BRIDAL JEOPARDY

by Rebecca York

  She clung to that as she kept shooting her silent message to John, and maybe her faith that Craig was still alive made the suggestion stronger.

  * * *

  HAROLD GODDARD HELD UP the duct tape he’d asked his man to leave for him at the shopping center. It was the tape that had been used to restrain Swift and Branson. It was stretched slightly out of shape, as if it had somehow been melted. How had that happened? Had Branson or Swift done something to it? And if so, what and how? The speculation was cut off when his cell phone rang. He put down the tape and clicked the on button.

  “You have them?”

  “No,” Wayne answered.

  “You followed him, but you weren’t able to get your hands on him?” Harold clarified.

  “We had him cornered, but he dived into the bayou.”

  “And then what?”

  The man on the other end of the line hesitated, and Harold could picture the scene.

  “Did you shoot him?” he asked.

  “We tried to wound him, but he got away.”

  “And he didn’t go back to the bed-and-breakfast?”

  Again the man seemed reluctant to answer. Finally he said, “When we didn’t find him, we went back to the place where they were staying.”

  “And?”

  “There was an explosion,” Wayne said.

  Harold shouted a curse into the phone. He walked across the room and snapped on a news channel. A breathless reporter was giving the details of a mysterious explosion in Houma.

  “I’ll get back to you later.” Harold advised.

  “You want us to stay in Houma?”

  “Yes.” He clicked off and focused on the report. It seemed that the man and woman who had rented the cottage were Craig Branson and his wife. Unless they’d gotten married in the past couple of days, that was a polite fiction.

  But were they really dead?

  He’d keep checking to see if they surfaced somewhere. Meanwhile, he’d look around for another couple he could send into each other’s arms.

  * * *

  FOR THE SECOND TIME in his life, Craig Branson was completely devastated. Sam’s death had almost killed him. He’d survived. But now he was facing unimaginable heartbreak. He had no idea where he was going as he put distance between himself and the terrible explosion. He simply drove aimlessly, wanting to get away from the place where Stephanie had died.

  Moisture clouded his vision, and he finally pulled over to the side of the road, thinking that he was a menace to other drivers if he couldn’t see straight.

  He sat for long moments, gripping the wheel and trying to get his emotions under control. But grief rolled over him, drowned him, making him wonder if there was any use going on without Stephanie. What if he just drove his car into a bayou? There would be no one to miss him. No one to mourn him.

  He’d lived his life a certain way because he’d thought he’d never find a woman he could love. Never marry. He’d found Stephanie, and it had been wonderful, except for the serious complications. Not just because she was supposed to marry the man responsible for his brother’s death, but because someone had tried to kidnap them. He’d tried to find out who it was and hadn’t succeeded. It flickered through his mind that figuring out who they were would give him a goal.

  If he could pull himself together again. For the moment, he was too paralyzed with grief.

  He started to swing back onto the highway, then stopped short as a car horn blared, and he realized he’d almost plowed into another vehicle.

  Sorry, he mouthed when the other driver gave him the finger. After that he drove slowly to the next town and found a downscale motel where he could hole up.

  He debated using his credit card, then decided that if he was supposed to be dead, maybe staying dead was the best way to go, for now. He paid in cash, then pulled back the covers on the lumpy bed and threw himself down, wondering how long he was going to be there and what he was going to do next.

  He let the notion of getting a gun and shooting himself swirl around in his head. That was what you did with an animal in pain, wasn’t it? It had a lot of appeal, but at the same time he hated the idea of giving up everything he had ever worked for.

  Yeah, but what was it worth now? Without Stephanie.

  * * *

  JAKE HARPER CRADLED his wife in his arms. An hour earlier, Rachel had been struck by a thunderbolt. Not literally, but the effect was the same. She’d been standing in the kitchen loading the dishwasher when something had made her whole body jerk. Thank God he’d been there to catch her and take the plate out of her hand when she’d fallen.

  He’d picked her up in his arms and asked her what was wrong, but she hadn’t been able to answer him, either aloud or in her mind. So he’d struggled to suppress his own fear as he cradled her in his lap and rocked her, waiting until the storm passed and she was able to function again.

  Finally she raised her head and looked around as though she didn’t recognize her surroundings—although they were in one of the apartments Jake owned in New Orleans. Long ago he’d gotten into the habit of moving around the city. He had several comfortably furnished places, and he and Rachel split their time among them and the plantation in Lafayette where Gabriella Bordeaux and Luke Buckley lived. With funding from Jake, Gabriella had turned her family’s plantation house into a showcase restaurant called Chez Gabriella. She and Luke lived upstairs in the plantation house, and Rachel and Jake had one of the cottages on the property, where they stayed part of the week. All four of them were children from the Solomon Clinic. And all four of them often joined forces to practice their psychic powers together.

  Jack stroked Rachel’s hair. “What happened?” he asked.

  “There was an explosion near Houma. Turn on the television set.”

