He sounded so sincere—so much the man she had come to know and like. Could someone be trying to frame him for murder? Greg had been at the reception, but she didn’t believe for a moment that he had murdered anyone. Why didn’t she feel that same certainty about Paul?
“Paul, you need to go to the police. Explain—”
“I can’t!”
“Why not?”
A clutch of people started in their direction, chatting excitedly. Paul dropped her arm. “Meet me. Tonight. Eleven-thirty at the cottage, so we can talk without being interrupted.” He pitched his voice lower, reminding her uncomfortably of Greg. “Please, McKella. If our vows meant anything at all to you, help me prove my innocence.”
With a hunted expression, he pivoted and took the stairs two at a time, heading for the parking area above them.
McKella hesitated, and by then the crowd had reached her.
What should she believe? She couldn’t bring herself to trust Paul completely. But she didn’t know Greg.
Could they both be telling the truth as they saw things?
Paul had raised one interesting question. Who was Greg Wyman?
McKella shut her eyes and shivered. If he’d known Greg’s name, Paul could have learned where Greg was staying. There weren’t many places at this end of the island. Had Paul broken into Greg’s room?
Another surge of people headed toward her. They must have closed the beach. She’d never catch Paul now. She wasn’t even wearing shoes. Tonight she would confront him and demand answers. Now, she needed to get back to Greg. He’d be frantic wondering what had happened to her. Besides, she had questions she wanted answers to before she talked to Paul again.
She had to fight her way back down the crowded path to reach the beach. Greg spotted her almost at once. He strode forward, his concern plain.
“Where have you been? Are you okay?”
“Fine. I’m fine.” Her body betrayed her by trembling.
Greg reached for her, and she let his strong arms enfold her. His hold was gentle, not bruising the way Paul’s had been.
Who should she believe?
“Tell me what happened.”
Loyalty warred within her. Paul was her husband. Greg was a stranger. A stranger who was embracing her.
“Where’d you get these marks on your wrist?”
She looked down and saw the faint bruising where Paul had grabbed her. “Paul was here,” she admitted reluctantly.
“Where?” His eyes swept the area behind her even as he pulled her against his chest, as if to shelter her. Why did his touch feel so comforting? Why did his touch spark an anticipation in her that she never felt with Paul?
“Paul says he didn’t kill Betty Jane.”
Greg’s angry gaze returned to study her face. “Of course he’d tell you that.”
“He thinks you killed her.”
Greg released her. He stared as if trying to read her soul. “You know I didn’t. I was with you at the café.”
Instinct warned her to tread carefully. “Paul says you look familiar. Do you two know each other?”
His features hardened. “Yes,” he said tersely, then turned and began walking across the sand toward their belongings.
Stunned, McKella watched as the beach rapidly emptied of people. A gust of wind swept across the sand, but her shiver wasn’t caused by the cold or the stinging particles of grit. She felt nude and vulnerable in the sheer nylon bathing suit she wore. Suddenly, she wanted to be fully dressed. She followed slowly in Greg’s wake.
Without a word, he pulled shorts over his navy swimsuit and donned his shirt. A number of faint scars, silver-white with age, marred his chest and back and one leg.
Questions jammed her throat, but asking Greg about the scars seemed somehow too personal. And they reminded her of the vivid scratches on Paul’s chest. Were the scratches the reason Paul wouldn’t let her remove his clothing on their wedding night?
She wanted to shout in frustration. Instead, she watched Greg’s well-muscled body move across the sand to return the umbrella, grace and sureness to his stride despite his slightly uneven gait. He walked as if he knew exactly who he was and where he wanted to go. As if he had nothing to prove to anyone. In contrast, Paul walked with an arrogance that said, “Look at me, I’m somebody.”
Why was she comparing the two men?
Because she could only afford to believe one of them.
Or neither.
They rode the crowded bus back to the hotel in silence. Greg surprised her by walking her to her room. Fine particles of sand clung to the oil on her body, making her feel gritty and bedraggled. She wanted to rid herself of the scent of the suntan lotion.
“We need to talk,” Greg said quietly when they reached her door.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to change first?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Why don’t I meet you back here in an hour?”
“Are you sure you won’t just disappear?” she asked.
The vein in his forehead pulsed, but his quiet voice didn’t display any anger. “I’m not your husband, McKella.”
“I didn’t mean—”
His finger stopped the flow of her words by touching the tip of her nose. “I won’t lie to you, ‘Kella. I may not answer all your questions, but I promise, I won’t lie.”
She wanted to believe him.
He shut the door gently as he left.
Shaky, she gathered up fresh clothing. Then she noticed the message light flashing on her telephone. She reached for the instrument and Uncle Larry’s welcome voice quickly filled her ear.
“Hey there. Got your message to call. Hope you’re both having a wonderful time.” Hardly the words she’d have chosen. “Your dad’s doing great, but he’s a little worried about that hurricane near the island. Did you know there’s a second depression to the west as well?”
McKella shot a glance toward her window where the tree scraped against the glass, obliterating the sky.
