The Bride Wore A Forty-Four (3 page)

Guns and clothes. That had been the sum total
of the contents of the first trunk.

The second one had most of its space taken up
by a black wetsuit, complete with flippers, goggles, and other
items she couldn't identify, but which she guessed would attach to
an oxygen tank. Tucked beneath those items she found a stun gun and
a framed photograph.

The photo stunned her. It shocked her. And
more than ever, it made her want to remember. Because it showed
her, as she had been before.

Kira moved slowly to the mirror and stood
there, looking from the photo, to her own reflection and back
again. The girl in the glass wore a loose-fitting, white nightgown,
and her skin was pale. The one in the photo was dressed in
skintight black, and her skin was almost bronze from the sun. The
one in the mirror had long, straight hair, a dull brown color. The
one in the photo had short hair that curved around her face to her
chin, and bangs the perfect length to somehow enhance the exotic
tilt of her wide-set eyes. The brown had streaks of gold shot
through it The girl in the photo wore makeup, heavy on the
eyeliner. Dark on the lips. And it looked good.
She
looked
good. She looked confident, sure of herself, powerful, and
strong.

And the man standing beside her, with his arm
around her shoulders and his head tipped to rest against hers,
wasn't the man she was going to marry in the morning.

He was her wedding planner. And the
background that spread out behind them was one that was familiar to
her—it was a small, impoverished village in Africa.

"Darling," her mother called, her voice a
songbird's trill, as she tapped rapidly but softly on her bedroom
door. "Are you up? Best get in the shower, dear, you have a hair
appointment in an hour."

Kira opened the bedroom door and stepped out
into the hall, quickly pulling the door closed behind her. She'd
stuffed most of the evidence of her predawn raid into various
drawers and closets and under the bed. She'd returned the empty
trunks to their spots in the attic. But she didn't know how her
mother was going to react, and she didn't want to upset her.

Abby greeted her with a warm hug. She was
still in her filmy nightgown, but Kira had dressed—temporarily, at
least She wore a pair of slender, dressy pants, with knife-sharp
creases, and a silk button-down top. The pants were brown, the top
mustard yellow.

"Are you excited about your big day?"

Oh, she was excited all right. But not so
much about the wedding. God, the wedding. What the hell was she
supposed to do about that? "I am," she replied.

She returned her mother's hug, then held her
hand as they walked down the stairs together.

"I hope you're not too nervous eat
breakfast."

Kira smiled. "Actually, I'm famished." And
eager, God she was eager to explore and question and try to find
her past. Her identity. For the first time she wasn't afraid of it.
Instead she was itching to delve into it.

If only she could remember.

"I'm so glad," her mother was saying as they
moved down the stairs together. "I had Cook make your favorite.
French toast with real maple syrup."

Kira smiled. "Was it always my favorite?" she
asked.

"Since you were four. Maybe longer, but you
were four when you informed your father and me." She closed her
eyes briefly. "God, I wish he were still here with us, to see you
married."

Kira nodded, wishing she could remember her
father. The man deserved his daughter to mourn him, and yet she
hadn't. Couldn't.

Her mother led her into the cozy breakfast
nook, which was a sunny, glass-enclosed enclave off the dining
room. The table was set, the sun streaming in through the window.
Like magic, their cook, Anita, appeared with a silver coffeepot and
a covered tray. She set the tray down, poured the coffee for them.
It must have been nice, being raised in the lap of luxury, Kira
thought. "Thanks, Anita," Kira said when her cup was full.

Anita nodded, saying nothing, but her eyes
lingered on Kira's for a long moment before she hurried back to the
kitchen.

Kira took a piece of French toast, set it on
her plate. "Mom?"

"Yes?"

"Do you like Peter?"

Her mother blinked and frowned at her. "Well,
of course I like him. Oh, well, I'll admit when you first
introduced him, I had my doubts. But your father assured me you
knew exactly what you were doing." She sighed, pressing a hand to
her heart as she lifted her gaze to the photo of her and her late
husband, Daniel, smiling, arm in arm. There were photos of him in
every room of the house. She must have adored him.

