Fugitive Bride

by Paula Graves

But when he rose from the bed, he grabbed the unloaded Smith & Wesson .380 from the locked box he’d stashed in the bedside table drawer. He’d put the ammo in the dresser across the room, the way he’d been trained—don’t keep the ammo with the gun. The rule had always seemed reasonable to him, as it would make it hard for an intruder to load the gun and use it against him. But now that he was trying to go out and face a potential threat, the extra step seemed to slow him down.

  He had to protect Tara, even if it meant carrying a gun and facing the unknown.

  Heart pounding wildly, he opened the bedroom door.

  Chapter Seven

  A furtive sound roused Tara from slumber. She sat upright in bed, her pulse roaring in her ears. Straining to hear past the whoosh of blood through her veins, she tried to remember what, exactly, she’d heard. Was it a scrape? A tap? It hadn’t been as loud as a knock.

  It’s an old house, she told herself. Old houses made noise. A lot.

  Then she heard the noise again. It was a scrape, like metal against metal. It came not from her room but from somewhere down the hall.

  Someone trying to enter the front door?

  Suddenly, Owen seemed an impossible distance away, even though his bedroom was just across the hall. She didn’t think the sound was coming from there, but with her door closed, it was impossible to know for certain.

  Owen had the gun. She hoped to goodness he really did know how to use it.

  She eased her bedroom door open, holding her breath at the soft creak of the hinges. In the distance, thunder rumbled, and for a moment Tara wondered if it had been the gathering storm that had wakened her so suddenly. But it had barely been audible at all, certainly not loud enough to stir her from a dead sleep. And the noise she’d heard earlier definitely hadn’t been thunder.

  She slipped out into the hallway, the wood floors smooth and cool beneath her feet. The temperature had fallen along with the night, and she shivered as she crept across to Owen’s room.

  As she reached for the door handle, it twisted in her hand, startling her. She jerked back, stumbling over her own feet.

  In the murky gloom, she felt as if she were tumbling backward into an abyss, the world turned upside down.

  Then arms wrapped around her, stilling her fall. Owen’s arms, his familiar scent unmistakable. He pulled her tightly to his bare chest, his own heart galloping beneath her ear as he held her close.

  The moment seemed to stretch into infinity, as all her senses converged into an exquisite flood of desire. His skin was hot silk beneath her hands as she clutched his arms. He smelled like soap and Owen, a clean, masculine essence that had always made her feel safe and happy, even when the world around her was going crazy. The bristle of his crisp chest hair rasped against her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her tank top, bringing her nipples to hard, sensitive peaks.

  She forced herself to shut down all those sensations, the way she’d been doing since she turned fifteen and began to realize that the gangly boy next door was becoming an attractive young man.

  “Did you hear the noise?” Owen whispered, his voice barely breath against her hair.

  She nodded.

  He eased her away from him, and in the flash of lightning that strobed through the window at the end of the hall, she saw the gleam of gunmetal in his hand as he slipped down the hall toward the front of the house.

  She stayed close behind him, unwilling to allow him to confront whatever danger lurked ahead alone. She might not have been trained for danger the way he had been, but she was fit, she was resourceful and if she’d let herself admit it, she was also angry as all get-out.

  She might not have loved Robert the way a wife should, but he was a good man. A sweet man. He hadn’t deserved to die, and the thought that he’d taken a bullet because someone was after her made her want to break things. Starting with the killer’s head.

  Owen paused in the doorway to the living room, and Tara had to stumble to a sharp halt to keep from barreling into him. Reaching behind him, he caught her hand briefly, gave it a squeeze, then entered the larger room.

  The scraping noise came again, louder this time. It was coming from outside the house.

  “Stay here,” Owen whispered urgently. “I need to know you’re not in the line of fire.”

  Her instincts told her to ignore his command, but she made herself stay still, pressing her back against the living room wall as he edged closer to the front door and took a quick look through the peephole in the door.

  He backed away, glancing back at her. He shook his head.

  Outside, the wind had picked up again, moaning in the eaves. The first patter of rain on the metal roof overhead was loud enough to set Tara’s nerves jangling. Owen crossed quietly to where she stood, rubbing her upper arms gently. “I’m pretty sure it’s the wind rattling something outside. Maybe a loose gutter or a window screen. I don’t see anyone lurking around.”

  “They wouldn’t be out in the open, would they?”

  “Probably not.” He glanced back toward the door.

  She followed his gaze. It was an ordinary wooden door, but somehow, in the dark, with her heart racing and her skin tingling, it seemed more like an ominous portal to a dangerous realm. “Someone could be trying to lure us outside.”

  “Or we could be letting our imaginations run away with us, the same way we used to do sneaking around Old Man Ridley’s cabin twenty years ago,” he countered. “I really do think it’s just the wind.”

  She let out a huff of nervous laughter. “You’re probably right.”

  “The only way to figure that out is to go outside and try to find the source of the sound. Do you want me to do that?”