Her uncle continued, “You guys be careful, now. Your dad said to remind you to use sunscreen, McKella.”
She looked down at her slightly pink legs. “I did.”
His voice droned on. “Paul, I can’t seem to find the papers on the Tenley contract and I wanted to run some numbers. I guess it can wait until you come back, but if you have a few minutes, give me a call at the office. Take care now. And have fun.”
Paul would have a fit that her uncle was tampering with the Tenley contract. Then she remembered that Paul wouldn’t get the message. Not unless she met him at eleven-thirty tonight at the cottage.
There was a second message. A return call from Nathan Marks. Typical of the attorney, he kept his greeting and his message brief, letting her know he had returned her call and would be in the office until four.
McKella disconnected and dialed his number. The line was busy, so she tried her uncle’s private line. That call bounced out to his secretary.
“Glory, this is McKella. Is my uncle around?”
Static filled the line. The steady thread of another conversation was clearly audible. McKella only heard part of Glory’s answer. “…you and Paul were in Bermuda.”
“I am,” she replied. “I’m returning Uncle Larry’s call.”
Whatever Glory replied faded into static.
“I’ve got a bad connection here, Glory. Tell him I’ll call back later.” Frustrated, McKella hung up, hoping Glory had heard her.
She drummed her fingers against the night table. She needed information. Reassurance. Why hadn’t Eric Henning called her back?
Obviously, she wasn’t going to get any immediate answers from the people at home, and since Paul was being mysterious and evasive, that left Greg. One way or another, she was going to get some answers.
CONSTABLE FREER WAS OUT of his office, Greg learned when he called the police station. He left a message that McKella had seen her husband on the beach, and asked that Freer call when he got the chance
.
Then Greg took a quick shower to rinse away the salt, sand and suntan lotion.
His mind spun in agitation as he pulled new clothing from the closet, trying to decide what to tell McKella. His hasty decision to arrive in Bermuda ahead of them was turning into an expensive foray. Luckily, he could afford it.
A sharp rap on the door caught him pulling on his trousers. Expecting the police, he flung open the door without checking. McKella stood on the other side, dressed in a feminine print skirt and a seductive lightpink blouse. The soft color of the material deepened the rosy hue of her flushed features. Her shoulderlength hair had been tamed to frame her face. She reminded him of spun sugar—until he noticed her grimly determined expression.
Chagrin replaced that expression when she took in his state of undress. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll come back.”
He grabbed for her elbow before she could retreat, but not before he saw the way her eyes slid down his bare chest. “Come on in, I’m almost ready. Let me grab a shirt.”
She’d seen more than his chest at the beach. No doubt it was the bedroom that changed her awareness. It sure changed his. The king-size bed sent his mind in a visual direction it had no business pursuing. He suppressed a colorful image of her in that bed, freshly tumbled from his lovemaking.
“Sit down,” he invited. He turned to the closet and reached for a white dress shirt. “I’ll just be a minute. Freer wasn’t in—so I left a message.”
“You already called the police?”
“Of course.”
He shoved aside a jolt of disappointment at her lack of trust, and consoled himself with the thought that she apparently didn’t trust her husband any more than she trusted him.
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” she told him. “Paul didn’t kill anyone.”
Greg knew her husband’s skills better than most people, but he’d hoped she wouldn’t be as susceptible as everyone else to the man’s charm.
“He ran away from a crime scene, McKella. The police have to talk to him.”
She nodded, looking everywhere but at his chest. Greg paused, perversely glad to see she wasn’t immune to him as a man. He continued to hold the shirt instead of putting it on.
“Paul says someone was already in the cottage when he got there.” McKella paused for a deep breath and looked him right in the eye. “Why were you at my wedding?”
Spots of color highlighted her cheeks. Her gaze darted away from his abdomen where it had been tracing a path down past his navel.
Her unexpected question surprised him. What had Paul told her?
“I wanted a look at your Paul Dinsmore,” he told her truthfully.
“My Paul Dinsmore? Is there more than one?”
He drew in a breath that was half exasperation and half adrenaline. “McKella—”
“Talk to me, Greg.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t?”
“Would you prefer ‘won’t’?”
She glowered. “Did you talk to Paul at the reception?”
“No. I might have talked to you or your father, but I didn’t see him and you were always surrounded by people. I wasn’t dressed appropriately, so I decided to wait and approach your husband here in Bermuda.”
“He has a name, you know.”
“Yeah.” He knew all right. Far better than she could imagine.
“What do you want with Paul?”
“None of your business.”
That startled her, but she refused to be intimidated. “I think it is. You seem to know an awful lot about him. You even implied he wanted me dead to get my company. I’d say that makes it my business. Who are you really?”
“We’ve had this discussion before, McKella.”
“But this time I want a straight answer.”
“I promised I wouldn’t lie to you. Remember?” She blinked at his soft rebuke. “I’m Greg Wyman, one of the owners of the firm your father hired a few years ago. I have no hidden agenda with you.”
“But you do with Paul.”
“Yes.”
She gripped the edge of the dresser in frustration. “Why won’t you talk to me? I need answers, Greg.”
“Then ask different questions.”
