The Bride's Secret

by Adrianne Lee

  Fear coiled in Nikki’s belly and stopped her cold. What was she doing? This was silly. She was acting like the heroine in some gothic novel. Definitely not like herself. Enough!

  How could she allow an unsettling encounter with an old man, whom she could easily best in any physical bout, fill her head with flights of fancy? A self-deprecating smile twitched at her mouth.

  She tugged off her cap, tilted her head back and wiped her arm across her brow.

  A glint of light flashed from overhead. Something solid flew straight toward her.

  Nikki yelped. She stumbled, lurching slightly to her left. Something zipped past her shoulder and stabbed the redbrick at her feet.

  A chisel.

  Exactly where she’d been standing a millisecond earlier.

  Chapter Five

  Nikki stood frozen, staring at the chisel as though it were a poisonous snake about to strike. She wanted to run. To duck and hide lest something else fall from the sky. But her feet were cemented in place. Trembling began in her toes and climbed her limbs, rattling through her like a minor earthquake. What if that chisel—now sticking out of the mortar between two bricks—had hit her head?

  The horrid thought released her arrested limbs. She forced her gaze to the windows overhead. The chisel had either been dropped from the second or third floor. Her pulse bucked. A window on the third floor stood ajar. The library window.

  Was Jorge still there? Furious, she sprinted up the porch steps and inside. As loud as her pulse thumped in her ears, the house oozed quiet—a stillness so alive it brought goose bumps to her flesh.

  She rushed for the stairs and scrambled to the second floor. The air here seemed even more charged, as though everything and everyone, except her, had been frozen in some bizarre game of statues. She considered knocking on closed doors—summoning whomever she could to help. But. she hadn’t time. Didn’t want Jorge to get away. She circled the hall at a flat-out run. The TV room was deserted. The doors to the ballroom, closed.

  The camera banged against her breastbone as she clambered up the next level. Her chest felt tight at the exertion, at the trepidation of coming face-to-face with that crazy old man.

  She hit the third-floor landing breathless and slowed, approaching the library with caution. Her nerves twitched. Her flesh felt clammy. Swallowing hard, she stepped into the doorway. She couldn’t believe what she saw. It was empty. The window, shut “No-o-o.”

  Her hands fisted, and a silent scream resounded in her head. The window had been ajar only a moment ago.

  Where had he gone?

  She jerked around, her skin crawling now at the idea of finding him behind her. But he wasn’t there. Her gaze winged along the hallway to the master bedroom. Was he there? Or in her room? Chris’s room? The bathroom?

  Her mouth went so dry she couldn’t swallow. She considered heading back downstairs. But what if Jorge had managed to make it to the second floor without her spotting him? What if he was hiding in the ballroom? Or behind the door in the TV room, as she’d done earlier?

  The fury and outrage that had gotten her up the stairs collapsed. She could hardly pull a breath into her restricted lungs. She grappled for courage and made a quick decision, opting for the safety of her room. Her locked room. Digging the key from her pocket, she staggered along the hallway, silently willing the other guests to emerge from wherever they seemed to be hiding.

  But no one came.

  She wanted to run. Ached to run. Screamed to run. But her feet felt weighted in concrete, as stuck as the chisel in the mortar, each step a struggle, each creak of the old house sure to alert Jorge of her approach. She pressed her lips tight, terrified of crying out. She couldn’t pull in a speck of oxygen.

  As she crept past the corded-off master suite, a chill shimmered across her flesh. Was the groundskeeper hiding in there?

  A noise beyond her room jammed like a steel rod down her spine. Her pulse galloped. Someone was in the bathroom. Coming out of the bathroom. Nikki’s stomach plummeted to her feet. She rushed to her door, key in hand. With her gaze riveted on the turning knob, she thrust the key at her lock. But she was too clumsy. Too frightened. She couldn’t make it go in.

  The bathroom door inched open. A scream climbed her throat. She spun her gaze to the lock on her own door and drove the key home.

  “Nikki?” Chris stepped out of the bathroom.

