Missing: One Bride

He remembered her in a bathing suit, all delicious curves and sun-warmed skin. She wouldn’t go in his swimming pool, said something about chlorine and her suit, but when he’d suggested they go down to the pond, she’d laughed at him. Women were such mysteries to a man like him, such intricate mazes with twisty corridors and high walls, full of secrets.

Natalie in a sundress, Natalie in his lap, Natalie’s eyes and her mouth and her perfect fingernails tapping against his arm. For four months there had been nothing and no one but Natalie, as if she’d cast some spell over him. Well, never again, he reminded himself. Never, never again.

He stopped pacing and crossed to the balcony doors, stopping on the way to look at Alexandra. Moonlight flooded her bed, kissing her face, so peaceful, in slumber. Her hair was fanned out on the pillow, surrounding her face like a soft, dark cloud. Natalie hadn’t talked about this woman much. For that matter, she hadn’t talked about any of her women friends. Why hadn’t he noticed that before?

Alexandra. Such a long, fancy name for a woman so upfront and sweet, though she did seem to have a streak of humor that bubbled to the surface at odd times. She was sure being a good sport about all this, but he was ready to bet a bundle that come morning, she’d expect him to take her home. Maybe he’d just give her his keys and let her drive herself. At any rate, one thing was for certain—he wasn’t leaving this place until he’d faced Natalie. He did not leave loose ends and right now, Natalie Dupree was one gigantic loose end.

Alexandra. On second thought, he liked the name. It fit her, for he sensed in her slight body a strong will and a fierce streak of independence that probably defined her to herself. The name was bold in a way, reminiscent of Alexander the Great. If memory served him right, old Alexander had been the king of Macedonia, the conqueror of the Persian empire. Tilting his head, Thorn stared at the face on the pillow before him, her soft and feminine features blurred by the moonlight.

The outside air was crisp and clean and did a lot to clear his head. As he leaned against the rail, he acknowledged the certainty he felt that Natalie was in this building. There was no real proof, of course. He’d tried looking for her car, but there were dozens of red compacts and he had no idea what her license number was. Tomorrow, he’d stake out the restaurants. If that didn’t work, he’d start knocking on doors.

His headache all but disappeared as he stared up into the night sky. It was amazing that these ocean-hugging stars were the same ones he saw at home. For a second, he was back on the ranch, alone in the rambling house he’d built with his own two hands, out on the balcony that ran along the back of the house, gazing upward, picking out Orion and the Pleiades. He found these constellations now, smiling up at two old friends who didn’t tell him that he should have known better, that he was a fool. “Thanks, guys,” he whispered. “I appreciate it.”

Alex awoke during the night, unsure what had called her back from a restless dream she could no longer remember. For a second, she lay beneath the satin quilt, placing herself in the honeymoon suite of the Otter Point Inn, alone in a huge bed meant for lovers.

Gradually she became aware of a cool breeze blowing in from the glass doors, and raised herself on her elbows to find long sheer curtains billowing back into the room, which meant the doors were open. The balcony was lit by the moon and she could just make out a dark shape standing at the rail.

An instinctive gasp died on her lips as she realized the shape was actually Thorn. His back was to her as he stared out at the sea.

He wouldn’t throw himself down onto the rocks, would he?

No. As upset as he obviously was, he didn’t act suicidal, just humiliated and angry. Now, if Natalie was here, that might be a different story. Natalie he might very well like to toss off a balcony.

Would he, or do I just want to believe he would?

This second question came from nowhere and left Alex feeling shaken.

She heard him close the doors as she slowly lowered her head back to the pillow and feigned sleep. His footsteps hardly made a sound on the plush carpet as he crossed back to the sofa. She heard the creak of old furniture as he lowered his weight and tried to get comfortable. He was paying for the room and she was half his size—why hadn’t it occurred to her to take the sofa and let him have the bed?

Should she get up and offer the bed to him now? Would he want it? Maybe the sofa was a better place for a jilted bridegroom. She fell asleep again while trying to figure out what to do.

The next time she awoke, it was morning and sunlight streamed through the glass. As she got out of bed, Alex looked over at the sofa, half expecting to find Thorn gone again, but apparently his late-night reverie out on the balcony had taken its toll. He lay asleep, half on the sofa, one arm hanging off to the side, both feet dangling over the end. He’d kicked off the blanket she’d given him the night before and it lay in a heap on the floor. Thankfully, he at least slept in his underwear.

She stared at him longer than was strictly necessary. His hands and forearms were tanned the same deep color as his face, the rest of him a shade lighter. He had very nice legs, well shaped, muscular. She liked his ankles. He stirred and she turned away at once.

