Читать книгу Groom Of Fortune - Peggy Moreland, Peggy Moreland - Страница 10

She didn’t love him.

She wasn’t sure she even liked him.

Yet, within minutes she would become his wife.

Having slipped away unnoticed by her attendants, Isabelle Fortune stood in the vestibule with her fingers clutched tightly around her bridal bouquet, her nose pressed against the sanctuary door’s tiny window, watching her fiancé enter the sanctuary through the side door and walk toward the altar. Dressed in black tails and wearing a confident smile, Brad Rowan looked very much the part of the eager groom.

And Isabelle felt like a lamb being led to slaughter.

With a shudder, she forced her gaze away from Brad and to the pews already crowded with family and friends. More than a thousand engraved wedding invitations had been mailed, and it appeared that not a one of the recipients had sent their regrets. Not that she was surprised. When the Fortunes threw a party, no matter what the occasion, all of Pueblo turned out for the event, knowing that the Fortunes would spare no expense.

And they wouldn’t be disappointed this time, either. The caterers her parents had hired had worked frantically for days, preparing the succulent hors d’oeuvres, entrées and desserts for the wedding reception, while a crew of workers readied the grounds of the Fortune estate for the outdoor gala, already touted as the social event of the year. A new marble fountain flown in from Italy had been installed in the swimming pool, and the gardens had been pruned and filled with a colorful array of flowering plants. White canvas canopies dotted the sprawling lawn, and a portable dance floor and a stage for the orchestra had been constructed beneath the largest of the tents.

No, the Fortunes had spared no expense in marrying off their only daughter.

A knot of dread formed in Isabelle’s stomach as she slowly scanned the ornately decorated church illuminated by hundreds of flickering candles, a glimmering reminder of the money invested in this day. Tall, slender tapers stood on the ledges of the windows, bringing to life the scenes depicted on the etched stained glass. Behind the altar, a dozen gracefully curved silver candelabra pedestals held even more of the slender tapers, while towering, fat columns of wax rose from the ropes of ivy on the altar’s railing.

Mesmerized by the flickering candles, she stared, the dread twisting tighter and tighter, until Brad stepped into her line of vision again, making her flinch. She watched him stop in front of the altar and take his place to the right of the priest, her fingers convulsing on the ribbon-wrapped stem of her bouquet. She knew it was considered bad luck for a bride to see her groom on the day of their wedding, but considering the fact that her marriage was a mockery, devoid of any emotion other than that of duty, she didn’t think that luck, good or bad, would have much effect on the success of their union.

Regret over her hasty decision to accept Brad’s marriage proposal burned through her, momentarily overriding the dread, and she was helpless to force it back. She was sacrificing her life, her dreams, for her parents, a payback of sorts for all they’d suffered and sacrificed for her through the years.

And she wondered now if it wasn’t all a colossal mistake, one that she’d regret for the rest of her life.

If she had any courage at all, she fretted, she’d leave right now, before the ceremony began. And why not? she thought, grasping at the idea. She’d simply tell her parents she couldn’t go through with the marriage, that she didn’t love Brad, that she’d only accepted his proposal for their sakes, so that the Fortune family could claim ownership to Lightfoot’s Plateau, and preserve the cave used as a spiritual retreat by Native American tribes, restoring it in memory of their ancestor, Natasha Lightfoot, Isabelle’s grandmother.

She’d explain it all to them, she told herself, relief flooding through her. They’d understand.

But the relief was short-lived as her gaze strayed to the candelabra and the candles that flickered there. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, reminded of her parents’ delight in her marriage to Brad. Would they understand? she wondered, doubt niggling at her confidence. Or would they…

She jumped at a sound that came from behind her, and spun to see the entry door swinging open. Not wanting to be seen, she looked wildly around for a place to hide. Grabbing fistfuls of satin, she gathered up the skirt of her wedding gown and ran, ducking quickly behind the partially open door of the coat closet. Holding her breath, she listened to the echo of footsteps on the vestibule’s marble floor.

“Are we late?” came a man’s low voice.

“I don’t think so” was the reply, “though the music’s already started.”

“Lucky son of a bitch,” she heard the first man mutter. “Marrying into all that money.”

Her mouth gaping, Isabelle leaned closer to the partially open door, straining to hear. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t put a face to it.

There was a wry laugh from the other man. “As if he didn’t already have a direct pipeline into the Fortune’s bank account.”

The first man laughed, too. “The greedy son of a bitch.”

“Greedy, hell. He’s a genius, and we’re damn lucky to be in on the take.”

