BRIDAL JEOPARDY (12 page)

“You need anything else?” his contact asked.

“Can you find out if Branson has used his credit card recently? Maybe I can get a line on where he went.”

“Okay. Do you want him arrested?”

“For what?”

“He’s down here using an assumed name. We could have him brought in for questioning.”

“Yeah. That might be good. If you can find him.”

“There could be an accident while he’s in custody.”

“Even better.”

* * *

S
TEPHANIE
KNEW
she was dreaming, but there was nothing she could do about it and no way she could stop the course of events her mind had conjured up.

The dream started at her father’s house. She and Craig climbed out the window and down to the ground. Then she rounded the corner and ran into the two thugs with the guns. Only this time was different. This time she was alone.

They hustled her to the van, and she kept crying out in her mind, crying out for Craig, but he simply wasn’t there. She was totally alone. The way she had been all her life. Only now she knew what it was like to be bonded with her soul mate. But he wasn’t there. He had vanished. And she couldn’t go on alone. Not after what she’d found with him.

The two thugs were there, but they weren’t her only captors. John Reynard stood over them, telling them to tape her hands and feet. He was telling them to take her away, to a place where Craig could never find her.

His eyes met hers, and she felt ice forming in her chest and throat.

“You betrayed me with that man.”

“No,” she lied.

“You belong to me,” he said. “I’ll take you back, but only if you promise never to see that other guy again.”

Her mouth worked, but no words came out. How could she make that promise? How could she say she would never see Craig again? That would be as good as death.

Chapter Twelve

In the dream, the two thugs were holding her down in the back of the van, and she struggled against them, knowing that if they drove away with her, she was dead. Desperate to escape, she kicked out with her foot, making one of them gasp.

Good.

Someone was calling her name, and it didn’t sound like either of the men who had taken her captive, or like John.

“Stephanie. For Lord’s sake, Stephanie.”

She heard the words in her ears—and in her mind. And they finally penetrated through the dream.

It was Craig. He was here, calling her, holding her.

Her eyes blinked open, and she stared up at him, catching his relief.

Stephanie.

Craig,
she answered
. I was so scared. I was dreaming those men had me, and John was there.

I know. I caught the edge of the dream as you started to wake up.

I thought I’d lost you.

You’ll never lose me.

She sighed deeply as she held on to him, overwhelmed with gratitude that he was here—with her. Yet she knew he couldn’t make the promise to be with her always. He could be yanked away from her, the way his brother had been yanked away from him.

No. I promise.

Despite his reassurance, her thoughts were racing.
Something awful is going to happen. We have to get away before it does. Can’t we leave Louisiana? Go somewhere nobody knows us?

She caught his reluctance to consider the desperate suggestion.
I understand why you want to run, but we won’t really be safe until we find out who’s after us.

How do we do it?

The answer must be in Houma.

She shuddered.
I don’t want to go there.

I know.
He gathered her closer, running his hands up and down her back, combing his fingers through her hair, stroking his lips against her cheek.

She relaxed into his embrace, so grateful to have him.

The feeling’s mutual,
he murmured in her mind.

He rocked her in his arms, and when he began to make love to her, she brought her face up for a long, heated kiss.

* * *

J
OHN
R
EYNARD
RANG
the elder Swift’s doorbell and waited, impatiently tapping his foot on the floorboards of the wide front porch.

It was early in the morning, earlier than he liked to be making a business call, but he had spent a restless night worrying about Stephanie. She’d disappeared, and he had to find her.

He’d gotten a call back on the Craig Branson credit card. It hadn’t been used, which meant that the guy was being careful about revealing where he was.

The last John knew, Stephanie was with him, and he meant to find her. And get her away from the guy.

Was she a prisoner? Or had she willingly gone with the bastard? And what had Branson told her to get her to go along with whatever the bastard had in mind? Had he told her about the body of Arthur Polaski?

But why would he? Unless he was trying to turn her against her fiancé.

One thing John knew was that she’d left her car at home. Of course, there was no absolute proof that she was with Branson, but it was John’s best guess.

In the middle of the night, he’d sent a message to a P.I. who worked in the D.C. area and started the guy checking into Branson’s background, looking for something that would explain why the man had shown up to investigate a twenty-two-year-old murder. And why he was dragging Stephanie around.

When no one answered the door, he rang again.

“I’m coming,” a voice called from inside.

