Barbara Dunlop - His Stolen Bride

“You never said his name.”

“Vern, Vern, Vern. I’m worried sick about Vern. He’s going through hell.” Then a thought struck her. “You should call him. I should call him. I can at least let him know I’m all right.”

“I can’t let you use my phone.”

“Because then they’d discover it was you. And they’d arrest you. And you’d go to jail. You know, sooner than you’re already going to jail after I tell the police everything you did.” Crista paused. Maybe she wouldn’t tell them everything. Better to keep certain missteps off the public record.

“I’ve got five guys working on this.” Jackson lowered himself to the bench opposite, the compact table between them.

“Five guys working on what?” Her curiosity was piqued.

“Vern’s infidelity.”

“Vern wasn’t unfaithful.”

Jackson smirked. “Right. And you never kissed me too.”

Crista wasn’t about to lie again. “Just tell me what you want. Whatever is going on here, let’s please get this over with so I can go home.”

“I want you to wait here with me while I find out exactly what your husband-to-be has been up to with Gracie.”

“Gracie’s a business acquaintance.” Crista immediately realized her slipup.

Jackson caught it, too. “So, you do know her.”

Crista wasn’t about to renew the debate. She knew what she knew, and she trusted Vern.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked Jackson again.

“So you can decide whether or not you want to marry him.”

“I do want to marry him.”

His gaze slipped downward, and she realized her grip on her dress had relaxed. She was showing cleavage—a lot of cleavage. She quickly adjusted.

“Maybe,” he said softly.

“There’s no maybe about it.”

“What’s the harm in waiting?” he asked, sounding sincere. “The wedding’s already ruined.”

“Thanks to you.”

“My point is there’s no harm in waiting a few more hours.”

“Except for my frantic fiancé.”

Jackson seemed to think for a moment. “I can have someone call him, tell him you’re okay.”

“From a pay phone?” she mocked.

“Who uses pay phones? We’ve got plenty of burner phones.”

“Of course you do.”

“You want me to call?”

“Yes!” But then she thought about it. “No. Hang on. What are you going to tell him?”

“What do you want me to tell him?”

“The truth.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”

“Then tell him I’m okay. Tell him something unexpected came up. I’m...uh...” She bit down on her lower lip. “I don’t know. Other than the truth, what can I possibly say that doesn’t sound terrible?”

“You got me.”

“He’ll think I got cold feet.”

“He might.”

“No, he won’t.” She shook her head firmly. Vern knew her better than that. He knew she was committed to their marriage.

But Jackson would never send a message that incriminated himself. And anything else could make it sound like it had been her decision to run off. Maybe it was better to keep silent.

“How long do you think this will take?” she asked. “To clear Vern’s name?”

Jackson gave a shrug. “It could go pretty fast. My guys are good.”

Crista rose to her feet. “Then don’t call him. I’m going to change.”

“Good idea.”

“It doesn’t mean I’ve capitulated.”

“I took it to mean you wanted to be dry.”

“That’s exactly what it means.”

“Okay,” he agreed easily.

She turned away from his smug expression, gripping the front of her ruined wedding dress, struggling to hold on to some dignity as she made her way into the bathroom. She could feel his gaze on her back, taking in the expanse of bare skin. He knew she wasn’t wearing a bra, and he could probably see the white lace at the top of her panties.

A rush of heat coursed through her. She told herself it was anger. She didn’t care where he looked, or what he thought. It was the last he’d see of her that was remotely intimate.

Three

Jackson recognized Mac’s number and put his phone to his ear. “Find something?”

“Norway talked to the girl,” said Mac.

“Did she admit to the affair?”

“She says there’s nothing between them. But she’s lying. And she’s doing it badly. Norway got thirty seconds alone with her phone and grabbed some photos.”

That was encouraging. “Anything incriminating?”

“No nudity, but they do look intimate. Gerhard’s got an arm around her shoulders, and his expression says he slept with her. We’re combing through social media now.”

“Good. Keep me posted.”

“How are things at your end?”

Crista emerged from the bathroom. Her hair was still wet but combed straight. She’d washed her face, and she was dressed in Jackson’s white and maroon U of Chicago soccer jersey. It hung nearly to her knees, which were bare, as were her calves.

“Pants didn’t fit?” he asked.

“Huh?” asked Mac.

“Fell off,” she said.

“Stay safe,” Jackson said to Mac, setting down his phone.

“Who’s that?” asked Crista, moving to the sofa. She took the end opposite to Jackson and tucked the hem of the jersey over her knees.

“Mac.”

“He works for your agency?”

“He does.”

She nodded. She looked curious but stayed silent.

“Are you afraid to ask?” he guessed.

She flicked back her damp hair. “I’m not afraid to ask anything.”

“They found some pictures of Vern and Gracie.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“They’re not specifically incriminating—”

“I know they’re not.”

“But they are suggestive of more than a business relationship.”

“If suggestive is all you’ve got, then let me go.”

“It’s all we’ve got so far.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ve only been chasing this lead for five hours.”

She heaved an exaggerated sigh.

“You hungry?” he asked.

He was, and he doubted brides were inclined to eat heartily before their weddings.

“No,” she said.

“You really need to stop lying.”

“You’re criticizing my behavior?”

“You’re not going to help anything by starving.”

He rose, taking the few steps to the small kitchen and popping open a high cupboard.

“You’re not going to make me like you,” she said from behind him.

“Why would I want to make you like me?”

He wanted to convince her not to marry Vern. No, scratch that. He couldn’t care less if she married Vern. No, scratch that, too. Vern didn’t deserve her. If Jackson was sure of one thing in all this, it was that Vern didn’t deserve a woman like Crista.

“To make me more docile and easy to manipulate.”

Jackson located a stray bag of tortilla chips. “Docile? You? Are you kidding me?”

Her tone turned defensive. “I’m really quite easy to get along with. I mean, under normal circumstances.”

He also found a jar of salsa. It wasn’t much, but it would keep them from starving. If they were lucky, they’d find a few cans of beer in the mini fridge.

He turned back.

She froze, her expression a study in guilt, his phone pressed to her ear.

He swore, dropping the food, taking two swift steps to grab it from her. How could he have made such an idiotic mistake?

“Nine-one-one operator,” came a female voice through the phone. “What is your emergency?”

He hit the end button. “What did you do?”

“Tried to get help.” Her words were bold, but she shrank back against the sofa.

Jackson hit the speed dial for Mac.

“Yeah?” Mac answered immediately.

“I have to move. This phone is compromised. Tuck’s dock, zero eight hundred.”