To Love a Stranger Read online

  Terry Shaw stretched out across the king-size bed wishing it were filled with his pending reward money. The first thing he was going to spend his riches on was beachfront property in South Miami.

  “Whoo, baby. Can you believe it?” Denitra poured two flutes with champagne and joined him at the bed. After he took his glass, she climbed up and cradled his hips in her black, spandex miniskirt. No panties. “Now, we can definitely afford to get married.”

  Funny, how some words have the effect of an ice-cube shower.

  Denitra undoubtedly felt his hard-on disappear. “What? We are still going to get married, right?”

  “Of course we are, darling,” Terry lied, slick as a can of oil. Why in the hell should he split ten million dollars with a woman who was just barely old enough to vote? “As soon as Christopher Stone cuts that check, I’ll marry you anywhere you want any time you want.”

  With a smile, Denitra used one hand to slip out of her red, tube top and blinded him with two round, gravity-defying breasts.

  Salivating, Terry poured his flute of champagne over her jutting nipples and enjoyed her musical laughter as he pulled her wet body toward him. In no time, she was squirming and his erection returned to full salute. What the hell? After tomorrow he would be a rich man and he could and would replace Denitra with a bevy of barely legal beauties. Thank you, Russell Stone.

  After the horrible lunch with her mother, Madeline returned to her office where her team of designers buzzed around her like bees. Her head wasn’t in the right place to make so many decisions and it wasn’t long before she was irritable and snapping at everyone in a fifty-foot radius. She had hoped for a light workload this week, with the holiday and all. She’d even planned to cook Thanksgiving dinner this year, of course, with the aid of the best cookbooks. But all her planning had been for nothing. She wouldn’t have time to cook. It was starting to look like she and the kids were doomed to celebrate another Thanksgiving dinner with her ex-brother-in-law, Christopher, and his divalicious wife, Tiffani.

  Not that she didn’t like Christopher and Tiffani—well, she didn’t—but they were still family to her children. Even so, Christopher nearly suffocated her with dredging up memories and obligatory viewing of aging pictures of her deceased husband.

  In the end, the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays felt like one long memorial to Russell Stone. The first two years after Russell’s disappearance were understandable. Without a body, the Stones were denied closure, turning Christopher into a mere shadow of himself.

  Frankly, Madeline wished he would just get over it. Lord knew she had.

  Christopher and Russell were more than brothers, they were best friends. They were a rare breed of affluent African American men—born with silver spoons in their mouths. And they made sure everyone knew it. Their arrogance barely eclipsed their greed and ambition to rule the hip-hop scene. Just the kind of men that easily won Cecelia’s stamp of approval.

  At twenty, Madeline was Cecelia’s mini me with a mind and body built to broker the best marriage deal she could find. While Christopher was her first choice, it was playboy Russell who’d latched on to her and popped a five-carat Harry Winston diamond ring on her hand in less than three months.

  So, yes. Once upon a time, Madeline was a gold digger. And a damn good one. But Mother hadn’t prepared her for heartbreak and an ironclad prenuptial agreement that proved Russell Stone was no dummy. The damn thing even prevented her from cashing in through divorce after his numerous infidelities. Russell was habitually unfaithful. He’d had affairs with anyone including the maid, the nanny, his secretary, groupies and desperate starlets dying to break into the industry.

  The only way Madeline could cash in was through his unlikely death. Now, she was a $300 million woman and half owner of Stone Cold Records. Christopher had hoped that she would be more of a silent partner, but Madeline had been about as quiet as a bull in a china store.

  She made no apologies for her bitchiness. And as long as she garnered results and more importantly produced a profit, no one else complained. At least not to her face.

  E-mailing, texting, phone calls, faxing, the rest of the business day passed in a blur.

  Lysandra poked her head into her office in the late afternoon. “Are you ready?”

  Madeline frowned, glanced at her watch and groaned. “Damn it. I haven’t had a chance to sign off on Godfrey’s last alterations.”

