On The Way To A Wedding

by Ingrid Weaver

  “Yeah. You mind?”

  “Not at all. I often work at home and use my computer to do research.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll be able to find anything useful, but I hate sitting around doing nothing. It’s not my style.”

  “From what I’ve seen of your style so far, I can believe that.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “Yeah. I’ve always been a hands-on kind of guy.”

  She looked at his lips, intrigued by the way that tiny half smile softened his expression. “Getting your death broadcast has its drawbacks, doesn’t it? Now that your face has been so well publicized, you won’t be able to show it.”

  “That won’t stop me. Once I can get around better, I’ll come up with something.”

  “Mmm. I don’t doubt it. I’ve noticed you have a flair for improvisation.”

  His smile spread to his eyes, crinkling the tiny lines at the corners. “Considering what we’ve gone through in the past two days, you’re no slouch yourself.”

  Lauren shook her head. He was mistaken. She wasn’t comfortable unless she had a script or a TelePrompTer to follow. “It’s only been a day and a half. And I already told you, I merely report the news. I don’t—”

  “You don’t get involved. Yeah, you keep telling me that, but so far you’re in it up to your elegant little chin.”

  “These are exceptional circumstances.” She pushed the plate of fruit across the table toward him. “Here, have some breakfast.”

  He moved his head back, his nostrils flaring. “No, thanks.”

  “If your headache is bad enough to make you nauseous—”

  “It isn’t,” he said, eyeing the plate warily.

  An image of his cluttered kitchen came back to her and her lips twitched. “Ah. It’s not the headache, it’s the menu.”

  “I don’t want to seem ungrateful for everything you’re doing, but...”

  “Sorry, I don’t have any Frosted Flakes or the kind of cereal that comes with prizes in the box.”

  “No jelly doughnuts?”

  “I’m all out. How about a rice cake?”

  “Only if it’s got chocolate icing.”

  “The cantaloupe’s better for you.”

  “Uh...”

  “Yogurt?”

  “Are you on a diet or something?”

  “No. I just prefer light foods.” She pushed her chair back and stood up. “How about some granola?”

  “I’ll get it myself,” he said. He leaned over to grasp his left leg, which he’d propped on the chair beside him. “I don’t expect you to wait on me.”

  “Stay there.” She stopped beside him and put her hand on his shoulder. “The less you use that knee, the faster you’ll recover.”

  He looked up, a touch of humor softening his gaze. “Having to go without jelly doughnuts is a great incentive to recovery, believe me.”

  “As much as it goes against my principles, I’ll pick up a box on my way home from the station.”

  “Keep a list. When this is all over, I’ll reimburse you.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll claim it on my expense account.”

  He lifted his hand, his fingers grazing her cheek. “This is going to show up on camera.”

  “What?”

  “You bruised your cheek when you fell against my leg before the crash. Does it still hurt?”

  “Compared to the rest of my bruises, that’s nothing.”

  “I never saw the rest of your bruises.”

  “They’re not nearly as bad as yours.” She felt the warmth of his shoulder through his shirt and slowly splayed her fingers. “Besides, they already took care of it at the hospital.”

  “You never know.” He lowered his hand slowly, tracing a gentle path along her jaw to her throat. “Maybe you should take off your blouse and let me check you over.”

  It happened too fast, too unexpectedly. She didn’t have a chance to control her reaction to his teasing suggestion. Her throat went dry as heat tingled across her skin. What would it be like, to stand here in the sober light of morning and unbutton her blouse in front of him? How would it feel, to part the silk over her breasts and feel his gaze on her body?

  His head was tipped back, his face close enough for her to see awareness kindle in his eyes. It was the same as the day before, that timeless moment on her bed. He’d been the one to pull away then.

  This time it was up to her. Crossing her arms in front of her, she stepped back. “That’s not funny.”

  He dropped his hand to his side. The smile that had been playing at the corners of his lips disappeared. “Sorry. No offense meant. Must have been the blow to my head.”

  She took another step back, then stopped herself, annoyed with her urge to retreat. She was even more annoyed by her desire to return to his side and have him touch her once more. “I think we’d better get a few things straight, Nick. Despite the circumstances that have thrown us together, our relationship is basically a professional one.”

  “I already know that.”

  “Don’t confuse my concern for your welfare with anything more personal.”

  “There’s not much risk of that, Lauren. You’ve made yourself perfectly clear.” He swung his leg to the floor, grasped the edge of the table and rose to his feet.

  “You have to admit that our situation here could get awkward if we...”

  He towered over her, his gaze hard and intense. “If we what? Were friendly to each other? Shared a laugh or two?”

  “If you’re saying I misunderstood your comment—”

  “No, you didn’t misunderstand me at all. I’m a normal man. And I’m not ashamed to admit I’d like to see what you look like underneath your clothes.”

  The room started to shrink again. She held up her hand. “Maybe we’ve said enough.”

  “Just because I’ve noticed you’re a woman doesn’t mean anything except that my senses are functioning as they’re meant to.”

  “If that’s supposed to be a compliment...”

  “It’s simply the truth. It’s no big deal, no need to panic.”