“Yeah,” the first agreed. “Though I have to admit I was worried there for a bit when Mike started demanding a bigger slice of the pie.”

Mike? Isabelle repeated silently in confusion. Mike Dodd? Though she hadn’t personally known the construction foreman who had been killed earlier that year in an elevator crash at the site of the Children’s Hospital her family was building, she had been affected by his death, as had all the Fortune family. But what pie were the men talking about? She pressed her ear closer to the door, hoping to hear more.

“Brad handled it,” the second man was saying. “That guy’s cool as a cucumber when under pressure. Cold-blooded, he is, and that’s a fact.”

Isabelle pressed a hand against her mouth to stifle the startled cry that rose. Her fiancé was involved in Mike Dodd’s death? But how? Why?

“Easy enough when there’s nothing but ice running in your veins.”

Numbed by what she’d overheard, Isabelle listened as the sanctuary door squeaked open on its hinges. Organ music spilled out into the church’s vestibule as the latecomers slipped inside the nave. Then, only silence.

Isabelle sagged weakly against the coat closet’s door, her eyes wide, her hand still clamped over her mouth.

Oh, God. If what she’d overheard was true, then her fiancé was responsible for Mike Dodd’s death.

And within minutes, she would become the wife of a murderer.

Link Templeton glanced at the clock on his dash, then back at the street ahead, and pressed the accelerator a little closer to the floor. He had to get to the church before it was too late. He had to get there before the wedding took place.

He downshifted to third, made the turn onto Feather Road on two wheels, then stomped down on the accelerator again, fishtailing for a moment before he was able to bring the city-issue, four-wheel-drive Blazer under control. Perspiration beaded his forehead and ran in an irritating trickle between his shoulder blades.

He knew in his gut that Brad Rowan was guilty of murder. Though he had no sound evidence to back up his theory, other than the papers found by Mike Dodd’s sister, Angelica, and given to Link by Angelica’s lawyer, Cynthia Fortune, which pointed to a deliberate cover-up. And he’d learned over the years to trust his gut instincts on a case. They were rarely wrong.

The papers had provided him with the information he needed to clear Riley Fortune as a suspect in the murder case though, and they had substantiated Link’s theory that Brad was the man responsible for Dodd’s murder. But Link still lacked the solid evidence he needed to put Rowan behind bars and win a conviction in a trial.

Evidence or not, he told himself, he had to stop the wedding before it was too late.

But how would Isabelle take the news when he told her that the man she loved was a murderer?

She’d hate him. He’d had enough experience handing out bad news in his job as a criminal investigator for the city of Pueblo to know that the messenger rarely received any praise from the family and friends of the accused. Hadn’t he already felt the sting of the Fortunes’ outrage when he’d been forced to arrest Riley Fortune, Isabelle’s brother, as a suspect in the death of Mike Dodd?

He growled low in his throat, glaring at the road ahead. It didn’t matter what Isabelle Fortune or her family thought of him. It was the case that was important. It was slapping iron on a guilty man’s wrists and jerking another criminal off the streets that brought him satisfaction. It was his job.

But stopping a society wedding wasn’t.

He slapped an angry palm against the steering wheel. But he couldn’t just stand by and permit Isabelle to marry Brad Rowan. Not when he knew the man was capable of murder. What if, after their marriage, Isabelle happened upon some bit of information that pointed to Brad’s guilt? Would Brad kill her, too, as he had Mike Dodd, to silence her? The very thought had Link curling his fingers tighter around the steering wheel. He wouldn’t let Brad harm her. He couldn’t. He—

He shoved the unwanted thoughts away, but try as he might, he couldn’t erase the image of Isabelle the thoughts had drawn. He remembered the day when he’d dropped by Cynthia Fortune’s and had stumbled, unknowingly, into a wedding shower held in Isabelle’s honor. When his gaze had met Isabelle’s across the room, it was as if lightning had struck. He’d stood immobile, paralyzed by the violet eyes that met his, his pulse pounding in his ears, every nerve in his body burning with awareness.

And he was sure that she’d been similarly affected. A laugh from a guest was what had finally shocked him into movement. He’d torn his gaze from hers and turned away…but he’d never forgotten the look in her eyes. The awareness. The desire. He’d recognized them, because he’d lived with both ever since that day.

He snorted in disgust. She’s in love with another man, he reminded himself. And even if she wasn’t, he was too old and too jaded to make a play for a woman like her.

