by Carol Caiton
"I measured your finger while you were sleeping."
That had probably been awkward, but he'd gotten it right. The single solitaire surrounded by two half circles of smaller diamonds on either side fit perfectly. "I never felt a thing," she told him. "When do you want to get married?"
"Tomorrow."
She forgot about the ring. "Tomorrow? We— But I haven't even called Lydia yet."
"Then you'd better phone her."
"But Christmas is only a few days away. Wouldn't you rather wait until after the holidays?"
"No. It's too late for that anyway. I've already made hotel reservations."
His cell phone rang, cutting off the opportunity to protest. He looked at the screen then answered.
"Vale."
"Ethan, we need you at RUSH." It was Malcolm's British accent. "We've got trouble brewing at the south entrance."
"PIC?"
"PIC and anyone else they've stirred up. They've gathered en masse out at the gate. I'm calling in the others as well. We may have a problem on our hands."
"I'm on my way. And Malcolm, bring Jeremiah in on this."
"He's standing in my office as we speak."
"Then do whatever he advises. I'll be there in twenty."
He disconnected and slid his hands around Nina's waist. "I love you. And I love touching you. But I need to go out again. And you need to phone your sister." He kissed her, a quick brush of his lips on hers. "I might be a while. I don't know how long so I'll call."
"No," she said. "I won't be here. I'm going shopping after I talk to Lydia. I need to buy a wedding dress."
CHAPTER 53
"Lydia, don't cry. You're at work."
"I can't help it. And I'm leaving early today, so no one will see me anyway." She sniffed. "I'm just so happy . . . and sad, too."
"Why are you sad?"
"Because I'm going to turn down a trip to Las Vegas."
Nina regarded the pot of coffee Ethan hadn't had a chance to drink. "You don't think they'll let you take a few days off? Lyd, you're a good employee—"
"It's not that."
"What then?"
"Nina, this whole thing—RUSH—you moving out—it's all been about me letting go and giving you back your life."
"I know that, Lyd. It's taking a little time, but I'm figuring things out." She wrapped the phone cord around her index finger and said, "But being my maid of honor doesn't mean either of us is going to be dependent on the other again. Things have changed. For both of us."
"You're right, a lot of things have changed. And I really want to say yes. You don't know how much. But there are other things too."
"Like what?"
"Nina—oh geez . . . I'm trying to grow up here. I might be the older sister but you're the one who always does the right thing. You're level-headed and mature and, well, everything has worked out for you. But it's because of me that Mom and Dad are so heartsick."
"I don't understand."
"They feel like they've lost a daughter."
"But—"
"I'm pretty sure it won't be long before they'll want to see you and patch things up."
Nina's heart gave a small leap. "They said that?"
"Not verbally. Not yet. But I can tell it's coming."
"Do they know I've left RUSH? Do they know I'm living with Ethan?"
"No, I haven't said anything. But if I go to Las Vegas to be your maid of honor, it'll be like rubbing their noses in the fact that they won't be there to see you get married."
"I'll call and ask them to come."
"They're not ready yet, Nina. Give it a little more time. I want to be with you—God knows I do. But they've sacrificed so much for me, too. If I go with you it'll be like choosing sides, and I want us to be a family again. So I need you to let me do this for them."
Nina swallowed. She would have no one, not her parents, not her sister, no one with her on her wedding day. Unwinding the phone cord from her finger, she looked around the quiet kitchen. She hadn't thought a great deal about someday getting married because there had never been anyone special in her life. The hope had been there, certainly, but it had been a distant dream. If only Ethan would wait. If Lydia was right and her parents wanted to mend fences, maybe she could get married in a church, in a wedding gown, with her family present, and a reception afterward . . . but then her parents would have a new debt, just when they'd begun to see daylight again . . . because of Ethan.
Because of Ethan.
Because Ethan had cared, even when he believed she belonged to another man. And now he wanted, maybe needed, to marry her as quickly as possible, because of that other man.
