by Carole Buck
“Gotta get back to work,” Butch said firmly, then pivoted away again and walked out.
“Lucy?” Chris questioned once the storage room door clicked shut. “What is it, sweetheart? The prospect of our being tied up together for another twenty-four hours doesn’t strike you as fun?”
“Try another four and a half days.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I gave everyone the rest of the week off. Gulliver’s Travels is going to be closed until Monday.”
“Oh,...God.”
“Sorry.”
Chris shook his head. “Don’t be sorry. It was a very nice thing for you to do for your staff.”
“They earned it.”
“Until Monday morning, hmm?”
“Unfortunately.”
“I think we need to oome up with an escape plan.”
“Me, too. I don’t suppose—” Lucy stopped, sniffing the air. “Wait. Do you... smell... something?”
Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. But the intuition that Christopher Dodson Banks didn’t really think he possessed suddenly kicked into high gear. Without really stopping to think what he was doing, he cast aside the mug and the earphones he was holding, grabbed Lucy and pulled her down on the floor, shielding her body with his own.
There was an explosion a split second later. Not a big blast. But large enough so it seemed to jar the fillings in his molars. It also caused several pieces of the storage room’s plastered ceiling to break loose and fall to the floor. One chunk hit him squarely between the shoulders. He granted in pain.
“Ch-Chris?”
“Stay down,” he insisted, controlling her movements.
“What...what was that?”
Plaster dust filled his nostrils. He fought down a sneeze. “The reason we were supposed to put on the ear protect—”
“Lucy?” a male voice he’d never heard suddenly called. “It’s me. Wayne. I got your E-mail. Is this some kind of joke?”
Twelve
The police arrived a few minutes later, pulling up in front of the building where Gulliver’s Travels was located about five seconds before the Spivey brothers and Percival Johnson came charging out of it.
The suspects were too demoralized by the utter failure of their heist to try to evade arrest, much less resist it. One officer later confided to his wife that the balding one—the one some old-timer on the force had mentioned had been nicknamed Butch years before, because he sported a buzz cut in an effort to disguise his lack of hair—had seemed almost relieved to have the cuffs slapped on.
The other two had been pretty passive at first. Then they’d started squabbling with each other about which one had messed up the explosive charge they’d used. They’d been arguing so vehemently that they were loaded into separate squad cars for the trip to the police station.
Members of the local media arrived a short time after the authorities. Several TV reporters started doing “live from the scene” reports as soon as their camera crews got set up.
Lucy and Chris’s exit from the building touched off a press feeding frenzy.
“How did you happen to be taken hostage?” someone yelled.
“We got lucky,” Lucy said wryly, thankful that she’d been able to retrieve her black coat and shoes before coming outside. The first day of the New Year was crisp and cold. She shivered as an icy breeze fluttered beneath the hem of her coat and fingered up her unstockinged legs.
“Wrong place at the wrong time,” Chris clarified, slipping an arm around her waist. Although he’d donned his trench coat, he hadn’t bothered to button or belt it. Lucy thought he looked quite rakish.
“Were you frightened?” another reporter demanded.
“Of those three?” Chris chuckled.
“Not once we got acquainted with them,” Lucy added, not wanting to give the impression they were bad-mouthing Tom, Dick and Percival. “They were very...um...well, they weren’t your typical criminals.”
“Are you saying you bonded with your captors?”
“I don’t know that bonded is the right word.” Seized by a sudden mischievous impulse, Lucy slanted a teasing glance at the man she loved. “Although Chris did lend them some money to buy pizza.”
“Pizza?” There was a ripple of incredulous laughter. “What kind of pizza?”
“Not the kind you get at Falco’s Pizzeria in Chicago,” Chris riposted urbanely, then smiled down at his ex-wife. Lucy braced herself to be zinged, but good. “Of course, my letting them borrow money was nothing compared to Lucy’s volunteering to book them the getaway of a lifetime.”
“What?” the horde of reporters chorused.
“What?” the officers accompanying Lucy and Chris exclaimed.
“Oh, man, don’t you know a travel-agency joke when you hear it?” Wayne Dweck groaned, his nose ring quivering at the gullibility of the press and police. He’d followed Lucy and Chris out of the building, muttering. “And what’s this ‘bonding’ stuff? Lucy risked her life to E-mail me a message asking for help.”
