Married In Haste

by Dani Sinclair

  “Paul?”

  McKella forgot about the body—forgot about Greg and the reason she shouldn’t touch anything. She reached down and lifted the wallet, flipping to find identification.

  Betty Jane Dinsmore. In case of emergency, notify her husband, Paul Dinsmore. It was dated two years ago.

  Footsteps thundered down the tiny staircase. “McKella! I told you to…” Greg’s eyes traveled over her shoulder to the room behind her. Frown lines pleated the bridge of his nose. His words trailed off, punctuated by an oath as he took in the scene.

  McKella shoved the wallet into the pocket of her dress. Her entire body shook.

  “What did you find?”

  His features were hard. Abruptly dangerous. Who was this man? What was he doing here?

  Greg took a step forward, his hand outstretched. “You shouldn’t have touched anything,” he said in that quiet, calm way of his. “Let me see.”

  Instinctively, she wanted to retreat, but she lifted her chin and held her ground. This, at least, was something she understood. She was used to dealing with pushy men.

  “We need to call the police.” Her voice was stronger this time.

  “Let me see, McKella.”

  “No.”

  He held out his hand and waited. The pounding of her heart left her light-headed. But it wasn’t due to fear. He looked capable of violence, yet she didn’t believe for a moment that he would hurt her. He wasn’t going to go away. A part of her was relieved by that. Strangely enough, his presence gave her a sense of safety.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  His head tipped slightly to one side. He ignored her question. “Show me what you found.”

  If he had threatened her, she would have tried to run. But he stood there with his hand out, his blue-green eyes coaxing her to obey. Only the pulsing vein in his forehead revealed his tension.

  Her hand eased inside her skirt and pulled forth the wallet.

  THE LANKY POLICEMAN’S dark eyes crinkled in concern—or suspicion. McKella couldn’t tell which.

  No one spoke as the sheet-draped body was carried outside. She’d repeated her story over and over again until her voice was hoarse and she was ready to collapse in sheer exhaustion.

  “Mrs. Dinsmore—or do you prefer Ms. Patterson, the name you gave the constable at the accident scene this morning?”

  McKella shook her head, thinking irrelevantly how alien that title was to her. She was Mrs. Dinsmore, but so was the body in the tub. A shudder passed through her.

  “This woman—this other Mrs. Dinsmore—you did not know her?”

  “I told you, we’d never met.”

  “You were married yesterday?”

  “Yes, as I said.”

  “But you and your husband had a fight at the airport.”

  There was a small mole at the corner of the man’s mouth. McKella focused on that. “More or less.”

  “About the other Mrs. Dinsmore?” he persisted.

  “No! I keep telling you, I don’t know anything about another Mrs. Dinsmore. I wanted Paul to explain about his references.”

  “Your husband gave you a reference before you were married?”

  She almost laughed at how ludicrous that sounded, but it appeared she should have asked for one. “His job reference. When he came to work for my father’s company.”

  “Ah.”

  The man put so much heart into the sound that she twitched in reaction. Her eyes refocused on his mole as if it were a talisman.

  “Our argument was personal. It had nothing to do with the dead woman. I don’t know where Paul is right now, but he couldn’t have gone far. The island isn’t that big.”

  The man’s head bobbed once. “True. If he is still on Bermuda we will find him.”

  “Well, where else could he be?”

  “You have his papers? His tickets?”

  McKella shook her head. “I told you, he has them.”

  “Including yours.”

  Her fingers clenched the stiff arm of the uncomfortable sofa. Freer already knew all this. He’d asked to see her identification in the beginning. “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  She wished she did. Her eyes flicked to Greg who sat oddly still and silent in one of the chairs across from her. His expression didn’t reveal a single thought.

  “Constable Freer, my husband drank too much at the reception last evening. He passed out on the bed shortly after reaching our room and his hangover was so bad this morning he could hardly string sentences together.” She blinked back the memory and didn’t look toward Greg. The last thing she wanted to see was his pity.