It was her turn to give. If a spur-of-the-moment wedding out in Las Vegas was what he wanted, then that's what she'd give him.
"All right, Lydia, I understand."
"Do you?"
"Yes, I do. And it's okay. Now tell me why you're leaving work early."
"Doctor appointment. Dad's taking me this time. In fact, he's probably out in front of the building waiting right now."
"Okay. I'll let you go."
"Nina? I love you. And I'm so happy for you."
"Thank you, Lyd. I love you, too."
Replacing the receiver, she stood for a minute in the silent house, giving herself a chance to adjust—again—to circumstances she didn't expect. Maybe once she was married things would stop changing from week to week and settle down. Meanwhile, though, she had a dress to buy. And maybe Libby would like to go shopping with her to pick it out.
She rinsed her coffee cup, put it in the dishwasher, then made another phone call. Ten minutes later she left Isleworth and headed toward RUSH to meet Libby at Checkpoint 1.
She was less than a mile from the gates when traffic slowed to a crawl. Maybe there was an accident up ahead. It was mankind's universal practice to slow down and gawk at the carnage even though driving past only allowed for a moment's glance. She inched the Toyota along and wondered if she'd have to change lanes up ahead.
Finally she was close enough to see dozens of placards waving dizzily outside the gate. As she approached the turnoff, it appeared as though several busloads of people had been brought in specifically to march on RUSH. Something had stirred them up. Their placards were vicious, many bearing just one denigrating word: WHOREHOUSE! Angry chanting shouts could be heard through the closed windows of her car and she grew a little nervous.
Sitting up straighter, she flicked on her turn signal. She was tempted to drive up to Checkpoint 2 and track Libby down from there, but she caught sight of RUSH's security personnel lined up in front of the gate. Ten or fifteen guards. Was this the trouble Ethan had been called in to take care of?
Creeping along, she edged over into the turn-off lane. She saw no signs of violence, but what had happened to bring all these people out? Had there been another murder? Lord, she hoped not.
The tall wrought-iron gate didn't open for her. She turned onto the short driveway, prepared to stop at the guardhouse and identify herself. And that was the moment she knew she'd made the wrong choice. She should have heeded her intuition and driven around to the other checkpoint.
A single man wearing a denim vest jerked out his arm and pointed toward her car. He started shouting, sending a shiver of unease down her spine, and kept shouting, pumping his arm in the air.
Suddenly she heard what he was yelling, heard it because the surrounding crowd had joined in the chant.
"Whore! Whore! Whore!"
It was like a surging wave. Shouting voices, angry faces . . . .
A very real fear swept over her. From one second to the next the crowd turned into a swarming mob and she knew there weren't enough guards to keep her safe.
* * *
"That's Nina's car," Ethan muttered in disbelief. He watched the center monitor as she turned into the entrance. She was supposed to be shopping for a goddamn frigging wedding dress!
Everything inside him turned to ice as he followed the changing flow of energ
y. One man raised his arm and redirected that energy to focus on Nina.
Surging to his feet, a sixth sense told him what was about to happen. He darted for the elevator. "Case, you're in charge! We need more men out there!"
"What—" Malcolm called out.
"That's Nina's car!" Ethan shouted. "They're about to storm it!"
When the elevator opened every one of his business partners crowded inside with him—all except Michael who hadn't shown up yet. Even Simon stood ready to assist despite the fact that Ethan had taken him aside and told him he and Nina would be getting married the following day. He met Simon's eyes, adrenaline pumping through his veins, and gave a brief nod of thanks. Simon looked away. Then urgency and impatience fought with common sense as he tried to think clearly.
In the tunnels three golf carts raced toward them, guards at the wheel, and skidded to a stop as they reached the elevator. Jeremiah's doing. The thought flashed through Ethan's mind even as he and the others scrambled into two of the carts and took off.
"Somebody get hold of Michael!" he called out. "Warn him and—"
"I'm on it!" Oliver called back.
