Married In Haste

by Dani Sinclair

  “Did he say who?” the detective asked.

  McKella slid her glance from Greg, unwilling to repeat what Paul had said about him. “I’m wondering if Eric was forced to leave me that message,” she mused instead.

  “Why?” Greg asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “McKella,” said Greg. “His attack might have been a simple mugging. It doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with this situation.”

  “Oh, come on,” she protested. “Even you don’t believe that. Paul’s right to be scared. Someone murdered Betty Jane. And I don’t believe for a minute that it was Paul.”

  “Not even after he bruised your wrist?”

  She looked down at the faint marks on her wrist, aware that Freer was frowning. “That was an accident. He’s scared. Think about it, Greg. What better way to frame Paul than to kill his wife and dump her in our cottage where she’s sure to be found?—”

  “I thought you were his wife,” Freer interrupted quietly.

  Stunned by what she’d said, McKella floundered. “I am his wife. I meant his ex-wife.” This was Greg’s fault for placing that other stupid possibility in her subconscious. “Paul told me they were divorced.”

  “You asked him?” Greg asked in surprise.

  “I didn’t have to. He mentioned the divorce.” He had also mentioned Betty Jane’s claim that it wasn’t final. But McKella wasn’t about to offer that—and give Paul a motive for murder. “He didn’t kill her,” she stated.

  “He told you that?” Freer asked.

  “Yes.”

  Greg made a derisive noise. “What else could he say?”

  She glared at Greg. “You didn’t see him. Talk to him.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “And I would very much like to,” the officer added. “Have you any idea where he is?”

  McKella shook her head. She avoided looking directly at Greg. Sometimes she got the uneasy feeling he could almost read her thoughts.

  “Paul left when the people came up from the beach.”

  “Ah.” The policeman tilted his head slightly. “Did you hear the sound of a vehicle? A moped or a taxi, by chance?”

  “No, but I wasn’t listening, either. I was anxious to return so Greg wouldn’t worry.”

  “I see.”

  She was afraid he and Greg saw entirely too much. She focused on the patio door, beyond which lay darkness and the sound of a wind-driven rain.

  “The other Mrs. Dinsmore came from a moneyed family,” the policeman divulged. “Her father owns several business ventures, including the computer company where they met.”

  “He worked for her?” Greg asked.

  “I do not have that information yet. The Lexington authorities are investigating her background, how they met, when they were married, divorced, and the like. We should have a thorough report sometime tomorrow—if the hurricane does not cause us too many problems.”

  Greg straightened. “Is it supposed to?”

  “No. We will only get the lashings of its tail, I am told. The storm will pass by the island sometime around one o’clock in the morning. The system is moving eastward, away from the island, but tornados and certainly high winds can do much damage. It is well that this will happen at a time when most of the island is in bed. You should be perfectly safe indoors, but I would recommend that you stay well away from windows in the night.”

  McKella shuddered at the mental image of shattering glass. “No problem.”

  “You will be happy to know that so far, your own background checks have turned up nothing untoward.”

  “Naturally.” Secretly, McKella was relieved to hear that Greg was who he said he was.

  “Your firm is highly thought of, Mr. Wyman.”

  “Thank you. We try.”

  “You do much business reconstruction, I understand.”

  “Well, I’d hardly put it that way, but I can see why you might.”

  McKella saw him glance her way.

  “You specialize in businesses that are floundering, do you not? Help them recover so they can once again become profitable? Your fees are most impressive, I am told. You leave with a share of the profits.”

  McKella frowned. “I thought you did audits.”

  Greg shifted. “We do those, too.”

  “Indeed. Your company makes quite a handsome profit as I understand it. You are close to becoming a Fortune 500 company, are you not?”

  She sensed Greg’s discomfort. His impossibly-colored eyes flashed from one face to another. “Hardly.”

  The policeman abruptly switched to questions about McKella’s arrival at the café and what the two of them had witnessed that day.

  “Have you found the person responsible for that poor woman’s death?” she asked.

  “No. The lorry was stolen. We have identified the dead woman, however. Her name was Eleanor Beauchamp.”

  There was something in his tone, something that made McKella’s spine stiffen with apprehension.

  “She was also from Kentucky. In fact, she was traveling with the other Mrs. Dinsmore.”

  The words dropped like ice in a pail—hard, hollow, and bitterly cold. McKella saw that Greg was also shaken, though he was better than she was at hiding his agitation.

  “Odd coincidence,” Greg said. He didn’t look in McKella’s direction, and her hollow feeling only deepened.

  The policeman nodded. “Yes.”

  “Then the truck was aimed at her?” McKella asked.

  Freer inclined his head. “Possibly.” His tone betrayed nothing of what he was thinking. From his vantage point, McKella knew, Freer watched both of them as he continued. “She was married, but her husband was not aware that Bermuda was her destination. He believed she was visiting a relative.”

  McKella leaned forward, suddenly tired of this catand-mouse game. “What’s going on? Who is this woman?”

  Freer scratched at his head. “You did not know her?”

  “No. Does her husband know Paul?”

