Run, Run, Runaway Bride

by Diamond, Jacqueline

  Struggling to straighten, she lifted Hank a scant few inches off the sidewalk. How could such a skinny guy weigh so much?

  Attacking had been a tactical mistake, she reflected as his hands gripped her throat. She should have screamed while she had the chance.

  Samantha opened her mouth. All that came out was a croak.

  "Put me down," Hank whined in her ear. "Now!"

  "Gak," replied Samantha. With the load on her shoulders, she’d fall if she shifted position..

  "You think I'm kidding?" His grip tightened.

  Desperate for breath. Samantha stumbled, wavered, quivered all the way to her ankles, and collapsed. They both fell with a crunch across the hood of a station wagon.

  Fiery curses burst from Hank's throat. Gasping, Samantha realized that since he was wearing only shorts and a T-shirt, his bare limbs were in contact with the scorching metal. The harder he wriggled, the more of him sizzled against the hood.

  She removed herself from the bumper, sucked in several deep gulps of air and screamed like a banshee from hell.

  And, miraculously, Kieran heard. He flew out of the lobby, even larger and more muscular than she remembered. Behind her, Hank continued cursing as he slithered snakelike off the car.

  "Samantha! Get away from him!" Kieran thrust her across the sidewalk.

  "Who the hell are you?" Alarm darkened Hank's face.

  "Her husband," Kieran ground out.

  "Try again." Hank rubbed his burned arm.

  "We got married Saturday." Kieran stood protectively in front of Samantha.

  Disbelief flashed across Hank’s face. "She works fast. A month ago, she nearly married me."

  Kieran braced, legs apart. "Let's call it a tie, shall we?"

  "Right after she gives me her keys." Hank pulled something metallic from his pocket. Sunlight flashed off a thin blade as it snapped open. "I wouldn't want to spoil your honeymoon."

  Tension gripped Kieran's body. She knew him well enough to guess that his instincts called out to attack. But no car was worth getting killed for.

  "It's all right." She reached for her purse, which had fallen to the sidewalk.

  "No, it isn't. I want him to leave you alone, permanently," Kieran said.

  Hank favored them with a menacing smile. "Scout's honor," he mocked.

  Samantha scooped up her purse and took out the keys. "I hope a truck runs over you."

  Hank snorted. "And your car with me?"

  "It would be worth it."

  "Did I forget to mention one little thing?" He tossed the knife from right to left hand and back again, showing off. “You’re coming, too. That way, hubby keeps his mouth shut to the police until he hears from me."

  "No." Kieran resumed his post in front of Samantha.

  "Then you're dead, buddy."

  Behind them, high heels beat a tattoo on the sidewalk. A voice like the bray of a donkey cried, "What the hell is this? Did you think I’d let you get away with it?"

  The wire-thin figure of Beatrice French Bartholomew stormed toward them, oblivious to the danger. With her black suit and sleek hair, she reminded Samantha of Morticia from The Addams Family.

  "Beatrice—" Kieran began in warning, but she cut him off.

  "I don't know where you got this, but it's a lie!" She waved a sheet of paper. "I did not owe my father twenty thousand dollars, and I certainly don't owe it to his estate."

  "I found a signed IOU in his cabin," Kieran said. "Look, Beatrice—"

  “I repaid it long ago.” Surprise and outrage flashed across her face as she caught sight of the knife. “Who’s this little creep?”

  “Your worst nightmare,” Hank boasted.

  "I hate muggers." From her purse, she snatched a pistol so tiny it resembled a toy.

  "Just trying to settle matters with my ex, er, with her." Hank indicated Samantha as he sheathed the knife and sidled away, crablike.

  "I've always wanted to shoot somebody," Beatrice snapped, "and I'm in the mood to do it today. Go on, give me an excuse."

  After one more glance at the gun, Hank turned tail and fled. As he vanished around the building, Kieran started after him.

  A gunshot cracked into the air. Kieran halted. "What the hell are you doing?"

  "You aren't going anywhere." Beatrice pointed the gun at him.

  "I need to follow that man."

