The Runaway Bride

by Adrianne Lee

  Jake stroked his bristled jaw. “No. He’s one of the officers we ran into at the hospital last night.”

  Laura frowned at him. “Why were you talking to him about me?”

  “Because when I got into my car and you weren’t there, I thought—” He broke off.

  His expression hardened to a pointed stare, and she realized he’d thought the person who’d stolen the florist’s van had absconded with her. Heat climbed her cheeks. She’d been so frightened of that very thing she hadn’t considered how her disappearance might affect Jake. She recalled his fury with her in the garage, his accusation that she didn’t care about the worry she’d caused.

  “I never meant—” she broke off, hearing how lame she sounded. Her only thought had been self-preservation. It was instinct these days. An instinct she heeded, perhaps irresponsibly at times, but always with haste. She felt bad that she’d caused him worry and disquieted that his worry might have caused her unwanted attention. “You set the police looking for me?”

  “They did it as a professional courtesy. You have to be missing twenty-four hours before they conduct an official search.”

  She twisted her hands together. “Did they find the person who stole the florist’s van?”

  “No.”

  She blew out a frustrated breath and sank into the chair across from him. “How about Travis Crocker?”

  “Haven’t reached him yet, but I was about to try again.” He lifted a mug that had been poised on a coaster near his computer. “If you want some coffee, there’s a fresh pot in the kitchen.”

  “Are you hinting that you’d like a refill?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “Still like it black?”

  “Yeah.”

  On her way to the kitchen Laura admired the wide-open, bright, almost porous feeling the house had, as though sunshine and light seeped through unseen cracks and crevices. The sense of being outdoors spoke of clever architecture. To own such a house, to furnish it as Jake had it furnished, would cost a small fortune. Did he own this house?

  Her hand went to the spot on her chest where her engagement ring rested. Jake would never tell her how much the ring cost, but Ruthanne had mentioned one day that he was paying it off in four-hundred-dollar-a-month installments. It was why he’d moved back in with his mother six months before the wedding.

  So, what had changed his financial situation in the past year? She freshened the coffee in Jake’s mug and filled another for herself, plucked a banana from the bunch on the refrigerator and hooked it into her back pocket. Was his new business so successful he could afford this house, the furnishings, without burying himself in debt?

  As soon as she entered his office, Jake hung up the receiver, but a metallic ringing echoed to her. He said, “Speaker phone.”

  Laura handed over his cup, set her own down, snatched up the banana, then reclaimed her chair. A man’s voice sounded from the phone. “Hello?”

  Although Jake recognized the voice, he asked for Travis Crocker.

  “Speaking.”

  Jake could almost see Travis; Cullen’s elder brother by four years, he shared the family trademark black hair and blue eyes, but his features lacked the perfect symmetry of Cullen’s. Jake and Travis were school chums from as far back as kindergarten; in fact, he’d served as one of the ushers at the wedding. “Hi, Trav. It’s Jake…Wilder.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He sounded surprised, leery. “You in town?”

  He meant Riverdell. “No. I’m calling from home. I live in Arizona now.”

  “I heard. Kim told Izzy.”

  Jake nodded, glancing at Laura, who was taking tiny bites from the peeled banana. Izzy was Isabelle Dell, the kid sister of Payton Dell, CEO of Dell Pharmaceuticals. She’d been Laura’s best friend, her bridesmaid, but the only outward sign that this conversation bothered her were the twin spots of color on her cheeks.

  Jake frowned. “I want to ask you something, Trav, that might strike you as odd.”

  Travis was silent for a long moment, then with a cautious note in his voice, he said, “Go on.”

  “It’s about Cullen.”

  “If this is about his running off with Laura, I don’t want to get into it with you.”

  “No, no.” But Jake wasn’t sure how he should approach this. Should he tell Travis outright that he knew Laura hadn’t run off with Cullen? If the Crockers hadn’t heard from him, that was as good as telling them that he might be dead. He decided on a different tack.

  “I got over that a long time ago. Cullen did me a favor running off with her.” Jake saw Laura wince and felt bad he’d lied. But she seemed to realize the pointlessness of scaring Travis unnecessarily. “I know you were as shocked as I was.”

