The Bride Wore Size 12

by Meg Cabot

  I know it’s cowardly, but after such a long day, I can’t handle any more drama. I duck out the side exit, slamming the door securely closed behind me, then see, through the heavy security glass, Carl heading down the hallway toward the office with his toolbox, several of the fired RAs trailing behind him, furious expressions on their tearstained faces.

  I’ve escaped in the nick of time.

  Handing someone a letter of termination at the stroke of five and then fleeing the office is a pretty cowardly act, but it happens fairly often. The most common day to fire people is Friday, due to the (mistaken) belief that they’ll spend the weekend calming down, when this is not, in fact, the case. They can’t even use those two days to look for a new job, because who’s hiring on weekends?

  This is why it’s better to fire people in the middle of the day, and give them lots of support, than to do it the way President Allington chose to.

  But then, not everyone makes the best choices, and the choices the Fischer Hall RAs made that led to their being fired hadn’t been very good either. So maybe they and President Allington deserve each other.

  Of course, I’m no better, slinking off the way I do. My shoulders sagging in relief, I turn to begin strolling down the sidewalk, enjoying the feel of the late-afternoon sun on my face and the sound of birds tweeting in the trees that line the quiet side street, happy I still have my job.

  Unfortunately my calm is short-lived, since I’ve only gone a few steps before I realize I’ve come face-to-face with my nemesis from earlier in the afternoon: Hamad.

  He’s holding open the door of the prince’s pure-white Escalade as Rashid prepares to step into it. Both the prince and his bodyguard are staring at me, one with utter hatred and the other in surprise.

  “Miss Wells.” The prince lowers his foot from the frame of the Escalade and quickly crosses the sidewalk toward me. “Good afternoon. I’m so glad to see you. How are you? Are you well?”

  Confused by his solicitousness—and wary of his bodyguard’s stony-eyed glare—I take a quick, stumbling step backward.

  “I’m fine, thanks. Just heading home. Don’t want to be late for my subway, so if you’ll excuse me—”

  I’m lying, of course. I live only a block away. And how can someone be late for the subway? New York City subways run constantly.

  But how’s the royal prince of Qalif going to know this? Besides, I don’t want any of the newly fired RAs to see me out here on the street, and I definitely don’t want to spend any more time than I have to in the company of the extremely unpleasant, woman-hating Hamad.

  Or maybe Hamad doesn’t hate all women. Maybe he only hates me.

  “Please,” Rashid says. Today he’s wearing a white blazer, instead of a camo-colored one, and poppy-red skinny jeans. He must think this is what American girls find stylish, but he resembles a barber’s pole. He gestures toward his tricked-out chariot. “Let us drive you home. You must be tired after having been through so much unpleasantness. Did you receive the flowers I sent you?”

  I can’t help taking yet another step away from him. My plan isn’t working.

  “Yes, I got the flowers,” I say. “Thank you, they’re beautiful. But no thanks for the ride. You’re obviously on your way somewhere. I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble.” I also don’t want him to know where I live, or that I lied about having to take the train.

  “Please, it’s no trouble,” Rashid says. “A lady like you is too beautiful to ride the subway, Miss Wells. The trains in this country are filled with dirty miscreants. We insist that you allow us to escort you safely home.”

  “No, really,” I say, though I enjoy hearing that I’m too beautiful to ride the subway. I have to be sure to tell this to Cooper. “I’ll be fine—”

  My wrist is suddenly seized in a grip of iron, right below the Bakelite bangle I’m wearing. I look up to see Hamad’s fiery gaze burning down at me.

  “Did you not hear the prince?” he asks. “We insist that you allow us to escort you.”

  The next thing I know, the prince’s bodyguard is pulling me forcibly toward the car.

  “Hamad,” the prince says, followed by a stream of words in Arabic. His tone sounds alarmed—for my welfare, I hope.

  But he could be alarmed that Hamad is being so obvious about kidnapping me, especially in broad daylight, with so many people around, most of whom are staring at us curiously, no doubt wondering why the dark-haired guy in the suit and shoulder holster is trying to drag the nice blond lady into his car.

