She watched Paul submerge his anger in favor of the sexy persuasiveness that was such a deliberate part of him.
“Then why couldn’t we have waited for him to explain?” she asked with a calm she was far from feeling.
“I explained! He made a mistake—or someone is playing a very unfunny practical joke.” His icy blue eyes sent a chill racing up her forearms.
She wanted to believe Paul. She did believe him. There had to be a reasonable explanation. She mustn’t give in to these crazy doubts that Eric’s message had planted.
He rested his long tapered fingers along her suit jacket. “McKella, where is this lack of faith coming from? What have I ever done to deserve being investigated in the first place?”
The question wasn’t as riveting as the glimpse she caught of something repellent hidden behind his affable exterior of amazing good looks and polished charm.
He could sell snake oil to a snake. Her father had said that about Paul from the beginning. Only, her father had meant the words to be complimentary.
“You married a businesswoman, Paul. I always check things out. We should have delayed our trip until we talked to Eric.”
His grip tightened just a fraction. Then he broke off to rub at the bridge of his nose. Remorse stabbed her. She knew he had a terrible headache. He’d been downing aspirin tablets all day—when he wasn’t dozing in an effort to overcome the effects of last night.
“You couldn’t even reach the man for confirmation, McKella. It may have been someone else on the phone pretending to be him.”
“It wasn’t.” She was certain of that.
“Are we supposed to miss our honeymoon over some hoax?” His angry eyes fastened on her. “Because that’s what it is, McKella, a hoax. On Monday, you can call Zuckerman yourself. I’ll give you the telephone number for the president’s direct line.”
“Then why did you erase Eric’s message?”
His laugh was bitter. “Look at you. Look at what you’re thinking right now. Of course I erased that damn message. It was obviously a prank—somebody’s idea of a sick joke. Or else it was a scam and that clown was planning to hit you up for more money.”
Uncertainty made her waver. Eric wouldn’t scam her, but he could have been misled.
“Look, McKella, I wish you had come to me with your doubts.”
“I don’t—”
“Obviously, I did something to make you doubt me this way.” Regret and pain etched lines around his mouth. “We probably shouldn’t have rushed the wedding, but I thought it was what you wanted, considering your father’s condition. Maybe I expect too much to think you should trust my word over that of some sleazy PI.”
“I do tr—”
“I didn’t want to hang around this morning and miss our plane waiting for that clown to call back and tell you it was a joke,” he continued forcefully. “There are two tropical depressions off the coast right now. I wanted to reach the island before flying became dangerous or prohibited. What if one of the storms decides to move or turn into a hurricane?”
“You want to be here during a hurricane?” Once more she tried for humor in an effort to diffuse his anger.
He didn’t smile. If anything, his expression hardened. “You were most insistent that we honeymoon here.”
The thinly veiled accusation stung. “You asked me where I wanted to go—”
“McKella, for God’s sake, my head is splitting. I don’t want to quibble with you over every little thing I say.”
An older couple moved past them, luggage in tow. They eyed McKella and Paul with curiosity. McKella sent a quick glance around and realized that several people were watching them.
“You’re right. The middle of the airport is hardly the place for this discussion.”
“I’ll get us a cab and we’ll go to the resort.”
He reached a hand toward her, but she stepped back out of range. She felt oddly detached and uncertain. This was not the affable man she had come to know. “You go ahead.” The words came out before she could think.
He masked his anger so well no one would believe it existed. “Now I’ve made you angry. I’m sorry, darling. I know I’m not handling this well, but I have the grandfather of all headaches. I really don’t want to fight with you.”
He brushed back a coil of dark black hair that had fallen across his forehead, and she thought again that he was an extraordinarily handsome man.
“I was a jerk last night, getting sick and passing out like that. And I’ve been a jerk all day, sleeping when we should have been talking. Please forgive me. I’m annoyed, but not with you. I can prove your detective is lying easily enough.”
Could he? McKella’s stomach churned. Anyone else hearing Paul would be moved by such a heartfelt appeal.
Why wasn’t she?
Paul’s explanation was so plausible.
Only, Eric had an impeccable reputation. Patterson had used his services for years. She trusted the detective.
Did that mean she didn’t trust her husband?
McKella brushed aside the traitorous thought. Eric could have made a mistake. He was probably even now enroute to see Zuckerman to make certain of his facts. That would explain why he hadn’t returned her calls. Still, she had to talk to the detective before she suffocated on the turmoil of her churning thoughts.
Paul was right about one thing: They’d rushed the wedding. She’d let her own wants, and her father’s illness, influence her actions.
“Why don’t you go on to the resort,” she suggested as lightly as she could. She felt an overwhelming need to get away from Paul and to think this through. “I need to pick up a few things in town.”
“McKella, we need to talk.”
“I believe those were my words this morning.” She tried to keep her emotions at bay but the constriction in her chest tightened further, heightening her need to escape. “Talking doesn’t seem to be getting us anywhere at the moment.”
Again, restrained fury danced beneath the surface of Paul’s elegant facade. “That’s because you aren’t listening to me.”