  Out of sight, an engine roared, followed by the screech of overstressed tires. "You're too late." Beatrice tucked the gun into her purse. "Don't worry, I'm not going to shoot you. The only thing I hurt was that tree over there." A dozen feet away, bark littered the grass around a palm. "This is about as low as a man can sink, Kieran, trying to steal not only my land but my money, too. I’ll ruin you for this."

  As she stomped off, Samantha couldn’t decide whether to be grateful or disgusted with her. Both, really. "She's awful, but she did save us."

  "Not intentionally." Kieran wrapped his arms around Samantha and pulled her against him. "I'm glad she showed up, all the same. Damn, I wish I’d caught that bastard. You weren’t kidding about being in danger."

  Samantha was too relieved to take offense that he’d doubted her word. "I wish I could figure out how he found me.”

  "Who did you call this morning?" Kieran accompanied Samantha to her car.

  "The D.A.'s office and Mary Anne. But I didn't tell them where I was. Well, I did give Joel's number to the D.A.'s office, but I hardly think Hank managed to sneak in and steal it. Maybe he staked out my P.O. box and followed me.”

  As she unlocked the car, Kieran helped her into the passenger seat. "You can't be in any shape to drive, after what you just went through."

  "What about you?"

  "I'm a man," he said.

  "Wait a minute!"

  "Okay, I’m a little shook up, too,” he admitted. “Humor me, all right?”

  She shrugged, and gave him the keys. “If it soothes your masculine ego. Besides, you were impressive back there.”

  “Thanks.” Kieran slid behind the wheel. “Did you call your friend at your old office number?"

  Puzzled, Samantha nodded.

  "He might have a tap on the phone." Kieran powered up the engine. "I'm not familiar with all the surveillance devices they've got these days, and I’m sure it would be illegal, but don’t call that office again. Or Mary Anne’s cell, either. And no more trips to your P.O. box."

  Reluctantly, Samantha agreed. She hated to admit it, but he'd been right: she was in no shape to drive. As they approached the freeway, her lungs still felt constricted and her hands trembled. During the encounter with Hank, she'd been thinking more about overcoming him than about her danger, but in retrospect the incident scared the wits out of her.

  She leaned back, watching Kieran as he steered onto the freeway. He looked so solid and strong. She could almost forgive him for that baloney he'd spouted this morning about not having consummated their marriage.

  It wasn't as if she cared. It was simply a matter of principle.

  Samantha's thoughts returned to last night. The pressure of Kieran's body against hers had awakened her several times but, at first, in her exhaustion, she'd simply drifted back to sleep.

  Gradually she'd become aware of the desire building inside. Each accidental touch of his leg, each whisper of his breath across her neck had aroused an almost unbearable yearning.

  Her hand had reached out to trace the contours of Kieran's chest. He had muttered and tossed in response. As his lips parted, she’d understood he must be dreaming about the same thing she was.

  What harm could come of spurring his dream a little by leaning over and kissing him? Before she knew it, firm hands had seized her hips.

  She could hardly sort out the impressions, the overwhelming longing to be possessed mingled with the delicious agony of delay. He’d sensed exactly where to touch her, how to stroke her, how to stimulate her until she reached the bursting point.

  Startled, Samantha realized she was becoming aroused again. She
glanced at Kieran, but he was frowning at a large truck ahead of them. Thank goodness he couldn't read her mind.

  Samantha didn’t recall ever being in direct physical danger before. Then, in less than twenty-four hours, Kieran had come to her rescue twice, risking his neck in front of a mountain lion and facing down a scuzzball.

  Yet their marriage hadn't helped his case with Beatrice.

  Samantha had racked up a cosmic debt. If she could find some evidence to substantiate Uncle Albert's will, she’d be able to leave with her head held high.

  Uncle Albert's papers might be as lost as Pegleg Smith's fabled treasure. But while the existence of the treasure was debatable, Kieran had actually seen his uncle writing in a diary.

  She’d enjoy playing detective, Samantha thought, not at all dissuaded by her lack of success when she'd explored the shack before. She'd have to dig deeper, take a creative approach and overcome the odds.