The crackly old voice sounded like Henri Swift.

Half a minute later, a shadow appeared behind the lace curtain that covered the glass panel in the middle of the door. Finally the barrier was pulled open, and John and one of his men stepped inside.

Swift blinked at him. He was wearing an old burgundy satin dressing gown. His hair was mussed, and his cheeks were covered with gray stubble. Obviously his visitor had gotten him out of bed. “What are you doing here at this time in the morning?”

“Looking for my fiancée.”

“She isn’t here.”

“Maybe not now. But was she?”

When Swift hesitated, John wanted to smack him upside the head. “Answer yes or no.”

“I think she was here.”

The answer elicited a curse. “Are you saying you don’t know for sure? Are you saying she came in and didn’t speak to you?”

“I was out.”

“Doing what?”

Swift’s face tightened. “Getting supplies.”

“Liquor?”

“I was running low.”

John made a disparaging sound.

“I came home, and I thought she was in the house. But when I looked for her, she’d snuck out. If she was here at all.”

“What makes you think she was here?”

Swift shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t appreciate your barging in on me like this.”

“Oh, you don’t? Well, you don’t have much choice.”

“We have an agreement.”

“That’s right, and I don’t know where the hell to find your daughter. If she was here, I want to know why and where she went.”

“All right. I heard someone upstairs, but nobody was there. When I investigated, I saw that the bedspread in her mother’s room was mussed.”

John felt a wave of anger sweep over him. She hadn’t made love with him, but had she come here to do the deed with Branson? “You mean she was on the bed with someone?”

“I don’t think so. I think she took a bunch of boxes out of the closet and put them on the bed.”

“You’re quite the detective.”

“It’s my best guess.”

“Show me the bedroom.” He turned to the bodyguard he’d brought along. “Wait here.”

“Yes sir.”

John was already barreling up the stairs, then had to wait for the old man to come huffing after him.

He led the way down the hall to a bedroom that looked as if it hadn’t been touched in years.

“What boxes? Why?”

Swift opened the closet and pointed to the top shelf. “That’s stuff my wife kept around. Stuff I couldn’t throw out.”

“And why do you think Stephanie was into it?”

“The boxes aren’t piled up exactly the way they were.”

“I mean, what was she looking for?”

“I don’t know.”

John marched to the closet and pulled the boxes down. He could see folders and piles of old papers. Photographs and schoolwork from when Stephanie had been little. He wasn’t interested in the sentimental crap, but he looked at the pictures anyway, trying to find something that would give him a clue.

There were photos of the family when Stephanie was little. He hoped he wasn’t going to find that guy Branson’s smiling face.

That thought gave him pause. She didn’t know him from her past, did she?

He looked up, seeing Swift watching him.

“Get me some coffee. No cream. No sugar.”

He could see the man wanted to say he wasn’t John Reynard’s servant, but he kept his mouth shut and shuffled out of the room. John could hear him rattling around downstairs, then a few minutes later Swift brought a mug of coffee. At least it was a strong New Orleans brew laced with chicory. John sipped while he looked through folders, wondering if anything would strike him. And wondering why he was bothering. Maybe because if he couldn’t have Stephanie with him, he could at least paw through her past.

The notion made him snort. John Reynard didn’t settle for less than he was due. But in this case, he’d have to settle until he could change the equation.

He came across some forms and instructions from a place called the Solomon Clinic in Houma. Apparently it was a fertility clinic. And it looked as if Stephanie’s mother had gone there for treatments before she was born. That was interesting. Did it mean that Stephanie would have trouble conceiving children? He hadn’t considered that when he’d decided he had to marry her because it certainly hadn’t been his main reason for wanting to keep her close. Kids would be good, though, because it was a way to keep hold of her. If she was worried about losing custody of her children, she wouldn’t be quick to leave her husband. But that was all in the future. It didn’t give him a clue to where she was now. He put the folder back into the box and kept looking for information he could use.

“Do you have a second home?” he asked Swift.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

He gave the location.

That might be a possibility.

When his cell phone rang, he looked at the number with annoyance, displeased to be interrupted in the middle of his search.

Then he recognized the area code and knew it was the guy in D.C. he’d hired to dig up stuff on Craig Branson. Maybe he’d found something that would be more useful than these piles of old papers and pictures.

He got up, walked into the hall and answered the phone.