  She jerked toward him. Her breath flew from her lungs. Her knees buckled. She slumped against the wall.

  He rushed to her, catching her gently, saving her from sliding to the floor. “Dear God, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, I—” But she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t explain.

  He lifted her like a groom carrying his bride across the threshold, easily, as though she weighed nothing, and pushed her door open. Even through her shock, she felt safe in his arms. He carried her to the bed and placed her on the coverlet with such care she might be an injured child.

  Worry darkened his chocolate eyes as he gripped her wrist. “You’re snow-white and your pulse is racing. What happened? Not Rameriz again?”

  “Yes.” But it was all she could manage as the full impact of her near miss sank in with sharp teeth. She trembled anew, shaking as if with cold. Chris pulled the coverlet up and wrapped it around her, but she kept shivering. He pulled her into his arms then, and began stroking her hair, whispering to her, the words unintelligible, the tone calming.

  When the trembling ceased, he eased her onto her pillow. “I’ll be right back.”

  Chris hurried from the room, returning a second later with a paper cup of water. He helped her into a sitting position, his strong arm reassuring and warm against her shoulder blades, and made her drink. His gentle actions, reassuring touches and solicitous concern salvaged her composure, chased off the last of her fright.

  She set the paper cup on the bedside table. “Thank you. I’m okay now.”

  “Okay enough to tell me what Rameriz did that upset you so badly?”

  “Yes.” She sat straight against the headboard as she related the incident.

  Chris swore, his handsome features twisted into a mask of fury. He seemed angry enough to hit something. Or someone. Presumably Jorge Rameriz. He swore again, then shut his eyes, his thick lashes like ebony brush tips against his tanned cheeks, as he inhaled and exhaled. His tensed facial muscles began easing, and soon his expression showed no sign of rage.

  He opened his eyes. The anger remained there, simmering way at the back, almost out of sight, almost hidden, but there. He’d gotten a grip on it, reined it in as though he’d explode otherwise—as though his very life depended on controlling his temper. In a voice without a trace of ire, he said, “Your color’s better.”

  She felt her cheeks heat. “I feel fine now. Thanks to you.”

  He rose from the bed, seeming embarrassed by her gratitude. She didn’t want him to leave. Didn’t want to be alone. “Where are you going?”

  “To get that chisel, then to talk to Rameriz.”

  She threw off the coverlet. Stood. Her legs no longer wobbled. “Come on. I’ll show you where it is.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.” She grabbed her cap and stuffed her hair into it. Up close and personal, she didn’t want Jorge imagining she was Theresa. “Aside from the past fifteen minutes, I’m usually a brave woman.”

  His mouth quirked at that, something between a grin and a grimace. Again she had the sense he was controlling whatever he was feeling about the attack on her. “You didn’t come to Wedding House to test your bravery.”

  “For women of the nineties every day can test our bravery.”

  One of his raven brows arched at that, a look of admiration flitting across his face. A pleasant heat wrapped her heart, but the feel-good sensation lasted mere seconds. She had to quit responding to this man. Her attitude didn’t deserve his or anyone else’s respect. The only reason she approached life head-on was her upbringing. She’d been taught from an early age to rely o
n herself, was independent because her mother had made sure Nikki understood she couldn’t count on any man to see to her security in this world.

  Not the way Olivia. could rely on Chris. Lean on him. Was that why Nikki found him so attractive? Because he was a man who could be relied on? And was her self-reliance what attracted him to her? Did Chris sometimes consider the role of big brother a burden? It wasn’t a question she knew him well enough to ask. And in spite of the heat he stirred in her, she had no intention of ever knowing him that well.

  She followed him from her room, but once in the hall, she caught Chris’s arm. He glanced down at her as though she’d touched him somewhere intimate. His flesh seemed to pulse beneath her grip, his eyes blazed into her, warming the rest of her body as well as her heart. “What is it?”

