Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (Fantascapes)

by Blair Bancroft

  I dashed back to the office, where Mom and Candy assured me that flowers, caterer, and eggs were all on schedule. However, Mom added, there would be a ringer among the students that night when the eggs were set up in the club’s main hall. Also a special addition to the men putting up the wedding canopy. Hopefully, these ringers, both FBI, would be able to find a way to set up audio and video bugs under the watchful eyes of Viktor’s security. Bugs that not only provided information but were an invisible life line connecting me to our own security teams outside.

  That night, I told Rhys I was going to Three Rivers alone, but he held his ground. He might have avoided a face-to-face with Viktor these past few days, but Viktor couldn’t help but know the man from Interpol was in town, that he’d visited the club. Ostensibly, Rhys would be tagging along in the capacity of “friend,” he told me, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Adding his male support to the finish of my long, hard day. What, after all, could be worse than shopping?

  I had to laugh. He was so right. Some time, along about mid-afternoon, I’d sworn off shopping for life.

  Rhys nuzzled my neck. “I’m sticking to you like glue, woman. We’ll give the Russkies an eyeful. Maybe they’ll be so busy watching us they won’t see the FBI sleight-of-hand.”

  Good point. And the fringe benefits were, well, just what my shopped-out psyche needed. So I let him tag along.

  Funny how it’s the little things that get you. I swear my nerves were steadier when Rhys’s Peugeot was filling with water on the bed of the Rhone than they were when I watched the students offload those four eggs, one at a time, onto a dolly and roll them up the handicap ramp into the building. A phalanx of students, hands at the ready, surrounded the dolly in case an egg should decide to topple. And then, naturally, Murphy’s law set in. With the added height of the dolly, the two largest eggs wouldn’t pass through the double doors that opened onto the rear parking lot.

  Rhys and I had snuggled our way through the setting up of the wedding canopy, with an occasional smooch and a blatant display of wandering hands—enough, we hoped, to keep Viktor’s three sturdy security goons sneaking peeks at us instead of the FBI guy. But now we dropped the act and rushed forward to add our helping hands to remove the green egg from the dolly. We tilted it, angling it oh-so-carefully through the door, settled it gently onto the vinyl tile floor, then nudged it, inch by inch, into place. Which was, naturally, on the far side of the room.

  When the students got the largest egg, the pink one, off the truck, everyone stood there and looked at it for a moment. It truly was gorgeous, with its fluted bands of shining gold, the intricate white filigree, green leaves, hot pink roses, and scattering of glass gems, large and small. But it was big. The canopy team stepped forward to help. So did one of Viktor’s goons. And with grunts and heaves, and all of us take-charge types biting our tongues to keep from shouting orders in place of the student who was supposedly running the show, we somehow got the blasted egg onto its mark.

  And then came the painstaking, but less iffy project of opening the shimmering pink egg wide and fitting the jade green egg inside. That done, the green egg was laid back on its hinges and the blue one set inside. And finally the iridescent white egg that would house the bride. It stood there, closed, glorious in its beauty, purity, and innocence—the perfect setting for Marina Galikova. Once again, Fantascapes had done good. Yay, hoo-ray.

  One of the student girls stepped forward, opened the white egg, and slipped inside. Two other students gently closed the egg around her until it appeared a seamless whole. Then they pulled the front edges of the blue egg around the white, the green around the blue, and, finally, the pink around the green. The student leader looked at me, and grinned. I nodded.

  Heads high, with a flourish that belied their jeans and T-shirts, two students stepped forward like footmen greeting Cinderella’s coach at the palace ball and laid the pink egg open, one on each side, revealing the elaborate decoration on the jade green egg. There was a soft murmur of approval from all who watched, even from Viktor’s wiseguys. The green egg gave way to blue. Pause. The ultimate moment, the opening of the bride’s egg.

  And there she was. I didn’t see a student in pony tail, shorts and cut-off tee. I saw Marina, her innocence and beauty the crowning moment of this immense and stunningly effective creative effort. It took my breath away. I lost my cool. At that moment, I might have said yes to the first man who asked me to marry him.

