Brandon's Bride

by Lisa Gardner

  “Don’t move,” the prison guard repeated, and this time his voice was very hard.

  She blinked rapidly, looking at the man with mild confusion. Strangers were always approaching her. There could be one hundred people on the street and the tourist would stop and ask Maggie for directions. She supposed it was because she was so unassuming. At five feet, she had a slight build and pale skin that only burned, never tanned. Her clothes ran toward the admittedly conservative—she had a weakness for low-slung sensible pumps. Today, she’d matched her favorite pair of beige heels with a brown plaid wool skirt and simple pink blouse that declared, I am an intelligent, professional woman with really boring taste in clothes.

  Last week, her mother—one of those tall, wildly beautiful women who could actually wear leopard-print jumpsuits—had flown into town, greeted Maggie with two fofooey cheek kisses and dramatically exclaimed, “My God, Maggie darling! How did I ever give birth to a creature who will probably marry an accountant?”

  And Maggie, who felt the same sting she always felt when trying to understand her exotic mother, had the sudden urge to toss back her red hair and retort fiercely, “At least an accountant would come home every night for dinner!” She hadn’t said any such thing, of course. She was still slightly surprised she’d bothered to think it. After twenty-seven years, she’d come to the realization that Stephanie would always be Stephanie. Getting angry with her self-centered, extremely un-Mom-like behavior was as productive as hating the sun for shining.

  “Lady,” the guard was now growling, “I said move!”

  “Move where?” she asked him politely. As far as she could tell, the second floor of the old courthouse was still deserted. Space should not be a problem for him.

  Then Maggie noticed the gun. The big gun. The big black gun pointed right at her, here, in the middle of the vast gray marble hallway of the Multnomah County Courthouse. The hallway was quiet, hushed as a courthouse should be hushed—particularly one that had opened its door just five minutes before. But just one floor beneath them, she could hear the reassuring hum of people entering and the parrotlike chirp of the metal detectors working as they helped protect the courthouse doors.

  She stared at the gun still held unwaveringly in front of her, blinked, then stared at it again.

  The prison guard abruptly jabbed her in the ribs with the barrel. Oh God, it was real. She was being attacked by a prison guard!

  Maggie stopped breathing.

  Hello, her mind whispered. Somebody come up here and do something. Somebody jump out and tell me I’m on Candid Camera.

  The only person who moved was the prison guard.

  “Do exactly what I say,” the light-haired man said, his gaze boring into hers. He shifted, positioning his solid body between her and the top of the stairs, where the first smartly dressed morning commuter was now appearing. That man was followed by a woman in a paisley-print dress, then another man in a suit.

  The guard in front of her shifted again and her universe was reduced to bulging biceps, a granite chest and a pair of chilling green eyes that told her he was bigger, better and badder than she would ever be in her whole entire life.

  She would grant him that. She was one of those people who could never even get the lid off a pickle jar. C.J., Brandon . . . help!

  “Listen up and don’t make a sound,” the “prison guard” commanded. His voice didn’t waver; the gun didn’t waver; his gaze didn’t waver. He exuded one-hundred-percent-focused, honed control. She was a dead woman.

  “Okay.” Maggie’s gaze flew from his face to his brown uniform, to the badge on his chest. Then her eyes fell lower and she realized the shirt was too tight across his chest, the pants unbuttoned at his waist, the hems ending a good two inches above his ankles. His feet were squashed awkwardly in the shiny black boots, as if he was forced to walk tiptoe by the constraining leather.

  “You’re not a prison guard!” she exclaimed softly.

  The left corner of his lips twisted up. “Very good, you win the double-jeopardy question. Next time, give your answer in the form of a question. Now stand up and do exactly as I say.”

  The gun dug into her ribs again and she jumped to her feet as if it had been a cattle prod. Her oversized beige purse promptly fell off her lap and vomited onto the floor.

  “Damn!” her prison guard/captor swore. With an impatient gesture, he planted one broad palm on her thin shoulder and shoved her down. “Grab it and let’s go.”

