One Last Breath by Lisa Jackson (26)

Prologue

It was all he could do not to wring her neck.

“We’re both getting what we want,” he bit out through his teeth, trying to hold on to his anger. “You’re getting what you want. I’m getting what I want.”

She was standing right in front of him, arms crossed, daring him, as she always did. “You’d better be right,” she warned, inching up her chin defiantly. A sliver of light shot through the hotel room window from the sodium-vapor street lamp outside and glimmered in her hate-filled eyes.

He closed the gap between them and laid his hand against her throat.

She stiffened but she didn’t back away, just glared at him. Her lips, so shiny as to appear wet, curled into a sneer. Almost challenging him.

The urge to crush her larynx was so great he trembled with the effort to stop himself and his back teeth gnashed with frustration.

With maddening calm, she said, “You’re not that stupid.”

She was right. He wasn’t that stupid. But it damn near killed him to hold back. Instead of squeezing her windpipe closed, he let his hand move down her chest to her right breast, and caught a new gleam in her eye. Then he shifted up close to her, pushing her to the wall, seeing a slight intake of her breath as he thrust hard against her.

“You’re disgusting,” she muttered, as his mouth came down hard on those sneering lips.

She pushed her hands against his chest and yanked her mouth away, but he ground his hips into her and her breath started coming fast and shallow. Just as he knew it would. This, their game, always played out the same way. “We don’t have time,” she warned on a gasp.

“Oh, yeah, we do.” He’d already found the zipper that ran down her back and was yanking on it.

“My dress!”

“Take it off,” he ordered, but didn’t wait. As she began to protest again, he yanked the gown over her head, mussing her hair, dropping the expensive designer creation to the floor. Then, using his weight, he forced her to the carpet as well. Her hands reached up, pushing off his suit jacket, working the buttons of his shirt, stripping him as he skimmed the slimming panties down her legs and kicked off his own binding pants.

And then he was on her, forcing himself into her, probing her hot, moist depths, her denials muted as she met each of his thrusts with her own moans and anxious movements, her fingers digging into his butt. He had to admit she was the best piece of ass he’d ever had, and he’d had scores.

In the midst of one hard plunge, she shuddered and gasped, “When the wedding’s over—”

“We’re strangers,” he finished for her.

And then she threw back her head and let out a breathless scream, clinging to him. He came in a long groan of satisfaction.

God, he thought, a bit dazedly. I could be with her forever. Too bad she’s such a soulless bitch.

* * *

In the garden of the hotel, Liam shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing down the grassy aisle to the arched arbor with its delicate pergola adorned in pink roses—the spot where his bride would appear. He felt a frisson of expectation and something else—fear?—as he waited to see Rory, glimmering in her wedding dress, waiting expectantly on the arm of her brother.

Never mind that Rory and he were already legally married and this ceremony, created at the behest of his mother, Stella, was really all for show. Still, he was tense. Nervous. And yes, expectant, his heart pounding as he waited to see her in the long white gown and veil, carrying a bridal bouquet . . .

Stupid, he chided himself, she’s your wife and has been for over two months. Get a grip. Yet he tugged at the collar of his shirt, his gaze focused on the break in the greenery, his pulse jumping.

He checked his watch.

Again.

She sure as hell was taking her sweet time. He’d expected to see her five minutes ago, as had the whole group that had gathered for the event. Guests seated in white chairs spread across the expanse of lawn, nervous members of the wedding party, even some of the hotel staff—all seemed to be holding their collective breath.

He heard a couple of tiny coughs. A soft whisper. The wind riffling leaves on overhead branches.

The organist was staring down the petal-strewn walkway, too. Her plump hands were poised over the keyboard, her brow furrowed. Behind rimless glasses her eyes were filled with concern, their expression just visible in the gathering twilight.

The weather hadn’t been favorable, clouds gathering. The hotel, perched high on a cliff over Lake Washington, was already awash in exterior lights, evening rapidly approaching.

The preacher, bald and dressed in black, waited with an open Bible in hand. He caught Liam’s eye, silently signaling his concern.

