by Cindi Myers
She nodded, and he removed his hand and stepped back. “How are you feeling this morning, Laura?”
“How do you know my name?”
“You told me last night.” He moved to a side table where coffee service waited. He filled a cup from a silver pot. The enticing aroma of coffee drifted to her. “Cream or sugar?”
“Both.”
He stirred in the additions and handed her the cup. “This should help you feel better.”
“Thanks.” She sipped the coffee and avoided looking at him. She was still wearing the clothes she’d had on last night—a black skirt and flowered peplum tank. Her ballerina flats were lined up neatly by the door, and her purse sat on the dresser. Whoever this guy was, he apparently hadn’t taken advantage of her while she was passed out. Maybe he wasn’t going to make her a sex slave. What was he doing with her, then?
“Who are you?” she asked.
“David Abruzzo.”
Abruzzo. She had a vague memory of a dark-suited, thuggish man growling the name. “How did I get here?”
He sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s kind of a long story.”
She didn’t want a long story. In fact, she didn’t want to be here at all. She shouldn’t be who-knew-where with this man she didn’t know. “I’d better go,” she said, and threw back the covers.
“You can’t leave yet.” He stood as if to block her way to the door.
“Why not?” She sat up and searched the room for the phone. 911 worked in Vegas, right? She’d call the police. And say what? That a crazy, gorgeous man had kidnapped her?
“There’s a few things we have to sort out first,” he said.
“What things?”
He shoved his hands in his pants pockets, shoulders slumped. He still looked imposing, though his expression was troubled. “Well, for one thing, we’re married. We’re going to have to figure out what to do about that.”
“Married?” The word came out a squeak.
“We met at the wedding chapel last night. I asked you to do me a favor, and you agreed. The favor was getting married.”
“By Liberace.” She was remembering more details. It really hadn’t been a dream.
“Elvis was already booked.”
`”But I don’t even know you.” This can’t be happening. Not to me.
“I know. And that complicates things. Just be my wife for a few days, and I’ll work it out.”
Clearly, he was crazy. Gorgeous and even kind of sweet, but nuts. “I really don’t believe this,” she said, struggling to remain calm. She had to keep her wits about her and not panic.
“It’s really important that some people think I’m married right now. My life depends on it.”
“What is going on?” her voice rose, on the edge of hysteria.
He sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m with the FBI,” he said softly. Before she could respond, he held up a hand to stop her. “No, I don’t have anything with me to prove that. I’m undercover and anything tying me to the Bureau would mean my death.”
This couldn’t be happening. He sounded so sincere, but the story was too bizarre. “Why should I believe you?” she asked. “Anybody could make up a story like that.”
He hesitated, then picked up the room phone and handed it to her. “Call this number.” He rattled off a string of numbers. Curiosity aroused, she punched them in and put the receiver to her ear.
The phone rang only once before a clipped female voice answered. “Federal Bureau of Investigation.” She almost dropped the phone. She stared at David. Was his crazy story really true? “What extension?” the operator asked.
“Extension forty-four,” David said.
“Forty-four,” she repeated.
The phone rang four times before someone picked it up. “Jackson,” a man barked.
“Um, hello.” She cleared her throat. “Um, I’m calling about David Abruzzo.”
“What about him? Who is this?”
“My name is Laura Nichols. Well, I guess it’s Laura Abruzzo now.” Her gaze shifted to David, and he nodded. “He said you’d verify that he’s with the FBI.”
“What the hell? Is he with you now? Put him on.”
She handed the phone to David, who listened for a moment. “Yes, sir…It was an emergency…I understand, sir…No, sir…No, sir…Or course not, sir…” He handed the phone back to her. “He wants to talk to you again.”
“Hello?”
“He’s a lot of things, but he’s not generally a liar. He does work for the FBI. Understand that anything he tells you is in strictest confidence.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m not happy about this, but if you need anything, call me.”
“Yes, sir.”
He hung up without saying good-bye. She replaced the phone in the cradle and stared at David. “I really don’t know what to say.”
Before he could answer, loud pounding shook the door.
David stood. “Pull the covers up to your chin and don’t say anything,” he ordered.
She started to protest, but he was already at the door. He undid the chain and deadbolt and jerked it open.
“Stop playing games, Abruzzo.” Two muscular men—maybe the same ones from the chapel—strode into the room, guns drawn.
Laura flung herself back into bed, jerked the covers up, and screamed.
Chapter Two
The shorter of the two men—David thought his name was Victor—goggled at Laura in the bed. Cowering there with her hair mussed and her makeup all but gone, he hoped she looked like a bride after her wedding night.
Her eyes were glassy with terror—a normal reaction to having a gun pointed at you—not to mention the absurdity of their situation. She’d been surprisingly calm before now—maybe she was simply in shock. He owed it to her to get her out of this without anymore trauma.
“Put the guns away,” he barked. “You’re scaring my wife.”
“Your wife, huh? What a joke.” But the speaker—the second man, Charlie—tucked his gun back into his jacket. Victor did the same.