  “No, Mr. Beauchamp claims he does not even know who Betty Jane is. Yet the two women shared a room together.”

  Chills danced along her spine.

  “I don’t understand,” she told him.

  “Nor do I. However, rest assured that I will.”

  After asking a few more questions, Freer stood and bid them a good evening. McKella started to rise, but stopped when Greg laid a restraining hand on her arm.

  “I’ll walk you back to your room.”

  “No, I…” While his touch was disquieting, it was also soothing. She had to stop thinking like that. “Why did my father hire you four years ago?”

  Greg tipped his head in surprise. “To do an audit.”

  “Why? I know there was some sort of problem, but we’d never had an outside auditor before.”

  Greg leaned back against the door frame and shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Your father didn’t explain why he hired me?”

  “No. When my appendix ruptured that day, I developed peritonitis. I was ill for some time.”

  “Oh.” He fell silent.

  “Are you going to answer my question?” she demanded.

  Greg gave a short shake of his head. “Ask your father.”

  “He’s not here to ask now, is he? Patterson Opticals is my responsibility. I think I have the right to know.”

  “So you say.”

  His response shocked her—until she realized he was mimicking her earlier assertion that she had only his word on the fact that Paul was still married to Betty Jane.

  “I do say.”

  He was amused, and that made her angry. “Are you collecting a share of our profits for the work you did four years ago?”

  “Haven’t you looked at your own books, McKella?”

  No—blast the man—she hadn’t. That was her uncle’s department, and McKella was perfectly content to leave the accounting in his hands. Her skill with numbers was based on necessity. She was great with pe
ople—getting investors, and keeping them. And while she could talk a contract down to its decimal point if she had to, it wasn’t her forte and she knew it.

  “Uncle Larry handles the financial end of things.”

  Greg’s expression became thoughtful. “Still?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Now you suspect Uncle Larry of something?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  She leaned back against the wall and faced him coolly. “You don’t say much of anything. But you know who Eleanor Beauchamp is, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know an Eleanor Beauchamp.” His response was quick and sure, but his expression revealed he knew something.

  “Why do you think she was rooming with Betty Jane?”

  “Maybe Eleanor saw the same ads that led me to Betty Jane. Maybe Eleanor had her own agenda to settle with your husband, and the two of them teamed up. We’ll probably never know the answer—and I have a more pressing question. Where is your husband going to meet you?”

  McKella gaped. She hadn’t told Greg that Paul wanted her to meet him. Greg was guessing, and guessing right. “Why would you even ask me such a question?” she stalled.

  Greg took a step closer, making her only too aware of him again. “You aren’t a good liar, McKella. I know there was more to your conversation with him than you let on.”

  His voice flowed over her like a warm and seductive blanket.

  “It’s reasonable to assume he sees you as a potential ally. You came back to the beach from that meeting declaring him innocent—”

  “For crying out loud, Greg,” she interrupted. “What happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty’?”

  He came to a stop only a few inches away. “We aren’t in the United States, McKella. We’re in Bermuda. They do things differently over here.”

  “They hang the innocent?”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “McKella, two women are dead. Your investigator is in a hospital, dying. The only connection between the three incidents is your husband, and he’s running free, talking about a conspiracy. But he isn’t coming forward to explain things to the police now, is he?”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “Stop changing the subject.”

  His eyes sparked dangerously, but his voice turned soft. “Is that what I’m doing, McKella?”

  “Yes.” She forced the word past her lips.

  Now only inches separated them. She watched the rise and fall of his chest, and her heart began to pound. Meeting his eyes was a mistake. Passion lurked in the blue-green depths. She dropped her gaze to focus on his lips, only that wasn’t any better. Sensuality emanated from him as if it were his God-given right.

  Her palms pressed against his chest. She meant to push him away. Instead, her fingers curled and bunched in his shirt.

  “No.” She managed to flatten her palms. To her own ears, her voice didn’t sound particularly strong, but the single word stopped him.

  “Running scared, McKella?”

  “I don’t want this.” That sounded better. Stronger.

  “Marriage vows again?”

  She felt his breath against her skin, stirring her desire. It was an effort to think and yet not to respond. She wanted to respond to Greg.

  “Let’s just say I take them seriously whether my marriage is legal or not.” The words left her lips in a breathless rush.

  His eyes held hers, the hot, hungry expression gradually giving way to a gleam of respect. “Good.”

  Her mouth opened in surprise.

  “I like knowing you’re a lady who keeps her word.” His fingers stroked her cheek, trailing prickles of fire as they traced the path down the side of her neck. “So do I, McKella Remember that.”

  He stepped back, leaving her breathless and shaken. Her hands dropped heavily to her sides.

  “I’ll walk you back to your room.”

  She started to protest, then saw his grim expression and soundlessly acquiesced. As they walked along the connecting corridor, she was conscious of him at her side. She tried to ignore the encompassing darkness outside, but lightning flickered in the distant sky. Raindrops splattered heavily against the glass windows.

  “Would you like to get some dinner, maybe take in a floor show or something?” Greg asked. “It’s early yet.”