  That’s what she wondered. What was this pull between them that caused her mouth to dry, her pulse to thrum, her body to ache with need? She ran her tongue across her lips and watched his gaze follow as though he were mesmerized by the action. The notion sobered her. She cleared her throat, released her hold on his arm. “Jorge might be hiding in the master suite.”

  Chris frowned, appeared to shake himself mentally, then nodded. “Okay. Wait by the library for me.”

  He stepped over the velvet cord.

  “I’m coming with you,” she insisted, and joined him. But she held back as he searched the bathroom, the closet, under the bed and out on the balcony. Like every other time she’d come into this suite, Nikki found herself drawn to the portrait, pulled as if by some invisible magnetic field to stand near the fireplace and gaze at the woman she so resembled.

  That spot inside her, that tiny cold ache she’d had since childhood, reached gelid tendrils through her, stripping the warmth she’d felt only minutes ago. She hugged herself and whispered to the painting, “Who am I to you?”

  Not knowing threatened to consume Nikki. Would her contacts have any information for her yet?

  Probably too soon.

  Her stomach twisted. Patience had long been her motto. She’d had no choice. From the beginning she’d known finding her father would be an odyssey, would take years, and she’d schooled her tolerance with that in mind. But now the prize could be within her grasp, and her patience had flown off like the gulls she’d heard squabbling this morning.

  “He’s not here,” Chris said, scattering her thoughts. She pivoted toward him. He closed and locked the balcony door. His gaze shifted from Nikki to the painting, then back again. Was he also wondering about her relationship to Theresa? Or had he accepted that the resemblance was coincidental? The knot in her stomach tightened.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  It was exactly what she’d been wondering about him. She pressed her lips together, unwilling to pursue her line of thought. “I was trying to figure out why Jorge said he’d send Theresa ‘back to hell.’”

  “What do you mean?” Chris tucked his shirt into the back of his jeans, pulling it taut across his flat belly as he stepped over the velvet cord. He spun toward her and offered her his hand. She stared at it a moment too long, becoming self-conscious.

  Voices rose from the floor below, soft conversational tones. Nikki tensed. The guests she’d prayed would come to her rescue half an hour ago had appeared—all the statues unfrozen, moving and breathing and chatting, all unaware of the attempt on her life.

  Waving his help aside, she joined Chris in the hall. She kept her voice hushed. “Jorge said Theresa belonged in hell. If she were a victim in this tragedy, why would he think she deserved that fate?”

  Chris frowned, mulling this over. He leaned his head toward her. His aftershave wafted to her, teased her with images of the kiss they’d shared. No. She didn’t want to remember. To dream of another kiss.

  He spoke softly, with skepticism. “You think Rameriz was implying she was something other than a victim?”

  Nikki struggled to force her attention from Chris to the matter at hand. She shrugged, recalling Marti McAllister Wolf’s notion that there was more to this tragedy than met the eye. That something was backward or upside down. “Well, he was on the De Vega staff from the time Theresa came to Wedding House as a bride. Maybe he knows something about her, or about that night, that he’s never told.”

  “And maybe trying to save my uncle’s victims cost Jorge his sanity as well as half of his face,” Chris stated flatly. His expression was bland, but not disinterested. Controlled would best describe it, as though he didn’t dare tap into what he really felt about the twenty-five-year-old tragedy.

  Why? She studied his handsome face, but could find no answer. The bride wasn’t the only one with secrets, she realized as they started downstairs.

  Olivia and Dorothea were emerging from the ballroom. Chris’s sister smiled up at them. Dorothea gave a theatrical shudder. “Ooh, don’t they look just like Theresa and Luis?”

  The heat drained from Nikki’s face, and beside her, she felt Chris stiffen.

  Olivia was instantly flustered, her pale cheeks flashing with swaths of color. “Lunchtime. Will you be joining us, Chris?”

  “Later. We have something to see to first.”

  “Oh?” Olivia’s eyebrows twitched, her expression displaying a mix of hope and worry. Perhaps she was recalling Chris’s rude treatment of Nikki the first night here. Perhaps she feared he’d do or say something that would ensure Wedding House’s exclusion from her book.

