On The Way To A Wedding

by Ingrid Weaver

  Right. Great story. Gord would have a field day. Incompetent journalist travels to her last interview in the trunk of a silver Jag.

  Duxbury said he only wanted to talk. He’d sounded ee rily reasonable, his voice as smooth, his manners as polished, as always. He’d even apologized for the gun he’d been holding. But when she’d tried to break away, she’d felt the strength of madness in his hands.

  She was going to miss the wedding rehearsal. And unless she figured some way out of this, it was a pretty good bet that she was going to miss the wedding. That’s what she’d hoped for two weeks ago. A plane crash hadn’t been enough to stop it. Neither had Angela’s last minute doubts. Maybe being abducted at gun point would do the trick—

  Swallowing against a bubble of hysteria, she twisted her wrists, hoping to weaken the tape that bound them. Before she could make any progress, the car stopped suddenly, rocking her hard against the spare tire. Seconds later, the trunk popped open. Lauren blinked at the dim, gray light of a parking garage. She drew in a lungful of cool, cement-dank air and screamed for help.

  In the next instant, Duxbury was leaning over the trunk and the hard, cold muzzle of the gun was pressed to Lauren’s temple. “Really, Miss Abbot,” he said softly. “I was hoping to avoid this.” He ripped off a length of the same duct tape he’d used on her wrists and pressed it over her mouth.

  Lauren shuddered in revulsion at his touch as he pulled her out of the trunk and brushed the dust from her skirt and sweater. Still holding the gun, he used his free hand to pull the pins from her hair. She jerked away, her shoes slipping on a patch of oil.

  He shook his head as he hauled her back toward him. “I’m not going to hurt you. We just need to loosen your hair. From the back, one blonde looks the same as another,” he said, guiding her across the garage to a short, iron-railed staircase. He unlocked the door at the top and led her down a narrow corridor, through another door and into what appeared to be the basement of a building. Keeping a painfully tight grip on her arm, he nudged her toward an elevator.

  The moment the doors slid open, she recognized where they were. This was Wanda’s building. But Wanda wouldn’t be here. She had been too nervous to return home, and according to Ramona Brill, she was staying elsewhere until the trial. Was Duxbury really mad enough to think anyone could mistake Lauren for his girlfriend?

  Evidently he was. With the gun nestled tightly beneath her breast, he held her face against his shoulder in an obscene parody of a loving embrace as the elevator sped upward.

  The moment they reached Wanda’s condominium, Duxbury led Lauren to the couch in the living room and pushed her to sit. “It won’t do you any good to call for help here,” he said. “The neighbors are accustomed to noise and know how to mind their own business.”

  Lauren tried not to imagine the noises the neighbors might have heard—and ignored. Anger wasn’t going to help her now. She nodded sharply to show she understood.

  “Fine. I’ll let you remove the gag.”

  With movements made clumsy by her bound wrists, she lifted her hands and worked the edge of her thumb under the tape that covered her mouth, then cautiously eased it off.

  Duxbury walked around the room, switching on all the lamps before he stopped in front of a tripod that held a small video camera. “I do apologize for the necessity of bringing you here like this,” he said. “But it’s only fair that you have the chance to correct the mistakes you’ve broadcast about me.”

  She looked at the camera. It had been positioned to one side so that it would cover anyone sitting on the living room furniture. Oh, God. This was crazy. “You can’t really expect me to... interview you.”

  “Of course. The setup is regrettably primitive, but it should produce some adequate footage.”

  She watched the gun barrel waver and assessed her chances of reaching the door before he could pull the trigger. They weren’t good. Could she take the risk that he wouldn’t shoot?

  He switched on the camera and walked over to sit in the chair across from her. Crossing his legs, he rested the gun on his thigh and gave her a smile that raised the hairs on her arms.

