“Greg?”
He stirred and moaned.
“Greg, wake up! You have to wake up!”
The storm had not lessened and now there was no roof to protect them. It took a minute for her fogged brain to comprehend that the entire upstairs of the cottage was gone. So was the side wall. The front had crumpled inward. Ignoring the blinding rain, she pushed against Greg’s weight, trying to lift her head for a better view.
Greg lay pinned by one of the wing chairs. Miraculously, they were still on the couch and it was still upright. He stirred again.
“Greg?”
Blue-green eyes drifted open.
“Greg? Can you move?”
He swallowed and tried to shift positions. “Maybe tomorrow,” he muttered and closed his eyes.
“Greg! Don’t you dare pass out!”
“Knew you were the bossy sort.”
His eyes blinked open and this time relief slid through her as they focused on her face.
“What hit me?” he muttered.
“Most of the house.”
That got his attention. Weakly, he pushed himself upward, dislodging the chair from his back. She could breathe more easily without his weight bearing her into the springs of the lumpy couch, but the wind sucked away most of her oxygen.
Greg muttered a fervent oath as he surveyed the shambles of the once-cozy cottage.
Their couch rested against what had been the back wall of the kitchen. When the front of the cottage had collapsed inward, it had showered them and the ground with all manner of debris. The staircase leaned drunkenly, leading only to the demented sky. Angry lightning whipped across that sky as it sluiced torrents of water down on them. Thunder echoed in their ears.
Greg tottered forward a step. Glass crunched beneath his shoes. McKella accepted his hand and stood as well, thankful that she could. In her left hand she still held the long-bladed kitchen knife. It was a miracle she hadn’t cut one of them with it.
“Paul!” she exclaimed.
Greg swung his head around and nearly fell over, then steadied himself. “Where?”
“He must be here somewhere.”
Without warning, every hair on her body rose in alarm. Lightning plunged to earth yards from where they stood, so dazzling in its brilliance that she was momentarily blinded and totally deafened by the immediate thunderclap. McKella could almost taste the ozone.
She dropped the knife. “Come on!”
Greg swayed and nearly went down again. She slid her arm around his waist, stumbling as he allowed her to help support him. That, in itself, told her he was hurt.
To their left, one cottage stood intact. She didn’t think they’d make it, but she had to try.
With every step, the wind buffeted them, and her mind did battle with sheer terror. Her horror of storms, her distorted memory of those seconds just before the tornado struck, and her absolute fear that another twister would drop down to finish the job, would have paralyzed her if Greg hadn’t leaned so dependently against her. She had to get him to safety.
Crossing the yard took forever. Somehow, they reached the quasi-haven offered by the other patio. She pounded on the glass door, but no one answered. Greg slumped against the wall, and that fueled her fear.
Leaving him, she grabbed a brick from some rubble and she heaved it with all her strength at the sliding glass door. The glass cracked. The brick bounced away, and McKella went after it.
Greg lurched erect. He swayed toward her as she prepared for another throw.
“Let me,” he yelled.
“You’ll fall down.”
“Probably.”
He took the brick and hurled it. The brick sailed through the glass, the sound buried under the crack of thunder. Greg’s knees started to buckle, but with her support he managed to stay upright.
“Watch your hand,” he cautioned, as she fumbled to unlock the door.
“Quiet, hero. This is my rescue.”
“Uh-huh. And a terrific job you’re doing, too.”
“Yeah, right.”
They staggered inside the cottage, which was a mirror image of the one they’d left.
“Anybody home?”
Only the storm responded.
Greg suddenly pulled away, stumbled for the kitchen sink and vomited. McKella’s own stomach churned in reaction, but she followed him, stroking his back until he finished.
Wasn’t that a sign of a concussion? Oh, God.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Don’t apologize.” She offered him a paper towel from the roll on the counter. “Come on. You have to make it to the couch before you pass out.”
He gave her a sickly smile. “Bossy.”
“Yes.”
“Let me rinse my mouth first.” He pulled a glass from the cupboard, swaying weakly.
“Greg…”
“I’m fine. Really.”
She doubted either of them could have made it farther than the couch. Greg collapsed on the sofa and promptly shut his eyes. She slid down on the carpet next to him.
“Don’t you dare have a concussion,” she told him.
“Okay.”
But he didn’t open his eyes.
The windows rattled. The cottage shuddered. Was the storm getting worse? she wondered. Was another tornado about to strike? Should she build them a barricade using the two chairs in case the windows went?
Greg laid a hand on her shoulder. “You doing okay?”
“Peachy.”
The comfort of his touch soothed her growing panic. They had survived a tornado. They would survive the rest that Hurricane Lenny threw at them.
“Is that a dish of mints on the table?”
An obliging flash of lightning revealed the wrapped candy sitting in a glass bowl on the coffee table. “Want one?”
“Please.”
She unwrapped a candy and handed it to him. “What about Paul?” Had he been killed? Or was he still in the rubble of the other cottage, trapped—maybe dying.
“Do you still have the knife?”