“Mr. Reynard?” the detective said.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been digging into Branson’s past.”

“Have you found any dirt?”

“Not anything illegal that he’s done, but he was involved in an incident a number of years ago.”

John felt his heart leap. Was this something he could use?

“What?” he demanded.

“He and his family were eating dinner in a restaurant when a mob boss named Jackie Montana was gunned down.”

John felt the hairs on his arms prickle.

The man continued, “The guy and two of his bodyguards went down. It turns out Branson’s twin brother, Sam, was collateral damage.”

An exclamation of disbelief sprang to John’s lips. “You mean at a place called Venario’s?” he managed to ask.

“You know about it?”

“It made the news,” John answered. He’d ordered that mob hit because Jackie Montana had been trying to muscle in on John’s New Orleans operation. John had known that there were some civilians hit, but he’d never paid attention to the names of the victims. That hadn’t been his concern.

“You’re sure about that?” he asked now.

“Yes.”

John’s head was buzzing, but something the man was saying penetrated the swirling thoughts in his brain.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“Which part?”

“About the clinic.”

“Okay. Yeah. After Sam died, the mother tried to get in touch with a place called the Solomon Clinic. Down your way, in Houma.”

“Okay. Thanks. You have the address.”

“I have the old address, but the place burned down.”

They talked for a few more minutes before John hung up.

“Thanks for your help,” he said to Swift.

“I didn’t do much.”

“You noticed.”

When he started out of the room, the older man called out, “Hey, what about all that stuff on the bed?”

“I’m sure you can put it away.”

He knew Swift was angry, which pleased him.

Outside he turned to his man. “You and Marv are going down to Houma.”

“For what?”

“Stephanie and that bozo she’s with might show up there.”

“Like where, exactly?”

“There was a clinic down there they might want to check out. I’ll get you the address.”

* * *

“W
E
CAN
LEAVE
our things here and drive over to Houma,” Craig said.

“And do what, exactly?”

“We could start with the archives at the local papers, or we could try something else.”

When she asked for details, he said, “I’ll tell you about it on the way over.”

They walked to the main house, where Mrs. Marcos was in the dining room.

“I hope you slept well,” she said brightly.

“Yes, of course,” Stephanie answered. “The cottage is charming.”

“You can sit anywhere you like. Breakfast is served buffet-style.”

They took a table by the window, then helped themselves to the buffet on the sideboard, indulging in the coffee cake and muffins that Mrs. Marcos had set out—along with her spinach quiche and strong Louisiana coffee.

“I didn’t see you at breakfast yesterday. Are you enjoying your stay?” the B and B owner asked as they were finishing their breakfast.

“It’s perfect,” Stephanie answered.

“And we enjoyed your accommodations so much that we’re hoping to keep our room for another night,” Craig added.

“That would be fine. Where are you off to today?”

“We thought we’d drive over to Houma.”

“It’s a lovely little town.”

“Didn’t I read about some kind of explosion there?” Craig asked.

Mrs. Marcos’s expression clouded. “Yes. At an underground research lab,” she said, then pressed her lips together, indicating that she didn’t want to continue the subject.

What do you mean by “underground”?
Craig asked.

“Nobody in town knew Dr. Solomon was still doing research.” The woman stopped, looking confused. “Well, I guess some people did know. Like his nurse, Mrs. Goodell. She worked for him at the old clinic....” Her voice trailed off. “I don’t know why I’m prattling on like this. I have things to do in the kitchen.”

“You’re just being friendly,” Stephanie said in a pleasant voice when her heart was pounding. She added her psychic power as she let Craig direct the message he sent the B and B owner.

If you know anything more about the Solomon Clinic or Dr. Solomon, tell it to us now.
He repeated the suggestion, waiting tensely for what she would decide.

The outcome wasn’t a sure thing. Stephanie could see the woman going through a debate in her mind, and she felt Craig pushing the idea.

“So who was this Dr. Solomon?” Stephanie asked.

“Thirty years ago, he had a fertility clinic,” she said as though she didn’t really want to speak the words. “My friend Darla Dubour went to him, and she was so appreciative when she got pregnant. She had a little boy. David.”

“It’s always nice when medical treatment works out,” Stephanie said brightly. She caught a stray thought from Craig and asked, “Where is her son now?”

The woman’s eyes clouded. “He died.”

Stephanie sucked in a startled breath. “What happened to him?”