  No, she couldn’t take the risk. If he was irrational enough to think he could restore his reputation through an amateur video of a gun-point conversation, then it would probably be safest to humor him for now. She’d simply have to tamp down the panic, wait for a better opportunity to escape and hope that somehow Nick would find her....

  She steadied herself against a wave of despair. Nick. It wasn’t reasonable or logical to expect him to help her. No, this sharp yearning she felt for him was beyond reason and deeper than logic. It was a longing that came straight from the heart.

  The panic was growing, clawing at Nick’s insides like a hungry animal. It had been more than an hour since Lauren’s white compact had been found. There was no longer any doubt that she’d been abducted. An intern who had gone out to the hospital parking lot for a cigarette had witnessed the entire event. The patrol cars had already arrived at the scene by the time Nick had gotten there, and the descriptions of the abductor and his car had been unmistakable. Within minutes, the APB on Duxbury had gone out. Every patrol car in the city would be watching for him, and Gilmour maintained it was only a matter of time.

  But Nick didn’t want to put his faith in the random chance that someone might spot them. No, Duxbury might have gone off the deep end, but he still wasn’t an idiot. He’d have planned his destination with care. He would want to stay in familiar territory, go someplace that would insure privacy for whatever he intended....

  Swearing under his breath, Nick gunned the engine and sped through an amber light. He couldn’t let himself think about what might be happening to Lauren or he’d be unable to think at all. It was his idea to check out the list that Lauren had compiled, the one that detailed the properties belonging to Duxbury’s companies. Gilmour had agreed to the approach, and people were already on the way to several warehouses that would be ideal locations for a criminal to go undetected.

  The condominium that Wanda had been using was on the list of properties, too. So when Nick stopped his car under the arching white canopy in front of the building, he had a logical reason to be there. But as he stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the sixteenth floor, the sudden clutching in his gut had nothing to do with logic.

  There was a faint shadow on the carpet in the back corner of the elevator car, a fresh smear of oil in a shape that vaguely resembled a woman’s shoe. But the shoeprint was facing backward. There was another trace of oil in the hall outside Wanda’s condo. Holding his breath, Nick pressed his ear to the door.

  There was a man’s voice inside. The words were indistinguishable, but the tone was harsh. He hadn’t heard Duxbury often enough to be certain it was him, but who else would have access to the condo?

  Nick’s breath hissed out when he heard another voice. It was Lauren’s.

  Moving as silently as possible, he retreated to the stairwell at the other end of the hall and used his cell phone to call for backup. When he returned, he could no longer hear anything.

  Damn! What was going on in there? In the time it took for the backup to arrive, Duxbury could—

  Nick refused to let the image take hold. Pulling out his badge, he went to knock quietly on the next door down the hall.

  Lauren shifted on the couch, trying to ease the cramp that was forming in her calf as she watched Duxbury adjust the video camera. She knew the truth about his background and his unscrupulous rise to success, but his version was nauseatingly sugar-coated. He had excuses for everything, including the accident that killed Joey McMillan. In his own warped thinking he found ways to justify everything he did, including this bizarre interview.

  At another time, she might have found the progressive deterioration of his grasp on reality quite interesting. Yes, the mixture of rational and irrational thought would probably provide rich fodder for a discussion among mental health professionals.

 
But at that moment, Lauren wasn’t feeling the remotest bit like a professional of any kind. The strain of maintaining her poise was taking its toll. She was starting to imagine things. She moved her gaze to Duxbury’s reflection in the balcony doors. Beyond the glare of the living room lights, the shadows outside appeared to be moving.

  “Well, that should do it,” Duxbury said suddenly, stepping away from the video camera. “I think we’ve covered all the important points.”

  Lauren swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. “I can edit that tape down at the station. I’d like to present as polished an interview as possible, so I’ll need to—”

  “Oh, you’ve done quite enough,” he said, his lips forming another one of his hair-raising smiles. “I’ve appreciated your cooperation, Miss Abbot. You’ve gone a long way toward repairing the damage you’ve done to my reputation.”

