Married In Haste

by Dani Sinclair

  Greg followed the policeman when he moved to question her. “You are all right, miss?” the policeman asked in his lilting voice.

  “Yes, thanks to Mr. Wyman.”

  “Your name?”

  “McKella Patterson.”

  As the policeman made more notes in his small book, she gave him her home address and the name of the resort she was staying at.

  She’d given her maiden name by mistake, Greg realized, or else she’d kept her own name. She was, after all, a successful businesswoman.

  But she wasn’t much of a witness. She didn’t seem to realize that this hadn’t been an accident.

  “I saw the truck strike that poor woman,” she told the policeman. “Then Mr. Wyman threw me down out of the way. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”

  “Did you see the driver?”

  “No. It happened too fast. Did his brakes fail?”

  The policeman gave a shrug and moved on to the waiter.

  “What happened?” she asked Greg.

  “The driver took off.”

  “Took off?”

  “He aimed the truck, floored the engine and jumped.”

  “What?” Horror made the word a bare whisper.

  “He ran down the street.” Greg waved his hand to indicate the direction. “A passerby gave chase, but the driver got away.”

  “You actually saw all this?”

  “Only the truck heading for us and the man jumping out. I was facing that direction, don’t forget.”

  “You saw him? The driver?”

  Greg shook his head. “Not so I could recognize him. He was dressed in black with something covering his face.”

  “That should make him easy to find. I don’t think they allow black clothing on the island.”

  He couldn’t force a smile at her weak attempt at humor.

  “This wasn’t an accident.”

  McKella shuddered. “Of course it was. You don’t think the driver was trying to kill that poor woman?”

  “Or you. Or me.”

  Her mouth opened in shock. “What are you saying?” she whispered.

  “We were the three people in his path—a path he deliberately chose. At a guess, I’d say he was aiming for the woman coming to talk with you.”

  “She wasn’t coming to talk to me! I don’t even know that woman.”

  But Greg did. At least, he thought he did. It had been years since he’d last seen her, but she hadn’t changed that much.

  McKella twisted toward the broken form on the concrete several feet away. Someone had covered the body with a tablecloth. McKella shuddered.

  “I was probably the last thing that poor woman saw,” she whispered.

  Greg wanted to draw her into his arms and offer comfort. Instead he repeated, “She appeared to be coming over to talk to you.” The woman hadn’t once looked directly at him.

  “Why would she do that? I don’t know her. I don’t know anyone in Bermuda.” McKella straightened her spine and narrowed her eyes. “You’re making that up.”

  He felt the vein throb in his forehead. He pushed back a curl of hair and kept his voice low and deceptively calm. “You know I’m not.”

  She swayed precariously on her broken heel. “Thank you for coming to my rescue.” And she turned in dismissal, limping over to the officer who’d questioned her.

  “May I leave?”

  He flipped open his notes, looked down and nodded. “Please do not leave the island without checking with us. We may need to ask you further questions.”

  “Of course.”

  Greg took her elbow, eliciting a muffled sound of pain. “You are hurt.”

  “No.” She attempted to pull her arm free.

  Perversely, he continued to hold her, but higher up on her arm.

  “I bruised my elbow when you shoved me down.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You probably saved my life.”

  “Let me see you to your resort.”

  “No, thank you.” She eyed his fingers pointedly.

  “Polite little thing, aren’t you?”

  “I am neither little, nor necessarily polite. Now let go of my arm.”

  Her haughtiness amused him. He liked the amber spark of battle lighting her eyes. “Or?”

  She bared her teeth in a practiced expression that was not quite a smile, but was meant to intimidate. “Or I’ll ask that nice officer over there to remove it for me.”

  Some of the tension left him. He cocked his head and smiled, glad to see the color returning to her face. “Fierce, too.” Greg dropped his hand. “I only meant to help.”

  “I don’t need any help, thank you.”

  It was a polite but firm dismissal. Too bad he couldn’t allow her to dismiss him so easily.

  “No money, remember?”

  “I have money. Which reminds me…” She opened her bag and produced the bills that he had given her earlier.

  He wouldn’t take them. “Keep it.”

  “I’ll do no such thing.”

  “You lost your wallet, remember?”

  “It will be at the cottage.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course.”

  But her worry was obvious.

  “I’d feel better if you kept the money until you find your wallet. You can pay me tomorrow.”

  “I may be leaving before tomorrow.”

  He almost smiled again. “You just got here. Besides, if one of those storms turns into a hurricane and moves in this direction, none of us will be leaving any time soon.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Afraid of storms?” Or afraid of being trapped on a small island with her brand-new husband?

  “This can’t be happening,” she muttered, pushing at the strands of hair that had worked their way loose from her tight bun.

  “Come on, I’ll help you get a cab.”

  McKella suddenly looked exhausted. She didn’t argue when he hailed a taxi. She didn’t even argue when he slid inside next to her. “I’ll have him drop me off at my hotel after I see you home,” he explained quietly.

  McKella simply nodded.

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  “Peachy.”

  He rubbed her forearm. Instantly, she scooted away.

  “You really ought to let a doctor check you over.”