  Plus, it would give her something to do during those long days while Kieran was working. And she’d be thumbing her nose at Beatrice.

  She could hardly wait to start.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kieran disliked the heat waves that swept through Southern California in late summer. He especially hated this one because it had arrived early, in June.

  Sweat trickled along his forehead and threatened to obscure his vision as he trudged across the construction site. He pushed up his yellow hard hat, which promptly slid back down.

  A breath of wind that cooled his neck also raised a cloud of dust, tickling his throat into a cough. Kieran ached to retreat to the air-conditioned trailer, but if his men could endure this hundred-and-ten degree misery, so could he.

  The rumble of power tools and the whine of saws echoed off the canyon walls. The men were putting flesh on the skeleton of the hotel structure.

  They might meet their goal of opening the first phase this fall. Was it possible that five years of struggle were about to bear fruit?

  A whistle pierced the air, and the hammering stopped as the men headed for a rest break in the shade. Per Kieran's order, the kitchen staff had opened an outdoor bar to serve free fruit juices and iced drinks, to prevent the men from becoming dehydrated.

  As he watched them, his heart squeezed. He'd received a call from Joel Phillips this morning to say Beatrice was seeking a court order blocking further work on the project.

  She was acting out of spite. It had been a mistake, showing her the IOU, like waving a red flag in front of a bull..

  The debt was legitimate; the paper was one of the few documents his uncle hadn't managed to hide or lose. It had been tossed in a corner with a stack of old magazines.

  In court, he supposed she could argue that her father had intended to discard it. Or repeat her claim that she’d repaid it, although he doubted she could prove that. Still, if the estate rightfully belonged to her, she simply owed herself the money. Aware of how unpredictable judges could be, Kieran feared she might prevail.

  The possibility was too painful and counterproductive to contemplate. He intended to keep working until the last possible minute.

  His men already knew about the suit, and he’d notified them this morning by text and email about her attempt to obtain an injunction. They deserved full knowledge. Those who’d responded had said, to a man, that they were sticking with him. Still, he'd noticed the workers talking seriously among themselves.

  He headed for the trailer. Since the others were on break, he supposed he could afford one, also.

  En route, he ran into Pete as the foreman emerged from a portable toilet. Pete merely nodded, instead of stopping for a chat as he normally would.

  Kieran put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You okay?"

  "Yeah, sure." Pete didn't meet his eyes. "Just on my way for some juice."

  "The heat bothering you?" Kieran didn’t mean to nag. Still, he'd never seen Pete this downhearted. "Or is it my cousin that's got you worried?"

  "I'm not worried," Pete said. "Just thirsty."

  Kieran lifted his hand and released his friend. Pete would explain what was wrong in his own good time.

  At the trailer, Kieran was grateful for its cool interior. His instinct had been to conserve energy and rely on fans, but Law had pointed out that their computers only functioned in a narrow temperature range. The air-conditioning stayed on.

  Kieran took a swig of water from the cooler. As cold air blasted at him from a vent, sweat chilled his face and chest. Was there anything on earth as pleasurable as cooling off during a heat wave?

  The answer to that question struck him thirty seconds later when he opened the door to his office.

  A pair of shapely bare legs, crossed at the ankle, were angled rakishly atop his desk. Slender feet in delicate sandals displayed pink-polished toenails.

  It was a sight worth walking through the Sahara Desert to see. But why was it making itself at home in his office? "Excuse me," Kieran said to the back page of a two-day-old copy of the San Diego Union-Tribune.

  The paper rustled aside. Samantha peered at him from his swivel chair. "Is this your seat?"

  "As if you didn't know." He eased onto the edge of the desk. "What brings you here?"

  "Progress report," she said.

  In the week since their trip to San Diego, the two of them had, by unspoken agreement, fallen into an arm's-length friendship. Kieran made a point of walking Samantha safely to the cabin after dinner, but then he either buried himself in a trade journal or returned to play videogames with his buddies.

  He had to admit that she'd been cooperative about keeping her distance. She'd also proven a valuable aid in working with his men to organize the upcoming Fourth of July celebration.