  A trace of sympathy flickered in the officer’s black eyes and promptly disappeared. He scratched absently at his head. “You continued this fight on the plane?”

  “It wasn’t a fight. I told you that. I tried to talk to Paul, but he closed his eyes and fell asleep again. He didn’t wake until right before we landed. I left him at the airport and took a cab into St. George’s on my own.”

  “Giving him your papers?”

  “No. I dropped my purse in the airport. The papers must have fallen out. I’m assuming he picked them up.”

  “So you met Mr. Wyman and were nearly killed in that unfortunate accident outside the café.”

  “Yes. I mean, I didn’t meet him—it wasn’t an arranged meeting…he just happened to be there, too.” Her heart beat a little more quickly.

  “You and Mr. Wyman had never met before?”

  “No. We told you that.” She looked at the silent sexy stranger sitting in the corner and wondered fleetingly about the man she’d seen at her wedding. Could he be the same man?

  “Yes. Yet here you both are again.”

  “He was returning my sunglasses!”

  Unfazed, the officer studied her. “You have never seen the dead woman before?”

  McKella took a deep breath, closed her eyes and shook her head. The fingernails of her right hand dug into the upholstered arm of the couch. She couldn’t take much more of this.

  “No.” She forced her voice to sound firm and in control.

  When she opened her eyes, she met Greg’s steady blue gaze. It seemed to delve into her soul. Greg Wyman knew she lied.

  GREG STRODE DOWN THE HALL of Castle Harbour, his fingers reaching in his pocket to produce the key card to his room. It was late—after nine o’clock. The police hadn’t finished with them until almost eight. Greg had stayed until they arranged for McKella to spend the night at the same hotel where he had a room.

  Dressed as a bride, she’d been a fairy princess come to life. A woman any man would want to bed. Up close, at the café, she’d been the cool professional, naturally aloof. She made him want to peel away that veneer to see if the hidden depths of her were as hot as he suspected. Then tonight, sitting on the couch facing the police interrogation, she stirred an urge to protect, yet at the same time made him want to applaud her quiet strength.

  And he still wanted to take her to bed.

  The lady had more facets than the diamond on her ring finger, and all of them were intriguing. Who was the real McKella Patterson, and why was he so certain she had lied to the police? Had she seen Betty Jane at the reception yesterday? It was possible. After all, it was Betty Jane’s investigation that had led him this far.

  At first, all he’d wanted was to see for himself who Paul Dinsmore really was. Then he’d mistakenly thought he could protect the innocent. Stupid. He was nobody’s hero.

  Greg slid the card into the slot and waited for the light to turn green. He stepped inside, fumbling for the light switch.

  The blow whistled out of empty air. Something crashed against the side of his head. The force slammed him into the wall and his shoulder took a second, heavier strike. He went down, unable to prevent the fall. A hard pointed kick cracked against his hip before the attacker broke off and leaped over his body, out into the hall.

  Greg fought a moment of nausea as he rose to his feet, not as quickl
y as he would have liked. He fumbled for the door and started down the hall after the attacker. Something warm and wet trickled down his cheek. He brushed at it, staggering into a man and woman stepping out of their room two doors down from his. The woman gasped, quickly stepping back.

  “Hey! You okay?” the man asked.

  Greg didn’t pause. He was running—well, lurching forward—intent on catching up to the attacker. “Call security,” he yelled without stopping.

  A glance down showed a smear of blood on the back of his hand. He turned the corner only to see the elevator door shut as it began its descent. He was too late.

  “Damn.” His shoulder and hip hurt like the devil and his head continued to leak blood

  The man from the other room caught up with him. “What happened?”

  “Break in,” he said succinctly.

  “My wife’s calling security.”

  And security apologized profusely This sort of incident simply did not happen on Bermuda, and particularly not at a hotel such as Castle Harbour. The police who arrived were more suspicious.

