Married In Haste

by Dani Sinclair

  “Indeed. The two of you had a long chat last night after dinner.”

  Greg flashed her an easy smile that surprised her. He projected an aura of confidence, looking utterly relaxed.

  “I wish I’d known you had someone watching out for her. After you left I got to thinking about the attack on me. I was worried that if her husband killed the woman in their bungalow and attacked me in my room, McKella might be in danger.”

  McKella uttered a small sound of protest, but neither man looked in her direction.

  “You wanted to protect her from her husband?”

  Greg nodded. “If necessary. I like her. I don’t like what’s happening around her.”

  McKella resented being treated like a helpless female. “I can take care of myself,” she announced.

  “Maybe. Most of the time, anyhow,” he agreed. His eyes assessed her, heating her skin. “You don’t look like you got any more sleep last night than I did.”

  “If that’s your subtle way of telling me I look terrible, then thanks.”

  His eyes crinkled in a smile—a slow, sexy kind of a smile that altered her breathing. “You couldn’t look terrible if you tried.”

  Warmth swept her cheeks. She was suddenly conscious of the policeman watching this exchange. Before she could think of anything to say, Greg turned toward the man.

  “Don’t you agree, Constable?”

  Freer didn’t respond. A waitress bustled over to ask Greg if he wanted to order, and the moment slipped away.

  For the better part of half an hour, the police officer continued with discreet questions—questions that might have made McKella more uneasy if she hadn’t been so aware of the man at her side.

  “I guess that will be all for now. Mrs.—McKella, you are free to return to the cottage. We are done with it for now.”

  She didn’t try to stop a grimace of distaste. Greg, however, was more vocal.

  “Do you think that’s a good idea? Are you sending men to watch her?”

  “Now, Mr. Wyman, our police force is rather limited—”

  “I can speak for myself, Greg.” She turned to the policeman. “I’d like to leave the island today, as soon as the credit card company issues me a replacement card.”

  “I am afraid that will not be possible,” he told her. “We need you to remain on Bermuda until your husband is located. I am certain you see the need.”

  “No, frankly, I don’t. My father is gravely ill. He’s going to be very distressed by this news, and I’ve told you everything I can.”

  “I am sorry, but I must insist.”

  “What about the storms?” Greg asked. “I understand the closest one has been upgraded to hurricane status and is stalled right off the coast. I don’t fancy being stranded here much longer myself.”

  “I am afraid murder must take precedence over the weather, Mr. Wyman. Bermuda has withstood many storms over the years. You need not concern yourself. You will be safe enough should it turn towards us.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The man allowed a small smile that revealed large white teeth. “Tourism is our livelihood. We will not endanger anyone. It would be bad press, as you say.”

  “Like murder?” Greg provoked.

  “Exactly.” His dark eyes showed no trace of humor. “I suggest you both relax and take in some of the sights until such time as we locate Mr. Dinsmore.”

  McKella rounded on Greg as soon as they were alone.

  “Why didn’t you tell him what you told me last night?”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “They weren’t my fairy tales.”

  “Mine, either.”

  He met her glare with equanimity. McKella reached for the check, added a tip, and signed her name with her room number. She was tired and furious and—if she wanted to be honest—a bit scared.

  Greg covered her hand when she pressed her palm against the table, preparing to rise. His touch sent currents jolting through her body.

  “Do you play golf?”

  Startled, she met his gaze. The unbelievable color of his eyes was due to colored contacts, she realized for the first time. “No.”

  “Neither do I, but that’s one of the major tourist draws here besides the beaches.”

  “There’s always tennis and shopping if you’re bored.”

  “I was thinking of you.”

  “I’m not the least bit bored.” She wished he would remove his hand from hers, yet she was somehow reluctant to pull it free.

  “McKella, can we declare a truce? I’m not anxious to spend the day alone and I don’t imagine you are either.”

  She couldn’t argue that. The very idea filled her with dread. She hadn’t been able to shut off the chaotic thoughts last night; how was she going to cope today?

  “Why don’t you change into a swimsuit and we’ll spend the day at one of the beaches?”

  “Are you nuts? I can’t just go off to the beach as though nothing was wrong.”

  He tipped his head to the side. “You can worry there as easily as you can here. Would you rather sit in your room all day?”

  No. “That’s not the point.”

  “It’s exactly the point. We can talk and maybe piece together what’s going on here.”

  They would have plenty of privacy at the beach for thoughts and questions, but somehow it felt disloyal going off with Greg when Paul was missing.

  “McKella, unless you have some idea where your husband is hiding, you can sit in your room, lie on the beach, or we can roam the island, hoping to spot him. But the entire police force is already looking for him.”

  “I know. You’re right. The beach isn’t really such a bad idea, but I forgot to pack a suit,” she lied. She couldn’t possibly wear the daring two-piece suit in front of Greg. She had bought it to please Paul.

  He raised a skeptical eyebrow as they stood. “There’s a gift shop. You can pick up something there. I need some sun block myself.”

  McKella took a deep breath. She was strongly attracted to Greg. An attraction she didn’t want and couldn’t afford.

  Going anywhere with him was probably a mistake.

