The Wedding Necklace

by Adrianne Lee

  The phone beside his bed startled him awake. Dusk filled the room, but the luminous dial of the clock said it was still afternoon, and now he heard the rain. He lifted the receiver. “Craig Rival.”

  There was a hesitation, then a woman said, “This is Roxanne DeHaviland, Mr. Rival. I’m trying to locate my daughter, Lyssa Carlyle…on a matter of extreme urgency.”

  Craig shoved to a sitting position, frowning. How had Lyssa’s mother gotten his private phone number? He was about to ask when he remembered the telephone at Windance had call forwarding, and the woman had said it was a matter of extreme urgency. “Is her grandmother worse?”

  Again, she hesitated, and Craig realized the impertinence of his question. It was none of his business. But before he could apologize, she said, “Yes. I’m afraid Lyssa will be too late with the Purity. The doctor doesn’t expect mother to live through the night.”

  The doctor doesn't expect mother to live through the night. He had more than a nodding acquaintance with that phrase. It brought a shiver to his warm skin, that and the tears he could hear in Roxanne DeHaviland’s voice. His heart bled for her. He’d been there. Oh God, had he been there. “I’m sorry.” The two most inadequate words in the English language at a time like this.

  He told her to try Teri Dean and that he knew Lyssa couldn’t get a flight home until this evening. But he hadn’t the stomach to tell her there would be no Purity to comfort the dying woman.

  He showered, shaved, and dressed in fresh black jeans and black polo shirt, but didn’t feel better. The anguish in Roxanne’s voice nagged him, rousing unpleasant memories of his mother’s illness. Craig wished there was some way he could help.

  Had she ever felt more helpless? Lyssa wondered sinking onto the window seat near the wing of the Boeing 747. No. Not even with a maniac chasing her. Even then, she’d had courses of action and the hope that somehow she’d survive, but there was no course of action, no hope that Grandy would somehow survive. Nothing Lyssa could do would change that fact, nothing she could do would ease her grandmother’s last hours. Her fate was in God’s hands, and it seemed He was calling His angel home.

  With the back of her hand, Lyssa swiped at the tears welling in her eyes, bit down the lump in her throat and fastened her seat belt. She'd been among the first to board, but although the engines were gearing up, the seats next to hers remained vacant. As far as she was concerned, they could stay that way. She'd had her fill of strangers.

  Her fill of Rivals, too.

  She couldn’t get out of Seattle soon enough. Didn't care to return. Her gaze drifted to the window, but all she saw was her own reflection. She yanked down the shade. Seattle wasn’t to blame. Except for this weekend, the Emerald City had been good to her. Launched her career. Oh, blast it! Next weekend. She’d forgotten all about the Western Women-Owned Business Association's conference at the Four Seasons. Months ago, she’d promised to present a workshop.

  Grandy…

  It meant canceling on the conference coordinator at the last minute. Lyssa winced. Professional and personal reliability were important to her--as was her reputation, contrary to what she felt certain Craig Rival thought of her. She blew out an annoyed breath. Lord, why should she even care what that disturbing man thought of her? She shouldn’t. Wouldn’t. But the memory of his kiss lingered like the delicious aftertaste of a dinner mint. Why had he done it? Impulse? Curiosity, to see how she’d respond? A goodbye?

  This last panged her already aching heart, and she forced Craig Rival from her mind. Shutting out the purr of voices moving through the cabin as well, she rested her head against the seat, closed her eyes, and thought instead of the woman she loved so dearly who was soon to be taken from her.

  Idella DeHaviland, proud, principled, a true romantic, was the crown jewel in the DeHaviland family, and with all her heart she believed that not owning the wedding necklace, the Purity, was the only obstacle in her daughter Roxanne and her granddaughter Lyssa’s finding true love. She prayed for one thing before she died: the return of the necklace to her family.

  And somehow, she’d gotten it into her head that this miracle was going to happen.

  Every day she’d become more certain of it, and every day Lyssa knew she would be disappointed, until finally Lyssa could bear it no longer. She’d contacted Wayne Rival and struck the deal. Her heart felt heavy. After all she’d done to make the miracle a reality, there was no Purity for Grandy.