Beside him Malcolm's phone rang, the pleasant chime offensively out of place in the face of impending violence.
"I've got him on mine," Malcolm called, opening the connection. "Michael—"
"Nina's in trouble!" Michael shouted, the frantic outburst carrying to Ethan. "Don't talk, 'cause I can't hear," he yelled again. "They flipped her car! I'm trying to get . . . over to her— Fuck you, asshole! Not enough—"
It sounded as though his phone dropped or was knocked to the ground. Only silence carried through the airwaves to Malcolm's phone.
"Fuck!" Ethan exploded. "Fuck!"
* * *
Nina reached awkwardly for the seatbelt with her right hand. Neck bent at a painful angle, grit from the floor sprinkling down onto her face, she tried to protect her eyes as she fumbled for the release.
Her left hand was useless, covered in blood, and she couldn't feel it. She didn't know how she'd cut it but she didn't have time to think about it. A heavy booted foot kicked incessantly at the passenger window as she struggled with the restraining straps. Panic rose up inside so fiercely, the fingers of her only working hand fumbled several times before she was finally able to squirm free. Still, there was no place to go. She was trapped inside, temporarily the safest place to be. But what would happen once that boot broke through the glass? Would they drag her out?
"Don't go there. Don't go there," she murmured.
Shimmying backward in a crouch, she maneuvered herself along the roof until she could huddle in a ball over the center dome light. Then she lifted her eyes to search the upside-down interior for something to use as a weapon. Inside her purse was the pepper spray she'd bought after being attacked at the mall. But the shoulder strap was wrapped around the steering wheel and the purse itself had lodged between the windshield and the dashboard. She was afraid to leave her position of relative safety and untangle it, but she spotted a ballpoint pen where the boot kept kicking at the window. It took three attempts before she could bring herself to stretch that far and snatch it, but once she wrapped her fist around it, she was prepared to stab the hand of anyone who reached inside and tried to grab her.
For a minute the kicking stopped. The scuffle of feet surrounded her on all sides and several times someone's hip or shoulder or other body part thumped up against her car, rocking it. Tears blurred her vision and ran over. She wanted her father. She didn't want to do this anymore. She wanted to go home to the safety of her old bedroom. She wanted Ethan.
Ethan!
Hope surged up inside. Ethan was here. He'd know what was happening. He had cameras everywhere. Even now he might be out there, trying to get to her.
Swiping the back of her good hand across her cheeks, she sniffed and listened to the sound of approaching sirens. Lots of sirens. Keeping her eyes on the surrounding windows, tense and waiting for that boot to start kicking again, she listened as the sirens grew so loud, they blared deafeningly nearby. Then one after another they were sharply silenced.
The scuffling continued, but she no longer saw dozens of feet surrounding her. Someone banged on the driver's side window and yelled her name.
Snapping her head around, she saw Michael's face on the other side. A sob broke free from her throat and she squirmed frantically forward, more than ready to open the window and crawl out.
But he yelled at her. "No!"
Then his face disappeared and all she saw were feet and legs again. Once more the bizarre dance of violence brought them close, shuffling, jerking, then bracing for balance. That awful boot—or maybe it was a different one—started kicking the passenger window again and she swung her head around. But just as abruptly, it stopped.
Michael pounded on the other window again and she turned sharply. "Can you get out?" he yelled.
She didn't even try to answer. She scooted forward, grabbed the window crank, and began turning.
She saw his feet, planted outside the window, and she wiggled and crawled, holding her left hand in the air as she scraped her forearms onto the pavement. Then Michael bent down and slid his hands beneath her arms. "Just a little more, honey. Come on. Not much farther now."
A minute later she was free and crying and he pulled her to her feet and wrapped her tight in his arms. "It's okay now. It's okay."
She tried to get control of herself, hugging him back with her good arm and sniffling.
"Thank you, Michael. Thank you."
When she drew back and looked up, she caught her breath and stared at his face in dismay. "Oh, Michael."
