His Stolen Bride (Chicago Sons) (4 page)

His phone rang. He kept eye contact with her as he reached for it.

It was Mac, his right-hand man.

“Hey,” Jackson answered.

“Everything okay so far?” asked Mac.

“Yeah.” Jackson turned away from Crista and moved along the deck toward the bridge. “You come up with anything?”

“Rumors, yes. But nothing that gives us proof. Norway’s looking into Gracie.”

“Pictures would be good.”

“Videotape better.”

“I’d take videotape,” said Jackson. “Is somebody on the family?”

“I am.”

“And?”

“They’ve contacted the police, but they’re being waved off until morning. I guess runaway brides aren’t that unusual.”

“If Vern Gerhard is a typical example of our gender, I don’t blame them.”

Mac coughed out a laugh.

“I guess we’ve got till morning,” said Jackson.

It was less time than he would have liked. But that’s what happened when you threw a plan together at the last minute.

“And then?” asked Mac. “Have you thought through what happens in the morning?”

He had, and most of the options were not good. “We better have something concrete by then.”

“Otherwise she’s a liability,” said Mac.

Jackson had to agree. “At that point, she’s going to be a huge liability.”

Crista was predictably angry at having her posh wedding ruined. If they didn’t find something to incriminate Vern, Jackson’s career if not his freedom would be at stake.

He heard a sudden splash behind him.

He spun to find the deck empty, Crista gone. His gaze moved frantically from corner to corner as he rushed to the stern and spotted her in the water. “You gotta be kidding me!”

“What?” asked Mac.

“Call you back.” Jackson dropped his phone.

She was flailing in the choppy waves, obviously hampered by the voluminous white dress. She gasped and went under.

He immediately tossed two life jackets overboard, as close to her as he could.

“Grab one!” he shouted. Then he stripped off his jacket, kicked off his shoes and dived in.

The water closed icy cold around him. He surfaced and gasped in a big breath. She was twenty feet away, and he kicked hard. He dug in with his arms, propelling himself toward her.

When he looked up again, she was gone. He twisted his head, peering in all directions, spotting a wisp of white below the surface. He dived under, groping in the dark until he caught hold of her arm. He clamped his hand tight and hauled her upward, breaking the surface and wrapping his arm firmly around her chest.

She coughed and sputtered.

“Relax,” he told her. “Just relax and let me do the work.”

She coughed again.

He grabbed one of the life jackets and tucked it beneath her. The boat was close, but the water was frigid. He wasn’t going to be able to swim for long. Her teeth were already chattering.

He found another life jacket and looped it around the arm that supported her. He used his legs and free arm to move them through the water.

“You okay?” he asked her. “You breathing?”

She nodded against his chest.

“Don’t fight me,” he cautioned.

“I won’t,” she rasped.

The side of the boat loomed closer. He aimed for the stern where there was a small swimming platform. It was a relief to grasp on to something solid. His muscles throbbed from the effects of the cold water, and his limbs were starting to shake.

He unceremoniously cupped her rear end and shoved her onto the platform. She scrambled up, her dress catching and tearing. He kept her braced until she was stable. Then he looped both forearms over the platform and hoisted himself up, sitting on the edge, dragging in deep breaths.

“What the heck?” he demanded.

She was breathing hard. “I thought I could make it.”

“To the beach?”

“It’s not that far.”

“It’s a quarter mile. And you’re dressed in an anchor.”

“The fabric is light.”

“Maybe when it’s bone-dry.” He reached up and pulled himself to his feet. His legs trembled, and his knees felt weak, but he put an arm around her waist and lifted her up beside him.

With near-numb fingers, he released the catch on the deck gate and swung it open.

“Careful,” he cautioned as he propelled her back onto the deck.

She held on and stepped shakily forward. “It tangled around my legs.”

“You could have killed us both.” He followed her.

“It’d serve you right.”

“To be
dead
? You’d be dead, too.”

“I’m going to be dead anyway.”

“What?” He was baffled now.

She was shivering. “I heard you on the phone. You said tomorrow morning I’d be a liability. We both know what that means.”

“One of us obviously doesn’t.”

“Don’t bother to deny it.”

“Nobody’s killing anyone.” He gazed out at the dark water. “Despite your best attempt.”

“You can’t let me live. I’ll turn you in. You’ll go to jail.”

“You might not turn me in.”

“Would you actually believe me if I said I wouldn’t?”

“At the moment, no.”

Right now, she was having a perfectly normal reaction to the circumstances. Proof of the truth might mitigate her anger eventually, but they didn’t have that yet.

“Then that was a really stupid statement,” she said.

“What I am going to prove is that I mean you no harm.”

It was the best he could come up with for the moment. The breeze was chilling, and he ushered her past the bridge, opening the door to the cabin.

“How are you going to do that?”

“For starters by not harming you. Let’s find you something dry.”

She glared at him. “I’m not taking off my dress.”

He pointed inside. “You can change in the head—the bathroom. I’ve got some T-shirts on board and maybe some sweatpants, though they’d probably drop right off you.”

“This is your boat?”

“Of course it’s my boat. Whose boat did you think it was?”

She passed through the door and stopped between the sofa and the kitchenette. “I thought maybe you stole it.”

“I’m not a thief.”

“You’re a kidnapper.”

He realized she’d made a fair point. “Yeah, well, that’s the sum total of my criminal activity to date.” He started working on his soggy tie. “If you let me get past you, I’ll see what I can find.”

She shrank out of his way against the counter.

He turned sideways to pass her, and their thighs brushed together. She arched her back to keep her breasts from touching his chest. It made things worse, because her wet cleavage swelled above the snug, stiff fabric.