  IF MCKELLA HAD WANTED TO RAISE his blood pressure, she couldn’t have found a better way to do it. Dressed in a one-piece bathing suit with a demure neckline, and lying under a rented beach umbrella, she was turning heads without even knowing it.

  Greg shifted positions in the warm sand once more. He was sure she had selected the gold-colored suit from the rack because she thought it was the most conservative one in the store. She couldn’t know that in the sun the material seemed to disappear into her honeygold skin, leaving her all but nude against the white beach towel.

  Greg had had a few bad moments watching her stroke sun block onto her arms and those beautiful silky legs. She didn’t make a production of it, nor did she seem to be aware of the way the action affected him.

  Apparently lost in thought, McKella didn’t seem inclined to talk. She made a short pretense of trying to read, but it wasn’t long before she laid the book on her stomach. Despite the sunglasses shading her eyes, he knew when she fell asleep.

  Greg stretched out beside her, completely aware that he was playing a fool’s game. He should be miles away. His own safety might depend on it. Anyone in the vicinity of Paul Dinsmore was in serious jeopardy. There was every reason to believe that others had seen the ads Betty Jane had placed—others who would collect a tidy sum on the death of Paul Dinsmore. They might even be on the island this very moment.

  Greg shifted, wiping at the sweat that beaded beneath his sunglasses. Had Betty Jane been killed by her husband or because of him?

  The hot sun and the warmth of the sand gradually leeched away his inner tension. He spent much of the afternoon watching the heavy waves slap over the flattened black slate rocks.

  A sudden cry for help drew his attention to the water. Greg watched the lifeguard run into the surf. The breakers were strong, whipping in close and fast as they gobbled away the sandy
beach.

  Another swimmer started toward the victim. In moments, he, too, was in peril from the deadly undertow. A second lifeguard made a run for the water. That’s when Greg realized the first lifeguard was in trouble as well. He scrambled to his feet and started for the water’s edge along with several other men and women.

  Someone began herding people together to create a human chain. Greg quickly found himself waist-deep in the foaming water, in wristlocks with two strangers. Swells slapped his chest and shoulders with each surge of the tide, but he planted his feet in the sand and held on. Eventually, everyone was pulled to safety. The life-guards promptly closed the secluded beach.

  The sun peeked from behind a growing haze in the late afternoon sky. For the first time, Greg noticed the bank of thick clouds on the horizon. He’d been vaguely aware that the breeze had picked up, but now he paid more attention. Was the hurricane starting toward the island?

  Greg trudged back toward their spot and promptly halted. McKella was gone.

  Chapter Four

  McKella roused groggily when Greg surged to his feet. It took her sleep-drugged mind a few minutes to comprehend that he’d left her without a word. Slowly, she sat up and peered around. The excited crowd on the beach drew her eyes to the dramatic rescue efforts. The waves were wild in their turbulence. The horizon had taken on a hazy, threatening appearance, while the skies overhead remained impossibly blue with high, white fluffy clouds.

  “McKella.”

  She twisted at the sound of her name. The gasp escaped without warning. Paul stood slightly behind her umbrella, towering over her. She was startled by the change in his appearance. A day’s growth of beard accented his dark rumpled clothing.

  “Paul! What—?”

  “Quiet,” he hissed.

  She jumped to her feet, feeling suddenly nude as his light blue eyes traced her body.

  “Nice. Did you buy this to wear for me—or for him?”

  McKella refused to quail beneath that stare. His shirt was open at the neck, revealing sparse chest hairs and what appeared to be scratches on his torso. “Paul, where—”

  “Shh.” He looked wildly about, but no one paid any attention to the two of them. All eyes were focused on the ocean and the drama taking place there.

  McKella pushed aside a sudden spate of fear. Paul looked dangerous, yet this was the man she had married.

  “Hurry!” His face swung toward the beach. She knew he watched for Greg.

  “No.”

  His head snapped back around at her firm response. “What?”

  “The police want to talk to you.”

  Paul grabbed her wrist and yanked, dragging her toward the path leading up to the road. Shock made her stumble.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped. “You’re hurting me.”

  “Shut up.”

  In that moment, she wondered if he was insane.

  “Let me go.”

  He halted abruptly, several feet up the path that led to the parking area. The beach was no longer in sight. His eyes were iced in anger, but there was calculation, rather than madness, in his expression.

  “Who’s this Greg Wyman? Where did he come from?”

  His savage tone deepened her sense of unreality. Gone was her considerate husband—the man who spent hours laughing and talking business and sports with her father—the man who charmed everyone he came in contact with. In his place stood a stranger, a frightening caricature of the man she had married.

  “Answer me,” he snarled.

  McKella squared her shoulders and faced him despite her fear. “Let go of me,” she ordered.

  For a second, he appeared startled. She ignored the wild beating of her heart to glare at him. Slowly, his hand released her. Immediately, she stepped back.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing at his face in a tired gesture.

  McKella breathed deeply, trying to set aside emotion and draw on her professional objectivity. This was Paul. The man she had married. Was he a liar, a murderer, or the friendly but aggressive CEO she’d married?