  Once again Craig Rival intruded on her musing. She could see his handsome face, his mocking manner as he questioned anew her motive in making the faux. Lyssa rolled her neck, working the kinks loose. What if he was right about Grandy knowing the real Purity when she saw it, when she held it? The copy was good. Not as blue as the Purity though, and Grandy was intuitive. Would she guess?

  Rising from an aisle seat three rows back, someone strode toward Lyssa. Watching her. Hating her. This woman has the power to destroy my life…if she remembers seeing me at Windance minutes before Wayne Rival's death. Fear darted through the disguised figure. Had she already remembered? Already started wondering about it?

  Already mentioned it to someone else?

  A cold sweat broke across overheated flesh. I can't risk letting her live much longer. The killer took a step toward her seat. The plane vibrated and overhead compartments banged as passengers stowed bags.

  Two rows behind Lyssa.

  A woman swung her arm into the aisle. The killer stopped, and bridling with anger, waited until the woman handed a coloring book to a child.

  One row behind Lyssa.

  Tunnel vision. The killer's gaze zeroed in on the back of her head, the hunter setting sight. She wouldn't get away this time. Her luck had run out.

  A man stepped from the first class section of the plane. The killer's attention twitched from Lyssa to the guy.

  Not him. Not again. The killer blanched, barely biting back a growl of fury. Panic ran rampant through terror-frozen limbs. Wait a minute. What am I so frightened of? My own mother wouldn't recognize me in this gray beard and scruffy wig, in these tinted glasses, these sloppy, old man clothes, standing stooped as if by edge.

  I’m completely safe.

  Lyssa Carlyle was not.

  Behind the killer, a flight attendant said, “Please take your seat, sir.”

  The killer smiled, confident the disguise was working.

  Someone sat in the seat next to Lyssa. Reflexively, she twisted her hands together in her lap. She kept her eyes closed, suddenly afraid to open them, afraid to look at the stranger beside her, lest she see the face of her purser…and not even know it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lyssa kept her eyes closed, irrepressible fear gripping her as tightly as she gripped the arms of her seat. The plane lurched, began to roll, then its motion smoothed, and the engine's roar increased. She felt the lift and leveling off. Only then did she relax, drawing in a whiff of spicy cologne.

  She heard a muted clank, like charms on a bracelet bumping together, then a voice she recognized said, “You can take your seat belt off now.”

  Lyssa’s heart stumbled and her eyelids flew open to take in Craig Rival grinning that achingly handsome smile of his, an aura of innocence about him as if it were the most natural thing in the world that he should be seated next to her on this flight to Phoenix. Every nerve in her body not already tensed by sheer imagination, tweaked. “You…?”

  Craig winced at her tone and raised his right arm as if to ward off a blow. “You aren’t going to hit me again, are you?”

  A scowl pulled her brows together, but not one plausible explanation for his being on this plane would lift itself from the worry-exhausted mire she called her brain. “Do I have reason to hit you?”

  He shrugged and leaned closer. His warm breath caressed her face and Lyssa wondered if he was going to kiss her again, wanted him to kiss her again. He said, “Can’t think of any reason.”

  She pulled back, disconcerted by his nearness and the memory of his mou
th on hers. She was too tired to play games, and far too susceptible to the low heat of desire that his voice stirred inside her. “What are you doing here?”

  “Here, you mean?” He pointed to his seat. “Oh, that was easy--I traded my first class ticket with the guy who had this seat.”

  He noticed she was wearing the ragged jeans and red sweater she'd worn at Windance yesterday, but her hair was still upswept as it had been this afternoon, loose strands feathering her face. A tightening pulled at his groin as he remembered their kiss, as he responded to this new look that had little in common with the waif or the temptress; indeed it was more alluring, more touchable, the most dangerous yet. She folded her arms across her chest as if to guard her heart against the attraction that arched between them, but he knew that wouldn't protect either of them. He wanted to kiss her again.