  Samantha had posted a notice on-line inviting women to a dance, dreamt up ideas regarding the cheesecake competition, hired a fireworks company and helped divide the men into teams for a softball tournament. She'd involved Lew and his new girlfriend when she visited last weekend.

  If Kieran had any complaint, it was Samantha's clothing. She managed to look presentable enough in public, wearing shorts and a camp shirt, but in private the shirt often fell open, revealing a bikini bra. Samantha claimed it was her way of dealing with the heat. Kieran wondered which kind of heat she meant.

  Right now, his position gave him a Class A view of her thighs leading into the cutoff shorts. At hip height emerged a nipped-in waistline. Above, a flowered bikini top barely restrained two generous breasts. The Hawaiian print clung for its life to two volcanic peaks, and if Kieran weren't careful, he might erupt one of these days.

  That tempestuous night when they'd made love reverberated through his dreams. Now that Samantha had signed the quitclaim, he had no reason to hold back on that score. Nevertheless, their plans still called for the marriage to be annulled, and around her, matters could get complicated fast unless he kept his distance.

  If only he could control his subconscious while he was sleeping. Morning after morning, he awakened sweaty with longing on the air mattress, his arms encircling his pillow with embarrassing intimacy.

  "I wish you'd cover up," he grumbled.

  Samantha glanced down. "There's nothing here you wouldn't see at the beach."

  "We're nowhere near the beach."

  "Too bad." She tossed him a note pad. "Take a look."

  Page after page was covered with chicken scratches. “What is this?”

  "My progress report."

  "On what?"

  "The Fourth of July festival, among other things. Don't you want to read it?"

  He peered at the scrawl, able to decipher only a few words here and there. Her problem, he suspected, wasn't a lack of hand-eye coordination, but with way her thoughts ran at warp speed.

  One of the words looked like "bake," another might be "dick" and a third, he could almost swear, read "ZZZZ-ouch!"

  "Well?" Samantha prompted.

  Kieran dropped the pad on the desk. "Haven’t you ever heard of a computer?” She owned a tablet, wh
ich meant she could easily download a writing program if she didn’t already have one.

  “This feels more natural.”

  “Well, you’re scaring the hell out of me.”

  She blinked. “Why?”

  "According to this, you're going to bake my dick while I'm sleeping," Kieran informed her grimly. "I'd say 'ouch!' is inadequate."

  "Let me see that." Samantha grabbed the pad. "This is perfectly clear."

  “Pray interpret for me.”

  She tapped the word “bake.” "In case nobody else brings any cheesecake, I'm planning to bake three or four myself."

  "I'm sure our chef can provide backup," Kieran offered.

  She glared at him over the pad. "Unfair. He's a professional. Also, he's one of the judges, so he can't enter the contest. I want to try a recipe using chocolate chips. We need to experiment!"

  "We?" Kieran said.

  "You wouldn't trust me alone with an oven, would you?" In the past week, Samantha’s earnest attempts to fix dinner had resulted in a burned soufflé and a dish of brown rice and lentils so enormous and so bland that Kieran wished he had a horse to feed it to.

  "I'll help with the baking," he offered. "What's this dick business?"

  "We'll get to that later." She hurried down the page. " 'ZZZZ-ouch.’ Well, that couldn't be plainer."

  "It couldn't?"

  "Beth and some of the other women are coming up this weekend to prepare for the following week," Samantha said. "You can't expect them to sleep in tents, considering that the place is swarming with mountain lions."

  "Two isn't swarming, but you're right." Kieran had called the state Department of Fish and Game, which had promised to send someone out, but immediately. Along with the heat wave had come brushfires in half a dozen areas of the state, threatening wildlife and driving bears and big cats into suburban neighborhoods. The rangers were spread thin. "It's okay with me if they pitch their sleeping bags in the rec hall."

  Samantha made a note on a clean page. "Excellent idea."

  "Now what's this business about the dick?" he said.

  Samantha chewed on the end of her pen. "Like Dick Tracy," she said.