Barbara Dunlop - His Stolen Bride

Hadley offered her his arm, and she took it, feeling a sudden need to hang on tight.

“I’ll see you at the church,” he said.

She could do this. She would do this. There was no downside. Any woman would be thrilled by such a complete and total change in her lifestyle.

* * *

Dressed in a crisp tuxedo, freshly shaved, his short hair neatly trimmed, Jackson stood outside Saint Luke’s Cathedral north of Chicago in the Saturday afternoon sunshine pretending he belonged. It was a picture-perfect June wedding day. The last of the well-heeled guests had just been escorted inside, and the groomsmen now stood in a cluster on the outside stairs. Vern Gerhard was nowhere to be seen, likely locked up in an anteroom with the best man waiting for Crista Corday to arrive.

Jackson had learned a lot about Crista over the past three days. He’d learned she was beautiful, creative and reputedly hardworking.

As a girl, she’d grown up in a modest neighborhood, living with her single mother, her father, Trent, having visitation rights and apparently providing some small amount of financial support. She’d attended community college, taking a diploma in fine arts. It was during that time that she’d lost her mother in a car accident.

After graduation she’d found a job in women’s clothing in a local department store. He assumed she must have worked on her jewelry designs in her off hours.

So far, she seemed exactly as she appeared, an ordinary, working-class Chicago native who’d been living a perfectly ordinary life until she’d met her fiancé. The most remarkable thing about her seemed to be her father’s conviction on fraud charges. Then again, maybe it wasn’t so remarkable. This was Chicago, and Jackson was definitely familiar with having a convicted criminal in the family.

Vern and the Gerhards had proven harder for him to gauge. Their public and social media presence was slick and heavily controlled. Their family company, Gerhard Incorporated, was privately held, having been started as a hardware store by Vern’s great-grandfather during the Depression. It now centered on commercial real estate ownership and development.

Their estimated net worth was high, but Jackson hadn’t found anything illegal or shady in their business dealings. They did seem to have incredible timing, often buying up properties at fire sale prices in the months before corporate mergers, gentrification or zoning changes boosted their value. It was enough to make Jackson curious, but the individual instances weren’t overly suspicious, and what he had so far didn’t come close to proving they were conning Crista.

Despite Trent’s suspicions, Vern Gerhard and Crista’s romance seemed to be just that, a romance.

“I say more power to him.” One of the groomsmen’s voices carried from the cathedral staircase, catching Jackson’s attention.

“I almost told her at the house,” said another groomsman. This one looked younger. He had the trademark Gerhard brown eyes, but he was taller than most, younger than Vern. His flashy hairstyle made him look like he belonged in a boy band.

“Why would you do that?” asked a third. This man was shorter, balding, and his bow tie was already askew. Jackson recognized him as a brother-in-law to Vern.

“You don’t think she deserves to know?” asked the younger one.

“Who cares? She’s hot,” said the bald one. “That body, hoo boy.”

“Such a sweet ass,” said the first groomsman, grinning.

“Nice,” Jackson muttered under his breath. The Gerhards might be rich, but they didn’t seem to have much in the way of class.

“So, why does he need Gracie?” asked the younger groomsman, glancing around the circle for support. “He should break it off already.”

“You want to stick to just one ice cream flavor?” asked the balding man.

“For the rest of your life?” asked the first groomsman.

“Some days I feel like praline pecan. Some days I feel like rocky road,” said the heavyset one with a chortle.

“And that’s why you’re sleeping with Lacey Hanniberry.”

“Lumpy Lacey.”

The other men laughed.

“Vern hit the jackpot.” The first groomsman made a rude gesture with his hips.

“On both fronts,” said the bald one. “Crista’s the lady, Gracie’s the tramp.”

“She’s going to find out,” said the younger man with the flashy hair.

“Not if you don’t tell her she won’t,” said the first man, a warning in his tone.

Jackson had half a mind to tell her himself. Vern sounded like a pig. And most of his friends didn’t seem any better.

“Gracie won’t last, anyway,” said the heavyset man.

“Vern will trade up,” said the balding one.

“Uncle Manfred’s girlfriends have been twenty-five for the past thirty years.”

“Wives age, girlfriends don’t.”

They all laughed, except for the young guy. He frowned instead. “Crista’s different.”

“No, she’s not.” The first groomsman slapped him on the back. “You’re young, naive. All your girlfriends are twenty-five.”

“I don’t cheat on them.”

“Then you’re not trying hard enough.”

“Get with the program.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jackson saw two white limos pull up to the curb. The groomsmen spotted them, too, and they turned to head up the wide staircase to the cathedral entrance, their voices and laughter fading with the distance.

So, Vern was cheating on Crista. It was a coldhearted and idiotic move, but it was none of Jackson’s business. Maybe she knew and accepted it. Or maybe she wasn’t as smart as everyone seemed to think, and she was oblivious. Or maybe—and this was a real possibility—she was only marrying the guy for his money and didn’t care about his fidelity one way or the other.

The limo doors opened and a group of pretty bridesmaids spilled out of one. The driver of the other vehicle quickly hopped to the back door, helping the bride step onto the sidewalk.

Crista straightened and rose in the bright sunshine, looking absolutely stunning. Her auburn hair was swept up in braids, thick at the nape of her neck, wispy and delicate around her beautiful face. Her shoulders were bare and looked creamy smooth. The white dress was tight across her breasts and her waist, showing off an amazing figure. The lace and beading on the full skirt glittered with every little movement.

Jackson didn’t normally fantasize about brides. But if he had, they’d look exactly like her. His annoyance at Vern redoubled. What was the man’s problem? If Jackson had someone like Crista in his bed, he’d never so much as look at another woman.

The bridesmaids giggled and clustered around her while the drivers returned to their cars to move them from the busy street.

“This is it,” said one bridesmaid, fussing with Crista’s bouquet and taking a critical look at her face and hairdo.

“I’m okay?” Crista asked.

“You’re perfect.”

Crista drew in a deep breath.

The women started for the staircase that led to the cathedral’s big front doors. Jackson’s first instinct was to step forward and offer his arm, but he held back.

Crista spotted him. She looked puzzled at first, as if she was struggling to recognize him. Their gazes locked, and he felt a shot to his solar plexus.

Her eyes were green as a South Pacific sea and just as deep, flickering in the sunshine. She looked honest. She looked honorable. In that split second, he knew her father’s words had been true. She wouldn’t put up with a cheating husband, which meant she didn’t know about Vern and Gracie.

Jackson wanted to shout at her to stop, to get out of here. She might not know it, but she was making a mistake. Deep down in his gut, he knew she was making a terrible mistake.