“Who’re you?” somebody immediately wanted to know.
“My name’s Wayne Dweck—”
“Spell it!” a reporter ordered sharply.
“W-A-Y—”
“The last name, kid.”
“Oh. Uh, that’s Dweck. D-W-E-C-K. I’m an assistant at Gulliver’s Travels.”
“Lucy! Why Wayne?”
“Why Wayne...what?” she echoed, slightly surprised she got the words out without slurring them. Weariness was beginning to set in. So, too, was a desire to be alone with Chris. Really, truly alone.
“Why did you pick Wayne to message?”
“Actually, I messaged everyone on his E-mail list.”
Wayne paled. “You...you d-did?” he stammered. “Using the, uh...uh...you know?”
Lucy stiffened at this reaction, encroaching exhaustion giving way to alarm.
“What’s the ‘you know’?” one of the reporters asked suspiciously.
“Another travel-agency joke,” Chris said, flashing a potent trust-me-on-this smile. “Isn’t that right, ah, Wayne?”
The platinum-haired young computer whiz gulped several times, staring at Chris as though mesmerized by the force of his personality. Finally he bobbed his head and croaked, “Y-yeah.”
“But—”
“Lucy!” It was Jimmy Burns’s voice, coming from somewhere in the back of the gathered throng. Everybody turned.
“What did you do, Wayne?” Lucy hissed out of the corner of her mouth at her young employee.
“N-n-nothing,” he muttered, a sudden blush suffusing his cheeks. “Just don’t g-get upset if some, uh, g-guys from the CIA or the, uh, NSA show up, okay?”
“If some guys from the CIA or the NSA show up, I’d advise both of you to take the Fifth or plead temporary insanity,” Chris counseled, sotto voce.
“Are you—are you a lawyer?” Wayne asked hopefully.
“Uh-huh. I’m also your boss’s ex-husband.”
“Her ex—”
“Lucy!” It was Jimmy Burns again. He’d finally elbowed his way to the front of the crowd. He flung his arms around Lucy and gave her a great big bear hug. “I turned on the TV to watch one of the parades and I saw this news story about there being an explosion in our building! I raced right down. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Jimmy.” Lucy returned his hug, hoping she didn’t smell too rank after her ordeal. “But the office is a mess.”
“Oh, man.” The former used-car salesman winced. “After all that money Mr. Gulliver spent on redecorating?”
“What were these guys after?” one of the reporters questioned, finally getting to the crux of the matter.
Lucy darted a glance at Chris, uncertain whether she should answer. He shrugged. “Well,” she said slowly, “they mentioned something called the Red Treasure.”
Dead silence.
Then, a lot of muttering. Lucy thought she heard references to gold and jewels and cash money.
&n
bsp; Finally, one brave soul said, “Okay. I’ll be the one who admits to being clueless. I’ve heard the rumors like everybody else. But what the heck is a Red Treasure?”
“The Red Treasure is a priceless collection of Gone with the Wind memorabilia,” a distinctive female voice proclaimed from the back of the crowd.
“Tiffany!” Lucy and Jimmy cried.
“Ms. Toulouse,” Wayne intoned with a lovesick sigh.
“Out of the way,” Hastings Chatwell Lee IV demanded in a bourbon-and-branch-water drawl that would not have been out of place on the battlegrounds of Gettysburg or Bull Run. “My sweetie pie is comin’ through.”
The ranks of the press parted. Tiffany Tarring-ton Toulouse sallied forward with the aplomb of a Vegas showgirl. She was clad in a silvery gray coat and matching hat. Her accessories—scarf, gloves, boots and orchid corsage—were in various shades of purple.
“Hello, Lucy, dear,” she said. “Hastings and I were driving out for a little New Year’s Day brunch when a bulletin about your being held hostage came on the television in his limousine.”
“And naturally, my sensitive darlin’ had to rush right over and reassure herself of your safety,” Hastings boomed.
“I appreciate the concern, Tiff,” Lucy said. “But I’m fine.” She paused, her gaze flicking toward Chris. “We’re fine, actually. This is—”
“Can we hold the introductions for a minute?” one of the press crowd requested impatiently. “What was that about Gone with the Wind?”