“No.” She thought he cursed. Greg started to sit up and she pushed him firmly back against the couch. “You aren’t going anywhere.”
“He might come back.” Greg gripped her shoulders.
“Then we’ll deal with him.”
The grip weakened. “He’s dangerous.”
“It will be okay.”
God help her, she prayed that was the truth. The intensity of Paul’s rage had astonished her. In those moments when he faced her, she had known he was dangerous in the way any cornered animal is dangerous. She had never really known her husband at all, she realized. She didn’t want to believe that Paul had killed Betty Jane, but her belief now lacked conviction.
How long she and Greg huddled there in silence, she wasn’t sure, but after awhile, it seemed that the wind wasn’t quite as strong, that the cottage didn’t shake as badly. She became aware of how miserably uncomfortable her sodden clothing felt. And she grew increasingly worried about Greg. He hadn’t stirred for some time.
McKella removed his limp hand from her shoulder and rose to her feet. Greg blinked open bleary eyes. “Wha’s wrong?” he asked groggily.
“I’m going to have a look around.”
“No!” He labored to sit up.
“Greg, it’s okay. I just want to see what we’re dealing with here.”
That appeared to bring him to his senses quickly enough. “Absolutely not!”
She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay well back from the windows.”
“Damn it! I’ll come with you.” He sat up despite her attempt to restrain him.
“Don’t be silly. You can hardly walk.”
He swung his feet to the floor, grimaced, and gave her a determined look. “I can walk.” His hand gingerly felt for the back of his head.
“How bad is your head?”
He muttered something indistinguishable.
She bent over, pushing aside his hand
. An enormous welt met her probing fingers. Greg sucked in a painful breath.
McKella swallowed fear. “You need a hospital.”
“Want to call a cab?” he suggested wryly.
“Funny man. Maybe I’d better have a look at the rest of you.”
Despite his obvious pain, his eyes held a dull gleam that she recognized.
“Talk about wish fulfillment.”
“You’re in no condition for those sorts of thoughts.”
“You haven’t even looked yet.” But pain colored his voice.
“Keep teasing, but tell me where you hurt.”
“Any minute now my head’s going to fall off and roll on the ground.”
“Delightful image. I have some aspirin in my purse.” She paused and almost snorted in disgust. “Unfortunately, I have no idea where my purse is right now.”
“Probably the middle of the ocean.”
“You may be right. Does anything else hurt?”
“Besides my pride?”
“Greg—”
“You want a list? I think the chair left its mark on my back, and your so-called husband landed a terrific jab to my kidneys, not to mention nearly breaking my jaw. Other than that, I think I’ll live.” His eyes fastened on her. “What about you? Are you okay?”
McKella smiled. “Thanks to you, I’m fine. You did a good job in the hero department”
“So did you.”
His gaze warmed her, even as his touch had done. She laid a hand along his jaw, feeling the stubble. He turned his head and kissed her palm.
“I’m glad,” he told her. “I’m very glad.”
The words disoriented her. Mesmerized by the intensity of his expression, she could only shake her head, suddenly conscious of her bedraggled state. Her jacket had been lost along with her purse, her hair hung in dripping tangles about her face, and her clothing was plastered against her cold, wet body. Yet he looked at her with such heat that it was unnerving.
“Greg, you’re too injured to be thinking about sex.”
The smile that slashed his face was wickedly compelling. “I hope I’m never that injured.” He pulled her head down toward his lips. McKella didn’t resist.
His lips brushed hers with tantalizing slowness, and she tasted the peppermint he’d eaten. His finger pressed against the corner of her lips and she parted them to allow his probing tongue entrance. The kiss was unlike any other. She was startled anew by the excitement he created. Her hands gripped his shoulders when he pulled her to stand between his legs.
“Hey! Anybody in here?”
The shout jolted her. Adrenaline pumped through her body. She swung her head in an arc, looking for a weapon as a flashlight pinned them in its beam. Behind the light stood a tall wet figure dressed in a long yellow slicker.
Her hand closed over the nearest lamp, even as Greg rose to place himself between her and the newcomer.
“You folks okay?” the voice asked.
Tension drained from Greg’s posture. Her own shoulders sagged in relief. She set the lamp back on the table, as Greg shot her a quick, droll smile.
“Almost,” he muttered dryly.
Chapter Six
They left the Hamilton hospital in the early hours of the morning. Wind gusts still surprised the unwary, and rain dripped in a steady rhythm—but the worst was over.
Fallen trees and other debris littered the silent streets. The cabby who took them back to Castle Harbour talked almost nonstop about the storm and its effects.
“Lots of excitement,” he told them cheerfully. “The harbor is closed in St. George. The docks took a hammering. And we lost our trunk lines.”
“Trunk lines?” McKella asked.
“Telephone connections overseas are down,” Greg translated.
The driver beamed agreement. “Not to worry, repairs won’t take long.” He flashed them another wide grin. “The power station was damaged, too.”
Greg sighed. “No electricity?”
