Negligee Behavior

by Shelli Stevens

  Untie her?

  Marco’s pulse went into double time, his mouth drying out. He broke into a run and rounded the corner into the living room.

  Elena sat tied to one of the kitchen chairs, her eyes flashing with rage and fear.

  “That crazy fucking dentist took her, Marco. He came in here with a gun!”

  A near debilitating panic swept through him; his gut twisted with guilt. Damn. He hadn’t even given her the benefit of the doubt. How could he have been so stupid to assume she’d have gone willingly?

  “I swear to God, Hollywood breeds the craziest assholes. He’s got a big gambling problem, you know. I bet he took her for her money.”

  “How do you know he has a gambling problem?” Marco made quick time undoing the knots and freed Elena from the chair.

  She rubbed her wrists and shook her head. “It was in that article about Brandy this morning. His show got canceled too.” She paused, her look incredulous. “Did you even read the article, Marco? I left a message on your phone this morning about it.”

  “No. I didn’t check my message or see the article until we got here. And then I saw the headline and tossed it in the garbage.”

  “Ah, well, um. I should warn you.” She cleared her throat. “There’s also a big article on you too.”

  “Fanfuckingtastic. Look, I need you to call the police,” he instructed, sounding a hell of a lot more composed than he felt. “Tell them to be on the lookout for a blue Toyota with male and female occupants, most likely on Highway 161.”

  “That’s it? Did you get the license plate?” she asked, pulling her cell from her pocket.

  “No.” His jaw tightened and he grabbed his keys, heading for the door. “I’m going after them.”

  “I can come with you.” His dad stood in the doorway, twisting his hands.

  “Thanks, Dad, but I’m taking my bike. I can make up time and maybe catch up with them.” He grabbed the door handle and pulled open the door.

  “Careful, son.”

  “Yeah be careful!” Elena shouted. “He’s a real—oh, hi. Yeah, I need to report a kidnapping. Some dentist from a shitty reality show just kidnapped my future sister-in-law.”

  Marco ran down the steps, jumped onto his bike and gunned the engine. Rolling back the throttle, he shot out of the driveway and onto the small road. Dust rose around him as he pushed the bike to the limits.

  Once he reached the main road he looked left and right. The real question was where would Gordon take her? Back to Los Angeles or back to Vegas? He ground his teeth together and tried to put himself in the mindset of the other man. He wanted Brandy back. Bad. Had made it all too clear he still wanted to marry her.

  A possibility took root in his gut. The idea was ludicrous. Completely insane. And yet… Rolling back the throttle again, he turned left onto the highway toward Vegas.

  Why hadn’t she thought to bring her cell phone? Grab her purse? Brandy cursed herself for not being more prepared.

  Yeah right, like you can really be prepared to get kidnapped by your nutty ex who you already ditched once at that altar.

  Biting back a groan, she stared out the window and watched the approach of the lights and buildings of Vegas.

  How could Gordon be so off his rocker to actually think he’d convince someone to marry them when she so obviously wasn’t willing?

  Gordon lit up a cigarette. Brandi hit a few buttons on the passenger’s door, but finally managed to lower the window.

  “What are you doing?” he asked sharply.

  “Opening the window so I don’t have to smoke with you.”

  She turned her face toward the small breeze, grateful for the fresh air. Not only was the smell of smoke overwhelming, but obviously Gordon hadn’t showered in awhile.

  “We’ll be there in a minute,” he muttered. “I’m sorry we don’t have a dress for you this time, love muffin. But I’m sure you can understand the urgency of the situation.”

  Umm, not really. She bit back the response, having decided a while ago that trying to talk sense into him was a complete waste of time.

  “Ah, there it is now.” Gordon swerved across the boulevard, the car bouncing as it plowed over the cracked pavement on the parking lot.

  Brandy shook her head. Good lord, please let Marco and his family have called the police by now. Not that they’d know where she was heading.

  “Okay, out you go.”

  The lock on her door clicked open and she reached for the handle. Maybe she should just make a run for it.

