Married In Haste

by Dani Sinclair

  Her heart rate accelerated just looking at him. She didn’t know this man, and she wasn’t sure she quite trusted him, either. But she wanted to go with him—which was stupid and quite possibly dangerous.

  “I’m not an impulsive sort of person,” she told him.

  “That’s okay. I am. Come on. We need to talk.”

  “I must be insane.”

  He grinned. “Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s contagious. You can pass it on to someone else later. Let’s go.”

  The bar was small, crowded and noisy. Soup and sandwiches were still available, and McKella discovered an appetite after all. She was surprised when Greg bypassed the waitress’s offer of beer and chose a nonalcoholic drink, but realized that, whatever his reasons, they’d both be better off with clear heads. Greg was a quiet, restful companion once she was able to ignore her body’s foolish response to having him nearby. He refused to let her talk about anything serious until after they had both eaten. Instead, they drank icy fruit drinks, ate conch stew with crunchy hot bread, and watched a group of men play darts.

  When McKella set aside her bowl, she looked up to find Greg watching her intently. “Why did you marry your husband?”

  His abrupt question caught her by surprise. “That’s none of your business.”

  “It wasn’t—until someone broke into my room.”

  “What does one have to do with the other? Paul didn’t attack you. He doesn’t even know I met you.”

  Greg stared at her. He had beautiful eyes and a ruggedly handsome, intelligent-looking face.

  “The police think we’re lovers,” he said quietly.

  “What?” Her throat constricted and she nearly overturned her glass. Her imagination leaped in a whole different direction. Lovers. The images that word invoked sent her pulse racing.

  “They just haven’t figured out how the other Mrs. Dinsmore works into the equation. Now, if the body in the tub had belonged to your husband, we’d both be looking at a murder rap.”

  McKella couldn’t catch her breath. She couldn’t get any of her swirling thoughts to hold still long enough to form a word, let alone a sentence.

  “Did you know her?” he asked.

  “Of course not!”

  “But you had seen her before this morning. You aren’t a very good liar you know.”

  She did know. And his quiet words cajoled her. It would be a relief to share her fears with someone. Yet she had to keep reminding herself that Greg was a stranger—a handsome, disturbing stranger who somehow seemed to be in the thick of this madness. She knew nothing about him. Besides, she was married.

  “I—”

  “McKella, I know you don’t want to, but you have to trust me. We’re in trouble here.”

  His lumping the two of them together like that was not helping the erratic jump of her pulse. “I don’t know anything.”

  “Then why did you lie to the police?”

  His look seared her soul, unleashing the words that had tumbled around in her mind all evening.

  “I think she was at my wedding. Paul was dancing with someone right before he got sick. I didn’t get a clear look at her face because I didn’t have my contacts in, but…I think it was the woman in the bathtub.”

  Greg leaned back in his chair as the waiter set down two more glasses of juice and cleared away the remains of the meal. They both declined dessert and the waiter left them with a smile, oblivious to the tension that isolated their tiny table in the crowded room.

  “Well, I can see why you wouldn’t want to mention that fact to the police. It would give you more of a motive.”

  “Motive!” Stunned, her hand gripped the edge of the table.

  “Face it, McKella. You’re a murder suspect whether you want to be or not.”

  “That’s crazy!”

  “This whole mess is crazy. The police were easy on us today. They won’t be so kind tomorrow after they get information from the States.”

  “What information?”

  “You’re the new Mrs. Dinsmore. The other Mrs. Dinsmore is dead. Your husband is conveniently missing. You’d better hope he turns up soon.”

  Fear wove its magic spell. “I didn’t kill anyone, and neither did Paul,” McKella stated angrily.

  Greg tipped his head. “Maybe you didn’t, but you can’t be certain about him.”

  “He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.”

  “Who are you trying to convince? Me, or yourself?”

  She wanted to protest, but Greg continued, leaving the sound incomplete in her throat. “We need to put our heads together and see if we can make sense of what’s been happening around here.” He leaned forward, his face intent. “How much do you know about your husband?”

  If Eric Henning was to be believed, then she knew nothing at all. But Paul as a murderer? No. She wouldn’t believe that. There had to be an explanation.

  Still, Greg was right. She was a prime suspect in a murder investigation. Why hadn’t she comprehended that earlier? She needed to be on the telephone—not sitting in some bar with a stranger. If she couldn’t reach Uncle Larry then she’d better call Nathan Marks. Surely the company lawyer could advise her or recommend someone else who could.

  Her brain had turned to mush since the wedding. She needed to start thinking again, using the skills and abilities that had made her a good VP for her father.

  “McKella?”

  Greg’s voice brought her back to reality. She stared, seeing him in a new light. At the moment, this man was her only ally. “I hired a private investigator to check Paul’s background before I married him.”

  “Smart thinking.”

  McKella shrugged. “On paper, Paul checked out. It wasn’t until my investigator probed a little deeper that discrepancies showed up.”

  “What sort of discrepancies?”