  She moistened her lips, tempted to tell him about the coming meeting. Too tempted. Paul was her husband. She owed him her first loyalty. “No, thanks. I’m tired. I know it’s crazy after the way I slept on the beach, but I’m actually looking forward to going to bed.”

  His expression called her a liar.

  “Will you meet me for breakfast?” she asked quickly.

  “What time?”

  “How about eight? Maybe we could go over to Hamilton. It will give us something to do.”

  “Fine. I’ll check on the bus schedule.”

  At her door, Greg preceded her into the room and looked around. He didn’t linger or make a production out of it, but simply made sure there was no one else inside. It was strange, she thought, how protected that made her feel.

  He paused outside her door. “Don’t let him in, ‘Kella. Don’t trust him. Your husband was a consummate actor sixteen years ago. I suspect his abilities have improved with age.”

  His words shocked her. “How do you know that?”

  Greg took a deep breath and released it slowly. “I just do.”

  “You can’t just say something like that and—”

  Before she realized his intention, Greg bent and captured her lips in the softest, gentlest, most powerful kiss she had ever tasted.

  Without another word, he strode off down the hall.

  Chapter Five

  As the hour drew closer to ten-thirty, McKella’s edginess grew. She had changed into tennis shoes, red slacks and a matching pullover, and her windbreaker sat on the chair. She watched the tree outside her window bend and twist in the merciless wind. There was a rumbly hint of thunder, though it still seemed a long way off. Rain continued to spray against the glass windowpane.

  For the twentieth time McKella put down her book without reading a page. She couldn’t get the man—or the kiss—out of her head, but she’d come to a decision. She was not going to go to the cottage alone.

  She refused to admit—or even to contemplate—that a part of her was scared of Paul—and maybe Greg as well. Someone was lying, and it unnerved her to admit which one of them she wanted to believe.

  McKella snatched up her jacket, locked her door and rushed down the hall, suddenly in a hurry to reach Greg’s room. Her repeated knocks went unanswered. Where was he?

  Disappointment filled her. She turned away, moving slowly down the corridor. As tempting as it was to go in search of him, McKella knew she wouldn’t do it. She didn’t need Greg. Taking him along had just seemed like a good idea. She exited the building through the main hall with an odd sense of loss.

  The minute she stepped outside, a gust of wind tore at her hair and ripped at her clothing. She was shocked by the brutal force of the stinging raindrops. Had the hurricane changed directions? Was it even now heading straight for the tiny island?

  McKella fought her fear, and the battering wind, and started in the direction of a parked cab. The driver snapped on his lights and the vehicle rolled forward to meet her. She reached for the handle, fighting a gust of demonic fury that attempted to wrench the door from her hands. She scrambled inside and realized the back was already occupied.

  “Going somewhere, McKella?”

  Shock held her frozen for a heartbeat. Greg’s grim expression had her reaching to open the door again. He stretched his arm out to stop her.

  “Close it.”

  The wind took that chore from her. Giant beads of rain hurled down on the helpless car, battering against its thin metal shell.

  “What are you doing here?” She wiped at the water trickling down her face.

  The driver turned to face them. “Your destination?”

  “Tell him, McKe
lla.”

  Greg’s words were a command and a dare. He was angry, she realized. Pulling free, she sat stiffly and finger-combed her sopping hair back from her face. Her first instinct was to order him out. One look at the hard thrust of his chin pointed out the absurdity of that action. Greg would leave the cab when he was good and ready.

  Besides, she had planned to invite Greg along if he’d been in his room just now. She could handle his anger.

  Could he handle hers?

  McKella gave the driver the address and sat back, vainly wiping at her dripping face. Greg reached into his pocket and produced a white handkerchief.

  “Thank you,” she muttered.

  “My pleasure.”

  She ignored his sarcasm and used the square of linen, cursing under her breath when she realized it carried his spicy scent.

  “Hiding at the cottage makes a sort of sense,” Greg said conversationally. He leaned back in his seat as if finding nothing at all ominous about the way the vehicle rocked and jounced along the narrow winding roads. “Where was he before?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” she asked sweetly.

  “I plan to.”

  The fragile car threatened to become airborne at any moment—if the sleeting rain didn’t pulverize the vehicle into the roadway first. The wipers swished futilely against the glass. Despite the headlights, McKella couldn’t see a foot beyond the front of the car. How the driver kept them on the road was anyone’s guess.

  Looking at Greg was preferable to looking at the angry darkness that encompassed them. “Why are you here?”

  He gave a negligent shrug. “I took a chance. I suspected Paul arranged to meet you. In fact, I even asked you point-blank, if you’ll recall.”

  She fought back a rush of guilt. She had nothing to feel guilty about. “What if I’d been waiting for him in my room, instead of going to meet him?”

  His lips curled upward, but it wasn’t a smile. “That didn’t seem likely. He knows the police are watching the hotel.”

  “And me.”

  “Especially you.”

  She swung around for a look out the rear window, but all she could see was the black rain-swept night and the wild dances of the roadside shrubbery. The car shuddered and swayed as a tree twisted and bent across the road behind them. Its branches swept their passage with an angry motion. Her breath caught in her throat.