But Rory was different from all of them. A redheaded burst of sunlight who’d literally bumped into Liam on a crowded Seattle street and stolen his heart in fifteen minutes. His mother had practically contorted herself into a pretzel to get him to marry Bethany, whose family’s social standing was in a range with the Bastians’, and had been nearly apoplectic when he’d chosen Rory Abernathy.
“You can’t do it,” Stella had declared.
Watch me. He hadn’t said the words, but the meaning was there. He hadn’t told Stella that he and Rory were already married when he’d delivered the news that he was in love with her, but he’d had to soon after, as she suddenly appointed herself his matchmaker, throwing Bethany at him full bore along with a few other socially acceptable women on her list for a special dinner that she began setting up immediately after hearing his plans. He’d wanted to tell her that he and Rory were already married, but his mother had pushed so hard he’d backed off. He’d called her the next day to let the ax fall. Stella had taken about a week off, at least she’d gone silent for that amount of time, only to resurface as the wedding planner who would not be challenged. By the time Liam got Rory down to Portland from Seattle and she met his family for the first time, Stella had already booked the venue.
“A few words in front of some judge are not going to suffice,” she told them both. “If you want to be part of this family, you need to be recognized in the eyes of God.”
Rory had been taken aback, torn between amusement and anger at Stella’s high-handedness. Liam had been annoyed by the posturing because his mother didn’t have any relationship with God, or at least she hadn’t in all of his thirty-four years. Like Rory, he couldn’t decide if he was pissed, or if it was funny, that Stella was throwing around edicts that had no substantive basis.
“We’ll think about it,” Liam told his mother, and in the end, laughing over a bottle of wine till they both cried, he and Rory had decided to go through with the ceremony.
“Whatever floats her boat,” Rory said, smiling.
She was amused by his money and position, but not interested in it. In fact she’d shied away from any real relationship with him at first because of his family’s social status. Unlike him, she hadn’t believed their whirlwind romance had the strength to endure, and she’d been as slippery as an eel to pin down for a first date. Her elusiveness had forced him to pursue her, something new and unusual in his dealings with women. Her coolness had made him almost desperate to connect with her. He’d had to work damn hard to convince her to go out with him, and even then she’d kept him at arm’s length for what had seemed way too long, when in actuality it had been less than a week.
“Jesus, where is she?” Derek wondered aloud, breaking into Liam’s thoughts.
Liam didn’t answer. Derek was probably eating this up. He considered Liam’s relationship with Rory bad news, a stupid mistake. “You’re obsessed, man. Thinking with your dick, and it’s not going to turn out well,” he’d said enough times for Liam to want to take him down to the ground and wrestle him like they’d done when they were kids, though Derek, being three years older and a whole lot tougher, had generally beaten the shit out of Liam.
Now he heard Derek snort softly in that I told you so way that made Liam, absurdly, want to wrestle him again. Wouldn’t that be great. The Bastian brothers rolling around on the grass and rose petals, getting filthy and torn at Liam’s wedding. Stella would have a shit fit and his father’s face would turn brick red, the volcano building, about to erupt. The consequences from such a social faux pas would be dire, which made him want to grab Derek all the more.
With an effort, he brought himself back from the brink.
Rory, where the hell are you?
* * *
She was late.
To her own damned wedding.
Rory paced in the hotel room and wished she’d never agreed to go along with the farce. Worse yet, she’d asked Aaron to walk her down the aisle, though she’d put her foot down at the “giving away” part. Talk about an outdated male-dominated ritual. She was her own woman and she should never have even asked her stepbrother to escort her, but it was too late now.
Where was he?
She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. She was already ten minutes behind schedule and expected that if Aaron didn’t appear soon, someone else would come knocking. Probably her own mother, Darlene, whom Rory had chosen as matron of honor. What a mistake. Darlene was less reliable than Aaron: flighty, easily influenced, convinced she was somewhat psychic . . . But Liam’s stubborn, snobbish mother was even worse. Stella didn’t even bother to mask her disapproval of her new daughter-in-law. Rory should have stopped this whole, awful charade before it ever got off the ground.
Well, to hell with it. She was here, for better or worse.
For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health . . .
Rory scooped her bouquet from the bed, rose petals scattering, and started for the door. She’d walk herself to the makeshift altar. The sooner Stella’s elaborate cere-money, as Geoff Bastian had called it, was over, the better.
She shook her head. Good God. Was she really doing this?
As she made her way toward the door, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Slim figure dressed in a long, white, shimmering gown, complete with train and a wispy veil pinned to her wild red curls. She hadn’t bothered to drape the sheer fabric over her eyes. It wasn’t as if she were some innocent virgin. She and Liam had been married for over two months, most of which had been taken up with wedding preparations.
She clamped her teeth together, saw the fury and determination on her own face, and immediately let out her breath. The whole aura of pretentiousness bugged her, but she’d agreed to this event in a misguided attempt to please Stella—though no one pleased Liam’s mother unless she wanted to be pleased—and let’s face it, she’d kind of been attracted to the idea of a real wedding, with real guests and a white dress and a tiered cake. She’d actually entertained the idea that it might be fun.
