by Sandra Brown
The wedding invitation had been among her opened mail the day he’d searched her house. He’d read it, memorized the day, time, and place, thinking that the information might come in handy. When Oren mentioned this being Saturday night, it had sparked his memory. He had taken a chance on Rennie attending the wedding and had made an instantaneous decision to watch her up close rather than from afar through binoculars.
When he arrived at the country club, he opted to park himself and take his keys with him rather than turning his pickup over to a valet. It was faster, and he wanted to be inside the club ahead of Rennie. The haberdasher had called the bridal department of the store and arranged a wrapped gift for him. He carried it in with him and left it on the table draped in white fabric.
A pretty young woman was attending the guest book. “Don’t forget to sign it.”
“My wife already did.”
“Okay. Have fun. Bar and buffet are already serving.”
“Great.” And he meant it. He had feared it might be a seated dinner, in which case there would be no place card with his name on it and he would be forced to leave.
But he didn’t go to either the bar or the buffet. Instead he took up a position against the wall and tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He saw Rennie the moment she entered the ballroom and for the next hour he tracked her every move.
She chatted with anyone who engaged her, but for the most part she stood alone, an observer of the festivities more than a participant. She didn’t dance, ate sparingly from the buffet, declined the wedding cake and champagne, preferring instead a glass of clear liquid on the rocks with a lime twist.
Wick gradually made his way toward her, keeping to the fringes of the crowd and avoiding the principals of the bridal party lest one of them introduced himself and asked to whom he belonged.
Rennie was concluding a conversation with a couple, backing away from them with promises of another dinner date soon, when Wick saw his opportunity.
He put himself in her path; she bumped into him.
Coming around quickly, she said, “Oh, I’m so sorry. Please excuse me.”
Chapter 8
“No problem.” Wick smiled and nodded down at her hand. “You’re the one who got wet. Allow me?”
He took her glass from her and signaled a waiter, who not only took away the glass but also provided napkins for her to use to dry her hands. “Thank you,” she said to Wick when the waiter moved away.
“You’re welcome. Let me get you another drink.”
“I’m fine, really.”
“My mom would disown me if I didn’t.” Mom again. “Besides, I was about to get one for myself. Please.” He motioned toward the bar.
She hesitated, then gave a guarded nod of assent. “All right. Thank you.”
He steered her toward the bar and when they reached it, he said to the bartender, “Two of whatever the lady is having.”
“Ice water with lime, please,” she told the young man. Then she glanced up at Wick, who was tugging on his ear and smiling with chagrin.
“And here I thought I was being so suave by letting you order for me.”
“You’re under no obligation to let the order stand.”
“No, no, ice water is just what I wanted. Tall, cold, and refreshing. August weddings are thirsty work.” The bartender slid the two glasses toward him. Wick passed one to her and then clinked the glasses together. “Don’t drink it too fast or it’ll go to your head.”
“I promise I won’t. Thanks again.”
She stepped away so other guests could get to the bar. Wick pretended not to recognize a brush-off line when he heard one and fell into step beside her. “I wonder why January and February aren’t the big wedding months?”
She looked at him with misapprehension. He didn’t know if she was surprised he hadn’t taken the hint and left her alone or if she was confused by the random question.
“What I mean is,” he rushed to say, “why do so many couples get married in the summer months when it’s so blasted hot?”
“I’m not sure. Tradition?”
“Maybe.”
“Convenience? Those are vacation months. That makes it easier for out-of-town guests to attend.”
“You?”
“From out of town?” Her hesitation wasn’t long, but long enough to be noticeable. “No, I live here.”
Although she didn’t look all that interested, he told her he also was a local. “Are you here on behalf of the bride or the groom?”
“The groom’s father and I are colleagues.”
“My mother is second cousin to the bride’s mother,” he lied. “Something like that. Mom couldn’t come but felt that someone from our branch of the family… You know how these things go.”
She began moving away from him again. “Have a nice time. Thanks again for the ice water.”
“My name’s Wick Threadgill.”
She stared down at his extended right hand, and for several seconds he believed she wasn’t going to take it. But then she reached out and clasped it, firmly, but only for an instant before withdrawing. It didn’t give him time to register much except that her hand was colder than his, probably from keeping a death grip on her water glass, which she had done since he handed it to her at the bar.
“Did you say Wick?
“Yes. And I haven’t got a speech impediment.”
“That’s an unusual name. Is it short for something?”
“No. Just Wick. And you?”
“Rennie Newton.”
“Is that short for something?”
“Doctor Rennie Newton.”
He laughed. “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Rennie Newton.”
She glanced toward the exit as though locating the nearest escape route should the need for one arise. He got the feeling that at any moment she was going to bolt, and he wanted to keep the conversation going for as long as possible.
Even if she hadn’t been the subject of a homicide investigation he would be curious. If they’d met innocently, he would still want to know why a woman who appeared sophisticated was this damned nervous over carrying on a conversation with a stranger in the harmless environment of a wedding reception with hundreds of people around.
