Married In Haste

by Dani Sinclair

  He made a soft sound, then she felt his lips against her hair. “I love you, McKella.”

  I’m the man who’s falling in love with you.

  God, how she loved this man. “Your timing stinks.”

  He chuckled. “I still have to take down the system so the police can get inside,” he whispered.

  “We’ll both go.”

  “No.” His tension communicated itself, as did his determination. “It isn’t safe.”

  “Why didn’t we take care of that when we were downstairs?”

  “Because we didn’t think of it. Go hide under the desk.”

  “I’m not hiding under a desk, Greg. I’m going with you. We’ll be safer together.”

  Greg hesitated. Exasperated, he nodded. “All right, but let me scout the hall first. We’ll take the stairs.”

  McKella nodded. As Greg disappeared, she peered around her office for a weapon. He was in no condition to face a killer unarmed. Especially not a professional killer.

  She moved around the desk and heard a muffled thud. Fear paralyzed her. A door slammed shut.

  “Greg?” Silence blanketed the building, wrapping her in a cocoon of fear.

  She peered into the gloomy hall. The reception area at the end of the corridor was filled with long gray shadows. Only a lackluster light trickled in through the windows at that end. Nothing moved.

  Her gaze skimmed the line of doors, all firmly shut. If Greg was okay, he would have answered her. So he wasn’t okay. He needed help. The gold-plated letter opener fit neatly into her hand.

  Shaking, McKella slipped out of her sandals and headed into the hall. She eyed the elevator, gaping open in silent, dark invitation. Fear sent quivers racing down her back. She strained to hear something. Anything. The sense of waiting danger enveloped her like a malevolent lover, stroking her nerves to fevered pitch.

  She stepped forward as quietly as she could. Where was Greg? He had to be behind one of these doors, but which one? The opening for the staircase across from the elevator beckoned. McKella shook her head, remembering all too clearly her last adventure in a stairwell.

  One careful step after another, she inched forward. At Paul’s door, she paused. Fear obstructed her throat. Her heart beat too loudly for her to hear anything on the other side of the wooden door—even if there was something to hear. Now nearly running, she headed for the open elevator. The only way to help Greg was to let the police inside the grounds.

  She did run the last few feet, blood pulsing through her veins, making her ears ring with silent pressure. She darted inside, hand reaching for the lobby button even as she turned.

  And a dark figure moved out of the deep corner shadow.

  McKella screamed as black-gloved hands reached for her throat. Fingers settled, choking off her oxygen. She had only a second to realize that the assailant was dressed completely in black, even to the hood covering hair and face. Then the elevator doors slid closed and the floor lurched gently as they started to descend.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  She was going to die.

  With fading strength, she raised the letter opener, aiming for the vulnerable side of the assailant’s neck. The blade plunged through the hood, into his flesh. He yelped in surprise and pain.

  Her neck was suddenly free. McKella raised her knee with every bit of muscle left in her. He screamed as she found her target, but his backhanded blow sent her reeling against the far wall of the elevator.

  She was aware of the elevator lurching to a stop. Hands fumbled, reaching again for her throat. She lowered her chin, trying to deflect them. With her fists, she beat at the black shape. Through a long dark tunnel, she saw the doors open at his back. Heard a shout.

  Suddenly the hands released her. McKella slid to the floor, sucking greedily at the vital air. Dimly, she was aware of yells and a scuffle, but she couldn’t seem to open her eyes. She concentrated on breathing in and out.

  Someone hunkered at her side. “You will need to call an ambulance.”

  She knew that formal voice. Constable Freer. She lifted heavy eyelids to see his concerned face swim into view.

  “Greg!” Her intended shout came out as an unintelligible whisper of sound that strained her throat.

  “Do not try to speak, McKella,” Freer cautioned.

  But she had to speak. She had to tell him about Greg. Greg must be hurt. He might be dying.

  Someone shouldered his way to stand over her, and Freer stepped aside. Greg sat beside her, pulling her against his body. Blood ran down the side of his face.