Hastings turned on the individual in question, clearly intending to chastise him for his rudeness. Lucy saw Tiffany lay a restraining hand on his arm.
“It’s all right, Hastings,” the older woman said. “Reporters are always under deadline pressure. It makes them forget their manners”
“Is she awesome...or what?” Lucy heard Wayne ask Chris in a passionate undertone.
“Beyond awesome,” her ex-husband responded with a completely straight face.
“I’m sure you all remember the renovation work that was done on certain historic buildings in the city of Atlanta in preparation for the Olympics,” Tiffany said, scanning the crowd. “Well, during the course of some of that work, a cache of papers and personal items belonging to Margaret Mitchell was discovered. Given the nature of some of these items—which bears directly on the writing of Gone with the Wind—the family decided to hold them back for a time. Some wag nicknamed the collection the Red Treasure because of the connection with Scarlett O’Hara. And rather than let the full truth be known, the family started some rumors about jewels and bearer bonds.”
The reporters started shouting questions at Tiffany. Lucy used the hubbub to turn toward Chris and whisper, “Poor Tom, Dick and Butch! What a letdown.”
“I wonder if any of them has even read Gone with the Wind,” Chris returned.
“Oh, I’m sure...” Lucy stopped as Chris grinned his scepticism. “Okay, okay,” she backpedaled. “But I’ll bet at least one of them has seen the movie.”
“Butch.”
“And maybe Dick, with Dora-Jean.”
The questioning about the Red Treasure ran its course. The reporters then turned to Chris and Lucy again.
“So, what was it like?” someone asked. “Two strangers, caught up in events beyond control?”
Lucy leaned against Chris, savoring his strength and warmth. “We aren’t exactly strangers,” she answered.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s her ex-husband,” Wayne volunteered in a carrying voice.
“Lucy’s ex-husband?” Tiffany and Jimmy cried simultaneously, turning toward Chris.
“Chris Banks,” he said calmly, extending his hand. “Ms. Toulouse. Mr. Burns. Lucy’s told me a lot about you.”
“Well, she hasn’t told us anything about you,” Jimmy responded bluntly.
“Including the fact that she was spending New Year’s Eve with you,” Tiffany added, sending Lucy a reproachful look.
“Ah—” Lucy began.
“Wait a minute!” one of the reporters cried. “You two were married?”
“‘Divorced couple reunites in hostage drama,’” another one called out as though envisioning a headline.
“Talk about ringing out the old!” someone laughed.
“Bring on the tabloids!”
“I can hear Oprah calling.”
“Oprah, hell. Hollywood! This has movie written all over it.”
“But only if there’s a happy ending,” Tiffany Tarring-ton Toulouse pointed out.
There was a pause. Lucy felt the weight of several dozen pairs of eyes. Then she turned to look at Chris, and the sense of being scrutinized vanished. All at once, she was alone with the man she loved.
“Well, sweetheart?” he prompted gently, his gaze very tender.
Lucy cleared her throat. “Chris and I have made a resolution.”
“I thought you didn’t do that anymore,” Jimmy Bums said.
“I... changed my mind.”
“So, what’s the resolution?” Wayne asked.
Chris took her left hand and raised it to his lips, brushing his mouth against the spot where she’d once worn an exquisite diamond solitaire and a beautiful gold band.
“Resolved...” he began.
“... to remarry,” she said.
And so Lucia Annette Falco and Christopher Dodson Banks did.
And when they did, they knew exactly what they were doing.
Which—along with sharing with each other all that was in their hearts and minds—turned out to be the key to living happily ever after.
ISBN : 978-1-4592-7137-1
RESOLVED TO (RE)MARRY
Copyright © 1997 by Carol Buckland
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Silhouette Books, 300 East 42nd Street, New York, NY 10017 U.S.A.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention
This edition published by arrrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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Table of Contents
The HOLIDAY HONEYMOON fun continues this month, when Gulliver’s Travels employee LUCY FALCO rekindles the flame with CHRISTOPHER BANKS.
Praise
Letter to Reader
Title Page
Books by Carole Buck
About the Author
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Copyright