  “It can wait until Monday.” Lysandra waltzed into the room, her small frame buried beneath a heavy, black wool coat. “We have to go now if we’re going to make it before the curtain goes up.”

  That’s all it took for Madeline to pop out her seat and reach for her coat. “Did you bring a camera?”

  “Check.”

  “Camcorder?”

  “Check.”

  “Ooh, I can’t wait to see my babies on that stage. They’re going to be the stars of the show.”

  “As much as a turkey and an Indian Chief can be, I suppose,” Lysandra said, and chuckled.

  “Laugh now. But in a few years when Ariel is accepting her Oscar, don’t say I didn’t tell you so.”

  “I thought she was going to be a famous ballerina?” Lysandra asked, marching behind Madeline toward the elevator bay.

  “That, too.”

  “Marine biologist?”

  “My babies are going to be whatever they want to be; whatever they set their minds to. Especially Ariel. The last thing I want her to do is think she’s only good for arm candy.”

  They stepped into the elevator. “Then you better keep her away from her grandmother.”

  “Check.”

  What seemed like a lifetime later, Madeline and Lysandra arrived at Russ and Ariel’s private school and literally had to run in high-heeled pumps to the theater. Madeline would never forgive herself if she missed Ariel’s debut.

  As luck would have it, whether bad or good she wasn’t sure, Christopher and Tiffani sat front and center, reserving two seats for Madeline and Lysandra. A couple of nods in greeting and Principal Ayers took the stage and welcomed the parents of her students.

  Minutes later, Madeline’s heart swelled when her handsome, eight-year-old son took the stage to knock on the Pilgrim’s door for the nation’s first Thanksgiving dinner. True, Russ was a carbon copy of his father as far as features went. He had a strong jawline, two deep dimples and intense, rich, sable eyes that mesmerized, as well as charmed.

  At home, the phone rang off the hook with little girls wanting Russ to be their little boyfriend. And just like his father, Russ pretended to be impervious to it all. But there were traces of Madeline in him, too. Her golden honey coloring, her silky “good hair” and her easy laughter.

  “How. We come in peace,” Russ thundered across the theater and then ushered his Indian family onto the stage.

  Madeline grabbed the camera from Lysandra while her cousin manned the digital camcorder.

  Christopher leaned over and whispered, “He’s a natural performer. Just like his father,” he said.

  The last tag, Madeline mouthed along with him in annoyance. If she had anything to do with it, and she did, Russ would not be like his father.

  Yes, Madeline had married Russell for his wealth, but Russell Stone had been a certifiable asshole. Fun and gregarious with friends but selfish and cruel at home. He’d never hit her, but humiliation was his specialty. Four years of marriage felt like four consecutive life sentences in hell.

  On the stage, the moment she’d been waiting for unfolded. Her baby, six-year-old Ariel, gobbled her way to center stage and smiled at the crowd as if they’d all come just to see her.

  “Oh, how precious,” Lysandra cooed.

  Madeline couldn’t agree more. Ariel, standing an even three feet tall was an amalgamate of Russell and Madeline. She had his thick coarse hair, her hazel green eyes, slim nose, his dimples and full lips. Her skin tone was lighter than her father’s milk chocolate had been, but darker than Madeline’s golden yellow.


  “Maybe you should see about getting her on Star Search,” Lysandra whispered, jumping aboard the star-in-training fantasy train.

  “I told you she has talent,” Madeline said proudly.

  An hour later, the curtain lowered and then reopened to a standing ovation. Madeline, along with the rest of the parents waved their children down from the stage so they could receive their much-earned hugs. Ariel flew into her mother’s arms while Christopher plucked Russ up and swung him around.

  “Mommy, Mommy. Did you see? I remembered all my lines!”

  “Yes, baby. I saw.” Madeline planted a wet, sloppy kiss against Ariel’s face that made her giggle.

  “I’m so proud of you, baby,” Madeline said.

  “I remembered my lines, too,” Russ wiggled out of his uncle’s arms and rushed over to his mother, as well. “And I had more lines.”

