Ann Voss Peterson - Serial Bride

“Can I help you?” Sylvie’s voice carried in soft and low tones better suited to a seductress than a murderess. Of course there was no reason she couldn’t be both.

“Bryce Walker. I’m an attorney. I need to ask you some questions.” His voice sounded as businesslike and detached as he’d hoped. As if he was merely doing his job for a client.

The furthest thing from the truth.

He peered through the small crack, trying to get a better look at her. Blond hair, large blue eyes, a heart-shaped face any man would enjoy seeing on the pillow beside him. She held a hand to her chest, spreading pink-polished fingers across cleavage exposed by a formal green gown.

“You are Diana Gale.”

“She is my sister. She was supposed to be married today. But the wedding never took place.”

She sounded sincere. Fortunately he was well aware of his typical male weakness for beautiful women. And he knew how to compensate.

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To Michael Voss and Christopher Voss,

the best brothers a girl could have.

Ever since she was a little girl making her own books out of construction paper, Ann Voss Peterson wanted to write. So when it came time to choose a major at the University of Wisconsin, creative writing was her only choice. Of course, writing wasn’t a practical choice—one needs to earn a living. So Ann found jobs ranging from proofreading legal transcripts, to working with quarter horses, to washing windows. But no matter how she earned her paycheck, she continued to write the type of stories that captured her heart and imagination—romantic suspense. Ann lives near Madison, Wisconsin, with her husband, her two young sons, her Border collie and her quarter horse mare. Ann loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at ann@annvosspeterson.com or visit her Web site at annvosspeterson.com.

Sylvie Hayes—A survivor of the foster care system, Sylvie had always dreamed of having a family of her own. But when her long-lost twin sister disappears from her own wedding, and Sylvie’s family turns out to be more nightmare than dream, who can she turn to? Who can she trust?

Bryce Walker—Convinced Sylvie’s sister is a handmaiden of the serial killer responsible for his brother’s death, Bryce works to win Sylvie’s trust, hoping she will lead him to the missing bride. But he doesn’t count on the need to protect Sylvie. Or the need to claim her for his own.

Diana Gale—Sylvie’s twin sister was supposed to be walking down the aisle to marry the man she loves. Instead the bride is missing and her groom is barely clinging to life. Is she the family Sylvie has always wanted or a dangerous killer?

Detective Stan Perreth—The secretive police detective has a bad attitude. Is he working to find Diana or working to blame her for his crimes?

Dryden Kane—The serial killer has been in prison for years. Now he’s anxious to settle the score.

Louis Ingersoll—Diana’s neighbor would do anything for her. But does that include murder?

Professor Vincent Bertram—The professor has spent much of his life studying the grisly crimes of Dryden Kane. How far will he go to make sure his research pays off?

Sami Yamal—The professor’s assistant, Sami believes he deserves credit for the professor’s research. But how far will he go to prove he is the real expert?

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Sylvie Hayes dug her polished nails into the tulle wrapping the stems of her maid-of-honor nosegay and stared down the church’s long aisle. A blend of alstroemeria and autumn chrysanthemums smothered the altar. Faces peered expectantly from pews, a sea of humanity tied back with white lacy bows. The organ soared into Bach, rattling stained glass like thunder from an approaching storm—the cue to start her measured march down the aisle.

Where was Diana?

Her sister had said she needed a moment to check her makeup, to make sure everything was perfect for her wedding. But that had been over fifteen minutes ago. She should be back by now.

And where was the groom?

Sylvie squinted at the shadows to the side of the altar. Although she spotted the minister and best man, she couldn’t see Reed McCaskey anywhere.

Sylvie and Diana might not know one another as well as twins who’d grown up in the same household, but since Diana had tracked her down six months ago, they had become close. Closer than Sylvie had dared to get to another person. And even though Diana’s marriage would probably change things, she felt the connection they shared, the sense of the other she’d heard about in twins, would never go away. She’d feel an unexplained twinge of joy before Diana even had a chance to call her about good news. An insistent hum in the back of her mind when Diana was in trouble. That hum had been building to a crescendo over the past three months. Now it threatened to drown out the organ.

Sylvie turned away from the mouth of the nave and started down the long hall leading to the lounge where she and Diana had dressed for the wedding. She had to find her sister. She had to make sure Diana was okay.

Her heels clacked on the marble floor, matching the thump of her pulse. No doubt Diana was wrestling with her veil or some other detail. Or maybe she and Reed had argued. Whatever had happened, the alarm buzzing low in Sylvie’s ears was due to an overactive imagination. Nothing more.

She quickened her pace.

She pushed her way into the lounge. The room appeared just as they’d left it. Makeup cases and dress bags cluttered the tables and draped to the floor. Photos from an instant camera smiled from a pile on one of the sofas. The spice of perfume still hung in the air.

But no Diana.

Was she preening in front of the mirror in the adjoining restroom? Sylvie crossed the lounge and opened the door. The vanity was vacant, the wide mirror catching no reflection but her own—a slip of seafoam satin, a fall of blond hair, the gleam of worry in light-blue eyes.

She ripped her gaze from the image and peered down the row of bathroom stalls. “Diana?” Her voice echoed off the white tile.

She gathered her gown in a fist. Bending low, she looked under the stalls. A wisp of white touched the floor in the large stall at the end, a dark shadow behind it. “Diana? Are you okay?”

Only the organ answered, its bass tones trembling through walls and centering deep in Sylvie’s chest. She straightened and stepped down the row of bathroom stalls. Reaching the end, she grasped the handle and pulled.