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” His hands dropped to chest level, palms out in supplication. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

  The gesture was so patently phoney, she inhaled sharply. McKella rubbed her wrist where his fingers had left imprints on her skin. On their wedding night his fingers had left small bruises on her forearms. And she recalled the bruises left on the throat of the lady in the tub.

  The emerging pattern frightened her.

  “Where have you been?” she asked, suppressing the strain in her voice.

  Calculation frosted his stare. It disappeared in a flash as he transformed once more into the image he normally presented to the world. He dropped his arms to his sides, weary defeat in every line of his posture.

  “Someone is trying to kill me.”

  “That isn’t an answer, Paul.”

  The lines around his mouth tightened. “I’ve been hiding,” he told her angrily.

  “Why?”

  “Ask your new friend,” he nodded in the direction of the beach.

  McKella flushed, realizing that Paul must have been watching her and Greg.

  “What does Greg have to do with anything?”

  “Someone had been digging into my past and following me right before our wedding. Then Betty Jane told me this Wyman guy came to her, asking more questions about me. She pointed him out at our reception. Now he’s here in Bermuda with you, and I’m being framed for murder. Someone was prowling around the cottage while I was there. I barely got away before he broke in.”

  A hollow coldness invaded her body.

  There’s a contract on Paul Dinsmore’s life.

  Had Greg been telling the truth?

  “You have to tell the police!” she told Paul. “It must have been Betty Jane’s murderer.”

  “I think Wyman killed her.”

  The coldness spread. She lowered her gaze to the spot where Paul’s shirt had come unbuttoned. Scratches surrounded an ugly black-and-green bruise. The marks weren’t fresh enough to have been made by the woman in the bathtub.

  “What happened to you?” she asked.

  He hurried to rebutton the shirt. “Never mind, it isn’t important Listen McKella, Betty Jane showed up at the reception claiming our divorce was never final. I was shocked. She wanted money. Lots of it.” He made a noise of exasperation. “I already left her the house and everything else of value, but she wanted more.”

  “You never told me you’d been married before,” she accused. Greg claimed Betty Jane was searching for Paul because Paul had taken everything. Which was the truth?

  Paul looked past her, over her shoulder, strain evident in the way he held himself, as though poised for flight. “She was part of my history—a part I was trying to forget. She had nothing to do with us.”

  “You only married her two years ago!”

  His eyes snapped back to her face. “How did you know that?”

  The flatness of his tone made her shiver. “I saw your wedding picture and the date in her wallet. You have a child.”

  He looked startled, then he shook his head. His tender and pitying expression was one she was becoming all too familiar with.

  “Betty Jane doesn’t have a child, McKella. She wouldn’t have taken a chance on ruining her perfect figure to get pregnant. It was one of the reasons we divorced in the first place. I told you how much I wanted kids.”

  Yes. He’d said he wanted a dozen at least. They had laughed at the idea. But he had never taken her to bed. Had he simply told her what she wanted to hear?

  His kisses had never stirred her to passion, but she hadn’t minded. Her two sexual experiences hadn’t left her craving that sort of intimacy. She was content with his company and grateful for his business expertise. She’d looked at their marriage as a merger. Paul wanted to be CEO. Her father wanted a son to run his company. She wanted children and a chance to be something other than a corporate vice president.
/>   “McKella, you have to believe me. I don’t know what’s going on, but someone is setting me up.”

  She felt a curl of uncertainty. Paul was nothing if not persuasive when he wanted to be.

  “What about Zuckerman’s?”

  “I told you that was a lie. Your detective is part of the conspiracy. I’m pretty sure I was drugged at our reception.”

  Her stomach clenched. “What conspiracy?”

  But he ignored her question. “You know I only had a couple of beers and the wine we toasted with.”

  “You drank my glass, too,” she reminded him.

  “Because you said your stomach was upset. Look, stuff’s been happening lately. Someone is out to get me, McKella. You have to believe me.”

  His handsome features pleaded for understanding. If he was lying, he was doing a credible job.

  “I told Betty Jane where we were staying, but I didn’t know she followed us to the island,” Paul continued. “I was only inside the cottage long enough to change clothes. Then I heard the prowler and left to find you.”

  Confused, she shook her head. “Why didn’t you report the prowler first?”

  “Because I was worried you might come back and walk in on him before I could locate the authorities.” Annoyance lent sharp edges to his voice. “We need to see beyond the events to find the motive,” he told her. “What can anyone gain by framing me for murder?”

  An excellent question.

  “That Wyman guy…he reminds me of someone.” Paul frowned, lines pleating his forehead. “He must have killed Betty Jane.”

  “But—”

  Paul didn’t let her interrupt. He rubbed at the bristles on his jaw, and McKella realized it was the first time she had ever seen him anything but clean-shaven. His scruffy appearance reminded her of Greg’s more rugged good looks. She shook her head against the unwanted comparison.

  “I have to get off this damn island.”

  “You took my plane tickets and my wallet,” she said.

  Wearily, Paul shook his head, his voice defeated. “I picked them up. You dropped them when you tripped over your suitcase. I would have given them back, but you were hell-bent on getting away from me. Not that I can blame you after the way I behaved. I’m truly sorry, McKella.”