Married In Haste

by Dani Sinclair

  A hollow emptiness filled her. What else did Greg know that he hadn’t told her? And why was he hiding his own past?

  As Greg Wyman, he had a solid reputation in the business world. Obviously, the last thing he would want would be to have a disreputable past come to light. Still, she refused to believe he’d resort to murder to protect his reputation.

  She made a wry face in the mirror. Her judgment of people had proved worthless. Both Greg and Paul had suckered her from the outset. There was no consolation in the knowledge that her father had been just as easily deceived.

  Someone tapped on the door. “McKella? You okay?”

  No. She might never feel okay again.

  “Coming.” She smoothed the one-piece jumpsuit over her hips, wishing she hadn’t chosen such provocative outfits to wear for her new husband. She no longer wondered why Paul hadn’t taken her to bed. Now she was simply grateful.

  McKella drew back her shoulders and straightened her spine. Maybe she’d been a fool, but she wasn’t stupid. She hadn’t loved Paul; she had liked him. And if he had killed Betty Jane, she would help put him in jail where he belonged. She removed her rings and slid them into the pocket of her jumpsuit.

  Greg moved away from the wall with a small grimace when McKella opened the door. “You look like you went ten rounds and lost,” she told him. The words were defensive, because while his face appeared bruised and battered, Greg still managed to look incredibly sexy.

  “Thanks,” he drawled. His gaze roamed her body. “You, on the other hand, were worth the wait.”

  His softly spoken words feathered her like a caress, leaving her immediately vulnerable. She refused to acknowledge the feminine reaction his intent expression stirred to life.

  “Let’s go to Hamilton,” he suggested before she could summon a suitable response.

  “Why?”

  He tipped his head, a smile hovering at the corners of his lips. “They have electricity now. Hot coffee? Scones? Maybe a nice thick juicy hamburger?”

  “You think you can bribe me?” Even suspecting what she did, it was hard to resist that boyish expression on his face. Her stomach rumbled, and his smile widened at the sound.

  “Sounds like it. At least part of you wants to go with me.”

  Ha. More than part of her wanted to go with him, she acknowledged. Once a fool, always a fool? McKella pulled her windbreaker around her like a shield.

  “What about Constable Freer?”

  “He can buy his own hamburger.”

  “Greg—”

  “Freer left. He’s the one who suggested we go to Hamilton. Honest. He said he’d see us later.”

  “Okay, but I—”

  “Have a lot of questions. I know.” His eyes held a trace of sorrow that erased her exasperation. “Can the answers wait until after we eat?”

  “Paul wouldn’t answer my questions, either.”

  His expression hardened and his voice could have sliced through concrete. “Ask me anything you want, but don’t ever lump me together with your husband.”

  She was stunned by the depth of his anger. “You really hate him.”

  “That’s a fair assessment.”

  “Why?”

  His gaze roved the corridor. A maid was starting toward them from the far end of the hall. “Do you really want to stand out here and discuss this right now, McKella?”

  Part of her did. The need to understand was strong. But he was right, this was hardly the place for this discussion.

  “I didn’t kill Betty Jane, McKella,” he said softly.

  She met his solemn gaze and resisted an impulse to reach out and touch him. “I know that.”

  “You do?”

  McKella nodded. “You accused Paul last night, remember? You were too furious to be faking.”

  Some of the tension left his stance. “Thanks. I think. I still believe he killed her. He’s capable, and he has a motive.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No.”

  She tipped her head in disbelief.

  “I’m no saint, McKella. I’d kill if I had to protect myself or someone I cared about, but Betty Jane was no threat to me.” Sincerity underscored his words.

  Greg watched her openly. Slowly, he extended his hand. She steeled her heart and her fears and accepted his touch.

  At a noisy restaurant in the middle of downtown Hamilton they ate fish chowder and finger foods. Conversation about the storm’s devastation filled the room.

  McKella listened to Greg’s whiskey-soft voice as she prompted him to tell her about building a successful business. The depth and scope of his knowledge astounded her.

  “No wonder you can take a floundering firm and rebuild. You love a challenge, don’t you?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “And you aren’t afraid to try innovative techniques. You know, you’re exactly the sort of CEO my father was looking for when he hired Paul.”

  And that reminder brought their conversation to a crashing halt. Like any well-trained waiter, theirs arrived at that moment to deliver coffee and impossibly large slices of Key lime pie.

  In the silence, McKella studied Greg’s face. Where Paul was movie-star handsome, Greg’s features were more rugged—more “lived in.” And he possessed an inner strength that was lacking in most people of her acquaintance.

  “Have I got something on my chin?” he asked.

  She smiled. “No.”

  “Then what’s that look for?”

  She raised her cup quickly to avert a blush. “Never mind.”

  “Oh? I think I like the sound of that.”

  “What does that mean?” She held the cup without taking a sip.

  “It means I like the way you were looking at me.”

  She lowered the cup to its saucer with a definite clink. At the moment, his eyes were more green than blue, and he was studying her with a predatory look.

  “If I ask you some questions, will you tell me the truth?” she asked quickly.

  Her words had the desired effect. Instantly, his expression sobered. “I’ve never lied to you, McKella.”