False alarm. When she dared to take another peek, he was sound asleep again, on his side, all arms and legs, his head half buried under an arm. Alex let herself out onto the balcony, anxious to escape Thorn.

The rocks below were black and jagged, the ocean that swirled around them, sapphire blue. For some time, Alex stared at the water. She was wearing the robe—indeed, she’d slept in the robe—and she tightened the belt around her waist. What was she going to put on this morning? Would Thorn have any clothes that would fit her? Maybe she could borrow his gold card and buy herself something in the gift shop—shorts and a T-shirt, a touristy dress printed with whales or dolphins. Anything!

She winced when she thought about the prices she knew she’d find. A confirmed bargain hunter, she tended to wait until clothing was marked down so far, it was a giveaway. Well, desperate situations called for desperate measures and all that.

As she turned to go back into the room, she caught sight of a small yellow sports car pulled up to the front of the inn. Then she realized what had really drawn her attention was the driver. He was a very tanned man with long white hair caught in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He was facing the inn, a striking man in his fifties with eyes dark enough to stand out at a distance. He looked like the male lead in a spy movie.

She was about to turn away when a woman in a kneelength coat approached the passenger door of the car. The coat was an unusual shade, more orange than red, vibrant, eye-catching, hemmed in heavy black braid. A distinctive coat, a familiar coat, one Alex had seeh every morning for the past six months. With a feeling of inevitability, her gaze traveled from the coat to a swirl of reddish-blond hair, and then, as the woman turned, to an upturned nose and a pair of huge dark glasses.

Alex raced back into the room, calling Thorn’s name as she ran. By the time she got to the sofa, he was blinking the sleep from his eyes. She stood above him and pointed outside. “Natalie,” she managed to say.

In a flash, he was on his feet and out the doors. She saw him peer over the railing, then back into the room toward her.

“Where?”

“Getting into a yellow car.”

He looked over the railing. His expression as he faced Alex confirmed what she was afraid of.

“Too late?” she asked as she joined him.

“Apparently. Are you sure it was her?”

“Absolutely positive.”

He nodded briskly. “Okay. Tell me what you saw while I get dressed.”

Following him back into the room, she said, “There was a man in a yellow car.”

He stopped dead in his tracks and turned again. “A man,” he repeated woodenly.

“Yes. A much older man.” She left out the part about the way the man looked, the square set of his shoulders, his distinctive mane of hair. The man might be older than Thorn, but he was no slouch and he certainly didn’t look like anyone’s father. Of course, Thorn standing there only half-dressed didn’t look like a slouch, either!

“Go on,” Thorn said as he picked up his suitcase and threw it on the bed.

“In a second. I don’t suppose there’s anything in that suitcase I could wear?”

Thorn had grabbed the first clothes he came to—a white shirt and a pair of khaki slacks. With Alex’s question, he turned to look at her, and for the first time, he seemed to notice she was in a robe, seemed to remember than she had no luggage. “I don’t know, I’m a lot bigger than you are—”

“What about this?” Alex asked as she pulled a bright red-and-white Hawaiian shirt out of his bag.

“Sure, I don’t care. Take anything you want. Just hurry.”

As he dressed in the bathroom she described the rest of what she’d seen, her voice raised so he could hear through the wooden door. As she spoke, she put on the shirt and dug through his suitcase, emerging with a pair of baggy white swim trunks. They had a cord at the waist and she slipped them on, tightening the cord, then knotting the shirt. His shoes were impossibly big for her and she couldn’t face the heels, so she decided to go barefoot.

By the time this was done, Thorn was out of the bathroom, completely dressed, looking like a million bucks. Again.

They opted for the stairs when the elevator took too long to answer the call. Thorn was at the desk before Alex. By the time she got there, the desk clerk was being grilled.

“Yes, I know who you are, Mr. Powell, and might I offer my heartfelt congratulations on your marriage.”

This clerk was middle-aged with thinning black hair and a clipped mustache. Alex had seen him watch her approach the desk in Thorn’s wake. When she stopped beside Thorn, the clerk actually gave her a double take, as though he couldn’t believe the Thorn Powell was hitched to this frizzy-haired woman swimming in men’s clothes. Alex smiled pleasantly and said, “Good morning.”

“Morning, ma’am,” he said. His name was Alfred. To Alex, he looked like an Alfred. She couldn’t imagine anyone calling him Alfie.

“Yes, yes,” Thorn said. “I want to know about the woman who just left here. About five-eight, reddish hair, orange coat—”

“You mean Miss Blackwell,” the clerk interrupted.

“Miss Blackwell?”

“Jasmine Blackwell. She’s here with her father, Gerald Blackwell.”