Don't Say a Word - Barbara Freethy [8]
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