  Jake picked up the remote from the end table and clicked on a news channel. Instantly, they were in the middle of a breathless report from the affiliate in Houma.

  “It is believed that Mr. and Mrs. Craig Branson were killed in the explosion that destroyed a cottage at the Morning Glory B and B,” the reporter was saying. “Authorities are still not sure what caused the explosion.”

  “A bomb,” Rachel whispered.

  Jake shuddered. “And the couple are dead?”

  Rachel closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against her forehead. “No.”

  He stared at her. “What happened?”

  She dragged in a breath and let it out. “They escaped. Craig was out trying to get some information about the Solomon Clinic. Stephanie...”

  “Their names are Craig and Stephanie?”

  “Craig Branson and Stephanie Swift.”

  Jake’s eyes narrowed. “Doesn’t she have a dress shop on Royal Street?”

  “Yes.”

  “And...isn’t she supposed to marry a nasty piece of work named John Reynard?”

  Rachel nodded. “Yes. Only that was her father’s idea. Then she met Craig, and she knew she couldn’t marry Reynard.” Rachel gripped her husband’s hand. “Reynard found out where she and Craig were staying. He found a way to get Craig out of the house. He kidnapped Stephanie and had his men set the cottage to explode when Craig came home. Only someone else set off the bomb.”

  “And you know all this—how?” Jake asked in a rough voice.

  “It...came to me.” She looked at her husband. “Stephanie and Craig each think the other is dead. Both of them are devastated. Think about how you’d feel if you thought I was...gone.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I’m trying to make you understand why this is so urgent.”

  Jake’s chest tightened as he imagined his own grief if he somehow lost Rachel.

  He knew she followed his thoughts and emotions, knew from the way she wrapped her arms around him and from
her own churning mind that she was imagining the same terrible situation—in reverse.

  We can’t leave them like that, she silently whispered.

  We agreed that contacting them could be dangerous, Jake argued.

  Are you saying you can leave them in so much pain?

  Jake let the question sink in. No. What do you want to do?

  They’re far apart now. I think I can boost the signal between them. Let them talk to each other.

  She turned to her husband. But I can’t do it alone. Will you help me?

  He hesitated, caught by the urgency of her request and the need to keep both of them safe. Not just themselves, but Gabriella and Luke, too.

  They’d made a commitment to the other couple; now Rachel was saying they should act on their own.

  Can’t we wait?

  They might go mad or kill themselves if we just wait.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Stephanie rarely drank anything stronger than wine. Now she sipped the brandy John had given her, welcoming the fiery sensations as it slid down her throat. Wanting to be alone with her private agony, she kept her gaze focused on the television, hoping against hope for some scrap of news that would tell her Craig had survived the blast.

  “We should move up the wedding,” John was saying. “I want the chance to be close to you, to make up for what you’ve just been through.”

  Her gaze swung to him, and she knew he was watching for her reaction to that bit of news.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “We can have the ceremony here at the plantation. We’ll just invite a few friends—and your father, of course. I’m thinking a morning ceremony, then lunch around the pool.”

  She nodded numbly. Was there any escape from this lovely plantation that was really a fortress? And where would she go if she could get away? It would have to be somewhere John could never find her. Out of the country for sure, but why bother if Craig was dead?

  “Claire has been very helpful. She’s been making a guest list, which she’ll share with you. And she tells me that your wedding dress arrived at your shop.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll arrange to have it delivered here.”

  “And we can contact a catering company,” Claire added brightly. “And a florist. That’s all you need.”

  “And a license and man of God,” John added. “But all that’s easy to arrange.” He made a dismissive wave of his hand.

  She tried to take all that in. Everything was moving too fast, and she wanted to scream at John to slow down, but she had to act as if she loved the idea of marrying him right away—because anything less was dangerous.

  And then what? She imagined kissing him. Imagined his hands on her body, and she had to keep herself from screaming.

  As she fought to look normal, something happened that made her head spin, and she gasped.

  John tensed. “Stephanie, what?”

  She tried to speak, but she couldn’t get the words out. John’s face swam before her, and she saw the panic in his eyes.

  “I’m sick. Migraine headache. Need to lie down,” she whispered.

  “I didn’t know you had migraines.”

  Neither did I, she thought, but she only said, “Yes.”

  Because she needed to be alone. Now.

  * * *

  JOHN HELPED STEPHANIE to the bedroom, taking in her pale face as she kicked off her shoes. She looked sick. No doubt about it, but he was having trouble believing anything she said now.

  She hadn’t slept with Brandon? He wanted it to be true, but he couldn’t be sure.

  She was such a beautiful, desirable woman—from an old family that had seen better days. Probably her social standing had been one of the reasons he’d been willing to wait until marriage to make love to her. That and the convenience of having Claire as a willing bed partner. It had amused him to sleep with the woman who was spying on his fiancée. He’d even entertained some fantasies of taking the two of them to bed. He knew Claire would be totally okay with that. Maybe it would take some persuading to get Stephanie to agree.