  “Then I’m pleased that we had this opportunity to talk. After you drop me off at my car, I’ll—”

  He laughed harshly. “We haven’t finished yet. We’re waiting for your friend.”

  “What friend?”

  “Oh, come now, Miss Abbot, why so coy? You were eager enough to see him when you thought he was about to die. I’m sure he’ll do the same for you. Why do you think I made no effort to hide my identity? I didn’t make it easy, but I’m sure a cop like Strada will figure out where we are eventually.”

  The hope that flashed through her at his certainty was quickly followed by dread. “Why do you want him to find us? What have you planned?”

  His smile grew. “I plan to finish your story for you. You’re both going to confess that you conspired together to ruin me. There will be a lovers’ quarrel, and then...” He shook his head in mock commiseration. “A tragic end for a tarnished hero, but at least my reputation will be restored.”

  “You’re sick. You’ll never get away with it.”

  “Such clichéed phrases, and from a journalist,” he said, shaking his head again as he checked the ammunition clip in the handle of his gun. He snapped it back into place and sat in the chair across from her, positioning himself so that he could watch the front door. “You disappoint me, Miss Abbot. Now, why don’t you relax and make yourself comfortable while we wait.”

  With a cold certainty, Lauren knew that he intended to kill them. There was no point in arguing, because he would probably find a way to justify whatever he did. She looked desperately around the room, hoping to see something she could use as a weapon, but with her wrists still taped together, there wouldn’t be much she could do even if—

  The glass of the patio door behind him exploded inward as a white wrought-iron chair hurtled into the room.

  Springing to his feet, Duxbury whirled around to face the balcony and leveled his gun at the darkness outside.

  A shadow moved on the balcony, a tall, lean silhouette that Lauren recognized instantly. Nick. He did come. Somehow he was already here.

  And Duxbury intended to kill him.

  The fear she’d been barely managing to keep at bay surged over her in a breath-stealing instant. Duxbury was going to kill Nick. Without pausing to think, Lauren lunged off the couch and dove for the video camera. She grasped the legs of the tripod between her hands and swung it in an arc toward Duxbury.

  The camera connected with the back of his head a split second before the gun went off. The tripod broke in half with the impact and the camera snapped loose, skittering across the floor to smack into the wall, but the momentum of Lauren’s blow was enough to knock Duxbury to his knees. She staggered, tightening her grip on what was left of her makeshift weapon.

  Glass crunched beneath the soles of Nick’s boots as he strode through the shattered door. “Don’t move, Duxbury,” he said, aiming the large pistol he held at the fallen man.

  Groaning, Duxbury looked at the destruction around him, then suddenly lifted his gun.

  Without breaking stride, Nick kicked the gun from his fingers. The weapon went flying, landing with a dull thud on the other side of the couch.

  Duxbury sat back on his heels, cradling his hand to his chest as his groans strengthened. A cool breeze ruffled his silver hair, bringing the distant whine of sirens.

  Her knees trembling, Lauren slowly lowered her arms and looked at Nick.

  He was standing with his feet braced apart, his gun held steady between both hands. Every muscle in his body was tensed. Although he remained motionless, the air around him seemed to crackle with energy.

  It was like the first time she had seen him. He wore the same battered leather jacket, the same fierce stare. And the same primitive aura of masculine power surrounded him, wrenching an equally primitive response from her exhausted emotions.

  God help her, she didn’t care where they were, or what was happening. She wanted to fly across the space that separated them and fling herself into his arms and tell him she’d been wrong to send him away. She wanted to revel in the strength of the feelings she’d done her best to deny. She wanted to—

  “You all right, Lauren?” he asked hoarsely.

  Swallowing hard, she managed to nod. She’d maintained her composure this long. Why did she feel this sudden urge to cry now that she was safe?

  “He didn’t hurt you? You’re okay?”