He caught a flash of red in the church parking lot ahead, then a convertible sports car shot out of the lot and directly into his path. “Damn!” He stomped on the brake, whipping the steering wheel to the right to avoid broadsiding the small foreign car.

His heart pumping like a jackhammer, he stared after the car, watching as the woman behind the wheel ripped a wedding veil from her head and held it up, letting the wind have it. The delicate lace panels sailed behind her for a moment, then floated slowly to the street, like a kite with a broken string.

Isabelle? he asked himself, recognizing the pricey foreign car and its driver. Where was she going? She was supposed to be getting married. What the hell had happened?

He glanced toward the church for an answer, but the thick entry doors were closed. And though the parking lot was full, there wasn’t a soul in sight. He glanced again in the direction of the red sports car, then back to the church where the wedding was to have taken place. It’s none of your business, he told himself. You’ve got no jurisdiction when it comes to Isabelle Fortune’s personal affairs.

“Like hell, I don’t,” he muttered. Setting his jaw, he turned his face to the street ahead, stomped on the clutch and shifted into first. Peeling out and leaving a trail of black rubber in his wake, he took off in the direction the red sports car had taken.

Isabelle fairly flew along the stretch of two-lane highway that led into the desert, intent on nothing but putting miles between her and the church. She drove for nearly an hour, her mind frozen, her fingers cinched tightly around the wheel. The wind whipped tendrils loose from her upswept hair and stung her eyes, but she was oblivious to everything but the white line that stretched in front of her.

A raindrop splattered against the windshield. Another struck her cheek, a needle-sharp pain, jolting her from her trancelike state. Glancing up, she saw that the sky had turned an ominous yellowish-green. She slowed, guiding her car to the shoulder. With fingers that shook uncontrollably, she pressed the electronic switch to raise the convertible’s top, locked it into place, then accelerated back onto the highway.

She didn’t know where she was going. But her destination wasn’t important. The only thing that mattered was getting away.

Tears filled her eyes. What would her parents say when they discovered her missing? Would they be angry? Worried? What would all the guests say when they realized the bride had run away and left the groom at the altar?

Brad.

What would he say? Do? Would he follow her?

Murderer.

A shiver chased down her spine at the reminder.

It was so hard to believe, yet something deep inside her told her it was true. Although she’d known Brad most of her life, she’d never completely trusted him. Granted, he’d never been anything but polite and attentive to her, especially since their engagement three months ago, but she’d always felt as if a different personality lurked beneath his carefully groomed facade.

She shivered again as the rain fell harder, hammering her car and obstructing her view of the road ahead. She switched on the windshield wipers and tightened her hands on the wheel. Storms came up quickly in the desert and could be treacherous, she knew.

And Isabelle had never liked storms, a fact her brothers had often teased her about.

She bit back a scream when a clap of thunder, so loud it nearly deafened her, shook her low-slung car. It was followed by a flash of lightning that ripped like a knife across the almost black sky, seemingly splitting it in two.

Wishing that she’d chosen another direction in which to run, Isabelle glanced frantically around, looking for somewhere safe to wait out the storm…but there was nothing but miles of desert surrounding her and the shadowed hump of dark mountains ahead.

She drove on, the rain continuing to batter her car, her emotions, shattering her already frayed nerves. Lightning flashed dangerously close to the earth time and time again in front of her. Thunder crashed violently around her, until the sound echoed continuously in her head, winding her nerves tighter and tighter.

Hoping to find a radio station with a weather report or, at the very least, some soothing music to block out the sounds of the storm, she reached for the control panel. At the same moment, the car’s front tires hit a sheet of water on the highway and the steering wheel was wrenched from her hand. She bit back a scream as she grabbed for the wheel, gripping it with both hands, trying to regain control. But the car spun crazily, around and around and around, then slammed into the ditch.

A scream rent the air. Her own.

Darkness followed.

Link hung back, not wanting Isabelle to know he was following her. He feared that if she picked up on the tail, she might panic and end up wrecking her car. And at the speed she was traveling, he was pretty sure she wouldn’t walk away from the accident unharmed.

When the rain started, he shortened the distance between them, but stayed only close enough to keep her taillights in sight.

“Slow down, Isabelle,” he warned under his breath.

He’d no sooner muttered the warning when a bolt of lightning lit up the sky, illuminating her car fully. He saw the water that covered the low spot in the highway ahead and prayed she saw it, too. Pressing the accelerator closer to the floor, he closed the distance between them, silently willing her to slow down.