  “You…look…awful,” she forced out. Her throat hurt too much for more, but her relief was nearly overwhelming. He was all right. Greg was alive.

  “Don’t try to talk. Don’t move. You’ll be okay now.” He raised his eyes to the faces above them. “Where’s the ambulance?”

  “Easy, Wyman. It’s on the way.” She recognized Lieutenant Stone’s voice, though she couldn’t see him. “How bad are you hurt?” he asked Greg.

  “Mostly my pride. He clobbered me as I passed an office. The pain stunned me long enough for him to get to McKella. How did you guys get inside?”

  “We were already en route when your call came in. The night watchman called about a break-in. He deactivated the gate before he was attacked.”

  Two uniformed policeman held the black-garbed figure between them. One ripped the hood from his head. Larry Patterson raised his eyes to look straight into McKella’s. “It was nothing personal,” he told her.

  Greg started to rise, but McKella gripped his arm. Greg allowed her to pull him back to her side, and settled for a string of curses aimed at the older Patterson.

  “I had no choice,” Larry said calmly. “My brother turned the company over to her instead of me.” His blue eyes were chilling, totally devoid of remorse.

  “She did nothing to earn the ownership,” he explained, “while I helped build Patterson Opticals. If she had simply drunk the wine I doctored at the reception, all of this might have been avoided. Her husband would have taken the blame when she lapsed into a coma and died. I knew all about his past, of course. It was so ironic the way I kept stumbling over his wives. McKella should have died at the café that day. You’ve been a serious nuisance,” he told Greg.

  McKella was sure that if his hands hadn’t been in restraints, her uncle would have reached up to flick off a bit of imaginary lint. Greg uttered a low string of profanities, but her grip kept him in place at her side.

  “You returned my call,” she whispered. “The message in Bermuda…”

  “A cell phone,” he explained, unperturbed.

  Stone turned to one of the officers. “Tell me you read him his rights,” he pleaded.

  “Yes, sir, I sure did.”

  McKella tried to swallow. Greg saw her distress. “Where’s that ambulance? I can practically see her throat swelling.”

  “They’re pulling up right now, Mr. Wyman.”

  “Her father regained consciousness several hours ago,” Freer stated. “He told quite a tale of betrayal.”

  “You want to talk betrayal,” Larry said. “My brother knew I needed money, but he turned the company over to his daughter rather than sell it and split the proceeds. The fire was an accident, of course, but fortuitous. I thought it would surely finish him off.”

  McKella stared in horror.

  “Mr. Patterson is pressing charges for attempted murder,” Stone said.

  Larry frowned. “Meddling fool.” He paused to survey the people looking at him. “I believe I’d like to call a lawyer now,” he stated.

  McKella closed her eyes and sank back against the solid comfort of Greg’s chest.

  Epilogue

  “Ms. Patterson? This is Eric Henning.”

  McKella stared at the telephone beneath her fingers, ignoring the sense of déjà vu.

  “Look, I know you didn’t ask for this, but I’ve been doing a little digging over the past few months, and I think you ought to know, Greg
Wyman may not be who he says he is.”

  McKella looked down at the man sleeping so peacefully in her rumpled bed—rumpled from hours of glorious, perfect lovemaking.

  “In fact, I have reason to believe he’s really Brendon Gregory McConnel.”

  Her heart softened as her eyes traced the tiny lines beneath Greg’s chin. You had to look closely to spot the plastic surgery. Someone had done a wonderful job fifteen years ago.

  “According to the police report, Paul Dinsmore had a second man asleep in the back seat of his car. I think that other guy was BG McConnel, who changed his name to Wyman.”

  Yes, she was sure of it as well.

  “There’s no question Dinsmore was killed. The car belonged to him, but the passenger didn’t have any ID. That’s where some of the confusion came in that night. One thing’s sure, I can’t find any record of a Greg Wyman before that time. Let me know if you want me to follow up on this. Or I’d be happy to have a talk with your Mr. Wyman.”

  McKella smiled. How odd to have so many champions.