“What’s the holdup?” his best man whispered as the preacher stepped over to the organist, said something under his breath, and the woman at the keys began playing softly again, the same familiar strains of Pachelbel’s Canon, joyful, lilting music that just screamed “wedding” as the guests filtered in.

“Don’t know.”

“She’d better show up soon.” Standing next to Liam, Derek, his half brother, shifted from one foot to the other, crushing the blades of grass beneath his weight. They were about the same size, Liam slightly taller, both trim, both having inherited their father’s light brown eyes and thick, coffee-dark hair. Derek, older, sported his mother Karen’s wide forehead and single dimple, while Liam’s jaw was a little more square, his eyes deeper set. However, despite being born to different mothers, Geoff Bastian’s sons did look like brothers. “The natives are getting restless,” Derek added, and he wasn’t wrong.

Guests were shifting in their chairs and craning their necks as they cast looks toward the empty arbor.

Derek frowned, surveying the crowd. “You want me to go looking for her?”

“No!” Liam said a little louder than he’d wanted, turning a few heads. He lowered his voice and added, “She’s only a few minutes late.”

“Maybe she wants to make a grand entrance,” Derek said. “Well, I guess she already is.”

“Right.” Liam clenched his teeth, reminding himself to be patient. This, a “proper” and showy wedding, was created at his mother’s insistence and would be over soon.

The gathering wasn’t large by Bastian wedding standards, but more than a hundred people were waiting on the lawn in neat rows of white chairs, some festooned with bouquets of roses and baby’s breath. Most of the guests were friends of his parents; some were of his own acquaintance. Very few were aligned with his wife, however; just her mother, and stepbrother Aaron, the person she’d chosen to walk her down the aisle.

Liam didn’t much like anyone in her family and the feeling was mutual. Her stepbrothers were definitely interested in the Bastian money, but they still felt more comfortable with Rory’s previous boyfriends, none of whom Liam had ever met. But maybe the monetary interests were less than he thought and that was the holdup? Was Aaron involved in some eleventh-hour, last gasp effort to stop the wedding? Maybe thinking he could wrangle Rory out of her marriage if she didn’t go through with this formal ceremony? He wasn’t the most reliable of guys at the best of times, though he did seem to have Rory’s best interests at heart . . . No, Aaron didn’t have that strength of conviction. Everett, Rory’s elder stepbrother, now there was a guy who would stop the earth spinning on its axis if he thought it might gain him something. He was as wily and determined and full of bad choices as his father . . . who just happened to be doing five to ten in prison and therefore would not be attending his stepdaughter’s wedding.

Liam shifted his stance. He was tense all over. Maybe Rory was the reason for the holdup. She hadn’t been crazy about this big show of a wedding, nor had he, for that matter, but they’d both bent to Stella’s wishes.

Almost of its own accord, his eye found his mother, who was sitting like a frozen mannequin, or maybe like a prisoner in front of a firing squad. Her swept-up blond hair seemed to defy the elements, while other women were swiping away errant strands from the bursts of a crisp and persistent breeze. Stella hadn’t wanted the marriage at all, but since Liam and Rory had sealed the deal two months earlier in front of a judge, she’d had a near breakdown at the news, then had suddenly ramped up and decided to make the wedding the event of the season. Though the Bastians hailed from Portland, Rory’s family lived in the Seattle area. When Stella found she could get a hotel on Lake Washington because some other unhappy couple had called it quits at the last moment, she’d grabbed the venue and leaped in with all the fervor of a new convert, ignoring the grumblings of Liam’s father about cost, time, and work.

So, here they were.

He caught movement near the pergola and witnessed Darlene, Rory’s mother and the matron of honor, peeking out from a space between the hedgerow and slats of the arbor. A concerned look was etched on Darlene’s features, and she bit at her lower lip. As if she, too, was edgy, beginning to worry.

Liam willed his wife to appear. Come on, come on. His jaw tightened. Rory wouldn’t stand him up, would she? Heaven knew she was as opposed to all the pomp and ceremony as he was, but she’d agreed to this spectacle and they were already married.