“Not to worry,” he repeated. “We’re used to storms. Hamilton doesn’t look too bad, does it?”
Their eyes were drawn to the empty storefronts carefully boarded against the storm. The deserted rain-swept streets had a surreal, ghostly feel to them in the gray, morning light.
“The north end of the island took the brunt of the storm,” the cabby continued. “There was even a tornado funnel sighted.”
Greg squeezed McKella’s hand. She offered him a wobbly smile in return. “You should have stayed in the hospital,” she muttered.
“With some unfeeling nurse—when I can have you tending my every need?”
“In your dreams.” But relieved by his resiliency, she widened her smile. When he’d collapsed after the rescuers arrived, she’d been certain he would die from a concussion.
He must have read her mind again, because the deep timbre of his voice became softly intimate. “I’m fine, McKella. A slight concussion is nothing. I’ve had worse playing touch football.”
“So you said.”
His thumb stroked the skin of her hand. “The doctor agreed.”
“The doctor barely spoke English.”
The vehicle rolled to a sudden stop. Workers clustered in the middle of the roadway with chain saws, cutting away at a hapless tree spanning the street. “Right back,” the cabby promised. He flung open the door and scurried over to join the others.
Exhausted, McKella leaned back against the seat cushion and closed her eyes. “What do you think happened to Paul?”
“Do you want my hopes, or a serious answer?”
She opened an eye to glare at him.
Greg heaved a gusty sigh. “Okay, at a guess, he got away and crawled back under some rock to hide.”
Shocked, McKella tugged her hand free and sat up straight. “Greg! Paul may be dead, or lying somewhere injured.”
“No such luck.”
Remembering their confrontation at the cottage, McKella studied his drawn features. “Why do you hate him so much?”
“Practice,” he muttered and closed his eyes. “In case you haven’t figured this out yet, your husband only pretends to be a nice person.”
McKella decided not to argue. Greg didn’t look as if he could go three rounds with a kitten at the moment. “You said there’s a contract out on him.”
“I said too much.”
“Is there?”
“Yes.”
His response was barely audible. She probably shouldn’t tire him with questions right now. He was hurt He was fatigued. His defenses were down.
Perfect timing.
“What did he do?”
Greg sighed and opened his eyes. “Paul Dinsmore witnessed a crime and testified about what he saw.”
“Now that, I can believe. That’s the side of him I’ve seen, Greg. The kind, considerate man who befriended my father and asked me to marry him.”
He shook his head and winced. “He testified in exchange for immunity, McKella. He’d broken into a warehouse bent on larceny.”
“Oh.”
“He got trapped inside and watched a small-time hood kill a business associate. Unfortunately for Paul, the killer had connections and his connections took umbrage to one of their own serving a life sentence—and probably to the fact that Paul broke into their warehouse in the first place. They took out a contract as an example to others.” He yawned and then continued. “Those things don’t have expiration dates, you know. Three months, twenty years, it’s all the same. Either the contract is pulled or the hit is completed.”
Exhaustion smudged his eyes and drew the skin tight over his cheekbones. Still, McKella couldn’t stem the flow of questions eating at her. “How do you know all this?”
“I made it my business to find out.”
“Why?”
“For reasons of my own. McKella, your kind, considerate, bigamist of a husband married you, fully expecting to inherit the reins of a profitable company on the verge of a major breakthrough,” he explained patiently.
Surprised, she leaned toward him. “You know about that?”
“I’m a businessman. I read the papers. Patterson Opticals is on the cutting edge. Ben Kestler is a clever young researcher bordering on genius. Your father made a real coup getting him on your team.”
“I hired him.”
Greg raised an eyebrow. “Your father always said you were brilliant. In a few years, that research Kestler is doing will be worth a bundle.”
That’s what everyone kept telling her.
“Your ‘kind, considerate husband’ didn’t fake his references with Zuckerman’s for nothing, you know. He looked around for a plum and your father dropped Patterson right into his greedy little hands.”
Greg’s words poked further holes in her crumbling wall of self-esteem. Was Greg right? Had she and her father been so blinded by their own needs that they hadn’t seen Paul for what he really was?
“I own Patterson,” she reminded him.
“Uh-huh. And he married you. How long before expansion forces you to place a block of stock on the open market?”
The issue had already been raised. The new process required an infusion of capital soon. Paul had been pushing them to go public for over a month now. Was Greg right? Had her judgments become completely unreliable?
Greg kneaded his right thigh, his strong hands massaging the skin beneath his twill slacks. McKella seized on that to avoid the direction her thoughts were taking.
“Did the doctor look at your leg?”
Immediately, his hand withdrew. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t hurt my leg.”
She tipped her head to one side in disbelief.
“It’s an old injury,” he explained wearily.
“Like your other scars?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you mind if I ask how you got them?”
He sighed and shut his eyes again. “I was in a car accident as a teenager.”
The front door swung open and the cabby slid inside before she could pursue the topic. “We can get around on the right, now. They say the road is clear the rest of the way. I should have you back at your hotel in a few minutes.”
Married In Haste Page 11