  “Okay,” she said again, her fingers trembling so hard, she scrambled lipstick tubes, a set of house keys, four throat lozenges, two cat rabies tags and her checkbook all over the floor.

  “Lady!”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing!” she cried out perilously loud. The ringing footsteps of one man’s dress heels against the marble floor came to a suspicious halt.

  The guard hunched down. One sweep of his broad hand and everything was back in her oversized leather purse. He leaned so close, she could feel his breath on her lips, as well as see the burning-green determination of his eyes.

  “One more stunt like that,” he told her quietly, “and you’re dead.”

  His fingers wrapped around her thin arm. He dragged her to her feet, her body pressed against him as if she were weightless. And all she could think was that her tax dollars had probably paid for the prison barbells that had made him so strong.

  Her captor yanked her toward the top of the stairs. Maggie caught the gaze of a startled man in a deep gray suit still watching her. Run, yell, do something, she thought. Fingers dug into her upper arm and she smiled at the halted man instead. He politely nodded, then walked away as Attila the Hun dragged her down the rapidly flooding staircase.

  They were going against the flow of traffic, but nobody seemed to mind. The stream of humanity split around them without a second glance. Executives in their suits passed so close, she could touch them with her fingertips. One judge already in his black robe ascended the broad steps just two feet away. Court clerks in professional, but not too professional, clothes chatted about the beautiful spring weather as they moved to one side so an escaped felon could pull her down to the front doors.

  Say something, do something, her mind whispered. Lydia always said your hair marked you as one of the legendary Hathaway Reds, and all the Hathaway Reds were women of great courage and passion. So do something! Just this once, actually do something!

  As if reading her thoughts, the man clamped her arm more tightly and quickened his pace. She had to half jog to keep up with his long strides. Obviously, the man not only lifted weights but ran on the prison treadmill machine. Did they give convicts StairMasters, as well, so they could climb skyscrapers as modern-day versions of King Kong? She was definitely writing a letter to her state congressman after this. Definitely, definitely, definitely.

  They made the turn of the sweeping staircase. The huge bay of glass doors loomed before them, guarded by the standing metal detectors. For a moment, Maggie felt hope soar in her chest. The second he dragged her through the detectors, his gun would set them off and she’d be home free!

  Then she realized the detectors were only for the people walking in. There were no such protective devices for the people walking out.

  His footsteps moved even faster and she was helpless to stop the momentum.

  The security desk was to her left. Three men sat there in uniform. Look over here, darn it! Hey, hey, someone set down your jelly doughnut and look at me!

  But they only watched the people entering the building.

  Maggie rolled her eyes frantically to the right. Phones, the bank of phones. If she could twist away, make it to the phones. Her brother would help her. C.J. had joined the Marines when he’d turned eighteen and taken to it like a seal to water. He had more medals than their grandpa had gotten in World War II and Korea combined; no one messed with C.J. Or maybe her older brother
, Brandon. Where was he these days? Since burying his young wife two years ago, he’d taken off and traveled the world in a manner frighteningly similar to their late, departed father.

  She made an instinctive lunge for the phone banks. At least she thought it was a lunge. Her captor glanced at her quizzically as if she’d hiccuped, then proceeded to drag her through the broad glass doors like his own personal Raggedy Ann.

  She blinked beneath the sudden glare of sunlight. A part of her was instantly relieved. It was daylight, after all, prime commute time on a bright spring day in downtown Portland, Oregon; everyone knew bad things only happened after midnight in dark alleyways where streetlights reflected off murky puddles.

  Attila, however, showed no signs of slowing down. He dragged her to the corner, then came to an abrupt halt. She was so unprepared for the stop, she tripped in her low heels and practically flung herself around him. He caught her hundred-pound body, not even swaying from the impact. Strong hands gripped her shoulders and righted her curtly. Again, she did her impression of a blinking owl.