She’ll be here. Have a little faith. She won’t run out on you. What would be the point? This is just some wedding-day glitch. It happens all the time. The delay’s probably because of Aaron. Between dope smoking, video games, and the occasional part-time job that invariably fizzled within the month, Rory’s stepbrother wasn’t exactly a rock of responsibility.

Frowning, Liam pulled on the edge of his sleeve and noted the time. Not quite ten minutes had passed since Rory was supposed to have started her short walk from the arbor. Aaron was probably late to pick her up. As usual.

The minutes ticked by. Liam shifted his gaze from the decorated arch to the guests seated in two groupings of white chairs on either side of the pink rose-petal path. To his right, visible through a break in the hedge, were the gray-green waters of Lake Washington far below the cliff’s edge. Though rain was pending, it was a beautiful evening. It should be a moment to remember . . .

The sea of expectant faces swam before his vision and he settled his gaze on his father, who was tense and looked almost angry. He could tell Geoff was beginning to wonder if the no-good, no-class, no-nothing girl Liam had brought home was about to stand him up. Unheard of! No one deliberately let down a Bastian.

Liam inwardly sighed. His father was a domineering patriarch and had been all his life. Stella leaned in and said something to Geoff and he brushed her off. Liam could tell he was getting antsy. The last thing he needed was for his father to make a scene.

Where was Rory? She knew what Liam’s family thought of her, but she’d been stalwart in her decision to marry him. Maybe “stalwart” was too strong a word. More like she was as eager as he was to get past this hurdle, start their life together and damn the consequences.

Except she wasn’t here.

The niggling worry dug farther into his brain and he felt himself start to sweat. Rory had not invited Everett Stemple—nor Harold Stemple, Rory’s stepfather, who couldn’t make the wedding for obvious reasons—but Everett hadn’t taken the snub well. You’ll be sorry, he’d told Rory in front of Liam, though Liam had thought it was petty anger at the time, not a serious threat. Could Everett be involved in this delay somehow? Maybe he’d coerced Aaron into some half-baked plan to stop the event, just to be an asshole. That would be just like him.

His mother was staring at him. He could read the set of her jaw, the burn of her gaze. She’d called the Stemples “the underbelly of society,” and she didn’t really differentiate Rory from her stepfamily. Stella was wrong about Rory, but she wasn’t wrong about Harold Stemple. A year and a half earlier Harold had mounted a home invasion on a wealthy Seattle family, trying to steal their jewels, not realizing they were the kind of people who owned stocks and bonds and very little in the way of items that could be pawned. Harold tied them up and then took the husband to an ATM, where he got about three hundred dollars and his picture on the ATM camera. There was talk that Everett was involved, too, but nothing was ever proved. It was a mystery why Darlene stayed married to the man, but Rory had embarrassedly admitted that her mother felt she was somewhat psychic and believed the powers of the universe wanted her to stay in the union.

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.

* * *

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.

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.

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.

“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.

A white balloon shriveled and fell to the floor, its string snaking on the carpet.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

Her first instinct. Always.

Maybe she should race to the area where the guests were gathered, to Liam . . . to the police . . .

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

“Stop it! Jeeves, cut it out! No barking! Zero. Got it?” Dressed in a puffy coat, stocking cap, and leggings, the woman tugged on the leash to give Rory an apologetic half smile. “He won’t bite, really. He’s . . . he’s a sweetheart. Just a little territorial on the leash.”

Rory gave a quick nod and circumvented the dog to head down a service alley between two of the buildings on the hotel property. Around a corner she made her way past garbage bins and parked cars that nearly blocked the narrow lane. At the far end of the alley, she found her way to the side of the hotel property and hastened to the hundred-year-old staircase leading down to the shores of Lake Washington.

* * *

The last notes from the organ slowly faded away, the music seeming to hover on the breeze, leaving a gap of expectance.

Liam’s throat was dry. He could hardly work up any spit. He checked his phone again, but there were no further texts from Rory. He’d been momentarily relieved at the last one. Problem with the dress? Okay. He could wait. But it sure had been a lot longer than “a sec” . . .