"So Dad approved of him."

"He seemed to."

She nodded slowly, wondering how best to
approach the new thought on her mind, and finally settling for the
inane, "How do we know Marshall?"

Her mother lifted her brows. "He's your
wedding planner, dear. Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine. What I mean is, do we know him
outside his job? Was he ever—a family friend or anything like
that?"

"What a strange question." Her mother
shrugged. "No, dear. We don't know him outside his job." Then she
tipped her head. "Has he done something inappropriate, Kira?"

"Mother, really. Of course not."

Her mother studied her. But then the bustle
of footsteps through the house drew their attention away, and they
both turned to see Peter Nelson himself hurrying into the room. He
wore a big smile—even white teeth in a tanned face— and beach blond
hair.

"Peter!" Abby jumped to her feet and stood
behind Kira's chair. "You're not supposed to see the bride before
the wedding!"

"That's superstition," Peter said with a
smile. "I promise, no disaster will result if I give my bride a
gift before the ceremony."

"It's all right, Mom," Kira said, rising from
her chair. "Hello, Peter." She watched him, searching his face. He
was handsome. Polite. Good to her.

Hell, why was she having such misgivings
about this marriage?

Maybe because you don't love him, have you
thought of
that?

She shrugged off that rationale. She didn't
feel strong emotions for anyone or for anything. It was part of her
condition. She'd loved him once. It would come back, probably when
her memory did.

He clasped her elbows and kissed her cheek.
"Morning, love. How are you feeling?"

"Wonderful. Join us for some French
toast?"

"No time. So much to do. But I wanted to give
you this." He brought a teddy bear from behind his back.

It was pink and wore a bridal gown and veil.
Custom-made for her, obviously. What were soon to be her initials
were embroidered within a red, heart-shaped outline on the front of
the dress, which was made of real satin, unless she was
mistaken.

"It's incredible."

"Look around her neck. Under the dress," he
added.

Frowning, she ran a finger under the dress's
neckline and pulled out a strand of pearls. They were huge. "God,
Peter, these must have cost a fortune."

"Nothing's too good for you. I hope you'll
wear them today."

"I will. Thank you, Peter."

"You're welcome." Again, he leaned in,
kissing her lips this time, lightly and gently. Then he turned and
hurried away.

Kira sank into her chair, placing the
pearl-laden teddy bear in an empty one nearby. "That was sweet of
him," she said.

"It was amazing." Her mother dabbed at the
corner of one eye with her napkin.

Kira sighed and dug into her French toast,
eating quickly, because she was eager to get to her hair
appointment. She finished up, said good-bye to her mother, and
dashed up to her room to get the bag she'd packed. Then she headed
for the salon.

Two hours later, the stylist, Nadine, said,
"You're sure this is what you wanted? To look like you did in this
photo?"

Kira nodded. "Yes, I'm sure, for the tenth
time, I'm sure. Can I see? Did you do it?"

"Oui,
it is done." Nadine spun her
chair around so she faced the mirror. "Voil
a
!"

Kira stared at her reflection. Her eyes
slammed closed against the tidal wave that suddenly hit her brain.
Images, voices surged. There were people running around her, debris
raining down, smoke, blood, screaming, and crying. There was a dead
man beside her, a man she ought to know. And there was another man,
leaning over her, his eyes stricken as he stared down at her.
"Kira? Baby? Are you okay?"

She stared up at him for just an instant. Her
lips moved to form words, but she didn't know what they were. And
then she sank into darkness to the sound of his tormented whisper,
"God, no."

"Oh, she hates it," Nadine moaned. "I was
afraid of this. I can fix, don't worry—"

"No." Kira opened her eyes, but she couldn't
get the image of those other eyes to leave her alone. They were
Marshall's eyes. And they'd been way more intense than she had ever
seen them. She focused again on her reflection in the mirror. And
then she nodded. "I love it, Nadine. I love it. Don't change a
thing."