“What kind of doctor?” he asked.
“Medical.”
“Do you specialize?”
“General surgery.”
“Wow. I’m impressed. Do you do trauma surgery? Shootings, stabbings, the kind of stuff you see on TV?” The kind of stuff that landed your rival colleague in the morgue? He watched for telltale signs of guilt in the incredibly green eyes, but if she was an accomplice to that crime her eyes didn’t give her away.
“Mostly it’s scheduled, routine procedures. I sometimes get a trauma case if I’m on call.” She patted her beaded handbag. “Like tonight. I’ve got my pager.”
“Which explains your teetotaling.”
“Not even a champagne toast when I’m on call.”
“Well, I hope there won’t be any emergencies that call you away tonight.” His tone of voice, and the manner in which he was looking at her, made his meaning unmistakable. And his unmistakable meaning made her unmistakably uncomfortable.
Her smile faltered. Barriers went up all around her like laser beams around a treasured museum piece. If he ventured too close he would trip them and set off all kinds of alarms.
A drum roll drew their attention to the front of the bandstand, where the bride was preparing to toss her bouquet to a group of eager young women all jostling for the best position. Wick stood slightly behind Rennie and to her right. He had read the reactions of enough women to know that his nearness was unsettling to her. Why? he wondered.
By now most women would have either: (A) flirted back and let him know that she was available for the rest of the evening; (B) informed him of a boyfriend who unfortunately couldn’t attend the wedding but to whom she was committed; or (C) told him to get lost.
Rennie was in a category of her own. She sent mixed
signals. She was still here, but she’d taken cover behind a do-not-touch, don’t-even-think-about-it demeanor that was as daunting as a convent wall.
Wick was curious to know how much pressure he could apply before she cracked. So he inched even closer, close enough to make his presence impossible to ignore without actually touching her.
After the bouquet toss, the groom went down on bended knee to slide a frilly garter off his bride’s extended leg while several young men reluctantly shuffled forward to form a tight group, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched.
“Ah, the difference between the sexes clearly demonstrated by this simple wedding tradition.” He leaned down and slightly forward in order to speak directly into Rennie’s ear. “Notice the men’s level of anticipation compared to that of the women.”
“The men look like they’re going to the gallows.”
The groom threw the garter. A young man was forced to catch it when it hit him in the forehead. One of the bridesmaids squealed and rushed out to embrace him. She covered his blushing face with kisses.
“I’ve got a drawer full of those things,” Wick said.
Rennie turned. “That many?”
“I always had the advantage of height.”
“Anything to show for them?”
“A drawer full of garters.”
“All those garters wasted? Maybe your height was a disadvantage.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
The band launched into a crowd-pleasing song. Other guests began making their way to the dance floor, but they eddied around Rennie and Wick because neither of them moved.
“Doctor Newton, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“Dang the luck.”
“Why?”
“I’m healthy.”
She lowered her gaze to the Windsor knot of his monochromatic necktie.
“Are you here with anyone, Dr. Newton?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“Hmm.”
“Dance?”
“No thank you.”
“Another ice water?”
“No. Thanks.”
“Is it a breach of etiquette to leave the reception ahead of the bride and groom?”
She raised her head quickly, met his eyes. “I believe so.”
“Rats.”
“But I think I’ve had all the gaiety I can stand.”
Grinning, Wick nodded her toward the nearest exit. As they wended their way through the crowd, his hand rode on the small of her back and she made no effort to dislodge it.
The parking valets were lounging against the columns on the wide portico. One sprang forward as soon as he and Rennie came through the door. “I parked your car right over there, Dr. Newton. Easily accessible like you asked.”
“Thank you.”
She opened her handbag for a tip, but Wick was the faster draw. He pressed a five-dollar bill into the young man’s palm. “I’ll walk Dr. Newton to her car. No need to bring it up.”
“Uh, okay, thank you, sir. Keys are in it.”
Her smile for the obliging valet froze into place. She allowed Wick to guide her down the wide brick steps toward the tree-shaded VIP parking lot, but her posture was as rigid as an I-beam. Her lips barely moved when she said “You shouldn’t have done that.”
Yep, she was pissed. “Done what?”
“I pay my own way.”
“Pay your own… What? The tip I gave the valet? Getting to walk you to your car was well worth the five bucks.”
By now they had reached her Jeep. She opened the driver’s door and tossed her handbag inside, then turned to face him. “Walking me to my car is all that five-dollar bill bought you.”
“Then I guess going for coffee is out of the question.”
“Definitely.”
“You don’t have to give me an answer right away. Take your time.”
“Stop flirting with me.”
“I only asked you to have coffee, not—”
“You’ve been flirting since I apologized for bumping into you. If you expected anything to come of it, you’ve wasted your time.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “All I did was tip a valet for you. I only meant to be gentlemanly.”
“Then thank you for being a gentleman. Good night.” She got into the car and pulled the door closed.