  I don’t want to have to break out my self-defense moves. It will make things awkward with the president’s office, I’ll bet, if I jam an elbow into Hamad’s solar plexus or rake my nails down his face. Sadly I have on flats, so grinding a high heel into the small bones of his foot isn’t really an option, but I can still deliver a solid kick to one of his shins. According to Cooper (who’s been schooling me), this is supposed to be one of the most painful blows you can deliver to an opponent, aside from the obvious knee-to-groin, which most trained fighters learn to guard against.

  Before I have a chance to do any of these things, however, an extremely familiar—and mightily welcome—sound fills my ears: the siren from an NYPD patrol car.

  It only has to give a single whoop before I find myself liberated, Hamad releasing me so quickly I nearly lose my footing. The prince puts a gentle hand to my elbow to help balance me.

  “Are you all right?” he asks, concerned.

  No, of course I’m not all right, and what kind of weirdos are you employing? is what I want to say, but I don’t get a chance (and probably wouldn’t have said, anyway), since a beige Crown Victoria with a single flashing light on the dashboard pulls up in front of the Escalade, and an older man with a thick head of steel-gray hair—and an equally thick gray mustache—leans out the driver’s-side window, an unlit cigar dangling from his hand.

  “You out winning friends and influencing people, as usual, Wells?”

  It’s my old friend from the Sixth Precinct, Detective Canavan.

  “Something like that,” I mutter, yanking my elbow from Rashid’s grip. I head instinctively toward the Vic, massaging my wrist.

  “Officer,” Rashid says, following me toward the car. What is with these people? “I’m so sorry. We were offering Miss Wells a ride home, and my associate got a bit carried away.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  Detective Canavan is wearing aviator-style sunglasses, the lenses mirrored, making it impossible to see his eyes. I’m able to see the way his shaggy gray eyebrows are raised in skepticism over the gold-rimmed frames, however.

  “You know where Miss Wells lives?” Canavan asks.

  “Well, no,” the prince admits. “But I was hoping to spare her a train ride.”

  “A train ride,” Detective Canavan says drily. “Of course.”

  In the passenger seat beside the detective, a younger, heavier-set man, also dressed in plain clothes says, “But, Sarge, I thought you said Ms. Wells lives right around the—”

  “Turner, remember what we discussed? When I need your opinion, I will ask for it.” Canavan puts the unlit cigar in his mouth. “Wells,” he says to me. “This is your lucky day. You got multiple grown men”—he eyes Rashid—“ . . . well, semigrown men, anyway—vying for the chance to drive you home and spare you a train ride. Who’s it gonna be, me or these mutts?”

  The prince raises his own eyebrows, which are neither shaggy nor gray. “I beg your pardon?” He’s not used to being called a mutt, which is police slang for a generally unpleasant individual.

  “Gosh, Detective,” I say, batting my eyelashes. “You know I’m the kind of girl who can never resist an invitation to ride in a real undercover police car.”

  I grab the handle to the rear passenger door and slide into the Vic, my heart still thumping at my narrow escape.

  Canavan looks at the prince and says conversationally, “Kid, don’t take it personally. She’s got a thing for cops. In fact,
she’s marrying a PI in a few weeks.”

  “PI?” I hear Rashid echo. Between “mutts” and “PI,” his head is probably spinning.

  It could be my imagination, but as I settle into the back of the unmarked patrol car and slip on my seat belt, I notice Hamad’s gaze seeming to burn into me.

  Maybe it’s not my imagination, though. A second later, the bodyguard steps off the curb and strides toward the car, thrusting an index finger passionately in Rashid’s direction.

  “Mutt? Mutt? Do you have any idea to whom you are speaking?” he demands of Detective Canavan. “This man is the Crown Prince Rashid Ashraf bin Zayed Sultan Faisal, the most sovereign heir to the kingdom of Qalif, and you will address him with the respect he—”

  “Aw, zip it,” Detective Canavan growls, and puts his foot on the gas pedal at the same time as he lays his finger on the control button of his window, closing it on Hamad’s temper tantrum.

  The Crown Vic slides smoothly out into the traffic on Washington Square West, leaving the bodyguard behind, shaking his fist at us in anger.

