Paula Graves - Fugitive Bride

“Nothing. Forget I said anything. See you soon.” She ended the call and set the phone on the vanity table again.

A few seconds later, the phone trilled, sliding sideways on the table with the vibration. Tara didn’t even look at the display. She knew who it was. She picked up the phone. “Owen, I told you it’s nothing.”

“If you’re wondering if you made a mistake, it’s not nothing. Are you in the bride’s room?”

“Owen—”

His rumbly voice deepened. “I’ll be there in two minutes.”

“Owen, don’t.” Her voice rose in frustration. “Please. Just stay where you are. Everything is fine.”

There was a long pause before he spoke again. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. Today is absolutely perfect. Beautiful weather, the sanctuary is gorgeous, my dress fits perfectly and I’m marrying the most perfect man in the world. Nothing can possibly be wrong on a day like this.” She stared at the bride in the vanity-table mirror, defiance glaring from her green eyes.

“If you’re sure.” Owen didn’t sound convinced.

“I’ll see you at the altar.” She hung up the phone again and set it in front of her, her hand flattened against the display.

“Nothing will go wrong,” she said to the woman in the mirror.

The bride stared back at her, unconvinced.

It was just cold feet. Everybody got cold feet, right?

This was where having a mom around would have come in handy. Orphanhood sucked. Her mom had died when she was small, and her father had never remarried before his death three years ago. Not that Dale Bentley would have been much help on a day like today. “Suck it up, soldier,” she muttered aloud, mimicking her father’s gravelly growl. “Make a decision and stick to it.”

Man, she missed the old sergeant. He’d have known what to make of Robert. He’d have known whether or not Tara really loved the man or if she loved the idea of him instead.

That was the sticking point, wasn’t it? She just wasn’t sure she loved the man she was less than an hour away from marrying.

She pushed to her feet. What in the world was she doing getting married if she wasn’t sure she loved the man? Had she lost her mind? Was she so addicted to her stupid lists that she trusted them over her own heart?

She had to tell Robert what she was feeling. Talk to him, let him try to talk her out of it. Then she’d know, wouldn’t she?

You already know, Tara. Listen to your gut.

Maybe she already knew, but either way, she had to tell Robert. And now, before it was too late.

She was halfway to the door when a knock sounded from the other side. She crossed to the door and leaned her ear close. “Yes?”

The voice from the other side was male and unfamiliar. “Ms. Bentley? There’s a package outside we need you to sign for.”

“A package?” Sent here, to the church? That was strange. “I’m not expecting anything.”

“I don’t know, ma’am. It’s just for you and it requires a signature. You want me to tell them to send it back?”

“No,” she said quickly, curiosity overcoming her impatience. Maybe a distraction was just what she needed to get her head out of her navel for a few minutes. Robert would still be on the other end of the church with his groomsmen, so it wasn’t like he’d accidentally get a peek at her dress before the wedding, right?

Assuming there was even going to be a wedding...

Stop it. Just go see what the package is. One thing at a time.

She opened the door to a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a blue polo shirt and khaki pants. “Hi,” she said, feeling a little sheepish as he took in her seed pearl–studded dress and tulle veil. “It’s my wedding day.”

“I see that.” He nodded toward the door down the hall that led to the church’s parking lot. “Out here.”

She followed him down the hall and out the door, taking care as she crossed the threshold not to let the skirt of her dress get caught in the door closing behind her. Once her dress cleared the door, she started to turn her attention back to the deliveryman, but something dropped over her face suddenly, obscuring her view.

Instinctively sucking in a quick breath, she got a lungful of something sweet and cloying. Her lungs seemed to seize up in response, making it hard to take another breath. Fighting panic, she tried to lift her hands to push the offending material off her face. But thick, strong arms roped around her body, holding her arms in place. Her head began to swim, her throat closing off as she struggled for oxygen. She seemed to float into the air, which was impossible. Wasn’t it? She wasn’t floating. People didn’t float.

Somewhere close by, she thought she heard a voice shouting her name. It sounded familiar, but her suddenly fuzzy brain couldn’t make sense of what she was hearing. Then she heard a swift thump and the voice went silent.

There was a metallic clank and suddenly she wasn’t floating anymore. She landed with a painful thud onto a hard, cold surface, unable to make sense of what was happening to her. The sweet, slightly medicinal smell permeated everything, seeping into her brain as if it were a sponge soaking up all those heady fumes.

Another thud shook the floor beneath her, and something solid and warm settled against her back. She struggled against the encroaching darkness, one lingering part of her acutely aware that something terribly wrong was happening to her. Today was supposed to be her wedding day, even if she’d decided it was a wedding she didn’t want.

She should be looking for Robert to tell him what she’d decided. She had to let people know the wedding was off. She had to call the florists to take away the beautiful roses and tulips that festooned the sanctuary. She supposed she could let the reception go on as planned, feed everyone as an apology for her attack of cold feet.

She had too much to do to be sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness now spreading through her fuzzy brain. But within seconds, she could no longer remember what those things were.

Slowly, inexorably, darkness fell.

* * *

OWEN STILES WOKE to darkness and movement. He tried to lift his hands to the hard ache at the back of his head, but his arms wouldn’t move. He was bound, he realized, animal panic rising in his throat. He forced it down, trying to remember what he’d learned at Campbell Cove Academy.

First, ascertain where you are and what the danger is.

The where was easy enough. He was in the white van that had been parked outside the church when he went looking for Tara.

He hadn’t liked the way she’d sounded on the phone. And if he was brutally honest with himself, there was a part of him that had been nearly giddy with hope that she was going to call off the wedding.

He wasn’t proud of feeling that way. His love for Tara was unconditional. Her happiness meant everything to him.

But he couldn’t deny that he wanted her to be happy with him, not some blow-dried, Armani-wearing Harvard Law graduate with a chiseled jaw and a cushy job with a top Louisville law firm.

Ignoring her command to stay put, he’d turned the corner of the hallway that led to the bride’s room just in time to see a wedge of tulle and lace disappear through the exit door about twenty yards away.

Hurrying out after her, he’d been just in time to see a large man throw a pillowcase over Tara’s head and haul her into a white panel van parked in front of the door. He’d called her name, shock overcoming good sense, and earned a punch that had knocked him into the side of the van. At least, that was the last thing he could remember.

Okay, so he’d ascertained where he was. And the fact that he was trussed up inside the moving van made the danger fairly clear, although he couldn’t see anyone lurking around, ready to knock him out again, so he supposed that was a plus.