  Lyssa could see that he wanted to kiss her again. Ignoring the delicious tremor racing through her, she noticed he was wearing all black--shirt, jeans, a leather jacket slung across his lap--like some Mafia-type in a second rate gangster movie, but there was nothing second rate about Craig Rival, nothing sinister, and at the moment, nothing safe. She eyed him skeptically. “I suppose you have business in Arizona?”

  His business in Arizona was personal. Some of it, he would tell her. Some of it, he would not. “As a matter of fact…”

  “Sure you do, and it was so pressing you had to come by this plane. What’s really going on, Mr. Rival?” The creepy feeling she’d had before she’d opened her eyes returned in a rush, chasing away all sensuous thoughts and feelings and drawing shivers on her warm flesh.

  “I thought we’d settled all that first name stuff.”

  Why was he deliberately side-stepping her questions? Deliberately making her uneasy? She’d pegged him earlier as a man who did nothing on the spur of the moment, and here he was--disproving that theory. But why? She’d promised to fax the agreement. And he’d seemed glad, delighted even that she’d be out of his life. Her patience snapped. “If you’d rather not tell me what moved you to catch this flight…Craig, please, forget I asked.”

  Satisfaction curled in her stomach as his brows lifted and surprise crossed his face. She released her seat belt and shifted away from him, snapped up the shade and stared out the window as if she could see something besides her own reflection.

  Pressing his head back against the seat, Craig blew out a long, slow breath. At length, he said in a quiet voice, “I take it your mother reached you?”

  Lyssa jerked around and studied his gentle expression. Not for the first time, she decided his bold face hid a compassionate soul, but his referral to her mother’s telephone call renewed the anxious churning in her stomach. “Yes.”

  “She told me your grandmother was…critical.” Empathy shone in his dark eyes.

  A lump clogged Lyssa's throat. “It doesn’t sound good.”

  The gravity of the situation hung between them.

  Craig said, “I found myself wanting to help--”

  “About all anyone can do now is pray.”

  “That’s what I thought…at first. Then it occurred to me that I had the power to do something no one else could.”

  Lyssa frowned as he swept his jacket off his lap, revealing a black leather briefcase and producing the charm bracelet tinkle she’d heard earlier. Now she saw the source: a chain linked Craig’s left wrist to his briefcase. Apparently he was carrying something of value. He stared down at the case as if looking at her were uncomfortable. “It seemed a tragedy that Idella DeHaviland not hold the Purity a last time.”

  Lyssa’s eyes widened. Had she heard him right? Had he caught this plane in order to grant the dying wish of a woman he’d never even met? Hope stirred, stealing her breath. His gaze was on her now, burning holes in every conceivable reason she’d raised for not encouraging her attraction to him. She placed her hand on the lid of the briefcase and peered up at him. “The Purity?”

  He nodded.

  She could have sworn an electrical current zinged the palm resting on the sleek, black leather. Dear God, Grandy’s miracle was actually happening--in part at least. The Purity wasn’t being returned to the DeHavilands permanently, but perhaps letting Grandy think that would ease her last moments. Tears pooled in Lyssa’s eyes and her heart thumped. “Why?”

  A trace of heat inched up Craig’s neck. He wasn’t doing this for the thanks; he preferred his grand gestures went uncredited, and without his personal participation. The truth of the matter was, Roxanne DeHaviland had touched him where he lived, but how could he say that to her daughter without sounding like a sentimental sap? He couldn’t. “The situation with your grandmother…reminded me of my mother. I knew she’d want me to do this.”

  Lyssa shook her head, still reeling from the fact that this thing might actually happen…if Grandy held on a while longer. Her mother would say she was naive trusting another Rival, but her own instincts told her that Craig expected nothing in return. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone or anything had touched her this much. Lyssa beamed at him. “I don't know what to say--except…thank you.”

  Craig tried to look away, chagrined at the wonder and adulation in those gorgeous eyes of hers. A worm of guilt wriggled through the good feeling bathing him. He hadn’t caught this plane simply to bring the Purity to Idella DeHaviland’s bedside. No sir. The primary reason was to extricate Lyssa Carlyle from his system--no matter what it took.

  He switched subjects. “I had the distinct impression you were trying to tell me something about my cousin Stacey this afternoon. What?”