“What do you mean, interrupting my honeymoon this way?” David asked, mustering a show of indignation. He prayed Laura would continue to play along. Their lives depended on her silence now.
Charlie glanced at Laura in the bed, and he must have been convinced, because he backed toward the door again. “Enjoy your…honeymoon. We’ll talk later,” he said.
David’s hands shook as he turned the deadbolt and fastened the security chain. He hadn’t considered how much worse he’d feel putting her life in jeopardy along with his own. He turned to Laura. She’d collapsed against the bed pillows. “Were those real guns?” she asked.
“Yes. And so is this one.” He took a pistol from the top dresser drawer, opened the slide to check the load, then shoved it back into place. He tucked the pistol into the small of his back. He felt better being armed, but only a little bit.
She stared. She had the clearest brown eyes he’d ever seen, and a perfect peaches-and-cream complexion. He hadn’t analyzed his choice when he’d picked her out of the crowd last night—she’d been there, and she’d been willing to help him. Now he cursed himself for getting her involved in this mess. She looked like the kind of woman who had family somewhere—people who cared about her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Who were those men, and why do they want to kill you?”
He sat at the end of the bed, close to her but not too close. He didn’t want to make her any more nervous than she already was. “The two men who were here just now—they were at the chapel last night, too—they work for a man named Frank Zacolli,” he said. “He heads up the largest organized crime family in the Midwest.”
Some of the panic had faded from her eyes, replaced by wariness. “And he wants to kill you?”
“Maybe. Right now, I’m not sure how he feels about me. I’ve spent the last two years undercover, gaining his trust.” Two long years in which he’d given up everything else in his li
fe. “I’m supposed to be back in Chicago. He wasn’t supposed to know I was here, tailing him.”
“But what do I have to do with any of this?”
“Victor and Charlie—Zacolli’s thugs—spotted me last night. They were ready to shoot first and ask questions later. I needed a quick explanation for why I was in Vegas—one that had nothing to do with Zacolli. A wedding seemed like a plausible explanation, especially if the wedding were my own.”
“So my marrying you saved your life?”
“Yeah. For a while, anyway.” He didn’t know how long Zacolli would buy the ruse.
“But we’re not really married, right?” she said. “I mean, there’s no license.”
“The chapel sells them.” At her dismayed look he rushed to defend himself. “I had to make this look real.” He took a large white envelope from the nightstand and slid out an ornate, gold-embossed document.
Laura stared at the bold black calligraphy, which proclaimed the marriage of David Michael Abruzzo to Laura Marie Nichols. She’d signed in a shaky hand. “This can’t be happening,” she said.
“I’m sorry.” He slid the license back into the envelope. “I wouldn’t have involved you if I’d seen any way to avoid it.” He wasn’t going to throw away years of work because of Zacolli’s thugs. Not if he could help it. “We can fix this,” he assured her. “The marriage will be easy enough to annul. For one thing, you clearly weren’t in your right mind last night. You passed out right after we signed the license. By the way—how are you feeling this morning? You must have one heck of a hangover.”
“I wasn’t drunk,” she protested. “I only had a few sips of one of those sugary vodka cocktails at my sister’s bachelorette party. It gave me a headache, so one of her bridesmaids offered me these pills that she swore were aspirin. I must have had a reaction to them or something.”
“If you’re in Vegas with your sister, she must be frantic, looking for you.” He suppressed a groan. The last thing he needed was the local cops tracking him down and interfering.
“I doubt it.” She shrugged. “Rachel is the baby of the family and a little self-centered. When I didn’t come back to the party last night, she probably thought I decided to go to bed early. And she’d had a lot to drink. I doubt she’s awake yet, or in any condition to worry about me.”
“Then you can get back to her before she’s even realized what’s happened.”
“What about you?”
The question touched him. How many women in her position would waste two seconds worrying about the man responsible for getting her into this mess? That just proved how innocent she was; how vulnerable. “I’ll be okay,” he said. “We’ve thrown off Zacolli’s goons for the time being, and I’ll lie low so they can’t find me again.”
“And the marriage?” Her gaze shifted to the envelope.
“I’ll take care of it. Someone from the Bureau will be in touch. Where do you live?”
“Davenport, Iowa.”
Not that far from Chicago. What a coincidence—if he believed in coincidences.
“The FBI can annul a marriage?” she asked.
“The FBI can do anything.” He spoke with more confidence than he felt. So far, the Bureau hadn’t had much luck defeating Zacolli.
She pursed her lips, digesting this. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“You don’t. But I’ll give you the license, and you have my name. If you never see me again, that ought to be grounds enough for declaring the marriage invalid.”
“That and we never, well, you know.” She blushed, and he felt a sharp pull in his chest—and points farther south. She really was attractive—soft and curvy—with an innocence and strength that did crazy things to his emotions and his libido. He made it a point to never be responsible for anyone, and yet he couldn’t help wanting to take care of her; to protect her. “Did we?” she asked.