  “His last employers claim they never met the man, yet their computer records show him to be a high-level executive for their company.”

  “The records were tampered with?”

  “If my investigator is to be believed.”

  Greg whistled softly and then nodded as if that made some sort of sense. “And your father owns Patterson Opticals.”

  “Actually, I own the company, but how did you know it was a family-owned business?”

  “I did some work for your father.”

  The food she had just eaten suddenly became a heavy layer in the bottom of her stomach. This was one huge coincidence too many. “Really?”

  Greg leaned back and smiled. “Yes, really. My firm was hired to do an outside audit four years ago.”

  “Your firm?”

  “W.D. and L. Associates. I’m the W.”

  She remembered when her father had hired the auditors. That this man should turn out to be one of them…

  “Why didn’t you mention that before?” she demanded suspiciously.

  “Because, frankly, I thought it was too coincidental for the police to swallow. I arrived at Patterson as they were wheeling you out on the gurney to the ambulance. Appendicitis, if I recall.”

  How could he know that unless he was telling the truth?

  “Your uncle was out with a broken hip.”

  “Yes. He was in a boating accident the week before and there were complications with his injuries. Someone found a problem in the accounting department, so Dad hired an outside auditor to straighten things out I was supposed to oversee your work but my appendix picked that morning to rupture.”

  “To think we almost met four years ago. How is your dad?”

  Her smile faded. “He has lung cancer.”

  “I’m sorry. I like your dad.”

  “So do I. That’s why I gave in to his pressure to marry the incoming CEO.” She hadn’t meant to say that.

  His expression hardened. “Why didn’t your father run a thorough background check on your husband before hiring him?”

  She shifted in her chair, remembering that she had wondered the same thing when she went looking for the rep
ort. “Dad hired Paul away from Zuckerman last year—or thought he did. Paul’s got great credentials.”

  “On paper.”

  She gave a jerky nod of assent. “I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding. Paul’s a wonderful man. Bright, enthusiastic. Dad’s spent hours getting to know him, grooming him to take over as CEO.”

  “Why not you? I got the impression your dad wanted you to take over one day.”

  She looked away, staring at the next dart player. How could she explain? At twenty-three, the world of business had been wonderfully fascinating. At thirty-two, she’d met enough challenges to prove all she needed or wanted to in that world.

  “Tired of the rat race, huh?”

  His perception surprised her. “Something like that. I wanted Dad to sell the company two years ago when we learned about his condition, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He built it from the ground up and he wants to pass it on. A dynasty of sorts.”

  “And it’s your job to run it, or produce the heirs?”

  “I want children.” She drew back, trying to banish a sudden vision of two little boys with blue-green eyes.

  His expression softened. “What about your uncle? Doesn’t he own part of the business?”

  “No. He sold Dad his shares years ago. Uncle Larry is happiest working with numbers. He doesn’t want to run things, either.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She looked away, not liking the suspicion in his voice. The next dart player stepped forward and she took a swallow from her glass.

  Greg shook his head. “So you married your husband to please your dad.”

  “And myself! Paul is a dynamic, handsome man.”

  “But you don’t love him.”

  The chair creaked as she straightened up. “My relationship with my husband is none of your business.”

  “You’re wrong, you know. While the police are eyeing the two of us as suspects, everything to do with your husband is my business.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Really? Tell me you love him. Tell me you can convince the constable that you’re madly in love with the man who abandoned you to a dead body.”

  “He did no such thing. He…” McKella took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said.

  “Okay, I’m not passionately in love with Paul, nor he with me. It’s a marriage of convenience,” she told him in exasperation.

  “Not very convenient at the moment.”

  She scowled, but Greg ignored her. He tapped his fingers against his glass, his expression thoughtful.

  “When did you find out his credentials aren’t real?”

  “Never,” she stated emphatically. “There’s just some sort of misunderstanding right now. I got Eric’s message last night, but Paul claims it’s all a mistake.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “Of course I believe him. He’s my husband.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She bristled, but he continued before she could protest.

  “Why’d you wait until today at the airport to talk to him?”

  “I told you, Paul got sick at the recept—”

  “You told the police he got drunk.”

  A skittering of unease made her shift position as she thought back to Paul’s strange illness. “My uncle and everyone else thought he was drunk.”

  “But he wasn’t?”

  Remembering Paul’s behavior and the sudden onset of his symptoms, she shook her head. “I don’t see how he could have been. Yet he had all the symptoms and he passed out on the bed.”

  “He could have been faking.”

  “No. He threw up blood.”

  Greg’s lips thinned. A frown pinched the bridge of his nose again. “And this morning?”

  “He was in a foul mood. Complained of a headache and slept on the plane the entire way.”

  “Sounds like a hangover to me.”

  “I thought maybe he was coming down with something, but—” she spread her hands and shook her head “—he seemed fine today. Just…hungover.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Look, I know this will sound ridiculous, but in light of all that’s happened…well…I keep thinking maybe he was poisoned.” She wondered what had possessed her to tell him that.