Now she groaned, and her green eyes watered a bit. Embarrassment? Fear? Anxiety? Maybe a little of each. She had to keep reminding herself that it would all be over soon, and that this wedding in a grand hotel with incredible views, liveried waitstaff and room charges that would make a normal woman faint, was all for show.
But this is what it’s going to be like being a Bastian. All façades and hidden emotions. Can you do it, Rory, my girl? Can you?
She made a strangled sound. No. Not the way Stella ran the show.
“He married you,” she told the anxious-eyed woman in the mirror, running a hand over her flat stomach and blinking away the wetness that starred her vision. Of their own accord, her eyes then sought out her overnight bag, sitting at the end of the king-sized bed with its ocean-blue comforter accented with crisp white sheets and pillows.
But . . . if things didn’t work out?
She tore her gaze from the bag. She wouldn’t think of all the problems hovering at the corners of her world. She loved Liam. He loved her. They were going to be together forever and have a happy life.
Rap. Rap. Rap!
“Thank you, God,” she whispered, hurrying to answer the soft knocking on the door.
“About time, Aaron,” Rory complained as she threw back the door. “We’re already late and—”
But she didn’t see Aaron. At least not his face, which was hidden by a huge bouquet of helium balloons—silver, white, and black—floating in the air in front of him.
“What’re you doing?” she demanded and didn’t bother keeping the anger from her voice. “I’m already supposed to be at the altar!” She batted at the balloons when he suddenly pushed his way into the room.
“Wait! Wait!”
Balloons fluttered about and she caught a glimpse of his face, his masked face. “Aaron? What are you doing?”
For a wild moment she thought it was Liam, planning to kidnap her and take her away from this madness. But as the man
kicked the door closed and came at her, her anger gave way to fear.
“Stop this!” She tried not to sound panicked, but her heart was pounding wildly.
“Stop what?” The voice was high-pitched and whiney, a child’s voice.
“Who are you? What—I—I have to go!” She sprang for the door, but his hand reached out and manacled her wrist.
Pop!
A white balloon shriveled and fell to the floor, its string snaking on the carpet.
What?
Pop! Pop!
Two more balloons died a quick and noisy death.
“Aaron, for God’s sake. It’s not funny.” But she knew it wasn’t Aaron. Gut instinct told her so.
Then her gaze caught on the knife gripped in his hand, a long, slim blade glinting wickedly as it poked yet one more balloon.
Pop!
Oh. God.
He let go of the rest of the balloons and they separated and floated lazily toward the ceiling. Everything turned to slow motion. His mouth was set inside the ski mask, red lips flattened in anger. This was no joke.
She opened her mouth to scream, but he was on her, a gloved hand smothering her mouth, the other fast and hard around her wrist.
“Don’t even think about it,” he ground out in that squeaky falsetto. He’d huffed helium from the balloons, she realized. “Do as I say, or you both die. I’ll slit your throat and then I’ll slit his.”
His? Whose? Liam’s?
She couldn’t stop the shaking gasp that left her lips.
His gaze scraped down her body. “That’s right. You’ll never get away, and that baby of yours will die.”
He knew? How? No one knew, not even Liam.
Reflexively, she struck him with her free hand, her fingers curling into a fist as she jabbed sharply upward, connecting with his nose, hearing the crunch of cartilage. He yelped in pain and pulled back the knife.
Panic spread through her.
His knife hand slashed downward as she propelled her knee to his groin. He twisted, mitigating the blow somewhat, doubling over with a gasp as the blade caught in her veil and ripped it from her head.
“I’ll kill you!” he cried.
She swung her knee upward again and this time she connected fully. Hard. He cried out and his fingers loosened on her wrist, the knife dropping from his other hand, but his body still blocked the door. “That was a big mistake!” he spat out, crouching and holding his crotch.
Her gaze searched frantically for the knife. It was beneath his feet. Unreachable.
Knife . . .
She glanced toward the fruit tray on the table to her right. A small paring knife was wedged into the brick of cheese. She leapt to it, snatched it up, spinning around as he lunged at her, knocking them both into her overnight bag, toppling it to the carpet. His right hand was splayed on the table, and without hesitation she plunged the tiny blade deep into the flesh behind his ring finger.
He gave out a high-pitched, piggish squeal of shock and outrage. Rolling to his side, he clutched one hand with the other, blood showing on his fingers. She scrambled to her feet, breathing hard.
“Bitch!” he cried in disbelief. “I warned you! I warned you! You’re all going to die!”
Rory didn’t wait. She leapt over him, but his fingers caught in the train and he yanked her roughly backward, tearing the fabric with a sickening rip. Stumbling, she jerked her dress free, only to have her own feet tangle in the lengths of silk. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the full-length mirror: flushed face, mussed hair, red stain on the bodice of her white dress where his blood had smeared. Her gaze dropped to the knife still gripped tightly in her hand. Bloodstained. “Oh, God.” As if suddenly shocked, her fingers shot out straight, releasing it where it dropped to the ground next to the masked figure on the floor.
Run!
Her first instinct. Always.
Run!