  “Who taught you how to walk?” he muttered.

  The crossing signal’s green man lit up, indicating for pedestrians to proceed. Her captor dragged her briskly across the street. Drivers watched them politely; fellow commuters rushed by hurriedly. Abruptly, Attila pushed her into the park, ducking them both behind a four-foot-high hedge. Maggie had time for one gulping gasp of air; then he pinned her between the prickly hedge and his rock-hard frame.

  She blinked, then blinked again. No matter how many times she did, he remained standing before her, his steely thighs clamped around her legs.

  “P-p-please,” she begged weakly. Her body began to tremble, and her eyes squeezed shut; she had no pride. She was very scared and she would do anything if this man would just let her go. “D-d-don’t hurt me. . . .”

  “Look at me.”

  #1 New York Times bestselling author Lisa Gardner

  is back with another thriller.

  Read on for a preview of

  TOUCH & GO

  Available everywhere books and e-books are sold.

  Here is something I learned when I was eleven years old: Pain has a flavor. The question is what does it taste like to you?

  Tonight, my pain tasted like oranges. I sat across from my husband in a corner booth at Scampo’s in Beacon Hill. Discreet waiters appeared to silently refill our glasses of champagne. Two for him. Three for me. Homemade breads covered the white linen tablecloth, as well as fresh selections from the mozzarella bar. Next would be tidy bowls of hand-cut noodles, topped with sweet peas, crispy pancetta and a light cream sauce. Justin’s favorite dish. He’d discovered it on a business trip to Italy twenty years ago and had been requesting it at fine Italian restaurants ever since.

  I lifted my champagne glass. Sipped. Set it down.

  Across from me, Justin smiled, lines crinkling the corners of his eyes. His light brown hair, worn short, was graying at the temples, but it worked for him. He had that rugged outdoors look that never went out of fashion. Women checked him out when we entered bars. Men did too, curious about the new arrival, an obvious alpha male who paired scuffed work boots with two-hundred-dollar Brooks Brothers shirts and made both look the better for it.

  “Gonna eat?” my husband asked.

  “I’m saving myself for the pasta.”

  He smiled again, and I thought of white sandy beaches, the salty tang of ocean air. I remembered the feel of the soft cotton sheets tangled around my bare legs as we spent the second morning of our honeymoon still sequestered in our private bungalow. Justin hand-fed me fresh peeled oranges while I delicately licked the sticky juice from his callused fingers.

  I took another sip of champagne, holding it inside my mouth this time, and concentrating on the feel of liquid bubbles.

  I wondered if she had been prettier than me. More exciting. Better in bed. Or maybe, in the way these things worked, none of that mattered. Didn’t factor into the equation. Men cheated because men cheated. If a husband could, he would.

  Meaning that, in its own way, the past six months of my marriage hadn’t been anything personal.

  I took another sip, still drinking champagne, still tasting oranges.

  Justin polished off the selection of appetizers, took a restrained sip of his own champagne, then absently rearranged his silverware.

  Justin had inherited his father’s twenty-five-million-dollar construction business at the age of twenty-seven. Some sons would’ve been content to let a successful business continue as is. Not Justin. By the time I’d met him when he was thirty-four, he’d already doubled revenue to the fifty-million mark, with a goal of achieving seventy-five million in the next two years. And not by sitting in some office. Justin prided himself on being a master of most trades. Plumbing, electrical, drywall, concrete. He was boots on the ground, spending time with his men, mingling with the subcontractors, first one on the site, last one to leave.

  In the beginning, that’s one of the things I’d loved most about him. A man’s man. Comfortable in a wood-paneled boardroom but also played a mean game of pickup hoops and thought nothing of taking his favorite .357 to light up the firing range.

  When we were first dating, he’d taken me with him to his gun club. I’d stand, tucked into the solid embrace of his larger, stronger body, while he showed me how to position my hands on the grip of a relatively petite .22, how to sight down the barrel, home in on the bull’s-eye. The first few times, I missed the target completely, the sound of the gunshot startling me, causing me to flinch even with ear protection. I’d fire into the ground or, if I was very lucky, hit the lowest edge of the paper target.