  “Except by omission?”

  He shifted, scanning the room before answering her. “Except by omission,” he agreed.

  “Why are you being so secretive, Greg? What else do you know about Paul that I should know?”

  He returned her stare, his eyes abruptly shadowed. “I’d rather answer what I can where only the seagulls are close enough to overhear. Are you finished eating?”

  She looked down at her mostly untouched pie, knowing that she couldn’t eat another bite. “Yes.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  McKella waited, while Greg paid the bill and then led her to a small park overlooking the wharf. With a light drizzle stinging their faces, they walked along the muddy ground, skirting storm debris. Greg guided her around a huge, broken tree limb and paused by a weathered bench, where he could stare out over the sullen water.

  “When I knew him,” Greg began without warning, “your husband lived on the wrong side of town with his brother and an abusive, alcoholic father.”

  McKella had to strain to hear his low words, a forbidding contrast to his turbulent expression.

  “He learned early to use his looks and charm to talk his way out of trouble,” Greg continued. “And he was always in trouble.”

  He glanced at her and back out at the water. “Women were drawn to his looks and his bad-boy image. He used them without a qualm. Betty Jane, for example, probably helped him learn enough to fake a work history in someone else’s computer files.”

  “You think Paul falsified Zuckerman’s employment records?”

  “I’d bet on it. It isn’t that hard to do if you know how.”

  “Do you?”

  He turned to look at her. “Yes.”

  The simple answer surprised her as much as his enigmatic expression.

  “I told you I was no saint.”

  No, he was more devil tha
n saint, she thought. The bad-boy image fit him more easily than it did Paul.

  She brought her wayward thoughts into line. “Have you ever done that? Faked a background, I mean?”

  “Yes. Once.”

  “Oh.” Questions crowded her mind, but along with them came some suggested answers. If he was Jason McConnel, he’d created the Greg Wyman persona. And as much as she wanted to learn everything there was to know about him, that would have to wait. “Did you know the woman who was killed outside the café?”

  “Yes.” He was quiet for a long time, watching the waves slap against the dock. “I didn’t recognize her at first. She was barely eighteen the last time I saw her. I didn’t know she’d married him.” A dark emotion lurked beneath those words.

  McKella resisted an impulse to ask him how well he’d known the eighteen-year-old woman. “She must have been coming to see you at the café,” she suggested instead.

  Greg shook his head. “No. She never even looked at me. I’m sure she was heading for you. She was probably coming to warn you about him.”

  Him. Greg had never once called Paul by name. “Possible, I guess, but how would she know who I was?”

  His shoulders lifted and fell quickly. “Like me, Eleanor must have seen the ads and called Betty Jane. My guess is they caught an earlier flight and were waiting for you at the airport. When the two of you split up, Eleanor must have followed you, while Betty Jane went to talk with your husband.”

  Greg’s words made a scary sort of sense. People had been watching her argue with Paul at the airport, but she didn’t remember noticing anyone in particular. And really, what did it matter? Unless…

  “You think Paul was driving that truck?”

  Greg hesitated so long that she thought he wasn’t going to answer. When he turned to face her again, his expression was stony.

  “Yeah. I do.”

  The hollow coldness seeped back into her chest. McKella shook her head. “I don’t believe it. How would Paul have had time to steal a truck and find me at that café?”

  His hands balled at his sides. “I don’t know, but who else would want you dead?”

  “No one.”

  He watched her without saying another word.

  “You never call him by name,” she said slowly. “Why don’t you ever refer to Paul by name?”

  “Because Paul Dinsmore is dead, McKella. He died fifteen years ago.”

  Chapter Seven

  “What are you talking about?” McKella demanded. Blood pounded behind her eyes, making her light-headed. Groping for the back of the bench in front of her, she stared at Greg. Eric Henning’s phone message echoed in her mind. “It’s about your husband…not one of his references has ever met the guy…there are lots of possible explanations…”

  Greg reached for her in concern. “You aren’t going to faint, are you?”

  She stepped away from his touch, forcing air from her tortured lungs, only then realizing she’d been holding her breath.

  “I’m not going to faint.”

  “I shouldn’t have sprung that on you. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” She shook her head, welcoming the surge of anger that pulsed through her. “Sorry doesn’t cut it, you worm. You’ve played mind games with me from the start, dropping bits and pieces of information, never explaining, but always so solicitous.”

  “McKella—”

  She jerked her arm from his reaching fingers. “Don’t touch me. I want explanations. Complete explanations. If Paul Dinsmore is dead, then who did I marry?” Her voice shook with fury.

  For the first time in her life, she wanted to strike another person.

  “And don’t you dare…don’t you dare tell me you can’t explain. So help me, I’ll go right to Constable Freer and tell him to arrest you for withholding information.”

  Greg dropped one hand to his side. With the other, he wiped at the raindrops misting his eyes. “I told you, I was intrigued by the puzzle those ads presented because I knew your husband. I just didn’t tell you I knew he’d been involved in a fatal car crash fifteen years ago.”

  “Why not?” she demanded. “How do you know so much about Paul?”

  They stared at one another over the back of the bench.