“Really? We’re here, aren’t we? I wanted to wait until we cleared this up, remember?”
Why had she never seen this implacable hardness in him before? Because she hadn’t been looking. Because they’d never been at loggerheads over anything important before.
“I’m sorry, Paul,” she continued more firmly, striving for at least an outward show of control. “I have a headache, too. We both need some space right now.”
His eyes seemed to bore right through her.
She considered the man she thought she knew. Besides being strikingly handsome, Paul was well-spoken, with the leadership qualities and the experience necessary to take over the company she didn’t want to run, that her uncle wasn’t capable of running. Paul could also give her the family she craved, and at age thirty-two that had become an important issue for her.
She wasn’t deluding herself. She knew their marriage was no love match—more of a like match. And she’d been willing to settle for that. It had seemed like the right thing to do.
Until last night.
Until Eric made Paul Dinsmore an unknown quantity.
“This is not how I wanted to start our honeymoon,” Paul pressed. He tried for one of his more charming grins. “So far, I’ve been a dismal failure as a husband.”
McKella couldn’t return his smile nor dispute his words. “Give me a little time to—”
“One hour,” he told her abruptly. “If you don’t come to the cottage in one hour, I’ll come get you.” He didn’t try to hide the threat, though he covered it with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Really?”
He flinched at her response. At least he knew her well enough to read the steel beneath her soft tone.
“McKella, I didn’t mean that to sound so—”
“Arrogant? Domineering?”
“McKella—”
“One hour,” she agreed and turned on her
spindly high heels so he wouldn’t see the lie. For one wild moment, part of her expected him to grab her from behind—but of course he didn’t. She stumbled and almost fell over her suitcase, ruining her exit. His strong hands steadied her, sending an unexpected jolt of distaste through her system.
Her handbag slipped from her fingers and clattered to the tile floor, raining debris. Paul bent to retrieve the scattered items, while she righted the suitcase and refastened the snap that had come undone. She chased after her sunglasses that had skittered across the tile floor, put them on, and accepted her purse without a word.
“Remember one thing,” he said softly, “you’re my wife now.”
She curbed her instant, angry response, but his words echoed in her head as her heels snapped out a staccato rhythm toward the exit. She didn’t have to look back to know that he watched her go.
Heat and humidity washed over her as soon as she stepped outside. Her suit melded to her skin and her carefully restrained hair dampened and clung to her scalp in its tight bun. The island was a sauna.
Wasn’t there a song about how the Bermuda Triangle made people disappear? She fumbled with her large handbag, finding it open. If only the Bermuda Triangle could make her questions disappear. Had she been stupid just now? Had Eric been conned? Was she risking the end of her marriage over a prank or a scam?
Inside her bag, the coin purse had jostled its way to the top. Without delving any further, she pulled it out, knowing there was enough cash inside for a taxi ride.
The taxi driver took her into downtown St. George, close to the resort. She drew quite a few stares as she strolled down the busy sidewalk dressed in a cream-colored linen suit and teal-blue blouse. Definitely the most overdressed woman on the island of Bermuda, she thought. Even the policemen wore shorts.
She strolled past the shops and crowds of tourists, trying to push anger aside and put her thoughts in order. She needed to call Eric Henning again. The number he’d left had continued to ring unanswered this morning. Why hadn’t he returned her messages?
Unless Paul was right about the call being a prank.
McKella made her way to a tiny outdoor café and, with a sigh, sank into an empty seat at a table near the sidewalk. The waiter was a delightful Bermudian who, undefeated by her choice of iced tea over the fruited rum drink, convinced her in his lilting dialect to try the house sandwich instead of a simple salad. McKella finally agreed, reminded of the same friendly pressure tactics her father and Paul had used to convince her to get married in the first place. She hadn’t needed much persuasion then, either.
“When did I turn into such a wuss?”
A man sat down at the next table, drawing her gaze. He smiled sympathetically. “Don’t feel bad,” he told her. “He’s very persuasive.”
The stranger had a warm smile, McKella decided. She returned it, but quickly turned away, disturbed by her inner reaction to the man. He reminded her of Paul. Uneasily, she realized he also resembled the stranger lurking at her wedding yesterday. This couldn’t be the same man, of course.
Still, her breathing quickened. If nothing else, this stranger was much too potently masculine for comfort. The last thing she needed was to get picked up by a sexy stranger on the prowl while she struggled with a conflict that might end her marriage twenty-four hours after the ceremony.
She asked the passing waiter about a telephone, intending to try Eric’s number again, but a woman was already using the only pay phone and a man waited impatiently behind her.
McKella became conscious of the stranger watching her with frank approval. He lowered his head to a guide book, but she sensed his awareness of her every movement.
His dark curly hair and similar build were what reminded her of Paul, she concluded. They really didn’t look alike up close. This man’s features were more rugged, less perfect. When he glanced up and caught her staring, she averted her eyes and looked toward the street.
A group of moped bikers putted their way through the busy traffic, briefly forgetting to stay to the left as they turned the corner. The natives were used to tourists. Horns blared and the oncoming taxi missed the nearest biker, who quickly returned to her own lane.