  Time and time again, Justin would patiently correct me, his voice a low rumble against the back of my neck as he leaned over and helped me level out my aim.

  Sometimes we never made it home. We’d end up naked in the closet of the rifle range, or in the backseat of his SUV, still in the parking lot. He’d dig his fingers into my hips, urging me faster and harder, and I’d obey, out of my mind with gunpowder and lust and pure mind-blowing power.

  Salt. Gunpowder. Oranges.

  Justin excused himself to use the bathroom.

  When he left, I rearranged the pasta on my plate so it would appear as if I’d eaten. Then I opened my purse and, under the cover of the table, doled out four white pills. I popped them as a single handful, chased down with half a glass of water.

  Then I picked up my glass of champagne and steeled myself for the evening’s main event.

  * * *

  Justin drove us the five minutes home. He’d purchased the Boston town house pretty much the same day we’d confirmed that I was pregnant. From doctor’s office to real estate office. He brought me to see it after reaching a verbal agreement, the big-game hunter showing off his trophy. I probably should’ve been offended by his high-handedness. Instead, I’d walked through four and a half stories of gorgeous hardwood floors, soaring nine-foot ceilings, and intricate hand-carved moldings, and felt my jaw drop.

  So this was what five million dollars bought you. Bright, sunlit rooms, a charming rooftop patio, not to mention an entire neighborhood of beautifully restored redbrick buildings, nestled shoulder to shoulder like long-lost friends.

  The townhome was on treelined Marlborough Street, just blocks away from tony Newbury Street, not to mention walking distance to the Public Gardens. The kind of neighborhood where the poor people drove Saabs, the nannies spoke with French accents and the private school had an application process that started the baby’s first week of conception.

  Justin gave me carte blanche. Furniture, art, draperies, carpets. Antiques, no antiques, interior decorator, no interior decorator. He didn’t care. Do whatever I had to do, spend whatever I had to spend, just make this our home.

  So I did. Like that scene out of Pretty Woman, except it in
volved slathering painters and decorators and antique dealers, all plying their wares while I sat my pregnant bulk on various divans and with an elegant wave of my hand ordered a bit of this, a dash of that. Frankly, I’d had fun with it. Finally, a real-world application for my fine-art skills. I could not only fashion jewelry out of silver-infused clay. I could renovate a Boston brownstone.

  We were giddy those days. Justin was working a major hydroelectric project. He’d helicopter in and out, literally, and I’d show off the latest progress on our home, while he rubbed my lower back and brushed back my hair to nuzzle the side of my neck.

  Then Ashlyn. And joy, joy, joy. Happy, happy, happy. Justin beamed, snapped photos, showed off his precious baby girl to anyone who made eye contact. His crew filed into our Boston town house, muddy boots left in the gleaming foyer so a bunch of former Navy SEALs and ex-Marines could make googly eyes at our sleeping daughter in her pink-coated nursery. They swapped tips on diaper changing and proper swaddling, then set out to teach a newborn how to burp the ABCs.

  Justin informed them their sons would never date his daughter. They accepted the news good-naturedly, then made googly eyes at me instead. I told them they could have whatever they wanted, as long as they’d change diapers at two a.m. This led to so many suggestive comments, Justin escorted his crew back out of the house.

  But he was happy and I was happy and life was good.

  That’s love, right? You laugh, you cry, you share midnight feedings and eventually, months later, you have really tender sex where you realize things are slightly different, but still fundamentally great. Justin showered me with jewelry, and I took up the requisite yoga while learning hideously expensive places to buy baby clothes. Sure, my husband was gone a lot, but I was never the kind of woman who was afraid of being alone. I had my daughter and soon Dina, who helped out so I could return to playing in my jewelry studio, where I fashioned and created and nurtured and glowed.