  “And I’m keeping the gun on you, so don’t do anything stupid.”

  Brandy sighed and opened the door, glaring at Gordon across the roof of the car when he climbed out. “You won’t shoot me. You need my money, remember?”

  Gordon scowled and nodded his head toward the chapel.

  “Come on. You first.”

  “What is with you and this shithole place?” She folded her arms across her chest and strode ahead of him into the dark chapel. Her nose wrinkled as the familiar smell of stale beer and BO assaulted her.

  “It’s sentimental to me,” he sneered. “And it’s the cheapest chapel I could find.”

  Here she was, almost two weeks since she’d run from her wedding and she was right back where she started. She’d come full circle. Only this time she had absolutely no chance of running, and even if she did Marco wouldn’t be outside waiting on his bike.

  “We’re closed early for the day, ma’am.” A voice came from the shadows below the stained glass window.

  “God, I’d love it if you were,” she muttered under her breath as Gordon pushed past her.

  “Can you marry us?”

  The man stepped out of the shadows. Obviously they’d caught him in the process of getting dressed. His white jumpsuit was half undone and gathered at his waist; a black T-shirt that said She looked legal sprawled over his beer belly.

  “Now, folks, I done told you we’re closed. There’re plenty of chapels on the Strip, I’m sure—”

  “I don’t want any chapel.” Gordon pulled the gun and waved it at the Elvis minister. “I want this one.”

  “Well, hey now. Settle down, buddy.” The man took a quick step backward, his hands in the air. “Say, aren’t you that same couple who came in here a couple of weeks ago?”

  “Yes,” Gordon snapped.

  It was the same one who’d tried to marry them before! Brandy groaned and shook her head. Of all the luck.

  “Well, didn’t this little lady run out on you once?” the Elvis asked. “Did you change your mind?”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  They both answered at the same time.

  “It’s irrelevant. She’s going to marry me and you’re going to perform the damn ceremony,” Gordon yelled, spittle flying from his mouth.

  “Come on now, son.” The Elvis stared at Gordon’s gun. “Even if I did marry you this marriage will never stand up in court—”

  “Uh yeah—tried telling him that already,” she snorted and rolled her finger beside her head to indicate Gordon’s level of craziness. “The man’s obviously not playing with a full deck right now.”

  “Damnit,” Gordon screamed. “Don’t make me ask again!”

  The click of the safety instantaneously transformed Brandy’s frustration into fear. She was certain he would shoot one of them.

  Gordon’s face paled and his eyes grew wide as a man suddenly appeared behind him and pressed a gun to the back of his head.

  “And who are you?” Brandy hadn’t realized she’d spoken the words aloud until the gigantic man turned his attention to her. Her mouth went dry.

  “I’m Gordon’s friend.” He gave her a hard look. “Aren’t I, buddy? I just stopped by to pick up that money you owe me. Now drop your gun.”

  Gordon leaned down to set the gun on the floor.

  A friend? Brandy shook her head.

  “You’re not a friend, you’re his bookie. I’ve seen enough movies.”

/>   The man didn’t respond to her statement, though she thought she heard him make the tiniest grunt of amusement.

  The Elvis minister cleared his throat. “Bookies aren’t actually illegal in Nevada. Though…I’m not sure I’ve even seen them carrying around guns.”

  “I’m not a Vegas bookie.”

  “Oh, I see.” The Elvis gave a quick nod. “Look, can I leave and just pretend this never happened? You know, what happens in The Hunk-A-Hunk-A Burning Love Chapel stays in the The Hunk-A-Hunk-A Burning Love Chapel.”

  The bookie stared at him for a moment. “You remember that slogan and you’ll be just fine. You call the cops and I’m coming for you next. Now get the hell out of here.”

  The Elvis minister turned to flee from the building, his jumpsuit still half off his body.

  “After repeated attempts to collect the money from you, I’m giving you one last chance to hand it over now, Mr. Perry.”