  She twisted to face him. “I don’t see you racing to the hospital.”

  “I wasn’t the one on the bottom.”

  It took her a moment to understand. A light pink swept her cheeks.

  “I never thanked you properly,” she said hastily.

  “Nope, you didn’t.” He’d take bets her idea of proper and his idea of proper weren’t on the same wavelength. Or were they? The pink color deepened.

  “Thank you.” She looked quickly away.

  “Believe me, it was my pleasure.”

  There it was again, that sensual tug that had no business existing in his awareness. But he was aware of McKella on every level—and that was stupid. Stupid and dangerous. He’d only come here because he liked her father and felt obligated to try and warn her. Now he doubted she’d listen to a word he said.

  “I wish you’d let me return your money,” she said.

  “I’m staying at Castle Harbour. You can stop by tomorrow.”

  “I might not have time.”

  “Then mail it to me. Do you still have my business card?” He handed her another.

  “I’m married,” she blurted.

  A tight sensation gripped his stomach, removing any vestiges of humor. She wouldn’t be if he’d learned of the wedding in time to stop it. “I know.” He pointed to her left hand and the rings that glittered there. “Would you like me to go in with you? I’d be happy to explain the situation to your husband.”

  “No!”

  Well, he reminded himself, it would probably be tricky explaining to her new husband why she was arriving at their honeymoon retreat with another man in tow
. Especially him.

  “Thank you anyhow, Mr. Wyman,” she added more softly.

  “Greg. People who are almost run over together should be on a first-name basis, don’t you think?”

  The cab pulled up outside a white-brick building A cluster of cottages sat behind it on the hillside. McKella reached into her purse without answering, but Greg’s large hand closed over hers. “I’ll take care of the fare. Go find your husband, McKella.”

  Her name came out sounding like a caress. He hadn’t expected to be this attracted to Henry’s daughter.

  McKella fumbled for the doorhandle and scrambled from the vehicle. “Thank you. I’ll repay you shortly.” She twisted away, limping to the resort office on her broken shoe.

  Greg stared after her, wondering if she’d still thank him when she learned the truth.

  THE CLERK WAS FILLED with sympathy—and avid curiosity—when McKella told her about the accident. She gave McKella a key and directions to the cottage. Once outside again, McKella removed her shoes and walked in her torn stockings through the lush grass to her unit. The small white cottage had a breathtaking view of the ocean.

  Too bad the honeymoon was over.

  Nervously, McKella opened the front door and stepped inside. The interior left an airy impression of white and soft pastels, but McKella didn’t take time to look around. It was long past the hour she had promised Paul.

  Her luggage sat inside the door as if it had been dropped there hastily. Only Paul’s bag was missing. From the silence, she concluded he’d made good his threat to go and find her.

  Gripping her bag, she mounted the stairs to the second floor. The master bedroom was toward the front and a smaller but lovely guest bedroom was on her left. She could see Paul’s case sitting on the king-size bed in the master suite. McKella turned left.

  She set her suitcase on the guest bed, threw her ruined shoes in the nearest wastebasket, then skimmed out of her torn pantyhose, dropping them on top. She wanted a shower and five minutes of peace before she faced her husband.

  Barefoot, she padded to the door and, feeling like a fool, shut and locked it She did not want Paul walking in while she bathed—not that the flimsy lock on the bedroom door would keep him out if he was determined.

  Still trembling a bit, she stripped her torn, stained suit from her body and dropped it, too, into the wastebasket. She tossed her blouse and underwear on a chair before snatching up a sundress and her makeup kit and walking nude into the cheery bathroom.

  She grimaced at her pale reflection, then tore the pins from her hair, letting the heavy mass of honey-streaked brown fall to frame her face. She fumbled with a shower cap, tucking in strands of hair with one hand as she reached past the shower curtain to turn on the tap with the other.

  Her bare arm brushed against skin.

  She nearly fell as she yanked her hand back. Fear clogged her throat, preventing the scream.

  She expected Paul to reach out and grab her.

  When he didn’t, when there was no sound or sign of motion from behind the shower curtain, she leaned back against the wall, shaking with fright.

  “Come on out, Paul.” Her voice was unnaturally loud.

  There was no sound from inside the tub.

  McKella snatched up a large towel and wrapped it snugly around her body.

  “This isn’t funny. I’m leaving.”

  Silence.

  The moments stretched. Surely he couldn’t stand there so quietly all this time. McKella reached forward and yanked back the curtain hard enough to rip the material from the rod.

  Her scream welled forth without volition.

  A woman lay crumpled in the tub. She was very, very dead.

  Chapter Two

  McKella stared at the crumpled form and willed her mind to function again. Slowly, she backed away, feeling horribly naked and exposed. She tucked the towel more firmly around her chilled skin, but her eyes would not be drawn from the deep bruises that circled the woman’s throat. The skin of the woman’s face was dark red, and her tongue protruding from between blue-gray lips.

  “Oh, God.”

  Her plea erupted on a sob of air. Who was this woman? What was she doing here?

