prenuptial agreement. It could undo all she has done in the past six years.

Gulp.

The insurance companies would want their money back.

Gulp.

She would lose her partnership in Stone Cold Records and the fashion line. Not to mention her clothing line would be in jeopardy.

She poured another drink. Why not? Her world was crumbling in around her.
It's not him. It can't be.

Tears glossed her eyes as she clung ferociously to denial. Could God hate her this much?

She drained her third drink and carried the pity party up to her bedroom. Now that the alcohol had calmed her nerves, it was easier to allow her mind to drift over Russell's grand reappearance.

He'd walked into the dining room with the same kinetic energy he'd always carried. The same walk, the same stance, the same timbre in his voice. Yet, when she came to in Christopher's study and their eyes connected she'd become…aroused? That had never happened before.

Madeline's head rocked back with laughter. This had to be the booze talking. The days of her being attracted to her husband ended right around the time she'd conceived their child. Madeline clearly remembered the day she'd returned home early and interrupted Russell and some wannabe singer in a very private audition.

Hell, they'd only been married a short time. She'd foolishly believed that she could grow to love her husband. And so it hurt her to know that less than six months after the “I dos,” Russell had crept outside their bedroom.

Maddie, you can't expect a man like Russell Stone to be monogamous. Yeah, those hoochie mommas may have him some of the time, but you're the one he comes home to. You're the one with the ring around your finger.
That was the world according to Cecelia.

Russell's promiscuity shouldn't have hurt, but it did. The day she'd walked down the aisle, she made a vow to make her marriage work. She wasn't going to try and get into some contest with her mother on who could add the most hyphens to their name.

One marriage. One shot.

Then Russell Stone broke her heart because he operated under the same rules as her mother. While her mother was panning for gold he was looking for a golden trophy to sit on his mantle. The truth was Madeline had been bought and paid for. The Winston diamond ring had sealed the deal.

But then she had violated the contract by trying to add love to the deal.

Shaw took center stage and handed Christopher a Canadian newspaper clipping with a picture of a bearded and mustached Russell next to the caption:
Do you know this man?

“Denitra and I came across this article while visiting some of her relatives a couple of weeks ago.”

Mystery man has refused to speak since he was found wandering near Nova Scotia coast. The mysterious man seemed unable to answer the simplest questions about who he is or where he comes from.

Christopher glanced up at his brother, unable to imagine what he must have been through these past years. “What happened?” he couldn't help but ask.

“I don't know,” Russell answered truthfully. “I don't know how I got there or even anyone discovering me. I only remember the hospital,” he said.

“The hospital?” Christopher turned back to Shaw.

“Yes. An elderly couple noticed him wandering out there and called the authorities. When the authorities were unable to get any answers out of him, he was taken to Queen Elizabeth Hospital. Their social services are the one's who had contacted the newspaper.”

“So you don't know where you've been for the past six years?”

Again Russell shook his head. “I've tried to remember. But every time I do, I suffer severe migraines.”

“He also has a lot of old scars on his body,” Shaw interjected. “He's been in some type of accident. That's for sure.”

Christopher stood. “Show me.”

Uncomfortable with so many pointed gazes in his direction, Russell still climbed to his feet and pulled up his shirt. A round of audible gasps surrounded him as they all peered at his battered and scarred body.

“The plane crash,” Christopher whispered as he approached and inspected a few jagged scars up close. “Is that how you got those?”

Russell just looked haplessly at his brother. “I don't know. I don't remember.”

Christopher nodded, and then broke out with a wide grin. “What's important is you're home now.” He wrapped him in another quick embrace.”

Russell was overwhelmed.

Once word of his reappearance hit the grapevine, people poured through Christopher's door. There was a constant flow of men and women who claimed to be friends and relatives. They all tried to get him to remember their names and events. They would ask if he remembered where they did so-and-so, or that such-and-such was so funny when he was a child, a teenager, or a grown man who should have known better.

It also surprised him how many women slipped cards into his hands or pockets with suggestions that they could pick up where they'd left off—whatever that was supposed to mean.

But through all the plastic smiles an awkward laughs, his mind kept wandering back to Madeline. The picture in Shaw's file hardly did the woman justice. Now that he'd seen her—touched her, he desperately wanted to remember everything about her.