  “Nice to see you’re still doing such a swell job with customer service at the dorm there, Wells,” Canavan observes. “Probably going to win employee of the year. Or what’s that thing they give you administrators? A crocus award?”

  “Pansy. And in case it wasn’t clear, that was the crown prince of Qalif,” I say. “His dad, General Sheikh Mohammed bin Zayed Sultan Faisal, donated five hundred million bucks to the school.”

  “Oh, well, la-di-da,” Canavan says, holding his cigar out like it’s a teacup, one pinkie raised. “What the hell was all that back there?”

  “It looked like the A-rab was trying to stuff her into the Escalade,” Turner says helpfully, “and she didn’t want to go. Probably going to force her into one of those sex-slave rings, or a harem, like in that Liam Neeson movie Taken.”

  “Once again, when one of your brilliant insights is needed, Turner, I will ask for it,” Canavan declares, “but not before. I was asking the girl.”

  “Sorry, Sarge,” Turner mumbles.

  “I’m not entirely sure what that was about,” I admit. “It could have been simple overzealousness, or it could have been something more. I want you to know, though, that I had the situation completely under control.”

  Canavan’s only reply is a grunt that he somehow manages to fill with skepticism.

  “I did,” I insist.

  “Sure you did, Wells.”

  “Whatever,” I say. “So how did you happen to come driving by? It seems a little coincidental.”

  “It wasn’t. Your boyfriend, Cartwright, called me and said I was going to hear from you, but that if I didn’t, I should go check on you, since you were probably in trouble. Given that we at the New York City Police Department have nothing better to do all day but jump at the command of every two-bit private eye in town, I hightailed it over here to save your ass, as I am wont to do on what is becoming a regular basis. And what do I find, but that you are, indeed, in trouble. You, Wells, are what we in the force like to call a shitkicker. If there’s any shit around, I always seem to find you in the middle, kicking it.”

  I’m torn between righteous indignation over Detective Canavan calling Cooper a two-bit private eye, me a shitkicker, and the idea that I’d need rescuing in the first place.

  Although the overwhelming sensation I’m feeling is waves of love toward Cooper for having done such a dopey, masculine, wonderful thing like call in the cavalry to come rescue me when he himself couldn’t be there to do the job. I fish in my purse for my cell phone, pull it out, discover that I’ve left it turned off all afternoon, turn it back on, and text Cooper:

  So you called Canavan to come rescue me? You’re going to get a lot more than a finger sandwich when you get home. Love you, you big lug.

  I push send before I remember I still don’t know what a finger sandwich is (sexually).

  “First of all,” I say to Canavan, from the backseat, “I am perfectly capable of looking out for myself. Secondly—”

  “It’s a good thing we came looking for you,” Canavan’s seemingly irrepressible trainee interrupts. “We almost had another body on our hands.”

  “Turner,” Canavan says, in a warning tone.

  “Oh, come on,” I say. “Hamad wasn’t actually trying to kill me. The prince wouldn’t have allowed it. I don’t think so, anyway. And besides, I was ready to give that guy my patented Heather Wells chop to the shins—”

  “I didn’t mean you, Miss Wells,” Turner interrupts again. “I meant the kid from the student center, what’s his name, again, Sarge? Ripley something or other?”

  I feel a cold grip on my spine. “Cameron Ripley, the editor of the New York College Express? He’s dead?”

  “Dammit, probie,” Canavan grumbles. “How many times do I have to tell you to keep your fat yap shut?”

  “Sorry, Sarge.” Turner looks guilty-faced.

  “What are you two talking about?” I demand, my heart in my throat.

  “Cartwright told us about the little visit you paid to Ripley earlier today, and the tip you gave him, about how the last person who leaked intel about the prince to the school paper ended up dead,” Canavan explains. “So we contacted campus security, told them they might want to keep an eye on the kid. Unfortunately, the rent-a-cop got there a little late. Kid had already been strangled. Sorry, Wells. Like I said, you’re a shitkicker.”

  22

  An invitation to a wedding invokes more trouble

  than a summons to a police court.

