The Bride's Rescuer

Prologue

Celia Stevens stood before the cheval mirror in the bride’s parlor of the Chapel by the Sea, smoothing the satin skirt of her Vera Wang gown and adjusting her flowing veil with a trembling hand.

She’d bought the dress on impulse, the first one she’d tried on. But that whim had turned out okay, she assured herself. She’d purchased her bookstore, Sand Castles, on impulse too, and the business was headed for success. Another impulse had compelled her to agree with Darren, her fiancé, to move up the date of their wedding to October, not waiting for the June ceremony she’d always dreamed of. She’d been spontaneous all her life, rushing headlong into one experience after another, and so far everything had turned out fine.

So why was she feeling today as if her luck was about to run out?

“Are you okay?” Tracey Morris, her best friend and maid of honor, hovered behind her, and Celia could read the concern in Tracey’s brown eyes in the reflecting glass.

“Sure,” Celia said with a bravado she didn’t feel. She couldn’t meet her own gaze in the mirror. The trepidations she was experiencing were the normal prewedding jitters, that’s all. “It’s my wedding day. The happiest day of my life.”

“Is it?”

Celia whirled and faced her friend. “Of course.”

She didn’t sound convincing, even to herself, and she could tell Tracey wasn’t buying her declaration. “I’m marrying a man who loves me, who’s thoughtful, kind—”

“Who gives you goose bumps and makes you hear bells ring and see fireworks when he walks into a room?” Tracey prodded.

“That’s the stuff of fairy tales,” Celia insisted. “We’re mature adults—”

“Hogwash,” Tracey muttered loudly. “This is marriage we’re talking about, not a business contract. Do you love him, Cel?”

“There’re all kinds of love. I care about Darren. Just not in the Hollywood head-over-heels fashion you seem to think so important.”

Celia sank into the nearest chair, heedless of wrinkling the bridal satin. She’d had this same conversation with Tracey many times before, and each time she’d begged her friend not to broach the subject again. She couldn’t blame Tracey, however, for her skepticism. Celia had misgivings of her own. Ever since her parents had died in that horrendous car crash, she’d been alone. When Darren Walker had entered her life and offered marriage and a family, Celia, sick and tired of solitude, had leaped at his proposal. A home, a husband, and the prospect of children promised to fill the void left by her parents’ deaths.

Now that the hour of her wedding was almost upon her, however, her confidence that she’d made the right decision was wavering. Tracey’s probing questions only fed Celia’s uncertainty. But she’d come too far to back out now. The wedding gifts had been opened, the church was filled with relatives and friends, the yacht club decorated for the reception, and in just ten minutes, Darren would be waiting for her at the altar.

“You’ve always been my best friend.” With a rueful smile, Tracey shook her head and held out the skirt of her gown. “For no one else would I wear this bilious shade of pink.” Her expression sobered. “But I think you’re making a terrible mistake. It’s not too late to call it off.”

For an instant, Celia almost agreed, but Darren was such a sweet man, she couldn’t desert him. She wouldn’t leave him standing at the altar like some pathetic character in a television sitcom.

“I’m marrying Darren,” she declared, as much to shore up her own courage as to assure Tracey.

With a resigned shake of her head, Tracey headed toward the door. “Our bouquets are in the refrigerator in the church kitchen. When I bring them back, it’s show time.”

Her friend slipped out the door, and Celia clasped her hands in her lap to cease their trembling. Was she doing the right thing? She’d had niggling doubts from the day she’d accepted Darren’s proposal, but she’d always managed to shove them aside by considering the positive aspects of marriage to him. He was handsome, wealthy, well-mannered, well-educated…she ran through his attributes like a mantra, hoping to staunch the panic welling within her.

With a start, she realized she was no longer alone in the room. A middle-aged woman with elegantly coifed graying hair stood just inside the parlor door. From the cut of her designer suit and the jewels on her fingers, Celia guessed her to be one of Darren’s guests.

Celia rose to her feet. “If you’re looking for the sanctuary—”

“I’m looking for you,” the woman said. “You are Celia Stevens, aren’t you?”

Celia nodded. “Who are you?”

“My name’s not important. Time is running out. You can’t marry that man.”

“Darren?”

The woman grimaced. “Is that what he’s calling himself these days?”

“What do you mean?”

The woman moved closer. “When he married my daughter, his name was David Weller.”

Celia felt as if she’d entered a twilight zone. The woman seemed too self-possessed, too rational to be crazy. “Darren’s never been married.”

At least that’s what he’d told her, and he’d never given her reason to doubt him. Or had he?

Celia’s thoughts whirled in confusion.

The woman nodded grimly. “Of course, that’s what he told you.” She slipped an expensive handbag from beneath her arm, opened it, and extracted a newspaper clipping. “See for yourself.”

Celia took the paper from the woman and walked toward the window. The late afternoon sunlight fell on the newsprint, a photograph of a bride and groom with the heading, “Seffner-Weller Wedding.” The groom staring back at her was Darren Walker. Or his double.

“There must be some mistake,” Celia said, feeling as if the floor had dropped out from under her.

“There is,” the woman insisted, “and you’re making it.”

Confused, Celia shook her head and sagged onto the sofa. “This can’t be Darren.”

“It is. I watched him entering the pastor’s study. It’s the same man, all right.”

“Why did your daughter divorce him?”

“She didn’t.”

Celia’s eyes widened and her stomach lurched. “You mean Darren is still married?”

Terrible pain and sudden tears filled the woman’s eyes. “He’s a widower.”

Relief flooded through her. At least Darren wasn’t a bigamist. “I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as you’ll be if you go through with this. He murdered my daughter.”

Her nausea returned, and Celia rubbed her eyes with her fists. “You must be mistaken. If he’s a murderer, he’d be in jail.”

“He’s a clever murderer, and an even better con man.”

“Look, Mrs. Seffner, I’m sorry for your loss, but—”

“Listen to me, girl. If my own daughter had listened, she’d still be alive today. Did you sign a pre-nuptial agreement?”

Celia shook her head. “It seemed pointless. Darren has more money than I—”

“My daughter’s money, left to her by her paternal grandfather. David—Darren refused to sign the agreement I insisted upon, and my poor daughter was too besotted to care. Just weeks after the wedding, she died in a boating accident on the lake near their home. David found her. Her death was suspicious, but no one’s been able to prove he did it—yet.”