The tails of his tuxedo jacket whipped in a sudden gust of wind. Some of the guests ducked their heads or threw up a hand to catch escaping hair and hats, but no bride appeared through the wall of greenery.

Derek exhaled heavily through his nose.

“I’m getting to the bottom of this,” Liam said as he caught a glimpse of Rory’s mother, Darlene, the matron of honor, peering nervously from a crack near the arbor.

“Wait,” Derek advised, his hand around Liam’s upper arm.

“No.”

“You’re already married, man. It’s not like she can get cold feet. Didn’t she say she hit some kind of snag and was on her way?”

“I don’t like it.” Something was off. Really wrong.

“Give it five more minutes. What will that hurt?” Derek flashed a smile meant to be calming.

It wasn’t.

“Trust me, you don’t want to mess this up any more than it already is,” Derek added.

“Fine. Two minutes. That’s it.”

“Chill out.”

No way in hell. He didn’t care if he mortified his mother by chasing after his wife. He didn’t give a damn about this ceremony.

“More music,” Derek suggested, and Liam, jaw set, nodded shortly to the organist, who drew a breath and started in once more.

The guests couldn’t decide whether there was a problem or not. Liam’s father, Geoff, was tight-lipped, and his mother stared straight ahead, forcing a tight smile, trying to hide the faintly triumphant look on her face. Stella had never liked Rory. And he could practically hear the I told you so swimming around in his mother’s head. Now, standing at the altar, Liam turned his gaze to his ex-girlfriend. Bethany’s blond hair was pinned up in some kind of knot that resisted the wind, similar to his mother’s coif, and her face was serene. From her seat next to her new boyfriend, her plus-one, she caught Liam’s gaze and lifted an eyebrow, questioning.

He let his gaze slide from Bethany to his sister, Vivian, who was easy to pick out in her canary-yellow dress and wide-brimmed hat. Vivian’s choice had caused Stella to groan, but Liam had inwardly applauded her. Derek had looked at the hat and drawled, “You’re not meeting the queen of England.”

Viv had snapped back in a dead-on British accent, “Shut up, fuck-face.”

Now, he caught his sister’s eye. In her swirl of yellow, she gazed at him, brows also lifting in the unspoken question. Viv was the one member of his family who’d accepted Rory. “Come on, it’s obvious he loves her, what’re you going to do?” she’d said to their mother. “Clamp a chastity belt around him, lock him up and throw away the key?” She’d grinned wickedly. “Ooops. Too late for that, isn’t it? He’s already married.”

And then a smattering of rain hit the congregation.

“I’m not waiting any longer,” Liam muttered to his brother.

“Huh. I thought you’d be the one to call it off first.”

“I’m going to go find her.”

Derek’s hand clasped his upper arm. “She’s not going to give up Bastian millions. She’ll get here.”

“You don’t know a thing about her.”

“Nor, it seems, do you.”

Roughly, Liam jerked his arm back. Damn it, Rory, he thought, what the hell’s going on?

* * *

Hurrying down the slippery wooden steps, she clung to the rail and shut out all thoughts of the wedding and forced herself to mentally check off all the items in her bag: Phone, underwear, makeup bag, two thousand dollars in hundreds, my grandmother’s silver locket, gold band Liam gave me at our marriage, our real marriage . . . phone, underwear, makeup bag, two thousand dollars in hundreds . . .

At a landing, she turned her face to the rain, looked down at the water, drew a breath, and checked her phone. No more texts. No return call. “Come on,” she said. At the bottom of the stairs she dialed again the number of the one person she thought could help her: Uncle Kent, “The Magician.” Kent Daley wasn’t a magician and he wasn’t her uncle or any kind of relative, but he could do magical things, like bury dead bodies where they’d never be found, metaphorically speaking, and he treated her like a favorite child. She’d thought of him often during her whirlwind romance with Liam, sensing she might need him, as she’d feared the marriage would be doomed before it began. He’d warned her to be careful when he’d learned she was marrying a Bastian. “People with money don’t play by our rules, princess,” he’d said. “They don’t understand us, and we don’t understand them. Not fully. Not the way we need to. You understand?”