  “I don’t panic. You know that.”

  “Hell, Lauren, I’ve got a price on my head, a family to protect and a murderer to catch. Do you really think I don’t have enough sense or self-control to remember that?” He took a step back. “I’m not about to screw up my only chance to get out of this by messing around with you.”

  “That’s putting it bluntly.”

  “No one’s ever accused me of being a diplomat.”

  “No, I don’t imagine they would.”

  He raked his fingers through his hair in a quick, frustrated movement, then lurched sideways, catching on to the back of a chair to steady himself.

  Remorse flooded over her as she watched him struggle to stay upright. She automatically took a step toward him, but he had already turned away. With one hand on the wall for balance, he limped toward the bedroom. A minute later, the soft hum and muted beeps from her computer drifted through the doorway.

  Lauren had a sudden urge to go to him and say something, anything, that would ease the tension that had sprung up between them.

  But this was for the best. If they were going to make this arrangement work, they had to get the ground rules straight early on. Despite his weakened condition, he was still the same alpha male she’d first tried to keep her distance from on the plane, still the same fascinating, compelling...

  What a hypocrite she was becoming. It wasn’t his suggestive remark that had sent her scurrying back behind her professional barricades, it was her own reaction to it.

  Chapter 6

  The set for the Channel 10 morning program was usually deserted on Sundays, so it hadn’t been difficult for Gord to wheedle its use as a backdrop. Lauren settled on one of the chairs that had been placed in front of the mural of the Chicago skyline. Activity hummed around her as the crew checked the lighting and sound levels. She had watched these preparations countless times, knew the sequence of events
and felt secure in the familiar environment. It felt good to be here—work was just what she needed.

  “Are you ready?” Gord asked. In keeping with his rise in status, he wore a suit instead of his usual ripped jeans and sneakers. He straightened the knot of his tie as he took the chair across from her.

  She glanced at the cameras that were moving into place. “Of course.”

  “Hey, I really appreciate your coming down here like this. I know this must be tough.”

  “Work is the best thing for me, Gord.”

  “I’m sorry about your friend.”

  “Mmm?”

  “The cop, Lieutenant Strada.”

  “We barely knew each other,” she said, dipping her head to adjust the microphone that was clipped to her lapel.

  “You seemed pretty upset when you saw the tape.”

  “Naturally. It was a tragic story.”

  He leaned closer, his gaze keen. “You look like hell, Lauren. Haven’t you slept since Friday?”

  “Not much. And I look like this because someone told Chuck to go easy on the makeup so I didn’t look too healthy. Know anything about that, Gord?”

  He pushed at the knot of his tie again. “I thought it would add credibility to the interview, get the viewers to sympathize with you instead of seeing you as Lauren Abbot, newswoman.” He said the last words in a deep, resonant voice, then grinned.

  “Why don’t we go over the questions while we’re waiting,” she said, gesturing toward the papers on his lap.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be asking a lot of the same stuff I did after the crash, except I’ll be using a different slant. You know, concentrating on how you sat beside Strada and all that.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m not going to do much with the way you pulled our boy out of the lake after the impact, though. Too many dramatic rescue stories would divert attention from the hero.”

  “Oh, I understand that, too, Gord,” she said, recognizing the calculating light in his eyes. Not only did he want to scoop her on the story, he wanted to make sure she didn’t become too big a part of it.

  If he’d tried that at any other time, she wouldn’t let him get away with it. But staying in the background was to her advantage. The smaller the part she played in this now, the easier it was going to be when she revealed the truth.

  She fought down a stab of conscience over what she was doing. Professional ethics weren’t as important as the safety of Nick’s family.

  “I’m putting together a half-hour special,” Gord said. “I’ll be building it around the tape I shot from the chopper. They’re giving me a time slot the evening of the memorial service. It’s going to be great.”

  “The service?”

  “The time slot. Clips of the memorial service are bound to make the network news shows.” He leaned forward, his face shining with enthusiasm. “They’ll probably pick up some of my special, too.”

  “How nice.”

  “And it’s all because of our boy. He really was a hero, Lauren. All the cops who worked with him couldn’t praise him enough. Tough, stubborn, completely devoted to the force. He had a reputation for being a loose cannon at times, but he got results.”

  “So he was good at his job?”

  “He was thirty-one and on his way to becoming a legend.”

  “He sounds too good to be true, Gord. Are you sure you don’t want to take a little more time with your research?”

  “Oh, there’s no lack of material about his exploits on the force. His personal life’s still a bit sketchy. I haven’t been able to contact the wife—”

  “Wife? I thought you said he wasn’t married.”

  “Ex-wife, I mean. Been divorced for almost four years. The last anyone heard, she was remarried and living on the West Coast. From all accounts, he was too busy with his job to have any serious girlfriends. Too bad.”

  “Some people don’t mind living alone, Gord.”

  “No, I mean it’s too bad there’s no grieving lover to interview. With the way he looked, I would have thought he’d have a whole string of women after him.”

  She wouldn’t let herself think about his sex life. She wouldn’t.

  “I’m still trying to arrange a meeting with his family,” he continued. “Never ran into such a stubborn bunch of women.”