She released the dresser and took two steps in his direction. “Paul says Betty Jane doesn’t have any children.”
Her tone indicated how important this question was to her. She had told him she wanted children. Was that why she had married the bastard?
“I only met Betty Jane once,” he said softly, and nearly gave in to an impulse to stroke her cheek. “I never saw the child, but Betty Jane went to a lot of expense and effort to locate the man she says is the father.”
McKella blinked and turned away, but not before he glimpsed the anguish in her eyes. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
She had him there. His own actions had been stupid, though they’d seemed logical at the time. “I agree.” He spread his hands to keep from drawing her into an embrace. The last thing he needed was to succumb to his attraction for McKella.
She headed for his tiny balcony and the view it offered of the tumultuous sea and the rapidly encroaching bank of low gray clouds. “I don’t like the looks of that sky,” she said after a moment.
Greg slid into his shirt, but didn’t button it, thankful for the momentary shift in topic. “I think Hurricane Lenny is on the prowl.”
She raised her head when he came to stand beside her. “Do you think the island is in danger?”
His fingers itched to stroke her silken hair. “I’m sure they’ll take steps to ensure the safety of the guests if there’s any danger. Freer said as much.”
McKella shuddered. “I hate storms.”
He could smell the clean fragrance of the scented soap she had used. The urge to tell her the complete truth almost overwhelmed him. He clenched his jaw and asked instead, “Don’t tell me you’re afraid?”
“Okay, I won’t. But I don’t like loud noises, either.”
She smiled slightly, starting a new rhythm in his blood. McKella was the most tempting woman he’d ever met. Would her lips taste as soft and sweet as they looked?
He leaned forward and watched her pupils dilate as her gaze locked with his. Her lips parted the merest fraction, moist and oh, so enticing. He started to lower his head.
“Don’t.” Her voice was the tiniest thread of sound.
“Don’t what?” he whispered against her mouth.
“Don’t kiss me.”
His hand cupped her face. Her skin was incredibly soft. “Why not?” He felt her tremble.
“I’m married.”
He gave the barest shake of his head. “Not legally.”
“I don’t know that.”
He caressed her cheek with a knuckle. “You know.” Her eyes widened as he ran his fingertips down her neck, along the inside V of her collar. She quivered, but made no effort to step away. He stopped just short of the V’s point. “In here—in your heart—you know you aren’t legally married to him. Don’t you?”
He felt the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed more quickly. The need to kiss her almost pushed him over the edge. Only the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes held him back. He removed his hand and stepped away.
“I don’t know anything,” she said weakly.
With unsteady fingers, he finished buttoning his shirt, aware that she followed every movement. “Let me get my socks and shoes on and we can go.”
“Greg? We should talk about this.”
He sat and pulled on one shoe. “What do you want me to say? I’m sorry for wanting to kiss you?—” he shook his head “—I’m not.” Her blush deepened, making her even more desirable. “I’d like to kiss you, ‘Kella. In fact, I’d like to do a whole lot more than just kiss you.”
She didn’t look away despite the turmoil evident in her amber eyes. This was foolish. There was no percentage in a relationship between the two of them.
“Sorry. I always did have rotte
n timing.” He reached for the other shoe. McKella watched him warily, and he changed the subject. “Shall we take a walk? I promise to be on my best behavior.”
For a moment, he thought she would refuse, then her muscles relaxed. “Is your best behavior better than what you’ve demonstrated so far?”
His lips quirked. “Trust me.”
“Not a prayer.”
MCKELLA WAS AWARE that Greg studied her surreptitiously. She found this strange attraction to him frightening. She had wanted his kiss. His passion had aroused an answering desire that she had no business feeling. She was married. Why was it so hard to remember that fact whenever he touched her?
As they crossed the lobby, a familiar lanky form approached them.
“Good evening.”
“Constable,” Greg acknowledged. “I figured you’d call or show up sooner or later.”
“Indeed. Perhaps we could go to your room and chat?”
Greg looked at McKella and shrugged. They turned back the way they’d come.
In Greg’s room, Freer waited for McKella to take a seat before he zeroed in on her. “Tell me what your husband had to say.”
She sketched in her brief conversation with Paul, always aware of Greg’s eyes on her. He looked worried when she mentioned Paul’s “prowler.” She was pretty sure both men realized she’d omitted a few things, but when she finished, Freer didn’t leap at her with questions.
He leaned back in the other wing chair and steepled his hands. “Interesting.”
“Have you learned anything new?” Greg asked from where he slouched against the dresser.
“I learned what became of the private investigator.”
McKella stilled. “Eric?”
“Just so. Your Mr. Henning is in hospital. He was discovered in the car park of his apartment complex, stabbed in an apparent mugging attempt.”
McKella gasped in horror.
“He is in critical condition.”
Her shock and outrage mingled with sadness. She pictured the big strapping detective and wondered how any mugger had dared to approach him.
“Maybe…maybe Paul told me the truth. Maybe someone attacked Eric to keep him from changing his story. Paul thinks someone is trying to frame him.”
Married In Haste Page 8