  She contemplated Greg’s sleeping form. Why hadn’t he deleted the message? He had listened to their voice mail when they came in last night, but he had said only that she had a message. And at that point, messages were the last thing on her mind. Although, they never had gotten around to trying the whipped cream.

  Maybe later.

  In the past five months, her life had undergone drastic changes. Uncle Larry was still awaiting trial for the murder of Eleanor Beauchamp. He wasn’t talking anymore, but the police were pretty certain he wasn’t responsible for Paul’s murder. They believed Paul had been followed to the plant, then executed with the gun he’d taken from her uncle’s safe, probably while Ralph was making his rounds elsewhere inside the building. After all these years, someone had finally collected on the contract on Paul Dinsmore.

  Once they knew where to look, they found evidence proving Larry had stolen the plane flown into Bermuda. Fingerprints tied him to the plane, and he’d all but admitted that the truck killing Eleanor Beauchamp by the café, and the incident in the hospital stairwell, had been attempts to kill McKella. But Larry was most annoyed by any suggestion that he’d killed Betty Jane as well.

  Forensic evidence backed him up. The bruising pattern on Betty Jane’s neck indicated a larger hand than Larry’s. Constable Freer, like Greg, believed Paul had killed Betty Jane when she’d confronted him at the cottage. Greg felt certain Paul’s story of a prowler had been an attempt to divert McKella’s attention.

  Other evidence against Larry Patterson kept piling up. Her uncle was in heavy financial debt, and the people he had spoken to at NewEyes were more than happy to cooperate with the investigation.

  McKella’s father continued to recover. His cancer was in remission and the heart specialists were optimistic. He claimed that he felt terrific and planned to finally enjoy his retirement—a retirement made possible with Greg acting as CEO at Patterson Opticals.

  She stifled an urge to reach out and brush back the lock of hair that had drifted over Greg’s left eye. She loved him so much it was painful.

  He had put his own business in his partners’ hands to help her run Patterson. Her father genuinely liked Greg, though he was careful not to put his thoughts in words. Obviously, he worried that he had pushed McKella into her first marriage and was determined not to repeat that mistake.

  Greg hadn’t mentioned marriage since that day in the vault. She submerged any wistful thoughts along that line, thankful that he was willing to move in with her and share whatever he could of himself.

  She replaced the receiver and found Greg awake and watching her. “Good morning,” she said softly.

  “Is it?” He propped his head on his hand.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She drew her thin robe more tightly around her body.

  “You listened to Eric’s message?”

  “Yes.”

  “No questions?”

  McKella saw the shadows in his light-blue eyes. She still wasn’t used to seeing him without his green contacts.

  “No questions,” she assured him. “What do you want for breakfast? It’s my turn to cook.”

  “McKella—”

  She was already heading out the door, determined to avoid this confrontation at all costs. Their relationship was too vulnerable. Too new. She wouldn’t ruin what they had with questions. The answers weren’t important anymore. She knew all she needed to know about Greg Wyman. She loved him.

  He caught her before she reached the stairs, uncompromisingly male and unabashedly nude. She loved him and she loved his body—every muscle, every ridge, every plane and every scar.

  “I’m tired of playing games,” he announced.

  “Who’s playing games?”

  “You are. You never once asked me,” he accused. “Never once.”

  She knew what he meant and she didn’t want to have this conversation. Everything might change again, and that terrified her. She didn’t want more change. She wanted Greg.

  “I don’t need to ask you anything,” she told him with a calm she didn’t feel. “You once told me you’d never lie to me.”

  “I never have.”

  “Well then?”

  “Ask me,” he demanded.

  “It’s not important.”

  He touched her cheek, running the back of his fingers across her skin, leaving prickles in their wake. His voice went whiskey-soft. “Yeah, McKella. It is.”

  “Why?”

  “No more secrets. I’ve been waiting for you to ask me.”

  She glared at him, standing rigid beneath his touch. “Well, I’m not going to ask. It doesn’t matter if you’re Jason McConnel’s brother—”

  “I’m not.”