  Brandy swallowed hard. God. Is this how it would all end? Getting shot by a freaking bookie because her ex-boyfriend had a stupid gambling problem?

  “I don’t have your money,” Gordon said tightly. His gaze rose to meet hers stoically. “But my fiancée does.”

  Still no news from Elena. Which meant the police hadn’t found them yet. Marco shook his head and hoped his only idea would pay off. It was a long shot, though.

  Gordon couldn’t possibly be stupid enough to take Brandy back to the chapel he’d first tried to marry her in. That’d be ridiculous.

  Even knowing the chances were slim, Marco turned onto the Strip and headed back to the chapel where Brandy had first jumped on his bike.

  Ten minutes later he spotted the rundown chapel. Hell, the place ought to have been torn down years ago. What a shithole.

  He slowed his bike and turned into the chapel, driving to the back where the parking lot was almost empty. His pulse slowed and then snapped right back up to pound through his veins. Holy hell, the man was stupid enough.

  Marco pulled alongside the building and killed his engine. Reaching into his pocket he grabbed his cell phone and dialed 911. After relaying the situation and location to an operator, he promised not to go into the building himself.

  Fat chance of that happening. He turned off his phone and then climbed off the bike.

  Before he could move toward the chapel, the door opened and Brandy stumbled out.

  “Marco—” A giant of a man behind her nudged her forward with the barrel of a gun.

  “Do you want to tell me what’s going on here?” he asked icily, his gaze connecting with the other man’s.

  “Look, kid, you don’t want to get involved.” The man gave him a once-over. “Especially since it doesn’t seem to have gone so well for you in the last round you fought. Now move.”

  Marco straightened—matching the other man, in height at least. “Let her go. Whatever your issue, it’s with Gordon. She has nothing to do with it.”

  “Well, now, I’m going to have to disagree with that. Seeing as she’s the one holding the purse strings.”

  Marco narrowed his eyes. So the giant before him had to be related to Gordon’s gambling problem.

  And then Gordon stepped outside of the chapel, pale faced as he followed the bookie. His face contorted when he spotted Marco.

  “Oh, God. Not you again.”

  “My car is over there.” The giant nudged Brandy with the barrel of the gun. “Let’s go, princess.”

  Oh, hell no. That was his nickname for Brandy, and no one, not even a gun-toting bookie was going to walk in and take it—or his woman–away.

  Marco stepped forward and blocked their path.

  “I asked you to move.” The giant turned the gun on Marco. “Don’t make me ask again.”

  Marco saw the flare of anger in Brandy’s eyes. Her lips pursed and she focused on the giant. She was planning something. Sure enough, she let out a war cry worthy of a samurai and drove her elbow back into the giant’s gut and dove out of his way.

  “Oomph!” The man doubled over and Marco delivered a swift kick to the wrist that held the man’s gun.

  There was a satisfying crunch before the gun skated across the parking lot.

  “Ouch. Jesus, ouch.” The man gripped his hand, his eyes watering.

  Taking the window of opportunity, Marco grabbed Brandy’s hand and raced her away, putting as much distance between her and the bookie as possible.

  “I knew you’d show up.” Her fingers tightened around his hand as they sprinted across the parking lot.

  A gunshot rang out. They ducked behind a car.

  “He’s shooting at us,” she screamed in disbelief. “I can’t believe he’s freaking shooting at us!”

  Marco pressed her head back toward the cement and peeked around the tire.

  “It’s Gordon. Gordon just shot that other guy.”

  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” She scooted forward and peered around the tire.

  “Brandy? Come out, love muffin. I won’t hurt—goddamn it!” Gordon screamed as another gunshot rang out. He fell to the ground, clutching his calf. “Oh God, it hurts.”

  Marco shook his head. “It is way too easy to get a gun in this country.”

  Sirens blared in the distance.

  Brandy gripped his arm. “Please tell me those are for us.”

  “They should be.”

  He turned to look at her. She stared straight ahead in obvious fascination, watching the two men crawling toward each other screaming threats.