  She was a lady, and he’d thought she was adhering to what she considered proper.

  His mind circled back to the moment when he’d decided to marry Stephanie Swift. It had been at one of the damn charity events that he was expected to attend. This time at the St. Charles Country Club. One of the other men there, Larry Dalton, had called him aside to ask about their business transaction. Larry had gone in with John on an import deal, two million dollars worth of heroin packed in toys coming in from Taiwan. Only someone must have tipped off the Feds because they’d sent in an inspector to check the shipment. And it had been the guy’s bad luck.

  John’s men had caught him on the boat while it was at sea, and the federal agent had ended up overboard in the Pacific Ocean.

  John had gotten a report about it before he’d left for the reception, and when Larry had approached him at the event, he’d been in a bad mood. He’d told him about it, watching the man’s face as he realized he was a party to murder.

  John had enjoyed spoiling the man’s evening. And then he’d turned around and seen Stephanie Swift in back of him. Had she heard? He wasn’t sure, and she certainly hadn’t said anything, but he wasn’t going to take a chance on her telling anyone about it. Which was why he’d started keeping her close.

  He’d decided that if she married him, she couldn’t testify against him, and he’d been glad when she’d agreed to the marriage, because he’d rather screw her than kill her. But maybe he was going to end up doing both.

  Of course, now he had other things to think about. Like why had Branson been dragging her around? Had he talked about the long-ago death of his brother—and of Arthur Polaski? If she knew about any of that, she was more dangerous to him. But he’d find out after the wedding. After he took what she owed him.

  * * *

  CRAIG HAD DOZED OFF. He jerked awake when he heard a voice in his head. A woman’s voice.

  Craig Branson.

  Hope flared inside him.

  Stephanie? Oh, Lord, is that you, Stephanie?

  No. I’m a friend.

  He tried to cope with the instant wave of despair and with the confusion swirling in his mind. Had grief driven him mad, and he had invented an invisible friend to compensate for the loss of the woman he loved?

  The voice pulled him back to her. You aren’t crazy. This is important.

  I doubt it.

  Stephanie isn’t dead.

  His whole body went rigid as the words blasted into him, yet he couldn’t allow himself to believe. Sitting up, he looked around the motel room, confirming he was alone.

  Who are you? he repeated.

  Rachel.

  She was speaking to him—the way Sam had spoken to him. And Stephanie.

  Do I know you? he asked in an inner voice that he couldn’t quite hold steady.

  No.

  Is this a cruel joke?

  No. I understand what you are suffering.

  He scoffed at that statement. How could you? How could anyone?

  Because I am one of the children from the Solomon Clinic, and I bonded with another one of us.

  He made a low sound. Of course, he should have realized why she could reach his mind.

  You must rescue Stephanie.

  He scrambled off the bed, ready to charge out the door, if he only knew where he was going—and what had happened.

  How did she escape?

  Two of John Reynard’s men captured her after you left. Then they set the explosive charge to kill you. Only someone else was caught in the blast.

  Ike Broussard. I saw him. I didn’t understand why he was there. He said he was going to meet me at a restaurant.

 
I think Reynard ordered him to meet you.

  How do you know?

  My husband knows which cops are corrupt in New Orleans. Ike Broussard was one of them.

  Then why did he come to the cottage?

  I can only guess at that. What if he hated being under Reynard’s thumb and thought that the two of you could work together to take him down?

  Craig considered that. It might fit the facts, and he was sorry the man was dead, but his main focus was Stephanie.

  The woman named Rachel must have read his thoughts. I can boost the signal between you.

  And then, all at once he caught Stephanie’s silent voice.

  Craig?

  Yes.

  Oh, my God, you’re alive! Reynard said you were dead.

  I’m fine.

  Thank God, but how are we talking?

  Someone’s helping us. Another one of the children from the clinic.

  Yes, I...heard her in my mind. I didn’t know what was happening.

  Where are you? Craig asked.

  At the plantation Reynard owns, near Morgan City.

  I’m on my way now.

  Be careful. It’s heavily guarded. With armed men.

  We’ll figure something out, he said, wondering what it was going to be.

  I can’t hold the connection...the woman who had made the long-distance contact between them said, and suddenly there was silence inside Craig’s head—leaving him dazed and confused.

  * * *

  JAKE HARPER SWORE aloud as he picked up his wife from the couch. Lowering himself to a sitting position, he gathered her limp body in his arms.

  “You hurt yourself,” he whispered as he stroked his hands over her back and shoulders.

  “I’m...okay,” Rachel managed to say.

  “You...”

  She closed her eyes and clung to him. “They had information to give each other—and I was the only way they could do it.”

  “And now you’re going to stay away from them,” he said in a hard voice.

  “They may need us.”

  “I’m not going to lose you because you feel some sort of obligation to two strangers.”

  She raised her head and looked at him. “Jake, they’re two of Dr. Solomon’s children.”