Reaction slammed through his body, and he faltered, unable to stop himself from staring. She was soaked to the skin, her auburn hair plastered to her head, her makeup smeared. And yet she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

“Jackson,” she said, her voice coming out a whisper.

He lifted his gaze to meet hers. It was all he could do to keep his hands by his sides. He wanted to smooth her hair, brush the droplets from her cheeks and run his thumb across her lips.

“Thank you,” she said.

The words took him by surprise. “You’re welcome,” he automatically answered.

For a minute, it seemed that neither of them could break eye contact. Longing roiled inside him. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to do so much more. And he wanted it very, very badly.

Finally, she looked away. “You better, uh…”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’d better.” He moved, but the touch of her thighs made him feel like he’d been branded.

* * *

Crista reached and twisted. She stretched her arms in every direction, but no matter how she contorted, she couldn’t push the tiny buttons through the loops on the back of her dress.

“Come on,” she muttered. Then she whacked her elbow against a small cabinet. “Ouch!”

“You okay?” came Jackson’s deep voice.

He was obviously only inches from the other side of the small door, and the sound made her jerk back. Her hip caught the corner of the vanity, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

“Fine,” she called back.

“I’m getting changed out here.”

“Thanks for the warning.” An unwelcome picture bloomed in her mind of Jackson peeling off his dress shirt, revealing what had to be washboard abs and muscular shoulders. She’d clung to him in the ocean and again climbing onto the boat. She’d felt what was under his dress shirt, and her brain easily filled in the picture.

She shook away the vision and redoubled her efforts with the buttons. But it wasn’t going to happen. She couldn’t get out of the dress alone. She had two choices—stay in the soaking-wet garment or ask him for help. Both were equally disagreeable.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the small mirror. The wedding gown was stained and torn. She crouched a little, cringing at the mess of her hair. It was stringy and lopsided. If she didn’t undo the braids and rinse out the mess from the lake water she’d probably have to shave it off in the morning.

“Are you decent?” she called through the door.

“Sure,” he answered.

She opened the small door, stepped over the sill, and Jackson filled her vision. The cabin was softly lit around him. His hair was damp, and his chest was bare. A pair of worn gray sweatpants hung on his hips. As she’d expected, his abs were washboard hard.

“What happened?” he asked, taking in her dress.

“I can’t reach the buttons.”

He gave an eye roll and pulled a faded green T-shirt over his head. “I’ll give you a hand.”

She turned her back and steeled herself for his touch. The only reason she was letting him near her was that it was foolish to stay cold and uncomfortable in a ruined dress. She told herself that if he was going to kill her, he would have just let her go under. Instead, he’d saved her life.

His footfalls were muffled against the teak floor as he came up behind her. The sound stopped, and he drew in an audible breath. Then his fingertips grazed her skin above the top button, sending streaks of sensation up her spine. Her muscles contracted in reaction.

What
was the matter with her? She wasn’t attracted to him. She was appalled by him. She wanted to get away from him, to never see him again.

But as his deft fingers released each button, there was no denying her growing arousal. It had to be some pathetic version of Stockholm syndrome. If she’d paid more attention in her psychology elective, she might know how to combat it.

The dress came loose, and she clasped her forearms against her chest to keep it in place.

“That should do it,” he said.

There was a husky timbre to his voice—a sexy rasp that played havoc with her emotions.

“Thanks,” she said before she could stop herself. “I mean…” She turned to take the sentiment back, and her gaze caught with his. “That is…”

They stared at each other.

“I don’t usually do this,” he said.

She didn’t know what he meant. He didn’t usually kidnap women, or he didn’t unbutton their wedding gowns?

She knew she should ask. No, she shouldn’t ask. She should move now, lock herself in the bathroom until her emotions came under control.

But he slowly lifted his hand. His fingertips grazed her shoulder. Then his palm cradled her neck, slipping up to her hairline. The touch was smooth and warm, his obvious strength couched by tenderness.

She couldn’t bring herself to pull away. In fact, it was a fight to keep from leaning into his caress.

He dipped his head.

She knew what came next. Anybody would know what came next.

His lips touched hers, kissing her gently, testing her texture and then her taste. Arousal instantly flooded her body. He stepped forward, his free arm going around her waist, settling at the small of her back, strong and hot against her exposed skin.

He pressed harder, kissed her deeper. She met his tongue, opening, drowning in the sweet sensations that enveloped her.

Good thing she didn’t marry Vern today.

The thought brought her up short.

She let out a small cry and jerked away.

What was the matter with her?

“What are you doing?” she demanded, tearing from his hold.

Her dress slipped, and she struggled to catch the bodice. She was a second too late, and she flashed him her bare breasts.

His eyes glowed, and his nostrils flared.

“Back off,” she ordered, quickly covering up.

“You kissed me too,” he pointed out.

“You took me by surprise.”

“We both know that’s a lie.”

“We do not,” she snapped, taking a step away.

“Whatever you say.”

“I’m
engaged
.”

“So I’ve heard,” he drawled. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

She couldn’t seem to frame an answer.

If not for Jackson, she’d already be married to Vern. They’d be at the reception, cutting the enormous cake and dancing to Strauss’s
Snowdrops
, Delores’s favorite waltz. Crista’s knees suddenly felt weak, and she sat down on the padded bench beside her.

“The thought of being married makes you feel faint?” Jackson asked.

“I’m worried about my mother-in-law. I can’t even imagine how she reacted. All those guests. All that planning. What did they do when I didn’t show up? Did they all just go home?”

“You’re not worried about Vern?”

“Yes, I’m worried about Vern. Quit putting words in my mouth.”

“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.