  His room had been tossed. The good news was, it hadn’t been done by a professional. Unless—Greg thought glumly, sitting on the end of his bed—it had been done by a professional who wanted this to look like an amateur job. Had Paul Dinsmore’s name attracted the killers? Was this why Betty Jane was dead?

  “So, you have another problem, Mr. Wyman?”

  “Constable Freer,” he acknowledged as the older man stepped inside his crowded bedroom. The two security men and the other policemen made room for the lanky officer.

  Freer scratched at his head in a familiar gesture. “You seem to have brought some problems to our small island,” he said.

  “Hey, I had nothing to do with someone breaking in here.”

  “Really? Does it not strike you as coincidental that you are in three places in less than twenty-four hours where violence occurs? We do not have much crime on Bermuda, Mr. Wyman. It would appear that you have brought your own criminals with you.”

  Greg knew better than to respond to that. The officer was tired and angry. His mouth was set in a tight line that emphasized the small mole near his mouth.

  Greg didn’t blame him a bit. The man probably hadn’t had dinner yet. The nurse finished taping the cut in Greg’s scalp, then asked him to remove his shirt so she could look at his shoulder. He waved her away.

  “Something might be fractured,” she insisted.

  He could feel the pulsing bruise. “It isn’t.”

  “You should have X rays.”

  “I should have taken a vacation in Alaska.”

  “Yet, you did not,” Freer stated, looking up from the notes his fellow officer had handed him. “Why did you select Bermuda at this particular time?”

  He’d known this attack was going to be one coincidence too many for the police. “I’m a sucker for a crime wave and I heard you were going to have one.”

  Freer didn’t even raise an eyebrow. “You want to tell me again that you did not know Mrs. Dinsmore before you arrived?”

  His nerves tightened, but he kept all emotions from his face. He also managed to restrain an impulse to ask which Mrs. Dinsmore.

  “Is that what you think? That McKella and I have a thing going?”

  “Do you?”

  “No.” Imagination didn’t count, which was probably a very good thing. Where McKella Patterson was concerned, his imagination was excellent.

  “You do not think it was her husband who searched your room and lay in wait for you?”

  That was exactly what he thought, and if he’d been a fraction quicker, he might have caught the bastard.

  It was a nuisance to keep his voice from giving away his thoughts. “I never met McKella’s husband. Why would he attack me?”

  “Because you were eating lunch with his new bride the day after their wedding?”

  “I was eating lunch in the same restaurant as his wife,” Greg corrected mildly. “We weren’t even sitting together.”

  “An interesting coincidence, you will agree.”

  Hard to argue that—since it hadn’t been. “St. George is a real small town.”

  “Indeed. You are sticking with your story then?”

  “I’m going to continue to tell you the truth to the best of my ability. Why don’t you go find her husband and ask him all these questions?”

  “We are trying, Mr. Wyman.”

  “It’s a small island, Constable Freer,” he said, mimicking McKella’s earlier words.

  “Indeed.”

  Hard, dark eyes stared at him as if trying to rip past his outer defenses. Greg met that gaze without flinching.

  “Do not attempt to leave the island without checking with my office.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it. It doesn’t look like I’m going anywhere in a hurry anyhow. In case your minions forgot to put it in their report, the thief took my return plane ticket.”

  “I have that notation, Mr. Wyman.”

  “Great. Your man was thorough then.” He nodded to the younger, impassive officer who had first responded.

  “I will be in touch,” Freer told him.

  “I can hardly wait.”

  The room grew silent with the departure of the police and the hotel security men. Greg stared grimly at his rifled suitcase. Whoever had gone through his belongings had been in a hurry. Had it been the man calling himself Paul Dinsmore, or was it someone else? Someone with a much more deadly agenda?