  Part of her wanted to say yes, just so she’d know one way or the other. But it was cold and rainy, and even if there were a threat outside, which she was starting to doubt, they were safer inside than outside.

  “No,” she said. “I think you’re right. It’s just the wind rattling something outside. I’m sorry for being such a scaredy-cat.”

  “You want to try going back to bed and ignoring all the creaks and scrapes outside?”

  “Could we maybe light a fire here in the living room and camp out on the sofa instead?”

  His lips curved. “We could do that. Let me grab a shirt and a blanket.”

  “I’ll pop some popcorn,” she said, starting to finally feel a little more relaxed.

  Owen had a way of making everything a little easier to bear.

  * * *

  OWEN WOKE IN STAGES, first vaguely aware of light on the other side of his closed eyelids, then of a warm body tucked firmly against his side. Tara, he thought, his eyes still closed. He could smell the scent of shampoo in her hair and the elusive essence of the woman herself. The soft warmth of her body against his felt perfect and necessary, as if it were an extension of himself he couldn’t bear to live without.

  He opened his eyes to morning sunlight angling through the east-facing front windows of the farmhouse. He’d left his watch in the bedroom, but that much light had to mean the day was well under way.

  Giving Tara a gentle nudge, he said, “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

  She grumbled and burrowed deeper into the cocoon formed by his side and the sofa.

  “It’s probably after eight. Quinn and the lawyer will be here soon.”

  She gave a muffled groan against his side and added a soft curse for emphasis. “I was having the best dream,” she complained, lifting her head and looking at him through strands of her hair.

  Even makeup-free, with her normally tidy brown hair mussed and tangled, and her morning breath not quite as sweet as the rest of her, she was still the most desirable woman he’d ever known. His morning erection became almost painfully hard.

  She shook her hair away from her face and stared
at him, too closely curled against his body to have missed his physical response to her nearness. He waited for her to make a joke and roll off the sofa to make her escape to the bedroom, but she didn’t move, her eyes darkening as exquisite tension lengthened between them.

  “I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you,” she whispered.

  This was the point where he would crack a joke and make his escape, but he was pinned between her and the sofa. And even if he weren’t, he didn’t think he’d have been capable of moving away from her luscious heat, especially when she reached out with one slim hand and touched his jaw.

  He couldn’t find his voice. Didn’t want to risk saying anything that would ruin this moment. It felt as if he were standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to jump into a beautiful void. What lay below might be a crystalline sea, cool and cleansing, with a whole universe of wonders and pleasures lying just beneath the surface. Or he might find himself dashed on sharp rocks to lie bleeding and dying for his gamble.

  What was it going to be?

  From somewhere in the back of the house, two alarm clocks went off with a loud, discordant blare.

  Tara and Owen both laughed, snapping the tension of the moment. “We’d better get moving,” she suggested, rolling off the sofa and straightening her tank top and shorts.

  He pushed to his feet, shifting his own shorts to hide the worst of his erection. “How about scrambled eggs for breakfast?”

  “We need something a little more decadent,” she said, pausing in the doorway of her bedroom. “I’ll make French toast.”

  Not exactly the sort of decadence he’d been thinking about when he woke up in her arms, but he could make do.

  By the time he got out of the shower, he could smell eggs cooking from down the hallway. He laid out one of the suits he’d found in the closet, hoping it would fit, but went to the kitchen in fresh boxer shorts under a shin-length black silk robe.

  “Are you worried about today?” she asked as she flipped a couple of the egg-crusted pieces of bread onto a plate and handed it to him.

  “A little.” He set the plate on the small breakfast nook table and retrieved the bottle of syrup from the refrigerator. “I know we didn’t do anything wrong, but we don’t have any real proof of our story.”

  She brought her own plate of French toast to the table and sat across from him. “I have half a wedding dress.”

  “Which could have been torn in any number of ways.” He handed her the syrup bottle. “But you really didn’t have any motive to kill Robert.”

  “What if they think you did?”

  He paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. Syrup dribbled on the table and he put down the fork and grabbed a napkin. “Because you and I are so close?”

  “Best friends forever.” She managed a weak smile. “You know people have always mistaken us as a couple. Ever since high school.”

  Their closeness had broken up more than one of his romantic relationships over the years. Not without reason. “But we’ve only ever been friends.”

  “Because we choose to be only friends. But we both know there’s an attraction between us that we could build on if we ever chose it. Robert knew it. He just realized that I wasn’t ever going to risk my friendship with you that way, so he didn’t feel threatened.” A cloud drifted over her expression. “He was remarkably understanding.”

  Owen wasn’t sure that understanding would have lasted. Or that he could have allowed the status quo between him and Tara to continue once she was married.

  Which, he supposed, makes me a viable suspect in Robert’s murder.

  * * *

  THE LAWYER ALEXANDER QUINN provided was younger than Tara had expected. Anthony Giattina was tall, broad shouldered and sandy haired. He spoke with a mild southern accent and there was a sparkle in his brown eyes as he shook hands with her and Owen after Alexander Quinn’s introduction.