  “That’s for sure.” Travis chuckled ironically. “So, what do you want?”

  “I wondered if you’ve heard from Cullen lately.”

  “Why?” The caution was back in his voice. “I mean, if you’re over Laura and all, what do you care?”

  Jake’s stomach knotted. Over Laura? Yesterday he could have taken and passed a lie detector test on that very question. Today he’d flunk. “It’s not for me. My mom. She has Alzheimer’s, fading in and out. Lately she’s been asking about Laura. I thought it might ease her mind to see her.”

  “That’s a shame, man. But I can’t help you out. Cullen hasn’t even called Ma. None of us has heard from him. We were all as shocked as you that he up and ran off like that—without a word to anyone. Not even Izzy. But what’s stranger still is that he hasn’t come home. Or called.”

  A shiver tracked Jake’s spine. “Yeah, that is odd.”

  “I’ll tell you something, Jake, I didn’t want the folks to worry, but I even hired a private detective to try to find the little creep.”

  Cold settled at the base of Jake’s spine. “A private detective?”

  “More than one, in fact, but none of them sniffed out so much as a trail to follow. It’s like Cullen and Laura fell off the edge of the earth.”

  “I’m sure they’ll turn up eventually.” But Jake feared Cullen would not be turning up alive. “Was one of those P.I.s you hired a woman in California by the name of Sunny Devlin?”

  Travis paused again, too long to be considering. Either he’d hired her or he hadn’t. The question didn’t require deep consideration. “Nope. Name doesn’t ring any bells.”

  Jake sensed he was holding something back, but what?

  “Well, thanks for your time. If you should hear from Cullen, I’d appreciate a call.”

  He gave Travis his phone number and disconnected. Laura had finished the banana and was folding the peel with concentration. When she lifted her smoky eyes they glittered with unshed tears. “Maybe Cullen was killed for helping me.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Jake consoled.

  “I know it for sure. My evidence will prove it to you.”

  He started to respond to that, but she cut him off. “Jake, I realize it’s none of my business, but do you own this house?”

  He frowned, taken aback. “Yes.”

  “How, I mean…where did you get the money?”

  The sudden switch of subject befuddled him. He took a sip of his cooled coffee and then shrugged. “I happened to get in on the ground floor of what turned out to be a great investment.”

  She set the banana peel on an edge of his desk, her gaze sweeping over his computer, printer, scanner, fax machine, then back to him. “The stock market?”

  He raked his hand through his hair. “No. It was a new cream that Dell developed last year.”

  Laura’s smoke-gray eyes widened, darkened. “What sort of cream?”

  “New Again. Surely you’ve heard of it. It’s a cosmetic product.”

  “No. Cosmetics haven’t been a priority for me this past year. What does it do?”

  He shrugged. “Well, I’m no chemist, but basically, when applied to skin discolorations like age spots, birthmarks, even wrinkles, it makes them disappear for s
omething like twelve hours. It’s the only product of its kind that’s sold over the counter.”

  Laura gaped at him in obvious horror.

  The icy sensation at his spine spread, chilling the very blood in his veins. “What?”

  “That’s the cream Payton Dell stole from Uncle Murphy.”

  Chapter Nine

  “You think Payton Dell killed your aunt and uncle for the New Again formula?” Skepticism arched Jake’s eyebrows and puckered his scar. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I don’t know whether or not Payton killed my aunt and uncle. But he seems the most likely suspect, since he did steal the formula.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because.” Laura scooted toward the edge of her chair. “Uncle Murphy developed the cream for Aunt May. She had a port-wine birthmark on her neck and upper shoulder, similar to the one on my leg.”

  She stopped, choking at the mention of the star-shaped imperfection that adorned an intimate wedge of her inner thigh—which Jake had often stroked with affection. She saw his eyes darken and she glanced away.

  Desire pooled in her lower belly, reached heated tendrils of longing through her blood. “Aunt May always wore scarves or high collars. Summers were awful for her. She worried obsessively that others would see her ‘deformity,’ often telling me she wished she could remove it. She insisted I felt the same about mine, even though I continually assured her otherwise.”