  The note of suppressed violence in his voice jarred her. She spread her fingers and the broken tripod dropped to the floor with a clatter. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  Duxbury twisted around to glare up at her. “You broke my camera, you stupid bitch.”

  Nick reacted instantly. With movements too swift to follow, he pushed Duxbury face down, pressed his knee between his shoulder blades and snapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. “Consider yourself lucky that she got to you before I could,” Nick said.

  “You can’t treat me like this. I’m an innocent man. Once the truth is broadcast—”

  “You have the right to remain silent,” Nick said, shifting more of his weight to his knee. “You’d better use it.”

  Through the broken window, the noise of the sirens strengthened. Lauren looked at the video camera and suppressed a shudder. She’d probably never be able to look at any camera the same way again. She’d probably never be able to look at her job or herself or Nick the same way again, either.

  Everything happened quickly after that. Within minutes, Wanda’s condo was filled with people. A pair of uniformed officers led Duxbury away while two more questioned Lauren about the events of the evening.

  Throughout it all, Nick stayed with her, a solid, imposing presence by her side. His touch was efficient but gentle as he eased the last of the duct tape from her wrists. His warmth was comforting as he draped his arm around her shoulders. And when Lauren swayed, the tension of the last few hours finally catching up with her, Nick tightened his hold and announced he was driving her home.

  She fell asleep in his car, rousing only when she felt herself being lifted against his chest. Her cheek rubbed his jacket, and she inhaled the scent of leather and... Nick.

  She blinked and struggled to focus on his face. “I’m all right,” she said. “I can walk.”

  “I’m sure you can,” he said, settling her securely in his arms. He nudged the car door closed with his hip and began to walk forward.

  “Nick, really. I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me. There’s no need for you to—”

  “Lauren, you might not need this, but I do.” He had the key to her building ready in his hand, so when he reached the front entrance, he was able to carry her through.

  It was late, almost morning, so there was no one else around to witness her unusual mode of transport, but Lauren wouldn’t have cared even if there was. After the terror of the last few hours, and the misery of the last few days, being close to Nick felt so right she wasn’t going to object further. She hooked her arm behind his neck, enjoying the strength of his embrace.

  He hit the button for the elevator with his elbow, then stepped inside. “I almost went crazy when I thought I might have lost you. I’m
sorry I didn’t warn you about Duxbury in time. I should have—”

  “It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known. No one could.”

  “I got you involved in this case. You didn’t want to be. I should have taken better care of you.”

  “If you’re feeling some misplaced sense of guilt—”

  “It’s not guilt,” he said firmly. When they reached her apartment, he unlocked her door as smoothly as he’d managed the first one, then carried her across the threshold and kicked the door shut with his heel. Only then did he loosen his hold enough to let her slide down to stand in front of him.

  She could have stepped away and broken the contact between them, but she didn’t want to. Not yet. After what they had been through, she didn’t think she’d want to let him go again. Grasping the edges of his jacket, she tipped back her head to meet his gaze.

  The tenderness in his eyes surprised her. Tension still hardened the line of his jaw and flattened his lips, but his gaze was soft with a poignant mix of emotions. “It’s not guilt,” he repeated. “That’s not what I feel for you.”

  “Nick...”

  He lifted his hands, framing her face in a gesture as tender as his gaze. Slowly he stroked his thumbs across her skin, tracing her cheekbones, her brows, the corners of her mouth. “Angela told me how you raced to the hospital because you thought I’d been hurt.”

  “I didn’t know it was a lie.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You told me we were through, but your actions say something else.”

  “I didn’t really stop to think—”

  “Exactly. And when you swung that camera at Duxbury’s head, you didn’t stop to think about ruining a tape that could scoop every news show in the country.”

  “My career didn’t matter, Nick. He could have shot you.”

  “And you were willing to risk your life for mine. Again.”

  “I appreciate your gratitude, but—”

  “It’s not gratitude that I feel, either, Lauren. That’s not why I brought you home, and that’s not why I plan to stay with you.”