  William Feather

  I feel a sudden urge to vomit, even though it’s been hours since I had anything to eat, and then it was only tiny pieces of bread with delicate slices of salmon between them.

  “Stop the car,” I say, reaching woozily for the door handle. “I need to get out now.”

  It’s only when the door won’t open that I remember I’m in a police car, even if it’s an unmarked one. Of course the door won’t open.

  The backseat of police cars is for suspects.

  “What’s going on here?” I demand. “Am I under arrest? I didn’t hurt that boy. What happened to him wasn’t my fault!”

  Except that it was. Cooper tried to warn me.

  Now Cameron Ripley is dead, and his only friend in the world, a baby rat, will die of starvation because no one else will be kindhearted enough to leave slices of pizza lying around for him.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Canavan notices my frenzied attempts to escape in his rearview mirror. “I said the kid was strangled, not dead. He’s up at Mount Sinai. He’s in serious, but stable, condition.”

  I quit pounding on the door handle and sink back against the seat, my heart slowing its riotous beating.

  “Oh,” I say, relief pouring over me. “Well, why didn’t you say that?”

  “I did,” Canavan says crankily. “Strangled doesn’t mean dead. Did I say dead? No, I did not. Kid had a cord wrapped around his neck pretty tightly, cutting off his windpipe, so he’s not going to be doing any swallowing—much less talking—for a while, but he’s going to be all right eventually. Now why don’t you tell me just what in the hell is going on over there at that lunatic asylum where you work. Your husband-to-be wasn’t too clear when he called. But that’s probably because he seemed to think you were in mortal danger, and he’s stuck somewhere in traffic uptown.”

  This only partly explains why Cooper hasn’t called me in so long, I think, pulling out my cell phone again and checking it for a return text.

  Nothing. But this isn’t so unusual, I assure myself. Cooper would never talk or text on a cell phone while driving.

  Still, you’d think someone convinced I’m in “mortal danger” would have texted, or even left a voice mail, earlier in the day to that effect.

  Quickly I fill in the detective on the addition of Prince Rashid to Fischer Hall’s student population, and the subsequent death of Jasmine Albright, and the determination by the U.S. State
Department that the investigation into the case be handled by them, and not the NYPD.

  “Can they do that?” asks Detective Turner, Canavan’s newly assigned, much younger, and much less cynical “probie” (detective-in-training, still under probation).

  “They can do whatever they want,” Canavan mutters as he drives. “It’s the government.”

  “But they can’t possibly argue that Cameron’s attempted murder falls under the purview of the State Department,” I say. “Prince Rashid’s room isn’t anywhere near the student center. And they can’t know why someone wanted him dead, unless they’ve figured out, like we did, that Jasmine was the leak. Have they?”

  “Do I look like a guy who’s got connections with the U.S. State Department?” Detective Canavan demands. With his half-chewed cigar hanging from one side of his mouth, he looks more like a guy who’s got connections with the Mob.

  “What did Cameron say he saw when you questioned him?” I ask.

  “Didn’t you hear what I said?” Canavan sounds annoyed. “That kid’s not going to be talking for a month. His windpipe was practically severed. Whoever strangled him knew what they were doing. The hospital’s got him so doped up on painkillers, you could ask him if the sky is green and he’d write yes! on the dry-erase board they’ve given him to communicate. Nobody’s going to get anything useful out of that kid for days.”

  “Well, what about the security guard?” I ask. “Did the security guard see anyone fleeing the premises when he found Cameron?”

  “Fleeing the premises?” Detective Canavan echoes sarcastically. “Have you been watching Castle again?”

  “It’s a reasonable question,” I say. “And Castle’s a very good show.”

  “When Security Officer Wynona Perez—it was a female guard—exited the elevator to the student center’s fourth floor,” Detective Turner says, reading from notes he’d evidently taken on his iPhone, “she found the door to the New York College Express ajar, and the victim, Cameron Ripley, on the floor, apparently having been dragged from his desk chair by his headphones, the cord to which had been wrapped around his neck twice and tightened until he lost consciousness. The offices of the Express had been ransacked, pizza boxes and empty soda containers thrown across every surface—”