Rebecca York - Bridal Jeopardy

Apparently Reynard sensed something. Bending close to her, he spoke in a low voice. From twenty feet away, Craig couldn’t catch the words, but he understood the proprietary way the man spoke. This woman was his property.

She must have said something reassuring, because Reynard went back to his previous conversation. But the moment had been telling. From Stephanie’s reaction, Craig knew that she understood her place in her fiancé’s world.

He lingered in the doorway and took a small sip of his champagne, thinking that he’d like to approach the couple, but he wasn’t going to press his luck. After a long moment, he turned away and went in search of the buffet table. He’d paid a lot of money to enjoy this reception, and he might as well get a decent meal out of it.

* * *

STEPHANIE WATCHED the broad shoulders of the man who had been staring at John—and her. She’d noticed him right away, noticed how his tuxedo accentuated his rugged good looks. She knew she had never seen him before. Who was he, and what was he doing here? For a moment he’d looked interested in John, then he’d switched his attention to her, and she’d felt as if there was an invisible wire connecting the two of them, drawing them to each other.

She hoped John hadn’t caught the intensity of her interest in the man because she knew he was jealous of any interactions she had with other guys. John had staked his claim on her, and she fully understood that playing any role but the one she’d been assigned was dangerous. Before she’d agreed to the marriage, her suitor had done his best to charm her, and she’d tried to convince herself that marriage to him wouldn’t be so bad. But once he’d known she was his, there had been subtle changes. He didn’t outright say that he owned her, but she got that message.

“Excuse me for a moment,” she murmured.

“Where are you going?” her companion asked.

“To powder my nose.”

He nodded, and she moved back through the mansion toward the grand staircase. The ladies’ room was on the second floor, and she was glad to escape from John and the society types who populated the party.

As she walked through the main floor, she scanned the crowd and was relieved and disappointed not to see the mysterious stranger. He couldn’t have just come in for a few minutes and left. Not at the price he’d paid for the ticket to this event.

Then she felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle and she turned quickly. There he was, in the corner, his gaze fixed on her again.

In that instant, the other people in the room seemed to vanish. Or maybe it was more accurate to say that they had turned into shadows, because the man in the corner was the only distinct thing she could see. She fought for breath, fought for sanity if she was honest about it.

What are you doing to me? she asked, the question never leaving her lips because she spoke only in her mind. Still, she had the weird feeling that he could hear her, although he gave her no answer.

She thought of crossing the room and...touching him. That idea leaped into her mind, and she wondered where it had come from. Touch a stranger? Why?

Yet the compulsion was so strong that she started toward him. Then she stopped after two steps and clenched her fists.

He was standing with the same rigidity, and she knew that at any moment he would come striding toward her. He would reach out and put his hand on her arm, and then what?

Everything would change.

She didn’t know what that meant, and she didn’t want to find out. No, that was a lie. She couldn’t afford the luxury of finding out.

The temptation was so overwhelming that she had to force herself to turn away and hurry up the stairs. With a sigh of relief, she closed the ladies’ room door behind her, putting a barrier between herself and the man who had drawn her like no other.

Marge LaFort glanced up from where she sat at one of the dressing-table stools. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” she lied.

“You look like...”

“Like what?” she demanded as the other woman’s voice trailed off.

Marge shrugged. “I’m not sure. Is that handsome fiancé of yours giving you a hard time?”

“No. Of course not,” Stephanie denied. In fact, she had forgotten all about John Reynard when she’d been caught in the stranger’s web. Or was he caught in hers? She didn’t know which.

She walked through the dressing area and into the bathroom, where she used the facilities, not because she needed to but because it would seem strange to simply come here and take refuge.

To her relief, when she emerged, Marge was gone. Or was that good? What if Marge went straight down to talk to John?

Stephanie dragged in a breath and let it out, wishing that she didn’t imagine every person in the mansion as a spy for John Reynard, yet she knew that he did have a network of informants—or at least people who were anxious to stay on the good side of such a powerful man by feeding him information about people and events he might think important.

For example, she knew there were some new customers who had come to her shop to check out John Reynard’s fiancée. And some of them were probably reporting back to him, much as she hated to think it. But she supposed she’d have to live with that, and maybe he’d trust her more when they were married.

She stayed at the dressing table for several more minutes, fussing with her hair, wondering whom she was hiding from—the dark-haired man or her intended. When she finally emerged and came downstairs, she didn’t see the stranger. That was a relief. Now she only had to deal with John.

* * *

MEN WERE WATCHING HIM, Craig realized as he filled a plate with boudin balls, Cajun rice and crawfish étouffée. Tough-looking types who didn’t exactly fit in with the other guests at this fancy event. Since they were dividing their attention between Reynard and Craig, he had to assume that they were the other man’s bodyguards. Apparently Craig had caught Reynard’s attention. Or perhaps Reynard had noticed the silent exchange when Craig and Stephanie had made eye contact. At any event, he decided it would be best to leave.

After taking a few bites, he put down his plate on one of the trays set around the room for dirty dishes and made his way out of the house and into the parking area, half-expecting somebody to try to jump him. But apparently his leaving had the desired effect. He drove away and back to his upscale New Orleans B and B without incident.

But what was his next move?

He’d focused his research on John Reynard. Now he was going to find out everything he could about Stephanie Swift. He told himself he was doing his job. He told himself that digging into the woman’s life would be the key to taking down Reynard, but he wasn’t sure he was being honest about his motives. If he admitted he was obsessed with her, that would be more like the truth.

The feeling was a novelty for Craig. He’d enjoyed the company of women. He’d learned the art of pleasing them in bed. But none of them had drawn his interest the way Stephanie Swift had.

He had looked up details about her on the web, but that was too impersonal an approach. Switching his tactics, he decided to get a firsthand picture of her life.

The morning after the charity reception, he waited in his car outside her apartment on Decatur Street and discreetly followed her Honda sedan to a sprawling mansion in the Garden District. It was her father’s house, he knew, and he drove around the corner and waited until she emerged about a half hour after she’d entered, a frown on her pretty features. Apparently her meeting with Dad hadn’t gone so well.

Her next stop was her shop on Royal. When she went in, he walked past and took up a discreet position around the corner.