  Cheeks flushed and hair all afrizz, Brandy was beautiful. More beautiful than any woman he’d known. And he could admit now that he’d never experienced a deeper connection with a woman. The real question was would she still want him? Knowing he’d withheld the truth about his past. And even still she didn’t quite know everything.

  He reached for her hand. “Brandy—”

  The police cars bounced into the parking lot, sirens blaring. Doors slammed.

  “Drop your weapons! Stay where you are!”

  The sound of people running toward them sounded and then two officers appeared at the end of the car they were hiding behind.

  “Move away from Miss Summers. Now!”

  Move away, what the hell?

  “Wait,” Brandy protested. “He’s not—”

  “I said now!”

  Before they got trigger-happy, he rolled away from her. Rocks bit into his bare arms before he was dragged to his feet and dragged away from Brandy.

  They shoved him against the back of the car and out of her reach. He had the perfect view of Gordon and the bookie, still cursing each other out, being read their rights.

  From the corner of his eye he watched as three officers helped Brandy up and rushed her toward one of the squad cars. His world shrunk as he watched the car speed off.

  Marco closed his eyes, willing the tightness in his chest to fade. Just as quickly as she’d entered his life, she was gone again.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Three days. Three days and there’d been no contact from Brandy. It had been bad enough when some bitchy assistant from her parents had showed up on his doorstep to collect her stuff.

  And that’s all she’d done. Took the stuff and left. No message from Brandy, no thank you for your help, nothing. Marco shoved a hand through his hair and kicked his feet up on the desk of the office.

  The two day mark was when he’d finally given up on her. He’d realized she had no intention of coming back for him.

  The pencil he’d been spinning between his fingers snapped in two.

  Maybe it had been because of the fact he’d hid his not so pretty past from her. It was altogether possible. She certainly had seemed upset enough on their last phone call.

  Or maybe it was something else entirely. That she’d just been bidding her time with him. Slumming with the boys from the bar and now she’d move on back to her normal life.

  Marco pulled his legs from the desk and leaned forward. He dropped his head in his han
ds.

  “How you doing, mate?”

  Marco tensed. Sebastian had just seen him in a complete moment of weakness. Christ, he’d held it together pretty well for the most part.

  He forced an easygoing shrug. “I’m doing fine. Just a little tired.”

  “Don’t bullshit with me.” Sebastian gave him a knowing look and then sat down on the edge of the desk. “Why don’t you just call her?”

  “Because she doesn’t want to hear from me.”

  “And you know that how?”

  “Look,” he sighed. Why the hell put up a pretense with Sebastian? They knew each other too well. “I gave the lady who came to my house a letter to give to Brandy. A letter that pretty much laid out how I felt about her. And I explained why I hadn’t told her about my past.”

  “And?”

  “What do you think?” he offered a stiff shrug. “I never heard back.”

  “Hmm.” His friend frowned and pursed his lips. “That doesn’t sound like Brandy.”

  “Yes, but how well did we really know her?”

  “Pretty damn well I’d say.”

  Marco shook his head, half convinced his friend was just blowing smoke up his ass. The deadpan expression on Sebastian’s face convinced him otherwise.

  “Look, I don’t know what happened,” he finally admitted. “I wish to God I knew what was going on in her head. But I don’t.”

  “So call her.”

  “I don’t have her number.”

  “She didn’t fill it out on the application?”

  Marco paused. “She put a number that’s no longer in service.”

  “So you tried.”

  “Of course I did,” he said wearily. “And it’s not like she just advertises her address. All she put was a PO box on the application.”

  “Send her another letter—”

  “Come on, Sebastian,” his words cracked and his gut twisted with disappointment. “Let’s be real here. She doesn’t respond to my letter, makes no attempt to contact me and disconnects the only number I have for her?”

  “It just doesn’t make sense.” Sebastian sighed.

  “So how about you?” Marco asked, turning the tables. Wanting to shift the conversation from the source of his current depression. “You gonna see that blonde again that you took home the other night?”