  Lyssa had wanted to forget about the attack on her, at least for a while longer. She sighed. “I know that the Purity was at Windance last Monday night. But you found it in Seattle, in your office vault. We’ve agreed that Wayne didn’t have time to return it there, but it seems logical that Stacey might have had not only opportunity when she came down to identify and claim her father’s body, but also motive in that she might not want you to know what Wayne had been doing.”

  He, too, had considered this. He nodded, then lifted his eyebrows querulously. “That means, you suspect Stacey has your faux and that she is lying about it all?”

  “More than that. It occurred to me that she might have been the one who attacked me.”

  A startled laugh came out of Craig. “Stacey? I thought the police were looking for a man.”

  “Are they? I told them I couldn't tell whether a man or woman was driving the Cadillac. The person was of average height and build, generically dressed, and I never saw a face nor heard a voice.”

  “Still…Stacey?” He was smirking. “I can’t picture it, but let’s say you’re right…what reason would she have for wanting you dead?”

  Lyssa sighed. She’d known he wouldn’t believe anything negative about his cousin. “To shut me up about the faux Purity, probably.”

  “Why?” He obviously didn’t believe this either.

  She couldn’t blame him. It sounded absurd. She sighed again. Too many important pieces of this puzzle were missing. “I don’t know. But somehow, I’m sure it has to do with the faux wedding necklace.”

  Wayne Rival’s slayer glared at the back of Lyssa’s head, hating her more with every breath, fearing her worse, wishing her dead, swearing silently. What in blazes was Craig Rival doing on this plane? A mere two nights ago that woman had knocked him cuckoo, had trussed him up like a roped calf in the kitchen at Windance. Now they acted like old chums.

  A frown puckered the killer’s mouth, tugging the glued beard painfully. What was she saying to Craig anyway? With their heads bent so close together. Icy fear spread through every artery. Oh Lord, had she told him? Was she telling him now?

  With trembling fingers, the killer hoisted the plastic glass of whiskey the flight attendant had provided and downed half of it, then mopped at the spillage on the false beard with a cocktail napkin. Stupid nuisance disguise. The liquor burned going down, but soon was soothing ragged nerves, and reviving conf
idence. Stay calm. Sure this was risky, but the rewards would be many--like the rush that killing Wayne had given.

  The killer took another swallow of whiskey, striving to drown or dull the worries that still niggled. I have to find out what they're up to. Craig Rival might also need eliminating.

  But first I’ll take care of her.

  The killer gazed toward Lyssa again, and smiled a nasty little grin, fingering the empty hypodermic in one pocket. One quick prick. A little air in her veins that was all it required and it would look like she’d died of a heart attack. This was going to be the rush of all rushes. No more reprieves. I just need a couple seconds alone with her.

  Saguaro County General, an aged adobe-styled structure, sat on the edge of the desert. Night pressed down on them, offering little in the way of scenery, but Craig was certain that black lump in the distance was Camelback Mountain. Palm and orange trees and saguaro cactus dotted the parking lot. Few cars occupied visitor spaces this time of night. Lyssa parked her car and led him through the chilly evening that smelled of impending rain to the front entrance.

  Lyssa’s nerves were skittish as Craig and she strode through the deserted lobby, making for the bank of elevators. His boot heels clumped against the polished linoleum and the drone of a vacuum seemed to say, “hurry, hurry.” Would they be in time? Would Grandy actually be able to hold the Purity? Hope buoyed Lyssa onto the elevator and she stepped to the rear, instructing Craig to push the fourth floor button. The light glowed red like a stop signal holding up their progress. He said, “Maybe we should take the stairs.”

  “No. It’s just annoyingly slow.” The elevator was as old as the hospital, smelling of disinfectants and other seamier smells she’d didn’t want identified.

  When she thought her lungs would explode from impatience, the door finally began closing. An elderly man with a youthful gait rushed forward and scrambled aboard. He smelled as if he’d bathed in whiskey, but he didn’t seem drunk. Obviously a street person. Her heart went out to him, while she wondered what he was doing in the hospital this late. Seeking a warm place to spend the night?