  “Yes, you did, young man. I’m proud of both of you. What do you say we have pizza for dinner tonight?”

  Russ and Ariel’s eyes rounded to the size of saucers before they screamed and jumped for joy. Junk food was a rare commodity in Madeline’s household.

  “Actually, Maddie, I was hoping to take the kids out for ice cream or something.”

  “It’s a bit cold for ice cream, don’t you think?”

  Christopher’s face dropped dramatically. “Yeah, well…I was just wanting to spend some time—”

  “Didn’t Tiffani tell you? We’re coming over tomorrow for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  He brightened and cast a look to his wife for confirmation. Tiffani didn’t bother to hide her boredom with the whole proceedings. Most likely, Christopher dragged his wife from some fancy smancy spa.

  Hard to believe she was once one of “them.”

  “Well, then, I guess we’ll see you tomorrow night,” Christopher said. He pinched Russ’s cheek and tickled Ariel’s side. “By the way, some P.I. called. Said he had a lead.”

  Madeline rolled her eyes. There went her good mood. Why couldn’t he just give it up?

  “You guys, go get your coats,” she instructed and watched as they raced back behind the stage.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Christopher assured, guessing her thoughts. “He’ll be in and out in ten minutes top.”

  Then why bother to meet with him? She sighed. “I just don’t want this whack-job detective, which I’m sure he is, around the kids. As far as we’re concerned Russell is dead.”

  Chapter 3

  As usual he woke with a monstrous headache and cottonmouth, but there was one major difference about today. He was going home.

  “Home,” he said, trying the word on for size, and then waited for some warm fuzzy feeling to pulse through him.

  The feeling never came.

  However, there was this indescribable void that was in some ways as painful as his headache. Maybe it was a mistake to go ‘home.’

  “New York.” Those words did evoke a feeling in him—a bad feeling.

  The phone in his suite rang and his throbbing headache intensified and even spread to the back of his neck. The sun had barely peeked through the windows and these people were already bothering him, he thought to himself for the umpteenth time.

  “They are just trying to help,” he reminded himself, and reached over for the phone before they came rushing over to pound down his door. “Hello,” he said into the receiver.

  “Mr. Stone,” Shaw greeted, a little too cheerful for this time of morning. “Are you about ready to go? We have an early flight.”

  “Ready when you are.” After a few more pleasantries, he hung up and climbed out of bed, completely clothed. Within the hour, the threesome arrived at the airport, where the hustle and bustle of travelers, public address announcements and the sound of airplanes threatened to split his skull in half.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to take another look at your file?” Shaw asked while they were tucked neatly in their seats in first class.

  He looked down and reached for the manila folder without responding to the question. The first photo was of Beverly and Thomason Stone. It was an old picture, perhaps taken in the seventies, but they were definitely an attractive couple. They appeared to be a rich couple. However, the photograph failed to trigger any emotion, or any memories in him.

  Same thing for the picture of Christopher Stone, his brother. The man who’d put up a ten million-dollar reward for his return. “You say we’re in business together?”

  “Oh, yes. Several businesses, in fact. You’re a very rich man.”

  He looked over at the beady-eyes and yellow teeth of the detective. The man didn’t induce trust.

  The next picture was an eight by ten glossy of Madeline Stone, his wife. His very beautiful wife had long chestnut curls, golden complexion and hazel green eyes. She looked more like someone out of a fantasy than a living, breathing mortal. Truth be told, she was the main reason he was on this plane.

  “Ah, it must be coming back to you now,” Shaw said, misreading his stare. “I doubt if I’d be able to forget a woman like that myself.”

  Denitra delivered a sharp jab into Shaw’s side.

  “Just like I wouldn’t be able to forget you, my love,” Shaw recovered, and planted a kiss on his girlfriend’s pouting lips.

  He just shook his head at the weird couple and turned to the photograph. To his smiling portrait.

  No doubt about it. The image smiling back in an expensive suit and dripping in gaudy diamond jewelry was him. The same facial features, coloring, hair and eyes…Well, maybe not the eyes. Not that the color was different or even the shape, but the man in the photograph came across as jovial, cocky…. There was something about the man in the picture that he didn’t quite like.