“Oh, God, no,” he moaned when he realized the sports car was out of control. He eased on the brake, his heart lurching to his throat while he watched helplessly as the car in front of him spun wildly, headed straight for the ditch. Whipping the steering wheel of his Blazer to the right, he slid to a stop on the shoulder of the highway, jerked on the emergency brake and jumped out. Rain stung his face, blinding him as he ran for her car. Within seconds he was drenched to the skin.

He jerked open the door on the driver’s side but could see only the top of her head above the inflated air bag. “Isabelle!” he yelled, trying to make himself heard over the pounding rain. When she didn’t respond, he rammed his hand into his jeans pocket in search of his knife.

“Isabelle!” he shouted again, louder. “Hang on. I’ll get you out.” He stabbed his knife into the air bag, ripping a long slit to speed its deflation, then pressed both hands against it, forcing out the air. Shoving the bag out of his way, he bent over her. Her face was covered with the fine white powder the air bag had emitted. Carefully, he brushed it away, searching her face for any sign of injury, then moved his fingers to the long, smooth column of her throat, feeling for a pulse. Relieved to find one, though thready, he hunkered down beside her and framed her face with his hands. “Isabelle,” he whispered, frightened by the paleness of her skin, eyes that remained stubbornly closed.

After what seemed an eternity, her eyelashes fluttered and her lids slowly lifted. He could see that her pupils were dilated, and was sure that, although conscious, she wasn’t aware of his presence. He grabbed her hands and chafed them between his own. “You’re all right,” he told her, as if in saying it, he could make it true. “You’re going to be okay now.”

She blinked twice, slowly bringing him into focus. “Link?” she whispered in disbelief.

“Yeah, it’s me. I followed you from the church.”

Tears flooded her violet eyes. “Oh, Link,” she cried, and fell against his chest.

He wrapped his arms around her and shifted his weight until he was sitting on the edge of the seat beside her. “It’s okay,” he murmured, stroking a hand over her wind-tangled raven-black hair. “I’ve got you. You’re all right now.”

She tightened her arms around his neck, holding on as if her very life depended on it. “You’ve got to help me,” she sobbed hysterically. “I’ve got to get away.”

“Shh,” he soothed. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

Rain streamed down his back, reminding him of the storm and his need to get them to safety. He pushed her to arm’s length. “Are you hurt?”

Her breath hitched, and she lifted her gaze to his, her wide eyes drenched and darkened with fear. “N-no, I d-don’t think so.” She pressed her palm between her breasts. “Just m-my chest.”

He slid from the seat to stand outside the car, then leaned back inside, his face inches from hers in the cramped quarters. “I’m going to carry you to my truck. If you feel any pain, tell me.”

Her breath hitched again, and she nodded, never once moving her gaze from his. “All right.”

“Here,” he said, and took her arm and guided it around his neck. “Hold on to me.” He slipped one hand beneath her knees and the other behind her back. “Ready?”

“Y-yes,” she stammered, her teeth beginning to chatter.

Straightening, he lifted her from the car, then looked down at her. Rain sluiced down his face and over his chin, dropping to stain the satin of her wedding gown. Bowing his head over hers and hunching his shoulders, he tried his best to protect her from the worst of the storm’s fury. “You okay?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the storm that continued to rage around them. “Any pain?”

“I’m o-okay.” She tucked her face into the curve of his neck. “P-please. Just h-hurry.”

He jogged his way back to his truck, slipping and sliding on the rain-slick ground. When he reached his truck, he braced her against the side in order to free a hand to open the door. Quickly, he slid her onto the seat, then straightened, his breath coming in hard, grabbing gasps. “I’ll be right back. I need to lock up your car.”

He slammed the door and ran back for her vehicle. He ducked inside and grabbed the keys from the ignition. As he withdrew, he noticed the suitcase on the back seat and grabbed it, too. By the time he reached the Blazer again, his boots were saturated with water and felt as if they were filled with cement. He heaved her suitcase into the back, then hopped inside the truck, slamming the door behind him. He dragged a hand down his face, wiping away the rain, then braced a hand against the steering wheel and turned to face her. Her gaze was on his, her eyes wide, her lips trembling. Her fingers were twisted into a knot on her lap. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Y-yes. Th-thank you.”

Always polite. Always the lady. But there was an edge of desperation, of hysteria, behind the polite manners. “What happened?”

“I—I lost c-control of my c-car.”

“I mean before. At the church.”

“I—I ran away.”

He watched her eyes fill again, and hated himself for asking. But he had to know. “Last-minute jitters?”