Wick immediately reopened it and leaned in, putting his face inches from hers. “Just FYI, Dr. Newton, if I’d been flirting you’d know by now that I think your eyes are sensational, and that I’ll probably have a real dirty dream about your mouth. Have a nice night.”
He closed the door soundly, then turned and walked away.
* * *
From the vantage point of his car, which was parked half a block down and across the street from the country club, Lozada saw Rennie emerge from the wide double-door entry of the club. She was wearing a dress of some light-weight summer fabric that clung to her figure, stirring his desire.
When she stepped out from beneath the second-floor balcony the setting sunlight struck her blond hair and made it shimmer. She looked fantastic. He noticed the grace with which she walked. She would—
“… the fuck is this?”
Lost in his fantasies, he hadn’t paid any attention to the man walking alongside Rennie. When he suddenly recognized the rangy physique and realized who her companion was, he could barely restrain himself from leaving his car, crossing the street, and murdering Wick Threadgill then and there.
It was bound to happen eventually. He was going to have to kill that smart-mouthed motherfucking cop, so why not sooner rather than later? Why not right fucking now?
Because it wasn’t Lozada’s style, that was why. Crimes of passion were for amateurs with no self-control. While he would enjoy having the matter of Wick Threadgill finally and satisfactorily settled, he had better things to do than spend the rest of his days on death row, exhausting appeals until they finally ran out and then having the state put a needle in his vein for killing a cop.
If Wick hadn’t screwed up, Lozada probably would be awaiting execution for killing his brother Joe. Lozada knew that that mistake still chafed Wick. It must drive him crazy to know that his brother’s murderer was living well in a penthouse, wearing hand-tailored suits, driving expensive cars, eating, drinking, fornicating—living free thanks to him.
Lozada fingered the scar above his eye and snickered. He was too clever to react in the heat of the moment as Wick had. Others made mistakes like that, but not Lozada. Lozada was a pro. A pro without equal. A pro didn’t lose his head and act without thinking.
Besides, when he finally got around to killing Wick Threadgill, the anticipation of it would be half the fun. He didn’t want to take him out now, quickly, and deny himself the pleasure of planning it.
However, as he watched the cop walking close to the woman he would soon possess, he gripped his car’s steering wheel as though he were trying to pry it off its mounting.
What the hell was his Rennie doing with Wick Threadgill?
The initial shock of seeing them together gave way to concern. This was a disturbing turn of events. Threadgill had interrupted his breakfast this morning and he was at a wedding reception with Rennie tonight? Coincidence? Not likely.
What was Wick’s interest in Dr. Rennie Newton? The role she’d played in his recent trial? Or was it something to do with the Howell murder case that remained unsolved? Lozada wouldn’t have known her plans for this evening if he hadn’t seen the wedding invitation the day he went snooping through her house after delivering the roses. How had the cop known where she would be tonight? Had Wick also been snooping in her house?
These were troubling questions.
But the one possibility that really nagged him, that made him see red, that caused heat to rise out of his hairless head, was that Rennie might be in league with the police. Had they somehow discovered his attraction to her? Had Threadgill and company enlisted her help to try t
o trap him?
Oh now, he would hate that. He really would. Having to kill her for betraying him would be a waste of good woman.
He watched with increasing suspicion as Threadgill leaned down into her car, then straightened up and shut the door. She backed out of her parking space, turned out of the country-club parking lot, and drove right past Lozada without noticing him. Her eyes were on the road straight ahead, and she wasn’t smiling. In fact, she looked angry. Threadgill’s parting words must’ve made her mad. He was a wiseass with everyone else, he probably was with women, too.
Lozada started his car and executed a tight U-turn. He followed Rennie home. She went in alone. Parking farther down the block, he watched her house for hours. She didn’t leave again. Neither Threadgill nor anyone else showed up there.
It was after midnight before Lozada began to breathe easier. His suspicions about Rennie receded. There was a logical explanation for why she’d been with Threadgill. Perhaps he had been investigating her in connection with the Howell murder. It was well known that she and Howell had had their differences. Fort Worth’s finest would have learned that. Being questioned by a cop at a social event would have made her angry, which explained why she’d looked pissed when she drove away from the country club.
Satisfied that he’d reached the correct conclusion, he picked up his cell phone and dialed her number.
Chapter 9
Wick trudged up the stairs in the dark. Carrying his new suit jacket and the department-store shopping bag in one hand, he yanked on his necktie with the other. By the time he reached the stuffy second-floor room his shirt was hanging open and his belt was unbuckled.
From the country club he had trailed Rennie into her neighborhood. He didn’t turn down her street, but took another route to the stakeout house, which put him there about the same time she pulled into her garage.
He went straight to the window and looked through the binoculars. He toed off his boots and peeled off his socks.
Rennie passed through her kitchen without stopping and disappeared through the doorway leading into the living room.
Wick shrugged off his shirt.
The light in Rennie’s bedroom came on. Like him, she seemed to have found her clothes confining. She stepped out of her shoes—high-heeled sandals, he remembered—and then reached behind her neck for the zipper of her dress.