His left eye was swollen nearly shut and a nasty cut on his cheek dripped blood down his jaw.
"Oh, Michael, I'm so sorry."
He let out a bark of laughter. "You're sorry?" He grinned a lopsided smile. "So we're even again, huh?"
Half laughing, half crying, she stared at him in disbelief. "How can you— That's it," she declared. "You're the winner. We're both going to end up dead if we don't stop playing this game."
"Sounds good to me." Then he pulled her back into his arms. "C'mere."
* * *
Ethan caught his first glimpse of her from the other side of her overturned car. She stood on her own two feet, wrapped safely in Michael's arms, and his knees buckled. He grabbed onto the chassis, a knot constricting in his throat, and he tried to swallow.
It was beyond him to understand how she walked into trouble as easily as normal people avoided it. And somehow, for some cosmic reason, she became the central focus of catastrophe. It didn't seem to matter where, or what the circumstances. How she'd managed to live to the age of twenty-two was anyone's guess.
One thing he did know, though. He was going to marry her tomorrow, no matter what. And after that he'd find every excuse the human mind could conjure up to keep her from leaving the house for the next fifty years. And he didn't care how goddamn last-century it sounded, if it was having babies that would keep her there, he'd give her a house full of them.
Shoring himself up, he pushed away from the bizarre spectacle of her car and through the army of security guards. Cops were all over the place, detaining anyone not wearing a uniform. Paramedics had arrived as well, and a couple of ambulances had already pulled away.
And the media. Terrific.
Making his way around the front bumper, he dabbed at his split lip with the back of his hand. His shirt was torn and his knuckles were swollen, but all in all he was in good shape.
When he rounded the other side of the car however and saw Nina's left hand dripping blood, his heart stopped. They might have to put him inside one of those ambulances if she kept taking ten years off his life.
He honest-to-God needed those babies.
He was taking her to the hospital, pronto. The police would want to question her but they could catch up with her there.
Then her eyes locked with his and nothing else mattered. The carnage fade
d to the background, the cacophony fizzled down to white noise, and his life, his world, smoothed out.
"Ethan," she muttered brokenly.
Michael looked up and grinned at him. But the left side of Michael's face was a mess and his grin came off skewed and out of balance. Legally, they hadn't been able to stop these protests, but if it was PIC who had overturned Nina's car, Mason might be able to get a restraining order against the entire organization and that would be a good start.
He made his way over to them. Nina stumbled out of Michael's arms and into his and, God, yes, she was alive and warm and safe. He shut his eyes briefly, then looked up. Withdrawing one arm from around her, he held it open to Michael and, with a wry harrumph, Michael stepped in and joined the embrace. Then he stepped back and said, "I'm thinking maybe you'd better get her over to one of those paramedics. Betcha she's gonna need some stitches in that hand."
Ethan nodded. "Yeah. And maybe you'd better come with us."
"Nah, I'm good." He wiped at the blood on his cheek and glanced at his fingers. "I'll go get patched up at the medical center."
That was his choice, so Ethan said, "You might want to take the tunnels or you'll have a lot of questions coming at you along the way."
Michael chuckled. "Good advice, but I'll take my chances with the questions."
Ethan held out his hand and Michael clasped it. "Thanks, Michael."
"Hey, that's what friends do."
* * *
Ethan left her with Malcolm in the observation room while he went outside to move his car. Of the seven of them, it was Michael who relished a good free-for-all. But it was Malcolm who had studied martial arts and had probably blocked more punches than the rest of them put together. Other than a bruised hand—a distinction they'd all carry for a few days—he looked remarkably unruffled. But Malcolm had a lot to deal with at the moment—the police, the media, legal issues, putting the PR team to work on this . . . . Still, he'd driven to the hospital to check on Nina. And in his take-charge manner, he'd talked his way right into her cubicle. Eventually the rest of them would probably show up as well. Or call. It was a solidarity Ethan would miss when he pulled out of RUSH and moved on.