  “By his other wife?”

  McKella wished she had kept quiet. Greg was so easy to talk to, but there was something disloyal about discussing Paul when he wasn’t here to defend himself.

  “You said she was at the reception,” Greg persisted.

  “I think she was there. Remember, I didn’t know about his ex-wife until this afternoon.”

  Greg studied her in silence. When he finally spoke, his quiet words dropped into a lull in the noise level of the tavern.

  “What makes you think she was his ex-wife?”

  Chapter Three

  “Of course she’s his ex-wife! You saw the picture!”

  At McKella’s raised voice, several heads turned in their direction. Greg slumped back in his chair, debating what to tell her. If he could confirm his suspicions about her so-called husband, it shouldn’t take the police long to discover the truth. The question was, how would McKella feel toward the bearer of bad news?

  “McKella—”

  There was a commotion at the dartboard as one of the players scored an impossible shot to win the round. Greg dug for some money and plopped it on the table. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They rose and wound their way through the crowd and out into the warm Bermuda evening. It was the stuff fantasies were made of—warm tropical night, gentle breezes blowing, and a beautiful woman at his side.

  It was a fantasy all right, though he was pretty sure McKella was as aware of him as he was of her. He’d noticed her glances in his direction when she thought he wasn’t looking. And he’d seen the subtle spark of interest in her eyes earlier. He cursed the luck that made it impossible for either one of them to act on that attraction.

  Even when she accepted the truth, he’d have to curb his desire for her. A long time ago he’d come to terms with the fact that he could never have a serious relationship, never marry, never afford to have any hostages to fortune. But that didn’t stop him from wanting her, or from wanting to protect her.

  “I don’t think you should go back to your room alone tonight,” he told her, knowing she would take those words the wrong way.

  McKella stopped walking. The breeze ruffled her hair, sending fluffy wisps against her face. He was glad she had let it hang loose around her shoulders tonight. The effect was softer, more womanly. The lights from the fountain reflected in her eyes, making them glitter with amber-like brilliance. She notched her chin a bit higher.

  “Oh, you don’t, huh?”

  She could lay a man out flat with that tone. He bet she made a hell of a vice president for Patterson Opticals.

  “Maybe I should call rent-a-roommate? Or did you already have someone in mind to share my lonely lodging?”

  In for a penny…“Me.”

  Her scornful expression almost made him grin, but she wouldn’t see the humor so Greg thrust his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, waiting.

  “Not a prayer, buster.”

  She turned and started walking again. He spoke softly to her back. “What are you going to do when he comes looking for you, McKella? Wait to be his next victim?”

  She faltered mid-step and pivoted to face him.

  “Paul didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Maybe the police don’t have enough evidence to hold him,” Greg warned before she could speak, “but if he did kill his wife—”

  “Why do you keep saying that? I’m his wife.”

  “Are you?”

  She strode back to where he stood, anger sheeting off her in waves. “Who are you?”

  “Now, I know I introduced myself at least once. I even gave you my card twice.”

  “You know what I mean. Police? FBI? CIA?”

 
; He shook his head. “MBA, CPA.”

  No trace of answering humor lit her expression. “What do you know about Paul that I don’t?”

  Now there was a loaded question. What would she do if he told her the truth? She stood only inches away. He could reach out and pull her forward and…

  And what? Prove what an idiot he was?

  Greg tried to relax. Gently, he said, “He was still married to the woman in the tub when he married you.”

  Even the breeze seemed to still with her sharp gasp. “How do you know that?”

  A group of people erupted from the bar behind them. Their happy chatter broke the hush of the peaceful night. Greg stepped forward and took her arm, feeling her stiffen in protest.

  It had been a mistake to touch her. The need to do more sang through his body.

  “Let’s take a walk down to the pier,” he suggested quietly. She held herself rigid under his fingertips. And he forced himself to remain still and not to give in to the temptation to stroke her satiny skin.

  Once they rounded the bend out of sight, she pulled free. “Start talking,” she demanded.

  It was darker here, away from the lights. Dark enough that he couldn’t read her expression—and she couldn’t read his

  “I knew a Paul Dinsmore once. He was from a small town in Kentucky.” She didn’t comment, so he continued walking and talking softly. “A few months ago I happened to see an ad in the Louisville Courier-Journal. Your husband’s name jumped out at me.”

  “What kind of ad?”

  “One of the personal ads. You know the type. JD loves KC Please call and all is forgiven. Usually, full names and bold type aren’t used in those kind of ads, so this one stood out.”

  “You make a habit of reading those type of ads?”

  “I make a habit of reading the newspaper from front to back,” he told her, unruffled by her sarcasm.

  They reached the pier where the pedal boats were locked down for the night. Nothing moved except the water, gently lapping against the pilings. McKella stepped onto the dock and came to a stop. She didn’t look at the water. He knew her eyes were focused on him.

  “Are you going to keep me in suspense?” she demanded.