  “Take it easy with them,” she said. “They’ll be going through a difficult enough time as it is, with his death being so public. You shouldn’t intrude on their misery.”

  Gord shot her an incredulous look. “Hey, that’s the nature of our job, remember? Chances like this don’t last for long. It’ll be over before I know it.”

  Yes, it would be over before he knew it, she thought, dodging yet another stab of conscience. For the most part, Gord was bringing this on himself by being so eager to cash in on someone’s death. Still, Nick had better be right about the need for this hoax.

  There was a flurry of movement on the edge of Lauren’s vision. She turned her head in time to see Victoria Sandowsky, the station manager, walk into the studio. Victoria had met her when she’d first arrived, expressing her concern that Lauren might be returning to work too soon and suggesting she take a few days off.

  Of course, Lauren had declined the offer. Even if she wasn’t mixed up with Nick, she would be keeping herself busy with her job. She watched Victoria confer quietly with the news director before they were joined by a stocky, white-haired man.

  It took a few seconds for his identity to register. When it did, a tight knot settled in her stomach. Her fingers curled around the arms of her chair. “Gord, what is Adam Duxbury doing here?”

  He swiveled to look around. “He came? Terrific.”

  “Why is he here?”

  “He’s on the committee that’s organizing the memorial service, so he’s helping us coordinate the news coverage.”

  “Isn’t that a little... odd? He’s only a businessman.”

  Gord slid to the edge of his chair and leaned over to speak quietly into Lauren’s ear. “If you ask me, he’s using this for free publicity. There are rumors he wants to run for mayor.”

  “I heard it was Congress,” she replied, the knot in her stomach tightening as she watched Duxbury’s progress across the studio.

  He was wearing a baby blue golf shirt underneath his navy blazer, the top button open at the base of his thick neck. He had the build of a bulldog and the face of a beardless Santa Claus. His smiles were appropriately solemn as he greeted the people who recognized him, yet his eyes were always busy assessing, weighing, observing, as if he were hiding something....

  She folded her hands in her lap, forcing herself back into the role of objective observer. She was letting what Nick had told her influence her view of Duxbury. Although she hadn’t particularly liked him when she’d met him two months ago, there was nothing overtly offensive about him. There was no crime in being a shrewd businessman, and no one could fault him for his willingness to do his civic duty.

  The overhead lights came on with a hollow click, and the cameras started to roll. Gord conducted the interview according to a carefully charted agenda. As he’d said he would, he concentrated mostly on her brief contact with the doomed hero. Lauren held tightly to her composure as he asked his questions, all the time acutely conscious of Duxbury hovering in the shadows, listening to every word.

  By the time it was over, she hadn’t revealed anything that wasn’t already common knowledge. Gord took off his microphone and thanked her heartily before he strode over to greet Duxbury. They spoke for a few minutes, then left the studio together.

  It wasn’t until an hour later that Lauren saw them again. She was on her way to her office and was passing by one of the editing bays when something made her glance inside.

  There wasn’t much visible on the small screen that was flickering in front of the desk, yet the scene was as readily identifiable as the two men who were watching it. For some reason, Gord was showing Duxbury the unedited tape that h
ad been shot at the crash site.

  There were a number of legitimate reasons for an ambitious businessman to get involved in planning the memorial service for the victims of the plane crash. But was it only coincidence that by making contact with the newsman who had recorded Nick’s death, Adam Duxbury would be in an excellent position to verify it?

  Nick scribbled a note on the back of another computer printout and dropped the page on top of the others that littered the floor around the coffee table. He’d been at this for three days now, and he was growing more impatient with every word he read.

  There hadn’t been any lack of material to start with, thanks to Lauren. She had brought home the files on Duxbury that she’d had in her office and had dug up a little more each day. Coupled with the notes he’d brought from his apartment and what he’d been able to obtain with some discreet hacking, they now had a dossier that any intelligence agency would be proud of.

  Duxbury wasn’t the man he tried so hard to appear to be. While there was no disputing his shrewdness when it came to finances, there were deals buried deep under the cover of subsidiary companies and corporate restructuring that skirted the edge of illegal. Bernie, the nervous messenger in New York, had held a job in a restaurant Duxbury once owned, an unprofitable restaurant that happened to burn down. There were whispers of other shady associations and back-alley connections, too, so Duxbury wouldn’t have had much trouble arranging that contract on Nick and his family.

  Yet for the past several years Duxbury’s dealings had been above reproach, ever since his marriage to the only daughter of Theodore Van Ness.

  It was because of his wife’s family name—and old family money—that Duxbury first gained entry to the city’s elite. He’d joined all the right clubs, given to all the right charities and had hired an image consultant in his campaign to reinvent himself.

  Despite the mounting number of facts, there was still nothing that proved he was a killer, no scrap of information that could tie him to the place and time when Joey had been run down. So after three days of sitting around here and accumulating information, Nick still had nothing he could use.

  He scowled, stretching his arms along the back of the couch as he turned his head to look at Lauren. She was sitting at the dining table on the other side of the room, an open notebook in front of her.