  Nikki would like to tell Olivia not to worry, but letting any of the proprietors know that their bed and breakfast had been selected or rejected for her book before she’d visited all twenty would hardly be fair.

  “We’ll be in soon,” Chris said.

  “But—”

  Ignoring his sister’s protest, he caught Nikki’s elbow in his firm, warm grip and guided her away from the two women and toward the next staircase.

  Marti came out of her room as they passed. She stepped back, seeming surprised to encounter them, almost as though she’d been caught doing something wrong. She recovered instantly and asked the same question Olivia had about lunch.

  Chris gave her the same answer, then hastened Nikki down the stairs and out the front door. Clouds were creeping across the edges of the horizon and the gentle breeze was stronger now, blowing in cool gusts.

  Nikki swallowed against the nerves in her throat. “It’s this way.” She pointed to the edge of the house. “Directly below the library.”

  They scrambled to the spot She froze. Her gaze darted across the bricks. Her throat tightened. The chisel was gone. Recalling Chris’s first reaction to the missing message on the bathroom minor, she leaped to defend herself. “It was there. I swear. I didn’t imagine it.”

  Chris glanced at the library window, then at the brick walk. He squatted and smoothed his fingartips over the mortar. He gazed up at Nikki. “I believe you. But even if I doubted your story, there’s a hole in the mortar to confirm it.”

  She exhaled sharply. “I should have realized—”

  “Don’t apologize.” He raised to his full height and caught her gently by both upper arms. His touch was brotherly, concerned, but the look in his eyes was anything but that of a sibling. Mixed with worry and passion, the rage deep within those brown orbs burned slightly higher. “Go on in and have lunch. I’ll see what Rameriz has to say and let you know the outcome later.

  “No way.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t eat a thing. I want to hear what Rameriz has to say, too.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She flashed him a hard smile. “Oh, yeah.”

  They crossed the redbrick driveway and climbed the steps that led between two towering rhododendron bushes. It was like stepping into another world. The manicured gardens spread like a football field between the house and the stucco fences. The air was hushed and dappled and shadowed, and smelled of sweet blossoms and green vegetation.

  “Rameriz lives in the gatehouse.” Chris pointed toward the right. “It’s at the back of the gardens,
near the front gates—in those trees.”

  For all her brave words to Chris about courage, she couldn’t still the nerves in her stomach. “The gardens are beautiful. Jorge obviously loves plants.”

  “Yes. My uncle must have trusted that he would watch over these grounds, keeping the plants alive, nurturing them as long as he was physically able. He had a provision in his will that Rameriz retain the cottage as his home until death.”

  Apparently, Nikki thought, gazing at the well-tended plants, it was only human life Jorge didn’t seem to respect. “Were he and your uncle close?”

  “Not that I know of.” Chris robbed his palms together and peered down at her, his handsome face so earnest, she wished for a moment she did have room in her life for this man. That she could make room. But she couldn’t.

  He said, “Mother saw to it that Rameriz kept the place up. She hoped Olivia and I would eventually take an interest in the estate and bring it back to life.”

  Something about the way he said this struck a sour note, as though he regretted his part in the restoration of Wedding House. And yet, he’d done the work beautifully, even described the work to her in words rich with joy. What did he regret?

  Again, it was a question she doubted she’d ever ask. “Your mother didn’t want to live here herself?”

  He laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. “God, no. To my mother her brother, Luis, was a saint. She wouldn’t hear anything against him, not even after he killed three people.”

  “Then why wouldn’t she live here?”

  “It was Theresa. Mother blamed her for driving Luis to act as he did.”

  Nikki grazed a rosebush, and a thorn pricked the back of her hand. She winced, then sucked on the wound. The salty taste of blood in her mouth reminded her that danger and evil lurked among the beauty here, that she must always be on her guard. “And did your mother ever say why she blamed Theresa?”

  He exhaled noisily. “Only that she was a temptress. I suspect it was pure jealousy—that Mother would have resented any woman Luis married.”