  An image of the other young woman staring sightlessly at the Bermuda sky was superimposed. For just a moment, McKella thought she might vomit. She swallowed hard, swaying slightly as the room grew dim around the edges of her vision.

  She stumbled backward out of the bathroom until the back of her knees came up against the bed. Gratefully, she sank down on the mattress. She put her head between her legs until the light-headed feeling passed.

  Where was Paul?

  He must have gone for help. Surely the body couldn’t have been here long.

  McKella decided she wasn’t going to faint after all and twisted toward the nightstand. No telephone. Her heart thudded as her eyes searched the entire room.

  Her gaze fastened on the closet door, and the metallic taste of fear invaded her mouth. She stared, mesmerized. The wood door was slightly ajar. Had it been that way before, or was someone staring at her through that cracked slit?

  Numbing fear nearly gave way to hysteria. She stood on rocky feet. Her ears strained to catch the faintest sound. She tried to swallow and found she couldn’t. Her eyes never left that cracked door. Had it opened just a bit farther?

  McKella fled back to the bathroom, slamming the door shut and clicking the lock into place. She pressed her ear to the wood, striving to hear over the surging thrum of blood pulsing through her veins. If the murderer was still inside the cottage, she had no way to stop him from adding another body to the tub.

  Quaking with fear, she fumbled for her sundress, needing the reassurance of clothing. She yanked the shower cap from her head, released the knot of the towel and pulled the garment on.

  She turned, and her hands gripped the sink. “What am I doing?”

  Acting hysterical. Giving in to panic. She never panicked. Until now. Coming in here had been stupid. If the murderer was inside the closet, all he had to do was wait for her to open the door.

  “Oh, God.”

  She had never felt so terrified in all her life. Her hands shook with a force of their own. She couldn’t stay here and wait to be murdered. She had to get help.

  “Think!” she commanded aloud.

  Her eyes focused on her makeup kit. A hair spray bottle made a lousy weapon, but it was better than a pair of cuticle scissors. Not giving herself time for second thoughts, she grabbed the bottle and flung open the door. Striding to the closet, she yanked the flimsy panel back, her finger poised over the nozzle of the bottle.

  The closet was empty.

  McKella dropped the hair spray. She drew in a sobbing breath and turned, flying through the bedroom door and down the stairs at a breakneck pace.

  As she wrenched open the front door, she spotted the looming figure with its raised hand. Too late to stop her forward momentum, she slammed into the man full force, knocking the air from her lungs. Arms seized her, pinning her against a solid body. She twisted, wild in her panicked state.

  “McKella! Take it easy!”

  The deep measured tone of the command rather than the words themselves finally penetrated her feardredged mind.

  “It’s okay I’ve got you.”

  Bewildered, she raised startled eyes. “Greg?”

  He had turned them, she realized, placing his body between her and the front door. His muscles bunched with an inner tension that had him poised and ready to take whatever action was called for.

  McKella stared at his chiseled features, noting a line of tiny fine scars running beneath his jaw. She slumped against him, unable to control the sudden shaking that swept her.

  After a moment, he relaxed his grip. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  She shivered as one of his hands slid up and down her arm. His touch was comforting. Soothing. Yet oddly disturbing.

  “Where’s your husband?”

  The que
stion of the hour.

  McKella looked up, trying to summon her scrambled senses—and suddenly froze. What was he doing here? Two dead women—and this man at both scenes? A shiver of pure fear coursed through her.

  “McKella?” He released her, arms dropping to his sides. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Friend or foe?

  She took a hasty step back. Only concern reflected in those oddly colored eyes. Still she hesitated, uncertain. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to return these.” Her sunglasses dangled from his fingers. “They looked like they were prescription and I thought you might need them.”

  For a moment, she could only stare as if she’d never seen them before.

  “McKella, what’s wrong? Where’s your husband?” His deep voice acted as a calming balm on nerves stretched too tight.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know? Talk to me.”

  “There’s a body,” she blurted.

  “What?”

  “Upstairs. In the bathtub.”

  He gave her a slight shove away from the cottage. “Go for help.”

  “No, wait!”

  But he was already through the front door, pounding up the stairs. McKella hesitated, then followed him inside. She couldn’t bear to go up those stairs again, but there might be a telephone in the kitchen. She started through the living room and came to an abrupt halt.

  A purse protruded from the side of the white sofa. Objects spilled from the bag lay scattered beneath the sofa. A few even rested across the room. The coffee table was shoved to one side. A lamp leaned drunkenly against the wall. The signs of disturbance were unmistakable. Why hadn’t she noticed them before?

  Her gaze landed on an open wallet leaning against the floor molding

  Don’t touch anything.

  And she wouldn’t. But she was compelled forward, her feet carrying her to the wallet before her brain caught up. Then it was too late. A photo stared up at her—the implication shocking, horrifying. The room closed in around her—but she couldn’t tear her eyes free, even as she swayed.

  In the wedding picture, the woman in the bathtub had been alive—alive and gloriously happy. She was dressed in white organdy with a smile as dazzling as her gown. And her eyes tilted upward to stare in adoration at her beaming, groom—a man she had danced with again only yesterday.