Safe Passage

Here comes the bride.

Skye took another step, then another and another. The organ music sped up to match her increasing pace.

All dressed in white.

Skye lifted her dress up about her knees, stormed down the aisle, heart pounding, vaguely aware of Charly running after her.

A murmur rippled through the guests like storm wind through a forest of trees. Some jumped to their feet as Skye marched past them. The crazy organist madly beat at the wedding march tune, trying to match Skye’s pace. She finally gave up in a discordant thrash of keys as Skye reached Jozsef’s best man, who stood patiently near the altar.

Silence now hung thick, anticipatory, under the dark curved beams, the stained glass.

“Where is he?”

“Skye, I’m sorry, I don’t know. We tried calling his home, his cell—”

“For chrissake, you’re the best man, Peter. Isn’t your job to see that the groom gets to the damn church on time?”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Forget it. I made a mistake. Give me the keys.” She held out her hand. It trembled violently.

“They’re my bike keys.”

She dropped her voice to a harsh whisper. “You gonna humiliate me further or are you going to give me those keys?”

Peter fumbled in his pocket, extracted the keys. “Skye, I’m pleading with you. Let’s take the limo. You’re in no state—”

“You expect me to leave in the bridal vehicle? You’re nuts. Just give them to me.”

Peter reluctantly held them out. She snatched them.

Charly tried to take her arm. “Skye, please—”

She shrugged her off, hoisted her dress up with one hand and turned to face the small crowd. “That’s it, folks. Party’s over. Thanks for coming. Maybe next time.”

But there’d never be a next time, another wedding, not as long as she lived.

Skye stormed down the aisle, heading for the massive arched chapel doors, a chorus of shocked murmurs flowing in her wake.

The chapel doors flung open. Scott jerked to attention.

He realized with a shock that he’d dozed off.

He squinted, trying to make sense of the vision in front of him.

The Greek goddess stormed out of the church, down the stone stairs, dress hiked up about her knees. He rubbed his fist in his eyes. Maybe he was still asleep.

He watched in numb fascination as the bride lifted her dress, straddled the motorbike and kicked it viciously to life.

Tires screeched as she pulled out of the parking space and smoked down the road, hair, ribbons of white fabric fighting in the wind behind her.

“Oh, sweet Mother Mary.” He snapped into action, fired the ignition.

“Buckle up, Honey. Looks like we got us a runaway bride.”

Chapter 4

Scott floored the gas, swerved out onto the coastal highway in hot pursuit of the bride bent low on the Harley. Honey skidded across the seat, bashed against the passenger door as the truck hugged a corner.

“Sorry, bud. Hang ten.”

The road grew narrow, climbed, hugged cliffs that dropped sheer to the ocean. Skye veered to the right, following the curve of the twisting tar ribbon.

His hands tensed around the wheel.

She leaned low into the bend, naked knee almost skimming the tarmac. Scott winced, prayed her long dress wouldn’t catch on anything. If she wiped out at this speed, she’d be grated to shreds. And that laurel garland on her wind-whipped tresses was nowhere near a helmet.

But by God, the woman could ride. She looked as though she’d been born with a machine between her legs. She was one with it. And it looked as if nothing else but speed mattered to her right now. Speed and escape.

From what?

He matched her pace.

She veered sharply off onto a dirt track.

He rammed on the brakes, skidding sideways onto the shoulder.

He could see a plume of dust as she followed a rough switchback down to the sea.

“Hold on to your teeth, Honey!” Scott gunned the gas, kicked up dirt, fishtailed back onto tar and swerved onto the rutted track.

It was pocked with small craters, rock. He squinted into the dust. He’d have to slow down if he was going to make it down alive. Damn, he’d lost sight of her.

By the time he reached the isolated cove at the base of the dirt track, the bike was propped on its stand alongside a gnarled arbutus tree.

Scott opened his truck door and stepped out into a cloud of settling dust. Honey followed, staying close at his feet. She seemed to sense this was no time for play. “Where is she, girl?” he whispered to the dog at his side. Then he saw her in the dim evening light, across the white sand of the cove near a rock at the water’s edge.

She was frantically tugging at her clothes, shedding layers as though she was yanking and discarding parts of her life. She tore at the garland in her hair, tossed it to the sea. Wild wind-knotted curls fell loose below her shoulders.

Scott swallowed.

Her back was to him. She had nothing on now, save for a scrap of lace cut high away from the graceful curve of her buttocks. And she wore a white bra, the strap thin across the olive skin of her back.

“Sweet Mother Mary,” he whispered to no one in particular. Then he saw the lacy wedding garter around the top of her lean thigh.

What happened, Doctor? What happened to your wedding?

He watched, immobile, as she rubbed her hands through her hair, shook it free. Then she stepped into the water. Even from this distance, he could see the shiver that ran through her body. Then she took another step.