Maybe she should race to the area where the guests were gathered, to Liam . . . to the police . . .
Run!
You have to leave. Now. How could you ever explain this? What happened here. About the past? The secrets? And . . . the baby?
Her assailant was writhing on the floor, blood on his neck darkening his black shirt. His own knife was only a few feet away. He wouldn’t be down for long—
He started climbing to his feet, ready to attack again. She snatched up her overnight bag as he staggered toward her, growling unintelligible words. With a grunt she swung the case hard, right at his head.
Bam!
He fell backward, knocking over the table, his head hitting the floor with a loud thud. He gave out a sick moan and then lay still.
You killed him!
Oh, my God!
You killed him!
No . . . No. Don’t go there. It was self-defense. He was attacking you!
Run! Save yourself. Save the baby! Liam and his family can’t help you. Not now. You know it!
On quivering legs she took two steps toward the door. Her attacker groaned and shifted his legs. Panic surged. Whoever he was, he was still alive. She hadn’t killed him. At least not yet.
She didn’t stop. Buzzing with fear, she twisted the knob and pulled open the door. Searching both ends of the hallway before stepping outside the room, she gathered her dress and bag, softly closed the door behind her. Hurriedly, she headed for the stairs, one hand jammed into her overnight bag, fingers over her cell phone.
Cameras!
All hotels have cameras!
You’re doomed, Rory. Doomed.
She kept her head turned downward, though anyone viewing a tape of her escape would know instantly who she was by her hotel room number and her damned bridal gown. As she reached the stairs, she heard voices and footsteps approaching from a floor below. Rather than risk meeting anyone, she flew down the hallway to the employee elevator, the one she’d seen used by a hotel maid earlier. Pounding on the call button she tried to think clearly. Could she abandon this mad escape and seek out Liam? She glanced at her cell phone, saw the text that had come in from him only moments earlier.
Where are you? Everything okay?
Her heart twisted.
Throat dry, hands shaking, she typed out: Small glitch with dress. OK now. Be there in a sec. Then for good measure: Can’t wait. Xoxo.
Liar! He’ll never forgive you.
Despite her hasty text she knew it was only minutes—seconds maybe—before someone came to her room and found her gone, the would-be killer lying on the floor possibly dying.
Who was he?
A bad dude. Someone connected to your stepfamily? You should have been more forthright with Liam. You should have told him everything instead of holding back..
The elevator doors parted and the car was thankfully empty. She pressed the button for the lowest level, and then silently prayed the car wouldn’t stop on its way to sub-basement C. She wasn’t so lucky. With a jolt the elevator halted on the first parking level and she wondered how she could explain herself to anyone getting on. Her ripped and bloodied bridal gown to start with and her obvious disarray and panic would invite speculations, questions, offers of help . . .
Her heart clutched!
With a whisper, the doors parted.
Rory braced herself.
But no one entered. The parking level seemed deserted.
Because everyone’s already at the wedding.
Well, thank God! She pounded on the button and the elevator door closed again. As soon as the car landed at the lowest level and the doors opened again, she strode quickly into what appeared to be the darkened bowels of the hotel, the overnight parking.
Dusty pipes hung overhead, fluorescent lights sizzled, and tire marks blackened the concrete floor. She was nearly overcome with the scent of exhaust old enough to coat the gray walls. She didn’t waste any time and made the call.
Holding her breath, she was afraid the wireless connection wouldn’t work, but she was wrong.
Voice mail answered.
>
Damn!
“This is Rory. I’m in trouble. I need you,” she said breathlessly. “I’m heading for the lake and the marina, just south of the hotel landing. Meet me there in ten minutes.”
She clicked off and prayed he got the message. Then she went to work. In the shadow of the cement wall of the elevator shaft for privacy, she stripped off the expensive dress, kicked off the useless glittery heels, and pulled on her jeans, a sweatshirt, running shoes, and her favorite baseball cap. Despite the fact that the day was growing dark, she slipped on her sunglasses as well as an oversized jacket. She ditched the dress in a wastebasket and took off running, up the stairs to the ground level of the hotel and into the fresh air.
She heard the sound of a car’s engine and flattened against the wall only to catch a glimpse of a gray sedan speeding in from the street. She glanced back and saw it racing up the spiral ramp, its tires squealing a little all the way around the turns.
She hesitated a moment, counting her heartbeats, then dashed around the front of the hotel, avoiding the wedding party, intent on reaching the stairwell to the lake. Music reached her ears, the rising notes of Pachelbel’s Canon from the arbor behind the hotel.
Her music. Her wedding . . .
A soft cry of anguish squeezed past her lips, but she cut it off. Don’t go there. It’s over. Just as you knew it would be.
She headed away from the ceremony, ducking around fountains and across the courtyard, trying to avoid catching sight of anyone, which was impossible. She passed a couple pushing a stroller, and an older man in a sport coat and loosened tie, smoking a cigarette as he made his way to the parking area. Quickly, she slid around the building, past cars parked on the street. A woman was walking her dog, a terrier of some kind, and it came unglued, pulling and straining at its leash, barking loudly at the sight of her.