Kira stood in her bedroom, gazing out the
window to the back lawn, and garden sprawling below. The flashes
had kept coming. All morning. Frustrating bits, scraps of a mosaic,
with more pieces missing than found. She saw bodies entwined. Hers
and Marshall's. She saw their lips mating. She saw laughter and
smiles and dark, intense looks filled with hidden meaning passing
between them. And she felt a heat in her blood that she didn't
remember feeling ever before. Or maybe it was a memory.

Now, on the back lawn, the chairs were set
up. The string quartet was warming up, and people were arriving,
mingling, talking. All of them dressed in black or white or both,
as per her mother's instructions. Peter was there, already dressed
in his tux, talking with men she didn't really know. His best man,
his groomsmen. She'd met them, of course. Maybe she'd known them
before. She hadn't cared enough to ask. She didn't care now.

Marshall was down there. He wore a tux as
well as a headset and moved around the lawn. Her heart sped up as
she watched him. Brisk, efficient, watchful. He had a way of moving
that mesmerized her. It was powerful and yet graceful. Why hadn't
she noticed before? Or had she?

Not like this she hadn't. Hell, she had
shivers dancing up and down her nape and a shaky unsteady hitch in
her breathing. And she didn't need a fully functioning memory to
recognize animal attraction for what it was. She wanted Marshall
Waters.

And she was pretty sure she'd had him. What
would her mother think if she knew that her daughter was a slut?
That she'd been cheating on her own fiancé with a wedding planner?
God, what a giant mess this was. Why the hell had Marshall let her
mother hire him? He wasn't the one without a memory.

There was a tap on her bedroom door. She
turned, frowning. It wasn't her mother, she was down there milling
around in the crowd, playing the perfect hostess. Hell, she wasn't
playing it she was it.

"It's Anita," a woman called.

Kira opened the door, not bothering to hide
the two outfits hanging side by side from a pair of hooks in the
wall. Not from Anita. Anita wouldn't rat her out

"They'll be ready for you soon," Anita said,
then she blinked, looking Kira up and down. "You're not
dressed."

''Haven't quite decided what I'm going to
wear," Kira said. She glanced toward the hooks on the wall.

Anita followed her gaze and sucked in her
breath.

Kira studied the beautiful bridal gown. It
was more
Cinderella
than
Midsummer Night's Dream,
but
that was okay. It didn't matter. And if it did, she'd had her
payback when her mother had seen her hair. Kira thought the woman
was going to pass out

Beside it arranged on another set of hangers,
were a pair of black leather pants, a ribbed black tank top, and a
leather jacket On the next hook there were holsters and guns.

"Did you know about all this, Anita?"

"All what Kira? What's going on?" Anita
narrowed her eyes and studied her.

"I don't know. I decided to go through those
trunks last night. Anita, what was I doing with all these
weapons?"

"Are you starting to get your memory back? Is
that what this is?"

"Maybe. A little. Bits and pieces. But I
don't know what it means." She turned and speared Anita with her
eyes. "Has there been—have I been—involved with anyone? Besides
Peter?"

Anita's shock turned to a look of stark
disapproval. "You're getting cold feet, aren't you? You're thinking
about calling off the wedding."

Lowering her head, she nodded. "Yeah. I
am."

"You can't do that. Good God, you can't.
Just...oh, hell. Wait here."

Anita turned and hurried from the room.

Hell, it didn't matter. She had to do what
was right for her. She reached for the white dress. She would at
least put it on. It would give her more time to decide what was the
right thing to do. And if she decided to go through with this
thing, she'd be ready.

She put the dress on. Even added the little
glittering tiara and the layers of veils. Then she looked into the
mirror. And then she rolled her eyes. "No way. It's just not
happening."

"Marshall, we've got trouble."

Marshall tilted his head to one side when the
voice came through his earphone, moved a few yards away from the
crowd, and spoke into the mouthpiece. "What is it?"

"She's starting to remember. I think she's
going to call off the wedding."

He thought every cell in his body smiled.
God, it felt like it, and he was damned if he could keep the relief
and joy from showing on his face.