On The Way To A Wedding

by Ingrid Weaver

  Less painful.

  What kind of profession would suit the restless stranger beside her? Cowboy? Roving mercenary? With his striking features and his compelling voice, he would make a fortune if he ever decided to go into news broadcasting.

  No, a man like him wouldn’t be satisfied with a career in reporting or gathering the news. Everything about him indicated someone who would rather be a participant than an observer. He was the kind of man who would make the headlines, not read them.

  He wasn’t like her.

  Was that why she found him so fascinating? Was she a victim of the old cliché about opposites attracting?

  There was no need to delve into psychological justifications to explain her reaction to this stranger. Considering the way he looked, and sounded, and smelled, any woman with a pulse would react. Whether she wanted to or not.

  Lauren squared her shoulders as if settling her armor more securely. Resolutely, she reread the press release that was handed out at this afternoon’s news conference and underlined a point she wanted to research further. She switched her attention to her notes, then frowned as the neat rows of her precise handwriting seemed to waver. The vibrations that rose through the floor of the plane were becoming rougher, causing the papers on her lap to shift sideways.

  Anchoring her notes with her palm, she glanced out the window. A narrow sliver of moon shone weakly over cobblestone clouds that passed beneath the wing, but otherwise the sky appeared to be clear of the kind of weather that could cause turbulence. She leaned closer to the flattened oval of glass, listening to the steady drone of the engines for a moment. The vibrations continued, rattling the clasps of her briefcase.

  “You feel it, too, don’t you?”

  The sound of the deep, rich voice so close to her ear made her jerk. She twisted around.

  The man with the scuffed boots and impatient fingers was leaning across the armrest with total disregard for the concept of personal space. His knee pressed her thigh, a hard, insistent invasion of denim against silk. He reached in front of her to brace his arm beneath the window as he leaned even closer.

  For a wild, irrational instant she thought he was about to embrace her. Paper crumpled beneath her fingers as she squeezed herself against the corner of the seat. “Feel what?”

  “That rumble,” he said, peering past her to look out the window.

  “You mean the vibration?”

  He nodded and narrowed his eyes as he studied the view beyond the wing. “Can’t see anything.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “Yeah.”

  Lauren took a shallow breath, aware of how his arm was mere inches from her breasts. “If you’re worried, perhaps you could speak with one of the flight attendants.”

  “Right.”

  “In the meantime, would you mind straightening up?”

  He glanced down quickly, as if only now realizing his position. Frowning, he turned his head toward her.

  Lauren felt the shallow breath she’d just managed to take whoosh from her lungs. The brief glimpses she’d had of his profile could never have prepared her for the full impact of his face. Words flitted through her mind, adjectives like handsome, rugged, virile, but none of them were adequate. Her gaze touched the shadow of black whiskers that roughened the taut skin over his square jaw, the small scar that curved across his left temple, the tiny lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes. And for the second time in less than an hour, she wondered about the passion that simmered behind his hard blue gaze.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. Immediately he withdrew his arm and leaned back to his own side of the seat, shifting his legs so that his knee no longer touched her thigh.

  Beneath her skirt, Lauren’s skin tingled. She clenched her jaw and smoothed out the papers that she had crumpled. Any woman with a pulse would react, she reminded herself. With the sides of her hands she shaped the pile of notes into a neat stack. “It’s all right,” she said tightly.

  She had barely finished speaking when he rose to his feet and stepped into the aisle. He walked toward the front of the plane, pausing to talk to a pair of flight attendants. A few minutes later he returned, his frown deepening as he slid back into his seat.

  Lauren stored her notes in her briefcase and snapped shut the clasps to keep them from rattling. The vibrations were getting worse.

  “They assured me it was nothing,” he said.

  “It’s starting to be a noisy nothing.”

  “Yeah.” He drummed his fingers against his knee. “Sorry about startling you earlier.”

  “It’s all right,” she repeated.