  When I managed to get my wits back, I realized the FBI guys could have run around naked during the egg demonstration and no one would have noticed. Not even the guards. All eyes had been focused on Viktor’s vision of his bride emerging from a nest of Fabergé eggs.

  “Is good,” Viktor said, stepping out of the shadows behind me. “Is good job, Laine.”

  Damn and blast! I hadn’t known he was there. I swallowed hard, managed to force out, “Thanks.”

  “Ah, and this is your man, no?” Viktor added expansively.

  “You were watching?”

  “Da, da. I watch whole time,” Viktor told me, flashing one of his knowing leers. You too busy with friend and eggs to notice me.”

  Dear God. What else had he seen? Or had he been as fascinated as the rest of us by the act Rhys and I were putting on and then by the process of setting up the eggs?

  “Excuse me,” I said, escaping Viktor to congratulate the students on a job well done. Although they were scheduled to remove the eggs after the wedding, I’d brought their check with me tonight. It seemed the right moment to deliver the pay-off for all their hard work. Beaming, they grabbed the check and the dolly, and trooped out, the FBI guys tagging along in their midst.

  Rhys and I extended our best wishes to Viktor, once again complimenting him on his unique idea for the Fabergé eggs. He grinned, shook our hands with vigor, assured us he could hardly wait. Tonight, suddenly, he was the picture of the eager bridegroom. We said goodbye and headed home.

  I actually let Rhys drive. He needed a bone of control now and then, and, besides, I had to talk to Doug. I’d had one last horrible thought about an avenue of escape we hadn’t covered. Tomorrow, Rhys would be stationed as close to the club as he could get—in the back room of a liquor store at the near end of the strip mall along the Trail. The Gerries would be with him. (The store owner was a retired detective from Cleveland and happy to co-operate.) Jeff would be on spotter duty with Flint in the chopper, so Doug was it for this particular emergency. I speed-dialed him, told him to leave his Brazilian to his employees and come home. I needed him. There was, of course, no question about his agreement. Doug was a Halliday.

  Rhys, when he heard my end of the conversation, pounded a fist against his forehead and growled low in his throat. “There are times when you positively frighten me,” he said. “God truly smiled on you the day brains were passed out. I missed it, we all missed it.”

  “So did I. Until now. While we were struggling with the blue egg, the gems caught the overhead lights. The whole thing seemed to waver, sparkle. . . like waves on water. And it came to me. It’s may be nothing, nothing at all, just one of my stupid hunches . . . Blast it,” I groaned as this interminable day suddenly rose up and grabbed me. I am so tired.” I put my head back and gave up control. Tomorrow I’d take it back, but tonight . . .

  When Rhys and I came together later that night, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was for the last time. If this was all there ever was to be. In spite of my fierce urge to survive, my determination to always come out on top, I had that niggling feeling that tomorrow might be the day Trouble shot down Lainie Halliday, instead of the other way around.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I came awake slowly, savoring Rhys’s warmth, the rightness of his presence in my bed. I breathed in the male scent of him . . . snuggled closer . . . my lips sneaking toward the enticing curve of his ear that poked through his slightly too long dark hair . . .

  Reality hit me. It was Saturday! The day of reckoning. Doomsday.

&
nbsp; Stifling a groan, I dropped back onto my pillow. I told myself Saturday was good, even if I didn’t have time for early morning nookie. Twelve hours from now, we’d know the truth, one way or the other. Would the day be another triumph for Weddings Extraordinaire? Or . . . ?

  I inched toward the edge of the bed. Rhys had time for a few more minutes of sleep. I didn’t. His hand shot out and pulled me back. “I have to go,” I protested. “It’s Saturday!”

  “Bloody right,” Rhys growled, “and you’re not going anywhere until you listen to me.”

  Well . . . hell. Scarcely the sexy once-more-before-breakfast I’d expected.

  “I meant to talk to you last night,” Rhys said, looking grim, “but we–um–got a bit distracted. So you’ll listen now, Laine. And don’t give me any of that I’m-an-independent-female shit. For once in your life, pay attention!”

  It’s kind of hard to spout independent female crap when you’re lying nose to nose in bed with your lover, so I settled for a scowl and a raised eyebrow. Evidently, I’d gone to bed with Rhys Tarrant and waked up with the Man from Interpol.