  “Poor May.” Jake’s hand went to his face, but he dropped it quickly and looked away. “People can be cruel.”

  She nodded, certain that he’d felt the very scorn and cruelty her aunt had spent her days fearing. Laura’s heart ached for him, but she wouldn’t embarrass him by offering him sympathy. “I think she was harder on herself than anyone else could ever have been.”

  Jake faced her again. A slight lifting of his brow was the only acknowledgment he gave her gentle admonishment. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs at the ankles, the relaxed posture pulling his jeans taut across his considerable male attributes.

  Laura pulled her gaze away, but not before her pulse was leaping at the images his simple action fed into her mind. She sat straighter in her chair, chastising herself. If she couldn’t keep her thoughts on the business at hand, she’d never be able to work with Jake.

  He flexed his hands and her emotions skidded again at the memory of those hands on her naked flesh. She took a sip of coffee, letting the hot liquid give her composure.

  Jake said, “Okay, so Murphy had reason to research a remedy for his wife’s…blemish. He may have been working on something at the time of his death, but it was not New Again.”

  What would it take to make him believe? Roiling with frustration and pent-up emotions that she couldn’t school, Laura wrenched out of the chair and strode to the window.

  She stared out, oblivious to the breathtaking view. Her mind looked backward, back to the tiny lab her uncle had created in the basement of the Whittaker house in Riverdell.

  It was cramped, every corner occupied with something or other necessary to his latest project. He’d built shelves on every wall, a huge counter in the center for his work space, installed an old refrigerator and a new sink, none of which he allowed Aunt May to clean.

  His lab was his private domain, his responsibility. He kept it pristine, swabbing the sinks and vials with a disinfectant cleanser he’d developed. He claimed it was the best bacteria killer on the market, and that it saved him needless expenses by allowing him to recycle containers from project to project.

  She pictured him now as he’d been that day, the day he’d told her about his discovery.

  From the first time she’d laid eyes on him, until the day he died, he’d struck her as a man who controlled everything around him, from his weight—which she’d bet matched the national standard for his height and bone structure—to his environment.

  As usual that day, his wavy red hair was oiled flat to his head, not one strand out of place. His eyebrows, ginger slashes, rose up his high forehead and excitement frolicked in his soft brown eyes. “I’ve found it, Laura. It’s a miracle, this cream is. This stuff will eclipse your aunt’s birthmark like it never existed. She’s going to have the skin of a Venus.”

  She spun and faced Jake. “Uncle Murphy named his cream The Venus Masque. But I swear to you it was the exact same formula that Dell is calling ‘New Again.’ And if I can find my evidence, I can prove it.”

  Jake rose and came toward her. Emotions flickered across his face, as though he were having trouble coming to terms with this new twist in his reality. “I don’t—”

  The doorbell rang, interrupting him. Reflexively, he jerked toward the hallway, cursing under his breath at someone’s bad timing. He glanced at her and shrugged. “I’ll be right back.”

  Laura understood his frustration. Since their meeting yesterday morning she’d thrown him one curve after another and expected him to accept them all. But he’d lived a different reality than hers this past year. He wouldn’t capitulate because she told him to. Especially since she claimed so much of what he believed was false. That would throw anyone for a loop.

  But eventually he would accept. If she could find the evidence. Her anxiousness returned with a vengeance. Maybe she should go and talk with his mother again. By herself. But remembering Ruthanne’s Alzheimer’s made the prospect distasteful. Heartbreaking. Not to mention that it might be a complete waste of time.

  Voices neared, coming down the hall toward the office. A moment later, Jake entered, followed by Don and Susan.

  Wearing leather slacks and jacket, his long hair caught at the nape with a leather thong, Don looked like something out of Easy Rider, a man on a mission, dark and dangerous.

  Susan was a bit more voluptuous than she’d been last time Laura had seen her; her clothes dripped quality, and her left hand sported a wedding band with a hefty diamond setting. Apparently Don and she had married sometime during the year.