  The world’s oxygen supply suddenly seemed depleted. “What?”

  “I’m not Jason McConnel’s brother. BG is dead, McKella. He died fifteen years ago driving Paul Dinsmore’s car.”

  The room dipped and plunged as it spun. She shook her head, trying to keep the darkness at bay, trembling from head to toe. Not wanting to ask, but knowing somehow she had to get the question past her frozen lips. She pushed out one word. “How?”

  “He was drunk. So was Paul. Unfortunately, so was the driver of the oncoming car.” His eyes grew luminous with the intensity of his words. “He lost control of the car, somehow. They hit head-on. BG never had a chance. Paul…” He took an unsteady breath. “Paul was mangled, pinned in the wreckage. Two passersby pulled him free, terrified that the car would burst into flames.”

  She really didn’t want to hear this, but he was right, she did have to know. Because there was only one way his words made any sense. And his pride demanded that she know the truth.

  “There was no hitchhiker, was there?”

  “No.” He continued to watch her mercilessly.

  “You’re him. You’re really Paul Dinsmore.”

  “Yes.”

  The room suddenly righted itself again. She drew in a deep, satisfying breath of air. Everything made sense. He felt he couldn’t marry because of the contract on his life, because anyone close to Paul Dinsmore was at risk.

  A thousand questions tickled her mind, but they no longer mattered. Greg would answer them openly any time she chose to ask.

  “BG was a good kid,” he told her. “Bright. And so young. I was a loser with nothing to gain.” Pain darkened his features. “I should have been driving that night.”

  “No,” she protested instantly.

  He smiled sadly. “He shouldn’t have died, but he did. Sixteen years old. A runaway. No family besides Jason. He didn’t even have identification.” Greg closed his eyes in remembered distress, then opened them again.

  “What he had was my wallet. He found it in his brother’s room months after I left town. Then one day he saw an article in the newspaper about the warehouse shooting and trial in Frankfort. They used my name, so BG came looking for me. By then, of course, Jason had already used my identificat
ion to set up a second identity as me, but neither of us knew that.”

  His eyes clouded with memories of the past, and McKella ached for the visions she knew he must be recalling.

  “My wallet ended up in the grass next to BG’s body. Since he was driving and he fit my general description, they assumed BG was me.”

  “But what about dental records or fingerprints?”

  “Neither of us had ever had any dental work done and, for whatever reason, they never ran his prints. Maybe they couldn’t. I just don’t know.”

  He took a deep breath. “Since no one knew BG was with me, the cops had no idea who I was. I was in no condition to tell them at first and someone had remembered seeing a hitchhiker. They assumed that’s how I got in the car. By the time I could tell them different, I no longer wanted to.”

  She wanted to cry for his pain, but tears had deserted her.

  “For weeks I lay in that hospital and wondered why I was still alive when BG was dead. I even wondered if the accident had been caused because of the price on my head. Then…I don’t know…gradually it dawned on me that I was being offered a second chance. Everyone believed Paul Dinsmore was dead.”

  He shrugged. “I guess it sounds weird, but I felt like I owed it to BG to make something of myself. I took BG’s middle name, and invented the Wyman, and told the cops what they expected to hear. Greg Wyman became a hitchhiker that Paul Dinsmore picked up that night. The rest, you know.”

  She wanted to hug him, to bury herself against his hard body and offer comfort, but before she could move, he turned and started back to the bedroom.

  “I’m going to catch a shower,” he told her without turning around. “Eggs and toast would be nice for a change. I don’t think I’m up for any of that fat-free cereal this morning.”

  McKella watched him disappear. The longer she stood there, the angrier she became. Who did he think he was?

  Had he thought she was so shallow that his identity would make a difference to her? Did he think she’d confuse him with that jerk she had married? Paul Dinsmore was dead. The newspapers had announced it in boldface—even the gangsters had to be convinced this time. There was no contract hanging over Greg’s head anymore. She and Greg were the only two people alive who knew the truth—and she wasn’t going to tell a soul.