  “Because I was there the night he died.”

  Stunned by the emotionless words, McKella’s heart began to pound as though she’d been running. She remembered the extensive scarring on Greg’s body, the signs of plastic surgery on his face. Yes, she believed him.

  “When I saw the first ad,” he said softly, “his name came as a shock. Then I decided it must be another Paul Dinsmore. I should have ignored the damn thing, but I kept remembering that murder contract. Anyone using Paul’s identity was in danger.”

  “You were going to warn him?” McKella wrapped her arms around her body.

  Greg shrugged. “At first I was just curious.”

  “Until you realized who Paul was,” she concluded.

  He didn’t deny her charge.

  “You didn’t like my husband.”

  “You’re right. I didn’t.”

  McKella inhaled sharply. She decided to let that pass in favor of a more pressing question. “If Paul isn’t Paul, then who is he?”

  Greg shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Jason McConnel.”

  The words slammed into her, robbing her of breath for a moment. “Paul’s friend?”

  “They were never friends,” he said fiercely.

  “But, I thought you…” She couldn’t finish the sentence, but she didn’t have to.

  His jaw clenched. “You thought I was Jason.”

  “Well…yes. It seemed…possible.”

  Greg muttered something and turned back to the water, his back stiff with anger.

  “The constable mentioned McConnel. He was the man whose father died under questionable circumstances.”

  “They were questionable all right,” he snarled. “I always suspected Jason killed him.”

  Stunned by his statement, McKella stared at him. “You don’t mean that.”

  The very softness of his answer was chilling. “Want to bet? Supposedly, the old man fell into Miller’s pond coming home one night. I guess it could have happened that way. Ned McConnel was a mean son of a bitch when he was drunk and, toward the end, he was always drunk.”

  “You knew him,” she stated, trying to put the facts together. It was easier than trying to deal with the possibility that the man she had married was not only a complete fraud, but might also have killed his own father.

  Greg didn’t respond right away. He stared out over the restless water. “I knew all of them. Jason and the real Paul Dinsmore grew up in the same part of town.” His low voice vibrated with restrained emotion.

  “It wasn’t a nice part of town and they weren’t nice young men.” He turned, not quite facing her but no longer in profile. His eyes stared at the landscape, but McKella knew he was seeing something quite different. She wished she could stop his flow of memories, but she needed to learn the truth, and she suspected he needed to tell it.

  “Where Jason wielded his charming lies like weapons, Paul was a typical rebellious teen. His habitual anger and stiff-necked pride made it easy for Jason to blame him whenever things went wrong.”

  Moisture trickled inside her collar. McKella ignored the unpleasant sensation, and focused on Greg.

  “Jason had a younger brother, BG. When Paul left town right after graduation, Jason had to do the same, or find someone new to start blaming for his actions. BG wouldn’t have been as easy to target as Paul. BG was younger, bigger and a lot brighter. He wouldn’t have stood by in silence when he was accused of something he hadn’t done.”

  “Like Paul did?”

  “Yeah. Paul dated Eleanor a couple of times, but her father put a stop to it. The old man must have had kittens when Jason married her. I’m guessing Jason used her to get enough money to start life in the fast lane. Her father owned a box compan
y, the biggest employer in town. He would have paid plenty to get rid of an unwanted son-in-law.”

  “Wait a minute,” McKella interrupted. “The constable said Eleanor married Paul Dinsmore, not Jason McConnel.”

  “I know what he said.” Greg faced her, his features calm once more. “That had me stumped too, but I’m betting Jason used Paul’s name instead of his own on the marriage certificate. Remember, he liked to blame Paul for everything. Even his marriages, apparently.”

  “But that wouldn’t be legal.”

  Greg uttered a harsh laugh. “That’s probably why he did it. It would be interesting to know if her daddy got the marriage annulled before or after Jason skipped town.”

  “But could Paul…I mean, Jason…I mean…how could he get away with signing someone else’s name? Wouldn’t the judge or someone notice the discrepancy?”

  Greg shrugged and jammed his hands down into the pockets of his pants. “Who knows? All I can tell you for certain is that the real Paul Dinsmore never married Eleanor. Since Eleanor was here on the island, it’s a cinch your Paul is the one she married.”

  Her thoughts whirled, but she seized one from the chaos. “What happened to Jason’s brother?”

  Greg flashed her an approving look. “BG was a minor. With his parents dead and Paul gone, social services stepped in.”

  “BG.” She gripped the back of the bench. Greg wasn’t Jason, he was Jason’s brother! “Did the G stand for Gregory?”

  Greg tensed, but not because of her question. His gaze had locked on something past her shoulder. McKella twisted and saw a policeman hurrying in their direction.

  “Now what?” Greg muttered.

  “Mrs. Dinsmore?” the man called out.

  McKella nodded reluctantly.

  “Constable Freer needs to see you right away, miss.”

  Her stomach lurched in foreboding. “They found Paul?”

  “I couldn’t say, miss. If you and Mr. Wyman will come this way, I have a car waiting.”

  Intensely frustrated at the interruption, but hoping answers were finally at hand, she pinned Greg with a look. “We’ll finish this conversation later.”