She’d answered that she did, but now she realized she hadn’t.

And The Magician’s advice hadn’t stopped her from marrying Liam. Nothing could have deterred her. She’d trusted from her soul, wanting something good so badly she was willing to risk ultimate heartbreak. Even so, she’d called Uncle Kent before the grandiose ceremony, jokingly asking if he was available just in case she decided she wanted his special kind of “magic.”

“You need me, I’ll be there,” he assured her.

His serious tone had brought instant tears to her eyes. “No, I’m just kidding. You sure you can’t come to the wedding?”

“Not a scene I’m comfortable with.”

She’d nodded. Though it was left mostly unsaid, they both had known you didn’t invite a man like The Magician to your wedding. At least not to a Bastian over-the-top society extravaganza. Uncle Kent lived on the edge of legal, and purposely kept to the shadows. Having some members of her own family attend created enough complications already.

“You take care with those people,” was his final warning. “Remember, their money doesn’t make them special. They’re no better than the rest of us.”

Now, though, his promises seemed as thin as tissue paper as he hadn’t called back. Damn it all. Frantically, she texted him again:

The phone rang in her hand. She looked down and nearly cried with relief. Uncle Kent!

“I’m in trouble,” she blurted into the phone.

He didn’t waste time. “I just heard your message. Where are you?”

“At the bottom of the stairs from the hotel to the lake. I’m—”

“I know it. I’ll be there, but don’t turn south. Not to the marina. Okay? Walk the path north to the private homes. Get to the first private dock.”

“Oh, God.”

Her lashes starred with tears.

She was leaving Liam.

Forever.

He would never forgive her.

* * *

The rain had drifted to a faint sprinkle. The organist looked at Liam as she folded her hands and the music faded away. An uncomfortable moment passed. This time it was Derek who nodded to her, and she immediately straightened and apparently took it as a signal to start once again. But instead of Pachelbel’s Canon, she hit the first loud chords of “Here Comes the Bride.”

Everyone rose to their feet. Liam jerked around to look at Derek as the guests stood up. Derek waggled his head and lifted his palms, as surprised as Liam, but then he shrugged and said, “Well, either she’s coming or she’s not.”

Liam snapped his attention back to where Rory would first appear. He was very afraid that Rory wasn’t going to show. What he saw was Rory’s mother reluctantly starting down the aisle, but her smile was forced and she stared at Liam questioningly as she stepped over the strewn rose petals.

Everyone looked expectant and Liam straightened, hands clasped in front of him, praying silently that Rory would appear, sensing deep down that something was terribly, horribly wrong.

But then the music ran on . . . and on . . . and on . . .

No bride.

No text.

He checked. For the dozenth time.

His hands were clenched, his gaze riveted to the empty arbor.

When the organist got to the end of the song, Liam signaled her to stop. No need to go on. Murmurs of surprise broke out in the crowd and Liam’s father stalked up to his sons, the fading sun touching his silver hair, making it seem to glow.

“Where the hell is she?” Geoff Bastian stated tightly.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re going to have to call this off, son. You’ve disgraced your mother.”

“Stella’ll get over it,” Derek drawled.

“That girl—” Geoff shook his head and bit off his remark, though he clearly had a lot more to say.

“I’ll go find her. You should sit back down,” Liam told his father.

Derek said, “No, Liam, you stay here. I’ll find her and—”

“I’m going,” Liam snapped.

“Liam,” Derek said long-sufferingly, but Liam had already taken a few steps down the aisle after his father.

Aaron suddenly appeared from behind the hedge. Liam stopped short. Thank God! But Aaron’s face was grim as he ran up the bridal path, crushing the petals. Liam’s heart froze. What? What? “Where’s—”

He whipped around. The sharp reports were deafening. Had a car backfired?

“What?” he asked at the same moment a woman at the end of the row nearest him began screaming, followed by others.