  An image of McKella Patterson rose unbidden. She was, after all, a big part of the reason he was here. Warning her had seemed like a good idea yesterday. Now he was trapped, and if he stayed, he might well be the next body for Constable Freer to investigate.

  Greg uttered a heartfelt curse, rose and limped to the bathroom for a glass of water. The nurse had left two aspirin tablets, and he was going to need them.

  He swallowed when a sudden thought occurred. If McKella’s husband had been the one who attacked him, his next stop would be…

  “MCKELLA, OPEN THE DOOR.”

  McKella debated her options. It was obvious Greg Wyman wasn’t going to give up and go away. Wearily, she rose from the chair and crossed the room.

  “McKella!”

  “Will you hush?” she scolded as she swung open the door. “You’ll have the neighbors and security down my—What happened to you?” Bloody spots dotted his white shirt. A small bruise was forming on his left cheek.

  “Are you okay?” he demanded.

  “Perfect, but you look awful.”

  He ignored that and stared at her intently for a moment. His gaze was unnerving. He was unnerving.

  “Are you going to invite me in?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good—”

  He pushed gently past her, his oddly colored eyes sweeping the room, taking in the details of her uneaten meal.

  “Please, come right in,” she said, lacing her words with sarcasm. “What did you do, rent one of the mopeds and forget to stay to the left?”

  “Cute.”

  She watched him peruse her room, which was spacious and dominated by a king-size bed. The room also had an enormous walk-in closet and the bathroom had a bidet, but the view was far from spectacular. It did not face the water and the window was mostly obscured by a rather ugly large tree.

  “Why are you here?” she demanded.

  He twisted to face her and she noticed the bandage in his hair. He had been hurt.

  “Someone broke into my room.”

  McKella hadn’t thought she could handle any more shocks today, but this one landed with the same impact as the others. “No.” The word came out a whisper.

  “Unfortunately, yes. Have you heard from your husband?”

  Her eyes closed to hide her dismay. She’d done nothing but agonize over Paul since the police had helped her check in here. Twice she had tried to call her uncle, but he wasn’t at home or in his office. She didn’t dare call her father and risk upsetting him, an
d Eric Henning still wasn’t answering at the number he’d left for her.

  Where was Paul? The question—and its ramifications—haunted her.

  She bit down hard on her lower lip and opened her eyes Greg limped over to the desk, lifted a french fry and took a bite. “You’re not eating,” he scolded.

  She eyed the cold food she’d been rearranging on the plate for the past several minutes, then returned his steady gaze.

  “I’m not very hungry.”

  He lifted another french fry.

  “But do help yourself,” she added.

  His grin was pure mischief. It took years from his face. Inexplicably, her lips twitched in a desire to return the smile. This man could play havoc with a woman’s hormones if he set his mind to the task.

  He replaced the fry and shook his head. “I would, but this stuffs cold. Come on, let’s get out of here and find someplace to eat”

  McKella shook her head. “I told you, I’m not hungry.”

  “Then you can watch me eat.”

  “I have to wait here in case Paul calls.”

  “How is he going to know to call you here? And when he does show up, the police are going to want to talk to him first.”

  She was well aware of that. The horrible possibilities had vied for dominance since she’d closed the door on her police escort. Was Paul hurt? In trouble?

  Or was he a murderer?

  “McKella, you aren’t doing yourself or him any good sitting alone in here imagining the worst.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” she snapped.

  “Come with me and get something to eat.”

  Ridiculous to feel so tempted. She glanced down at her wrinkled sundress and made a face. “I’m not dressed to go anywhere.”

  “You look better than I do.” His stare made her intensely aware of herself and the king-size bed behind her. The room seemed to shrink until Greg Wyman was all she could see.

  “There’s a small bar-type place out back behind the fountain. Come on,” he urged.

  His voice sounded like an invitation to bed rather than an offer to go for a meal.

  “They’ll probably have sandwiches,” he coaxed, “and I don’t know about you, but I could use something cold to drink about now.”