  He looked past her to glance out the window, then checked his watch. “Damn, I should have been there already.”

  She leaned over to slide her briefcase under the seat in front of her. “It shouldn’t be much long—”

  Her words cut off on a startled gasp as the floor suddenly tilted, knocking her off balance. She fell sideways, smacking her cheek against a hard, denim-covered thigh. Before she could react, the plane tilted the other way, tossing her against the side of the fuselage.

  “They can’t call this nothing,” he said, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her back into her seat.

  Her fingers sank into supple leather where his jacket covered his wrist. She hung on, struggling to regain her breath.

  He muttered an oath and glanced around the cabin. His arm was still clamped across Lauren’s body, keeping her firmly in place.

  The plane leveled off. An agitated hum rose from the other passengers. Static crackled from the overhead speakers before the pilot’s voice came through. In the steady, soothing tones of a radio announcer on a classical music program, he apologized for the inconvenience and assured the passengers the problem was minor. Unexpected turbulence, he said.

  Flight attendants bustled past, reassuring smiles fixed on their faces as they did their best to spread calm. A chime sounded, and the seat belt light flashed on.

  The man beside her loosened his hold, allowing Lauren to fasten her belt. He buckled his own, then turned back toward her. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Her heart was pounding. She wasn’t a nervous flier, yet she was beginning to get nervous now. It was only turbulence, she told herself. Nothing to worry about.

  “Miss?”

  Pulling her anxiety back under control, Lauren forced herself to nod. “Yes, I’m fine. Thanks for the help.”

  He lifted his hand to her face, touching the side of her cheek with his fingertips. “You’re hurt.”

  Although his touch was surprisingly gentle, her skin stung where her face had hit his jeans. She pulled back, breaking the contact. “There isn’t any blood, is there?”

  “No, but you might get a bruise.”

  She flexed her jaw experimentally. “It doesn’t seem that bad.”

  He continued to study her, his gaze sharpening. “Channel Ten.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s where I’ve seen you before. You do the news on that local station.”

  “Yes, I’ve been working there for nine years now.”

  “You’re Lauren Abbot, right?”

  She nodded. “That’s right.”

  “I’m Nick Strada,” he said, offering his hand.

  Good manners dictated that he wait for her to offer her hand first, but Lauren suspected that this man didn’t pay much attention to things as restrictive as manners. She put her hand in his. “How do you do?” she said politely.

  His clasp was warm, firm and brief. “For a local station, you put on a balanced news program. It’s pretty good.”

  “Thank you.” Surreptitiously she flexed the fingers he had touched.

  “Will it be a problem for you on camera?”

  “Mmm?”

  “The cheek.”

  “Makeup can do wonders. Besides, I’m off for the weekend.” She glanced at his leg. “I apologize for falling against you like that, but—”

  “It was
an accident.” The fine lines at the corners of his eyes deepened for a moment as a smile teased the edges of his lips. “Besides, I’m not complaining.”

  It wasn’t a real smile, but it was enough to relax the taut planes of his cheeks and hint at a promise of dimples. And it was enough to give an extra kick to her already racing pulse. Lauren stiffened, fumbling to refasten the button on the front of her jacket. She wished she had a pen, or a notebook, or a microphone in her hand. Anything to attempt to reestablish the distance between her and this man. “I guess that vibration we felt was due to turbulence, after all.”

  “So they say.”

  “You don’t sound as if you believe it.”

  His expression sobered. “I’m in a hurry to get back to Chicago, that’s all.”

  “I noticed,” she said dryly.

  He glanced at his watch yet again. “Yeah, I guess anyone would, even if she wasn’t a reporter. Were you in New York on a story?”

  “Yes, I was attending a press conference put on by the congressional committee that’s studying urban renewal. What about you? Business or pleasure?”

  “What?”

  “Your trip?”

  His jaw tightened grimly. “Not pleasure.”