  “You’re going to be all alone in there, Laine. No wire, nothing but your cell phone. The audio and video bugs may be working, but the closest any of us can get without being seen is the strip mall. A lot can happen in a quarter mile. If something goes wrong in there, you have to remember you’re not law enforcement of any kind. Your job is to save yourself. Do you understand, Laine? No heroics, no blazing guns. No capturing the bad guys single-handed. The place will be surrounded by cops. Let them do their job. Is. That. Clear?”

  I sat up fast, clutching the bedspread. The Man from Interpol didn’t deserve a peek at the goodies. “Who made you my boss?”

  “Laine . . .” He reached for my hand. I slapped him away.

  “I’ll do whatever has to be done.” I stalked toward the bathroom, the bedspread trailing behind me. Not the way I wanted to start the day. I could only hope it wasn’t an omen. Okay, so I knew Rhys was lecturing because he cared about me, but, damn it, he had no right . . .

  Not true. I was closer to Rhys than I’d been to any man in my life. The dangers we’d shared had given us more knowledge of each other than many husbands and wives learned in a lifetime. He respected me. Or so I’d thought. And his sudden reversion to Me Tarzan, You Jane hurt.

  I sulked while I donned a ridiculously frilly chiffon wrap dress in a flower print in the same shades as Viktor’s eggs (and, yes, I’d chosen it on purpose). I slammed my cell phone into a lacy pouch Gramma Blaine had made to hang around my neck on a gold chain. It wasn’t new. I had a bunch of the pouches for times when pockets and belts weren’t an option. Or when there was a possibility of being separated from my purse. Like if things went south today.

  I checked my image in a full-length mirror, from my unruly hair, now confined in a French twist, to my pastel blue three-inch heels. Something loomed behind me. I shut my eyes, leaned back. “Perfect,” Rhys purred, his arms tightening around me. His lips nuzzled my ear. “Go get ‘em, tiger,” he whispered.

  I drew a ragged breath, my sulk going poof, like the snap of a wizard’s fingers. We closed the cop-civilian gap, re-establishing our own version of international relations so well I was forced to re-tie my wrap-around dress and re-apply my lipstick. No complaints. This wasn’t a day I wanted to go off mad. No matter the bravado I put on, I sensed danger. This morning, unlike the usual optimism I radiated for events by Weddings Extraordinaire, I felt that yawning pit in my gut that said Viktor’s wedding was more likely to go the way we feared than the way we’d planned. Nonetheless . . . I’d been contracted to do a job, and until such time as everything blew up in my face, I would fulfill my obligations.

  I picked up Marina and Dasha and brought them back to the salon in our building for the complete wedding package—hair, nails, foot massage, pedicure, make-up. While the girls were occupied, I sat at my desk in the office and made last-minute phone calls to Dad, to Doug, to Jeff, and to Flint. Since I expected to be checked by Viktor’s goon squad, I couldn’t wear a wire. Or carry a gun. My only direct communication would be with Jeff, via walkie-talkie-type cell phone. With Rhys, Doug, and the Gerries on speed-dial. But with Dasha and Marina constantly under foot, I’d be making no calls at all unless something went very wrong.

  I picked up brunch for all three of us at the café down the hall, which we ate in my office, and then it was time. As we drove the four blocks to The Beach Inn, I froze out lingering thoughts of Rhys’s final embrace. Even the warm fuzzies about what a beautiful bride Marina would make. Time for reality. And reality was scary.

  We loaded the Lexus, piling in suitcases, gown bags, bouffant petticoat, veil, and a shining white and silver shopping bag loaded with accessories. And then we were off, heading south and east along the Tamiami Trail to the town of Three Rivers, the Slavic American Club . . . and destiny.

  As we cruised through Three Rivers at a properly sedate pace for the delivery of a bride to her wedding, I kept a sharp eye out for lurking law enforcement, and saw absolutely nothing. It was noon, so even the promised “courtesy” patrol cars were not yet in place on the narrow road leading to the club.