McKella shook her head as the beaming waiter deposited an enormous croissant sandwich on her table. She ate mechanically, but the food soon restored her frazzled nerves, helping her to put things in perspective.
She shouldn’t have allowed Paul’s strange behavior to anger her. Her attempts to force a discussion over breakfast that morning had been met with a wall of stony silence, except for his insistence that they not miss their plane. He’d looked so ill that she’d allowed him to get away with his behavior. A mistake, she decided.
It would take them time to feel their way through the sudden changes in their relationship. Paul needed to understand that, while she was the boss at Patterson Opticals, at home she was his partner.
Leaving him at the airport had been another mistake. They were married. Frank discussion was essential if their marriage was going to work.
“No, it’s still a tropical storm,” the waiter assured the attractive man at the next table. “They say it may be a hurricane by morning, but don’t worry, hurricanes seldom bother Bermuda.”
“Actually,” the man said in his low, pleasing baritone, “I wasn’t worried about the island. I was more concerned that it would shut down the airport.”
“That could be a problem,” the waiter agreed.
McKella pushed aside the remainder of her sandwich. She would try to call Eric again, she decided. Then she would go to the cottage and talk with Paul.
Her fingers froze when she opened her purse and began to rummage for her wallet. Immediately, she realized the white envelope containing her birth certificate and the return plane ticket was gone.
Had she dropped it in the taxi?
No. She hadn’t spilled a thing in the cab. The envelope must have fallen out at the airport when she’d dropped her bag. Paul had picked up everything except her glasses. She was certain nothing else had remained on the tile floor.
Heart pounding, she let the implication sink in. Had Paul kept the envelope? It was the only explanation.
“Is something wrong?”
The stranger gazed at her in concern. His brightly colored eyes were warm and caring. McKella straightened and tried for a polite smile. “Nothing. Thank you.”
He didn’t accept her delicate brush-off. His low voice rumbled soothingly. “Have you lost your wallet?”
Wallet.
She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head, flipped open the purse, and once more shuffled the contents. Her change purse was there, but no matter how many times she moved things around, her change purse was there but her wallet—containing her identification, credit cards and checkbook—was gone.
“I’ll be happy to pay for your meal. Do you think you might have left it in your hotel room?”
She stared at the man’s rugged face without really seeing him, while the undigested sandwich rolled in her stomach. “I haven’t been to the resort yet.”
He pulled two bills from his wallet and handed them to her.
“What’s this?”
“Some cash until you find your wallet.”
When McKella tried to hand it back, her fingers brushed his hand, making them tingle in awareness. “No. Thank you.”
“It’s okay. Consider it a loan.”
“I’m sure I have enough money to cover lunch.”
He handed her a business card. “Greg Wyman.”
She accepted the card without glancing at it. Despite the heat and humidity, she was cold, terribly cold. Paul had removed all her identification from her purse.
“Thank you, Mr. Wyman, but—”
“Greg.”
“Greg.” She didn’t return his smile. “I really don’t need—”
His head jerked up, staring past her as a car horn squawked loudly. Other horns followed suite. Someone shouted.
She’d grow
n used to the traffic noises and the roar of the incessant mopeds, but when she saw Greg’s expression, McKella twisted to look behind her. A small truck weaved down the road, coming much too fast. Suddenly it veered toward the café scattering pedestrians, leaving bikers and cars hopelessly snarled.
A woman approached along the sidewalk, not paying the least bit of attention. She looked right at McKella as the truck struck her from behind.
Strong arms grabbed McKella. Greg yanked her from her seat and flung them both to one side. He buried her body beneath his own. The truck splintered through the low picket fence into the table where she’d been sitting, crushing it and Greg’s against the café wall and shattering the plate-glass storefront of the pale-pink building.
The din was incredible. Voices shouted.
“Are you okay?”
McKella stared up into Greg’s captivating blue-green eyes. “Thanks to you.” Her voice sounded as breathless as she felt.
He rose and tugged her to her feet, then let her go and spun toward the wreckage. The woman’s body lay on the sidewalk, bent at an impossible angle. Blood pooled in dark patches around her broken form. Her eyes, glazed in death, stared up at the china-blue sky.
Someone was screaming. A high penetrating sound that tore at the nerves. More voices shouted. People milled everywhere.
GREG DECIDED MCKELLA was in a mild state of shock, but otherwise all right. He moved to assist an older couple. It was too late to chase after the driver who’d leaped from the van, so he did what he could for the injured. He noticed McKella assisting the waiter, who had blood streaming from a cut on his forehead. Her wide brown eyes stood out against her pale face.
A policeman tapped him on the shoulder, and the questions began. Right now, giving the officer an accurate description of what had happened was more important than going to McKella. Still, Greg never lost sight of her—not even when she sat down after waving off help for her own injuries.
Her cream-colored suit was stained beyond redemption and the heel on one of her pumps had snapped off. Greg could see she’d scraped her knee, ruining her hose. And she kept rubbing her elbow as though it hurt.
Married In Haste Page 2