  Once more she got the impression of power that strained to be released. The toe of his boot tapped against her briefcase in an impatient motion that she suspected he wasn’t even aware of. Obviously, he was too preoccupied to be interested in continuing this conversation. And why should they? As soon as the plane touched down, they would once more be complete strangers.

  Nick Strada, she repeated to herself. The name suited him, a combination of strong consonants and lingering vowels. Strada sounded Hispanic. Had he inherited his dark hair from his father? What about his prominent bone structure and his blue eyes? And his passion?

  Lauren suppressed a groan. That was three times.

  Smoothing her skirt to her knees, Lauren clasped her hands in her lap and turned toward the window. She might not be in a hurry to return home, but there were beginning to be plenty of reasons why she would be glad to see this flight end.

  She was doing her best to ignore him, Nick decided. The reddened patch of skin that marred her cheek must be stinging, but she was ignoring that, too. She had fallen face first into his lap, but that hadn’t ruffled her silk-and-pearls composure, either. She was one cool lady, this Lauren Abbot. What would it take to stir her up?

  And why the hell should he care?

  She wasn’t his type. He’d never been comfortable around reserved women. Her legs might be long and shapely, and the jacket of her tailored ivory suit might outline some interesting curves, but her body language telegraphed aloofness. The fine blond hair that she wore in a sleek twist didn’t invite touching. With her slender hands and long manicured nails, she didn’t look like the kind of woman who would enjoy touching back.

  Yet her grip had been strong when she’d shaken his hand, and when she’d hung on to his wrist. And her body had felt softly feminine when he’d caught her around the waist and held her securely in her seat. And despite her efforts to put as much space as possible between them, she’d been intruding into his thoughts from the moment he’d boarded the plane.

  It must be the adrenaline. Or his anxiety over the situation. Or all this frustrated, useless energy latching onto the first available target.

  Raking his hands through his hair impatiently, Nick shifted his gaze to the blackness outside the window. There was no way to judge how fast they were moving, but at least they were on their way. Every minute that had passed while this plane had sat on the runway earlier had filled his mind with nightmare images of what might be happening back home.

  God, they had to be all right. There was no evidence of Duxbury’s threat against his mother and sisters, so there would be no official police protection. That’s what the captain had said when Nick had called him from the phone in the bar. They’d send a unit through the neighborhood a few times a day, but anything more wouldn’t be covered by the budget.

  So it had been up to him to call his mother and ask her to stay out of sight until he finished the case he was working on. He decided not to give her any details about Duxbury—the less she knew, the less she’d argue—but he did tell her that someone was threatening their lives in order to force him to drop his investigation. As he had expected, she’d balked at the idea of running at first, but eventually she’d agreed to take the twins to her cousin’s place in the morning. Convincing the two fifteen-year-olds to leave their friends wasn’t going to be easy, but Natasha Strada could be as stubborn as her son when it came to protecting her family.

  That still left two more. There had been no answer at Rose and Juanita’s apartment, as usual. He’d left a message on their machine, telling them to call their mother, but instead of being sensible and disappearing for a few weeks, those two would probably insist on helping Nick solve the case. They wouldn’t be able to walk away from a challenge any more than he could.

  Gritting his teeth, he crossed his arms and leaned back in the seat. He had to get home. Only when he had assured himself of his family’s safety would he be free to eliminate the source of the threat to them.

  He was going to get Duxbury. Somehow, the man would pay for what he’d done.

  Another rumble vibrated through the plane, harder and more ominous than the one he’d noticed before. More turbulence? Nick glanced toward the window. The woman beside him, Lauren the ice princess, was leaning close to the glass. She appeared as self-composed and as distant now as she did on the TV in his apartment.

  It shouldn’t bother him, but it did. Her composure only accentuated his restlessness. Her fastidious neatness made him feel like a slob. And there was something about her hands-off attitude that was almost like a challenge.

  “How does it look out there?” he asked.