Somewhere around 2:00 a.m. Christopher finally responded to Russell's visible exhaustion and led him to one of the vacant guestrooms. In his opinion the room was as big as a studio apartment, complete with a king-size, oak bed with gold silk sheets. On the walls, an eclectic mix of African art surrounded him, as well as an impressive flat-screen television.

“I hope the room is satisfactory,” Christopher said, carrying Russell's lone, leather duffel bag in behind them.

“It's…” he looked around again “…it's more than satisfactory.”

“Good.” Christopher set the bag down on the edge of the bed.

The brightness of his 100-Watt smile had remained intense throughout the busy night. Russell wondered if the thing was permanently chiseled on his face. “Well, I, um, better get some sleep,” he said when Christopher made no move toward the door.

“Oh, yeah. Right.” Christopher walked backward to the door. “I'm sure you're pretty exhausted and, well, I should let you get some rest.”

Russell nodded, but Christopher stopped short from backing out the door.

“It's really good…having you home again,” Christopher said.

“It's good to be back,” he said more out of politeness. “And don't worry,” he added, reading Christopher's fear. “I'll be here when you wake up.”

Christopher laughed. “I'm gonna hold you to that. Good night.”

“'Night.”

However, his brother stopped one last time at the door threshold, his smile finally dimmed. “About Madeline…”

Russell glanced up.

“She's just…Well, we can talk about it tomorrow.”

Intrigued, Russell asked the question he'd been dying to know. “How did we meet?”

“What—you and Madeline?” Christopher's smile returned.

“Yes.” Russell slipped his hands into his pants pockets. “I tried asking Shaw, but he didn't know. Just gave me the date of our wedding.”

Christopher drew a deep breath. “I guess you could say I introduced you two.”

“Oh?”

He nodded and rubbed at his neck. The smile was gone. “I guess you could also say you sort of stole her right from under my nose.”

“I see.” Russell's gaze plunged to the hardwood floor. Talk about cramming his foot into his mouth. “We don't have to talk about this now.”

“No. It's okay.” Christopher's laugh sounded more like a misfired engine. “I probably should be thanking you.”

That comment successfully drew Russell's gaze back to his brother. “Why do you say that?”

A shrug and another misfired laugh. “Madeline is…beautiful no doubt. Grade ‘A' quality, but, uh…a little hard to manage, if you know what I mean.”

“No. I don't think I do,” Russell admitted.

“She's sort of a pistol. Strong willed, overly opinionated and just flat out hard to please.” Christopher snickered. “And I believe those were your words.”

Russell flinched not just because of the cruelty of the words, but because he's supposedly shared such thoughts with his brother. “She said something about…another woman.”

“Lola Crowne.” Christopher drew a deep breath. “She went down with you…and the plane. You were both presumed dead.” He eyed Russell. “You really can't remember anything?”

How many times tonight had he been asked that very question and how many times had he said, “I'm sorry”?

“Don't worry about it,” Christopher said, patting Russell's back in an awkward attempt to cheer him up. “I'm sure it'll all come back to you in time.” Christopher headed toward the door.

“We were in love though, right? Madeline and I…at least once upon a time?”

This time, Christopher couldn't manage a smile. “I'll see you in the morning.” With that, he left the room and closed the door behind him.

For a long while, Russell stood in the middle of the room, staring at the door while a great emptiness engulfed him. He was home, but he felt more lost than ever. At last, he turned and headed to the adjoining bathroom. It was just as lush and extravagant as the bedroom.

Glancing at his reflection was no different than staring into the numerous faces he'd met tonight. He didn't know the man in the mirror.

He stripped and stepped into the shower. After feeling the different pulses from the showerhead, he was quite content to stay in there for a long time. The hot water massaged the tension from his body. As he let his mind wander, he reviewed everything that had happened that day.

Most importantly, he thought about Madeline. He wondered what had happened between him and Madeline. Earlier, he'd thought he would be returning to the arms of a woman who loved him. In reality, nothing could've been further from the truth.

Russell shut off the water and stepped out of the shower. It was hard to argue that he
wasn't
Russell Stone. So many people, so many pictures couldn't be wrong.

Troubled, he toweled off and wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror. As he looked at the unfamiliar man in the reflection, his eyes were drawn to the ugly, jagged scar down the right side of his body. He supposed a plane crash could explain the wound and the many nicks across his arms and legs.