  “Call me Tony,” he said. “I think we can get this handled with a minimum of fuss.”

  “Has Mr. Quinn told you what happened?”

  “I told him I wanted to talk to each of you first. So I know the basics from news reports—your fiancé was murdered and you disappeared.” His eyes softened. “My condolences.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We need to get on the road,” Quinn interrupted. “You’ll ride with Tony so you can talk in private. I’ll follow.” He nodded toward the two vehicles in the driveway and started walking toward them. He got behind the wheel of a large black SUV while Tony Giattina led them to a sleek silver Mercedes sedan parked behind Quinn’s vehicle.

  Owen waved Tara to the front seat and settled in the back behind her.

  “So, from the beginning,” Tony said after they were on the road. “Did either of you witness anything connected to Robert Mallory’s murder?”

  “No,” Tara answered. “I didn’t.”

  “I didn’t, either,” Owen said.

  Tony’s gaze flicked toward the backseat. “You sound uncertain.”

  “I saw him briefly when I arrived at the church,” Owen said in a careful tone that made Tara turn to look at him, as well. “I was planning to talk to him before the wedding. Wish him well, that sort of thing. But I got the call from Tara before I could enter the groom’s room.”

  “The call from Tara?” Tony asked.

  “I was having cold feet,” Tara confessed. “I called Owen because I wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing, and he’s always been my best sounding board.”

  “And what did the two of you decide?”

  “I had no part in it,” Owen said. “She told me nothing was wrong and hung up before I could ask her more questions. That’s why I was on the way to the bride’s room when I spotted what I now know was Tara going out to the parking lot.”

  “Runaway bride?” Tony arched one sandy eyebrow in Tara’s direction.

  “No. A man knocked on the bride’s room door, and when I answered he told me there was a delivery outside for me.”

  “And you went with him?”

  “I thought it might be a misdirected wedding gift.”

  “And was there a delivery?”

  “No. As soon as I got outside, someone put an ether-soaked pillowcase over my head and threw me into a panel van.”

  There was a long moment of silence as Tony digested what she’d told him. He finally cleared his throat and spoke. “Go on.”

  She was beginning to lose him, she realized. Of course she was. She and Owen had both realized early on that their story sounded like pure fantasy.

  “I think it was at that point that I happened upon the scene,” Owen said before she could speak. “I saw two men pushing Tara into the van. I ran to try to stop them, but one of them punched me and I slammed headfirst into the van. I lost consciousness at that point and didn’t come to until sometime later, inside the van. My hands were bound behind my back with duct tape.”

  “I see,” Tony said in a tone that suggested he didn’t see at all. “For how long were you in the van?”

  “I’m not sure. It might have been an hour or more. We ended up about twenty minutes away from the church, though, so I think maybe the men driving the van took a twisty route, maybe to be sure nobody had seen them and taken chase.”

  “You think.”

  “I can’t be sure. We weren’t able to hear them plotting their next move or anything like that.” Owen’s voice took on a sharp edge. “Look, I can tell you’re skeptical of what we’re saying. Maybe you’re not the lawyer we need.”

  “You’re going to have to sell your story to people a lot more skeptical than I. And I never said I don’t believe you.”

  Tara glanced at Owen. He met her gaze with a furrowed brow.

  “How did you manage to get free?”

  “I got the pill
owcase off Tara’s head. They’d left it on when they threw her in the van, so I guess they were hoping it would keep her sedated for the trip.” Owen’s voice darkened. “The idiots could have killed her.”

  “When I woke, I was a little disoriented from the ether. My hands were tied in front of me,” she said.

  “Their mistake,” Owen murmured, his voice warm. “They didn’t anticipate both of us waking up and working together, I think.”

  “Do you have any idea who took you or why?”

  “We’re not sure,” Tara said quickly. “We’re both wondering if it was connected to Robert’s murder.”

  Tony slanted a look toward her. “You’re taking his death well.”

  She looked down at her hands, which were twisting around each other in her lap. She stilled their movement. “I don’t think it’s real to me yet. I didn’t see his body. Maybe if I did...”

  “The police will be wondering why you’re so composed.”

  She looked up sharply at the lawyer. “Do you want me to pretend to be hysterical?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I cared about Robert. I loved him. I can’t even wrap my brain around the idea that he’s gone.”

  “You said you were having cold feet.”

  She glanced at Owen. He was looking down at his own hands, his expression pensive.

  “I was going to call off the wedding.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I realized that I wasn’t in love with him. Not the way I should have been if I were going to marry him.”

  “Did he know that?”

  “No. The kidnapper grabbed me first.”

  “I see.” Tony tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel. “Why do you suppose the kidnappers took Owen into the van rather than killing him and leaving him in the parking lot?”

  “I have no idea,” she answered.

  “I suppose a body in the parking lot would have raised an alert sooner than the kidnappers planned,” Owen added.

  “A body in the groom’s room raised the alert quickly enough.”

  “Hidden behind a door, not out in the open in a church parking lot,” Owen pointed out.