  Viktor’s security, however, was very much in evidence. From brawny professionals to a phalanx of sturdy locals—undoubtedly the friends of the grandson Arlan had mentioned. They ringed the parking lot, the younger ones stepping forward eagerly to begin their job of directing traffic. All of Viktor’s men wore dark suits with sparkling white shirts beneath, the jackets loose enough to conceal a variety of weapons. And, yes, some of them were wearing fedoras. The young wannabe wiseguys were helpful, I had to admit, rushing forward to unload the car and carry everything inside, where we encountered the three goons from last night. Lumbering forward to check us out.

  And, damn them, they even patted down the bride. Poor Marina looked utterly bewildered. Dasha, as usual, affected boredom. Obviously, she considered security guards beneath her notice, unworthy of flirtation or encouragement as their hands strayed too far south. Fortunately for them, they didn’t try any tricks with me. Just the standard pat-down for a wire or weapons. They were thorough, but respectful. As they’d been with Marina. Thank you, Viktor.

  The corner room where the bride would dress was nicely furnished, even boasting a tall mirror of the old-fashioned pier glass variety, perfectly angled so a bride could get a full-length view. Obviously, Marina was not the first bride to grace this room. It was five before one, and since Marina had to be in place at least fifteen minutes before the two o’clock wedding to allow the audience to be seated, time was of the essence. While Dasha dressed herself, I helped Marina, who was so overcome by emotion her shining eyes kept brimming with tears. She was already wearing the pearl eardrops we had bought yesterday, her new lacy bra and panties, and the silkiest, most flesh-toned stockings we could find. We added a blue garter with seed pearls and white satin slippers, the toes also dotted with pearls. I hauled the petticoat out of its bag, and Marina stepped into it. It wasn’t quite as broad as a Civil War era hoop skirt, but close enough. It would just make it inside the egg.

  I unzipped the wedding gown bag, carefully lifted out the dress. The tight-fitting scoop-necked bodice was solidly covered in re-embroidered lace, pearls, and rhinestones, but the skirt and three-quarter sleeves flowed in three progressively shorter layers of iridescent white chiffon, unadorned by anything but the quality of the fabric and the delicate picot-edged hem. I did up the long row of covered buttons down the back then fastened around Marina’s neck the necklace of cultured pearls we had also acquired yesterday.

  Before setting the long veil in place, I took one last look. No doubt about it. Marina, with her exquisite figure, golden hair and shining blue eyes, her glorious innocence and eager anticipation, was enough to bring tears even to my cynical eyes. A shame to hide it all behind a veil. I glanced at my watch. One-forty. Oops. No time for sentiment. I took out the veil, shook it. A glare in Dasha’s direction prodded her
into lifting her hands to help. The veil, about a yard long in front and dipping lower in the back, depended from a simple circlet of lace and pearls, with a big poofy bow of the iridescent chiffon hanging down the back. The result, even though it hid Marina’s face, was magical. When the door to the innermost iridescent white egg opened, she would step out, almost as if the egg itself had been transformed into the bride. A stunning effect. I was so proud you’d think I’d created every detail of this scenario myself.

  One forty-seven. One forty-seven! Someone should have come for us by now. I gave Marina a reassuring smile, patted her on the shoulder, then poked my head out the door. One of Viktor’s goons was standing there, arms crossed. “It’s time,” I told him. “The bride has to get inside the egg.”

  He closed the door in the face. My euphoria died on the spot. This was it then. The place where everything went south.

  Not to panic. Undoubtedly, some of the guests were late. Viktor didn’t want Marina stuck inside the eggs too long.

  At one fifty-five, I tried again. This time, the guard snarled, “Nyet!” before slamming the door in my face.

  “Laine?” Marina sounded as shaken as I felt.

  I hadn’t wanted to believe, yet now . . . I looked at Dasha, who was studiously examining her perfectly manicured nails. I took out my cell phone and called Rhys. Dasha looked up, staring, her lips curled in derision, as if to say, Too late, there’s not a thing you can do.

  “We’re stuck in the dressing room,” I hissed into the phone. “The door guarded. Any activity outside?”

  “Patrol cars report a stretch limo with so many bodyguards they can’t see the passengers. Going inside now. But that’s it. Is there another way out?”

  “Only if I can take Dasha.”