  Some things, however, hadn’t changed. Susan still wore her curly blond hair cut to chin length, and still preferred miniskirts, tight, low-cut tops and calf-high boots. Did she dress this way when she was protecting a client? Or did she leave the bodyguarding to Jake and Don?

  Susan’s bright blue eyes flashed like Bunsen burner flames as they landed on Laura. “I couldn’t believe it when Don told me you’d dropped back into Jake’s life. You’ve got a ner—”

  “Susan,” Jake cut in. “Laura was just telling me that the original formula for New Again was developed by her uncle Murphy.”

  “Stolen from my uncle,” Laura amended.

  “What?” Don laughed, a scoffing chuckle.

  Laura stood at the window, her back to the view, her hands at her sides. She promised herself she wouldn’t let Don Bowman get to her. Not today.

  He dropped into the chair Jake had vacated earlier and steepled his thick fingers. A hint of distress churned in his muddy-river eyes as he bobbed his head. “Is that what’s behind this nonsense about your uncle and aunt being murdered?”

  “They were murdered,” Laura fumed, curling her hands into fists, her nails biting the tender flesh of her palms.

  “That’s preposterous,” Don shot back, but something odd, indefinable, flitted through his eyes. “Where do you get off questioning Jake’s and my investigation?”

  Even though he sounded furious, Laura would swear he was more discomfited than offended by her accusations of a botched case analysis. Why? “What’s the matter, Don? Did you find something at the time of the investigation that you decided to sit on because you hate me?”

  He laughed derisively and shook his head. “Now, that’s precisely the reason you’ve never been at the top of my hit parade.”

  Susan’s hands were on her hips, every line of her body taut, defensive. “Are you calling Don a dirty cop?”

  “Name-calling isn’t my style.” Laura leveled a cool gaze toward the other woman. “All I want is justice for my aunt a
nd uncle.”

  “It was an accident, Laura.” Don’s leather clothes swicked as he shifted in the chair.

  Squirming like a man on a hot seat? Laura wondered, watching him.

  Jake cleared his throat. “There wasn’t any hint of foul play, Laura. If there had been, Don or I would have found it. We didn’t.”

  “Then how did Dell get its hands on my uncle’s formula? And why has someone been trying to kill me ever since I found out about it?”

  “That’s your story,” Susan said. “I don’t buy it.”

  “I don’t care whether you do or not.”

  “Of course not.” Susan’s eyes swerved to Jake, pity bright in their blue depths as she silently questioned his judgment. “But we aren’t all susceptible to your…tall tales.”

  “Sunny Devlin died in my house in Malibu. Someone thought they were killing me.”

  “I told them that,” Jake said.

  And still they did not believe? Why? Were they just protecting Jake? Or was there another reason? Had they also invested in New Again?

  “We didn’t come here to argue with Laura,” Don said, turning toward the computer. “Did you get the e-mail from the Nelson twins this morning? They have that tour coming through town in two weeks.”

  As Jake and Susan joined Don at the computer, Laura pivoted toward the windows again. An unpleasant chill slithered across the pit of her stomach as her suspicions of Susan and Don soared. They were Jake’s partners. The agency was named BMW. Bowman, Meade and Wilder, she supposed. That meant the newlywed Bowmans held a two-thirds ownership. They’d probably put up a third each of the original capital to get the agency off the ground. What size investment would that have taken?

  Don had been a police officer in Riverdell; Susan, a receptionist at Dell. Neither had taken home hefty paychecks. Yet now, both wore enough jewelry to suggest deep pockets. Was the agency solely responsible for their newfound wealth? Or had their money also come from New Again?

  This wasn’t the first time she’d wondered whether or not Don had been involved in murdering her aunt and uncle. Until today, she hadn’t wanted to believe it. She spun around and gazed at the three huddled around the computer. Had he and Susan been hunting for her all these months? Killed two innocent women in her stead? Bodyguards traveled. BMW was a worldwide company. Who kept track of where the agents were while they were supposed to be on assignment? Who did the books? Scheduled the appointments?