The violet eyes turned stormy, wild, and she grabbed for him, her nails biting deeply into his forearm. “I’ve got to get away. Please, Link,” she begged. “You’ve got to help me.”

Seeing the panic swirling in her eyes and hearing the hysteria rising in her voice, he knew he couldn’t press her for answers. Not now. He stared at her a moment, wondering if he’d regret asking the one question he needed answered. “Do you trust me?”

When she hesitated a second too long, he looked away, scowling at the rain-streaked windshield and the shadowed mountains ahead. “Doesn’t matter,” he said gruffly, and reached for the ignition key. “Right now I’m your only hope.”

The decision to head for the mountains with Isabelle wasn’t one Link made easily…nor was the drive he made to reach them. The storm that had blown up so quickly in the desert decided to hang around awhile, seemingly chasing them into the mountains and making the narrow roads treacherous to navigate in the growing darkness. More than once Link had felt the Blazer’s tires spin on the muddy incline and the rear of the vehicle fishtail out of control. Even with the four-wheel drive engaged, progress up the mountain was slow and tedious.

By the time he reached the well-concealed turnoff he’d been watching for, the tendons in his neck and shoulders felt like steel rods and a headache was punching him between his eyes. After making the turn, he glanced over at Isabelle and found her still curled against the passenger door asleep. How she’d been able to sleep through the hair-raising drive, he wasn’t sure. But after assuring himself she hadn’t suffered a head injury, he had let her sleep, thankful that she could. He wasn’t in the mood to make polite conversation…not that he’d know how.

She was the one with the manners, he reminded himself bitterly. All those years spent at that fancy boarding school back east where her parents had sent her, the finishing school in Europe that followed. The only school Link’s parents had ever sent him to was the school of hard knocks.

He bit back a growl and turned his face away from her, narrowing an eye at the road ahead and the trees that crowded it on both sides. But it was that school of hard knocks that had nudged him toward law enforcement, he reminded himself, and it was that same school that had given him the instincts he needed to succeed where others had failed.

And those instincts were the ones he’d use to protect Isabelle. Keep her alive.

The Blazer’s headlights bounced off the cabin’s windows and reflected the light back at the Blazer, making Link squint. He slowed, downshifting as he pulled as close to the front porch as he dared. Switching off the engine, he turned to look at Isabelle again. Asleep she looked even more innocent and fragile than she did when she was awake…and, if possible, more beautiful. He reached out a hand to brush the tendril of hair that curled like a damp question mark against her cheek…but caught himself just shy of touching her. That porcelain skin. All that womanliness. That innocence. Curling his fingers into a fist, he withdrew his hand and turned to shoulder open his door.

The storm had lost most of its steam and now only a light rain fell, misting his face and hair as he circled to the passenger side of the truck. He opened the door carefully, not wanting to startle her. “Isabelle?” he said softly. When she didn’t respond, he leaned inside, bracing one hand against the dashboard and laying the other on her shoulder. “Isabelle,” he said, gently shaking her. “Wake up. We’re here.”

She moaned softly and turned away, snuggling her cheek deeper against the Blazer’s worn upholstery. With a glance over his shoulder at the dilapidated cabin he was taking her to, he decided it might be better to let her sleep. He guided her arm around his neck and scooped her up into his arms, then headed for the porch. As he brushed past the post that supported the sagging front porch, the train of her dress snagged on the rough cedar, stopping him. He gave the train a sharp tug and swore under his breath when he heard the delicate fabric rip.

She awoke then, shoving at his chest as she tried to struggle free.

He tightened his grip on her. “Be still now, or you’re going to make me drop you.”

Her fingers froze on his neck as her eyes snapped to his. He saw the remembrance slowly settle there…as well as the fear.

She tore her gaze from his and glanced nervously around. “Wh-where are we?”

“At a buddy of mine’s cabin in the mountains. You’ll be safe here,” he added as she turned those wide, violet eyes on his again.

“He can’t find me,” she whispered, her grip on him growing desperate. “Please don’t let him find me.”

Something twisted in Link’s gut as he looked down at her. Something he thought he’d lost long ago. The ability to care. “He won’t find you,” he said gruffly, and reached for the door. “Not on this mountain. Nobody could.”

He pushed open the door and caught up her train as he hefted her higher in his arms. As he stepped inside the cabin, he was struck at the irony in that gesture. Link Templeton carrying a bride across a threshold. The man who’d sworn he’d never marry, who’d sworn he’d never be foolish enough to fall in love, was carrying a bride across a threshold.

The only comfort he found in that thought was that the bride wasn’t his.

She was a runaway.