  She hesitated, using her index finger to tuck a stray strand of hair neatly back into its twist before she replied. “The sky appears clear.”

  The rumbling continued as the plane banked in a wide, slow turn. The pilot announced they would be landing in five minutes. Nick checked his watch and drummed his fingers against his thigh.

  “You might want to take a look at this, Mr. Strada,” Lauren said suddenly.

  He swiveled toward her. “What?”

  She waved one of her delicate, perfectly manicured hands at the darkness outside. “I don’t think those flames are due to turbulence.”

  Chapter 2

  At the first contact with the ground, the landing gear burrowed into the soft earth and snapped off, sending the plane tobogganing on its belly. It slid across a narrow road, metal screeching against asphalt in a shower of sparks. The burning engine dropped off seconds before the wing tip caught a light pole. A crack opened in the fuselage, splitting the metal skin apart. The tail section struck a tumbled heap of boulders near the edge of Lake Michigan and spun sideways, breaking the aircraft into ragged chunks of skidding debris.

  The nose kept going, a maimed, manic white bird trailing spiraling clouds of oily smoke. It dove down the bank, its momentum propelling it across the surface of the water in a splintering, hissing, screaming rush. Blackness closed in as the lake gushed through the gaping wound in the back.

  Lauren felt water swirl over her feet in a frigid wave. Her nostrils stung from the smoke, but cool, fresh air poured into her lungs.

  Something was pinning her down, a heavy, warm body. The man who had been sitting beside her. He had sheltered her just before the impact. “Mr. Strada?” She tried to lift her head and his arm slid limply from her shoulder to dangle over her ribs. “Nick?”

  From the blackness around her came the sounds of a miracle. People crying, moaning, calling, people still alive.

  She struggled to shift Nick’s weight. “It’s over. We made it. We’re all right.”

  He didn’t reply.

  Metal creaked. It wasn’t over. The nose of the plane tilted downwards with an ominous gurgling
and the water rose to Lauren’s ankles. She bent her arm awkwardly to reach the buckle of her seat belt. Fingers trembling, she unfastened the catch. “Come on, Nick. Wake up.”

  With a sizzling whoosh, the fuel that had spilled into the lake from the broken wing ignited. A carpet of flame unrolled beyond the window, painting the broken cabin in flickers of demonic orange.

  Lauren tried not to hear the renewed hysteria around her. She dropped to her knees and twisted out from underneath Nick’s limp weight. As soon as her support was withdrawn, he started to curl forward. Lauren braced her shoulder against his chest and pushed upward until he fell back into the seat.

  She swallowed hard to tamp down the scream that rose in her throat. His face was something from a horror movie or a nightmare. Trails of dark red angled over his skin, seeming to pulse with a life of their own. On her knees in the rising water, she lifted her hand and pressed her fingertips against the gash at his hairline. Blood flowed over her skin and trickled down her arm in a hot stream. She fought down another scream. If he was bleeding, then he was still alive.

  Water splashed over the seats as other survivors scrambled to escape the sinking wreckage. Lauren fumbled to undo Nick’s seat belt. “Help!” she cried. “Somebody help me get this man out.”

  No one responded to her plea. There were so many others filling the night. A baby wailed, a woman sobbed brokenly. Lauren had a glimpse of a man cradling a shaking child in one arm, his other arm hanging crooked and useless. From the direction of the cockpit, an authoritative voice was shouting instructions. The emergency exits couldn’t be opened or the broken fuselage would sink in seconds.

  The aisle was filled with a sudden crush of people, most in far worse condition than Lauren. She felt the water at her hips. She knew she would never be able to carry someone Nick’s size by herself, but she might be able to float him. Grasping him by the arms, she tugged him from his seat just as the floor tilted and dropped.

  The woman with the baby lunged toward the back, half climbing, half swimming. Lauren maneuvered behind Nick and hooked her arm under his chin in a lifeguard headlock, then dragged him into the water.