“No, we didn’t.” He’d been tempted to undress her last night, falling back on the excuse that he needed to make her more comfortable, but some latent sense of honor restrained him. “You’d better go,” he said. He stood and retreated to the window, needing to put some distance between them. He couldn’t afford to get involved any more than he already had. “Before your sister starts looking for you.”
He watched out of the corner of his eye as she slipped out of bed and straightened her clothes. She disappeared into the bathroom, and he heard water running. When she emerged again, her hair was neatly arranged, and she’d removed the smudges of mascara from beneath her eyes. She stepped into her shoes and picked up her purse.
“Don’t forget your tiara.” He offered the cheap plastic crown.
She laughed, and his chest did that funny tightening thing again. He was tempted to pull her back—to ask her not to leave him. In spite of the way he’d taken advantage of her, she looked at him with so much sympathy—a rare commodity in his business. Still, she was too involved as it was, and he couldn’t endanger her further. “Mustn’t forget that.” She stashed the tiara in her bag and picked up the envelope with the license, then offered her hand. “Good luck,” she said.
He took her hand. The good-bye seemed terribly formal for a woman who was, after all, his wife. He’d probably never see her again, but he already knew he’d never forget her. The life he lived didn’t leave room for sentiment or self-indulgence, but maybe this once…
“Would you mind if I kissed you?” he asked.
She hesitated, and he knew she was going to say no. Why had he even asked? “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—” he began.
“No. It’s all right.” She moved closer to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “You probably kissed me in the chapel, but I don’t remember.”
He scarcely remembered that hasty peck on the lips himself; all of his senses had been focused on the two thugs at the back of the room waiting for the opportunity to kill him.
“I think you owe me a kiss I’ll remember,” she said.
He didn’t need a second invitation. He covered her mouth with his own, tasting peppermint toothpaste and a vanilla-tinged lip balm. She rested one hand on his chest, palm over his heart, and eased the other up the back of his neck, her fingers twining in his hair, a surprisingly intimate gesture. Some of the tension eased from his shoulders and spine as he gave himself up to that kiss. She moved closer, the tips of her breasts just brushing his chest, and arousal built in him—a deep, primal wanting that made his fingers tremble and reach for her, even as she stepped away.
“Good-bye, David,” she said softly, and moved to the door.
“Good-bye, Laura.”
The door closed with a soft click and he sank onto the bed once more, his elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands. What the hell had just happened?
His mother used to talk about fate. She believed everything, even bad things, happened for a reason. But his mother hadn’t done anything to deserve even half the bad things that had happened to her.
And what had David done to deserve a woman like Laura in his life? He’d made a career of hanging out with scum, and even though he was on the right side of the law, he walked a narrow line and had done his share of unsavory things in the name of justice. What had such a sweet girl ever done to deserve an encounter with a tarnished guy like him?
…
In the hallway, Laura leaned against the wall, trying to get her bearings. More than that kiss—incredible kiss though it was—had shaken her. She was married…to a gorgeous, dangerous man who was running from gun-toting thugs who were part of the mob. The mob.
Laura Marie Nichols, preschool teacher, responsible eldest child who’d never done anything more daring than risking the fifteen-item Express Lane at the grocery store with sixteen items in her cart, had been married in a Las Vegas wedding to a man who skulked around with a gun for a living.
It felt terrifying yet absolutely thrilling. As if she’d been given the chance to step into someone else’s shoes for a while. Instead of the overlooked, overly-compliant ol
der sister in Vegas for a party that wasn’t her own, for a little while she’d been someone more interesting and exciting. A woman whom a gorgeous man had chosen to help save his life. What a shame she didn’t remember it more clearly.
She couldn’t share the details of this particular thrill with anyone, which dampened her spirits only slightly. She had the marriage license, so she knew the marriage was real—that the events of last night and this morning had really happened—and that was all that mattered.
She started down the hallway toward the elevator. A chime indicated the doors were opening. She ducked behind a maid’s cart. With her wrinkled clothes and half made-up face, she was a poster child for the walk of shame. Never mind that her one-night stand hadn’t resulted in anything juicier than a kiss—she still didn’t want people, even strangers, to think she’d been up to worse.
The elevator doors opened, and two familiar hulking figures emerged. The thugs, Victor and Charlie, headed down the hall toward David’s room.
“I’m telling you, that wasn’t a real wedding,” the taller man said as they passed her hiding place. “She was just some hooker he hired to play the part.”
“Yeah. I swear I caught a glimpse of the same clothes she had on last night under the bedcovers,” the shorter, bug-eyed man said.
He really thinks I’m a hooker? Laura could think of few things more absurd as she scooted down the hall and into the open elevator.
However, her next thought was for David. What are they doing back here? What happens when they get to the room and find out I’m gone?
The elevator stopped, and the door opened onto the lobby of the hotel. She spotted a man in hotel livery and grabbed his arm. “Shopping!” she demanded. “Where are the hotel shops?”
“Right around the corner there, miss.” He pointed, and she ran toward the row of shops, ducking into the first place she came to.
Great. A swimwear boutique. But this was no time to be modest. A waifish salesperson approached. “May I help—?”
“What do you have in a size twelve?” She interrupted.