Keeper of the Bride

“Pardon?”

“Your answering machine. It’s recorded three messages.”

Dazedly she looked down at the machine. Automatically she pressed the Play button.

There were three beeps, followed by three silences, and then dial tones.

Seemingly paralyzed, she stared at the machine. “Why?” she whispered. “Why do they call and hang up?”

“To see if you’re home.”

The implication of his statement at once struck her full force. She flinched away from the phone as if it had burned her. “I have to get out of here,” she said, and hurried back into the bedroom.

He followed her. She was tossing clothes into a suitcase, not bothering to fold anything. Slacks and blouses and lingerie in one disorganized pile.

“Just the essentials,” he said. “Let’s leave.”

“Yes. Yes, you’re right.” She whirled around and ran into the bathroom. He heard her rattling in the cabinets, collecting toiletries. A moment later she reemerged with a bulging makeup bag, which she tossed in the suitcase.

He closed and latched it for her. “Let’s go.”

In the car, she sat silent and huddled against the seat as he drove. He kept checking the rearview mirror, to see if they were being followed, but he saw no other headlights. No signs of pursuit.

“Relax, we’re okay,” he said. “I’ll just get you to your dad’s house, and you’ll be fine.”

“And then what?” she said softly. “How long do I hide there? For weeks, months?”

“As long as it takes for us to crack this case.”

She shook her head, a sad gesture of bewilderment. “It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense.”

“Maybe it’ll become clear when we talk to your fiancé. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“It seems that I’m the last person Robert wanted to confide in…” Hugging herself, she stared out the window. “His note said he was leaving town for a while. I guess he just needed to get away. From me…”

“From you? Or from someone else?”

She shook her head. “There’s so much I don’t know. So much he never bothered to tell me. God, I wish I understood. I could handle this. I could handle anything. If only I understood.”

What kind of man is Robert Bledsoe? Sam wondered. What kind of man would walk away from this woman? Leave her alone to face the danger left in his wake?

“Whoever made that hang-up call may pay a visit to your house,” he said. “I’d like to keep an eye on it. See who turns up.”

She nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

“May I have access?”

“You mean…get inside?”

“If our suspect shows up, he may try to break in. I’d like to be waiting for him.”

She stared at him. “You could get yourself killed.”

“Believe me, Miss Cormier, I’m not the heroic type. I don’t take chances.”

“But if he does show up—”

“I’ll be ready.” He flashed her a quick grin for reassurance. She didn’t look reassured. If anything, she looked more frightened than ever.

For me? he wondered. And that, inexplicably, lifted his spirits. Terrific. Next thing he knew, he’d be putting his neck in a noose, and all because of a pair of big brown eyes. This was just the kind of situation cops were warned to avoid: assuming the role of hero to some fetching female. It got men killed.

It could get him killed.

“You shouldn’t do this by yourself,” she said.

“I won’t be alone. I’ll have backup.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“You promise? You won’t take any chances?”

“What are you, my mother?” he snapped in exasperation.

She took her keys out of her purse and slapped them on the dashboard. “No, I’m not your mother,” she retorted. “But you’re the cop in charge. And I need you alive and well to crack this case.”

He deserved that. She’d been concerned about his safety, and he’d responded with sarcasm. He didn’t even know why. All he knew was, whenever he looked in her eyes, he had the overwhelming urge to turn tail and run. Before he was trapped.

Moments later, they drove past the wrought iron gates of her father’s driveway. Nina didn’t even wait for Sam to open her door. She got out of the car and started up the stone steps. Sam followed, carrying her suitcase. And ogling the house. It was huge—even more impressive than Lydia Warrenton’s home, and it had the Rolls-Royce of security systems. Tonight, at least, Nina should be safe.

The doorbell chimed like a church bell; he could hear it echoing through what must be dozens of rooms. The door was opened by a blonde—and what a blonde! Not much older than thirty, she was wearing a shiny spandex leotard that hugged every taut curve. A healthy sweat sheened her face, and from some other room came the thumpy music of an exercise video.

“Hello, Daniella,” Nina said quietly.

Daniella assumed a look of sympathy that struck Sam as too automatic to be genuine. “Oh Nina, I’m so sorry about what happened today! Wendy called and told us about the church. Was anyone hurt?”

“No. No, thank God.” Nina paused, as though afraid to ask the next question. “Do you think I could spend the night with you?”

The expression of sympathy faded. Daniella looked askance at the suitcase Sam was carrying. “I, uh…let me talk to your Dad. He’s in the hot tub right now and—”

“Nina has no choice. She has to stay the night,” said Sam. He stepped past Daniella, into the house. “It’s not safe for her to be alone.”

Daniella’s gaze shifted to Sam, and he saw the vague spark of interest in those flat blue eyes. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name,” she said.

“This is Detective Navarro,” said Nina. “He’s with the Portland Bomb Squad. And this,” she said to Sam, “is Daniella Cormier. My, uh…father’s wife.”

Stepmother was the appropriate term, but this stunning blonde didn’t look like anybody’s mother. And the look she was giving him was anything but maternal.