  “You say that I’ve been missing for six years?”

  “Yes, sir,” Shaw said, slapping him on the back. “Your private plane just crashed over the Atlantic. You were presumed dead.”

  He shifted away from the detective, uncomfortable in his chair.

  “Don’t worry about not remembering. The doctors say it’s not unusual for people to suppress memories after a tragic experience. But when you do remember, I’m sure that it’s going to be one heck of a story,” Shaw said.

  He nodded and then returned his attention to his photograph. A man could change a lot in six years. He wondered if his wife would be pleased or disappointed to see him.

  On Thanksgiving morning, it was ten o’clock before Madeline even thought to open her eyes and only then because both Ariel and Russ had piled into the bed with her, urging her to get up.

  “All right. I’m awake.” She removed her gel eye mask and rolled over to tickle Ariel’s sides.

  Her daughter squealed and kicked her footie pajama feet in the air. “Mommeee,” she squealed between peals of laughter.

  Madeline loved how Ariel laughed like Woody Woodpecker and she was absolutely adorable with her bushy hair sticking up all over her head. Russ just shook his head and tossed his ever-present football up in the air.

  “What time are we going to Uncle Chris’s?” he asked. “We’re supposed to watch the game after we eat.”

  Madeline moaned at the thought of an evening filled with football.

  “I guess about noon, sweetie. Did Consuela fix you guys breakfast?”

  “Yeah. But we just had cereal,” he complained.

  She reached over rubbed his low-cropped hair. “That’s because you’re going to have a big meal at your uncle’s.”

  “You’re missing the Macy’s day parade on TV, Mom.” Ariel bounced over her for the bedroom’s remote and pushed the button for the plasma screen to descend from the ceiling. Seconds later, Madeline and her small family were huddled beneath the blankets and watching the various cartoon floats as they made their way down Manhattan’s Herald Square.

  Last year, she and the kids were part of the crowd, freezing their butts off and struggling to get a good view. They’d even managed to drag Cecelia along, even the older woman had whined and comp
lained the entire time.

  It was a horrible experience.

  This year when she mentioned going back to the parade, the kids’ eyes bulged in terror and then hastily agreed to watch the whole thing on television.

  Madeline smiled as she glanced over at her babies. So far, the day was off to a great start.

  It was noon before Christopher rolled out of bed. Only then did the wonderful aroma of turkey and stuffing, yams and sweet potato pie waft through his sprawling mansion to his nose. A great perk for a man of his means was the ability to hire professional chefs and servers to work on the holidays.

  It was a good thing because Tiffani couldn’t boil water if her life depended on it.

  He rolled out of bed and managed to lumber his way to the bathroom where a hot shower failed to wake him completely. While toweling off, he debated whether to fix a stiff drink, or a piping hot pot of black coffee.

  His niece and nephew were coming over after all.

  In the end, he settled for both. He made himself coffee spiked with a little something extra.

  “God, is it really time for the holidays?” Tiffani complained, dragging her lazy butt out of bed an hour later. “It seems like we just went through all this a week ago.”

  “It was a quick year,” Christopher agreed, watching her traipse naked to the shower. “Are your parents still coming?”

  “Yeah. They’ll be here around two.”

  Christopher rolled his eyes. The only word to describe Tiffani’s parents was…ghetto.

  Her father, Cletus, an earsplitting barbeque king from the deepest south of Alabama had the unnerving habit of chewing toothpicks and calling everyone “boy.” His mother-in-law, Ruby Jean, ran a hair salon who’s secret weapon, judging by her own hairstyles, was globs of hair gel and finger waves.

  “Should be another interesting holiday,” he said out loud.

  At exactly two o’clock family and friends began arriving at the gate. Christopher’s special coffee gave him the much-needed alcoholic buzz he needed while he joked and greeted everyone in his bulky Cliff Huxtable-like sweater and unlit cigar.