The world seemed to spin in slow motion. He watched as Aaron went down in a sprawling heap, pink petals fluttering upward.

Where the hell were the shots coming from? Panic ensued, people screaming and crying, running and knocking over everything and everyone.

Liam started to move toward Aaron.

His body jerked as the first bullet struck. He staggered, but the force knocked him off his feet. The side of his head slammed against the ground.

Screams had turned to shrieks. Glass shattered. Wood splintered.

Someone was barking orders. A security guard?

“Move it. Get inside. Move it!” he hollered.

Lifting his head slightly, Liam caught a weird, panoramic view, as if he were looking through a distorted wide-angle lens at what had been the wedding venue. His father collapsed a few feet from him. People sprawled on the ground, crawling frantically, staining their expensive clothes. Others running wildly. Overturned chairs. Collapsed tables. Upended wineglasses. Shards of glass glittering amongst the grass and rose petals.

Frantic people scrambling to their feet, trying to escape the rain of bullets.

An older woman edged across the ground, her silvery skirt hiked above mud-stained knees as she sought cover behind the pathetically narrow protection of the white folding chairs.

A new terror gripped him and he forced himself to his knees.

His head swam. He was vaguely aware of his sister’s canary-yellow hat blowing across the grounds beyond the chairs as if it were trying to escape. And in the corner of his eye he spied his mother staggering into a heap beside Vivian, who was curled around a chair in a yellow ball.

No! he thought disjointedly. No, Viv! No, no!

He heard a noise. A cry of agony, and turned to spy Aaron writhing on the path, chairs upended all around him, his face twisted in pain. Blood showed on his white shirt, blooming a bright red.

“Up there! On the roof!” someone yelled. “The parking garage! The shooter’s there!”

“He’s shooting us! He’s shooting us!” someone else cried.

The security guard was barking into his cell phone, “The South Lake Inn, that’s right! An active shooter. Shot the hell out of a wedding here. I’ve got people down . . . what? I don’t know. Injured for sure. Possibly dead. For the love of God, get someone here now!”

Someone was running. Footsteps pounding. Pandemonium ensuing.

Groggily, Liam twisted his neck and caught a glimpse of the edge of the parking garage. He blinked . . . was there a man peering over the ledge?

“Get down!”

“Run!”

People ran past him.

He tried to stand. Pain speared through him.

He wobbled.

My leg, he thought in a detached way, looking down at his thigh where blood was soaking through a hole in his pant leg. A bullet to his femoral artery? The thought was fleeting, somehow seeming not related to the moment.

Everything in the surrounding chaos seemed surreal, as if in a distorted dream. The screaming, crying guests, the organist shivering behind the keyboard player, the minister leaning over a fallen man. The security guard, a gun in one hand, phone in the other, spitting out information to the phone, frantically waving people into the building.

Liam’s right hand moved automatically to clutch at his gut and he mentally ordered himself to pull it away. When he saw the bloody fingers, he glanced at his once white, now red, shirt. Another bullet to his midsection.

This could be bad, he noted in wonder, distantly aware his reaction was all wrong.

He was on his feet now, swaying, managing one more step.

Derek was suddenly next to him, swearing viciously as he grabbed hold of his brother. “Shit, man!” Derek’s face was white and drawn. “Lie down. Lie the fuck down! Do you want to bleed out?”

“Rory?” he asked. Did he hear sirens?

“She’s not here!” his brother babbled in shock, taking Liam’s weight as Liam felt himself falling. “She’s in the wind!”

“Where is—?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Her own damned wedding. Where is she? Don’t you die on me, Liam. Oh, shit. Don’t do this, man, don’t you do this!” Derek’s white face swam into his vision.

Liam struggled to hold on, but there was no escape from the blackness coming for him, the sensation of sweet oblivion calling.

“Liam!” A pause. “Help! I need medical help here! Liam . . . Liam! Jesus . . .”

Just before he passed out, slumped heavily into his brother’s arms, Liam suffered a moment of terrible clarity: Rory knew about the assault. Somehow, some way, Rory knew.