The Wedding Necklace

by Adrianne Lee

  Lyssa had no idea how much time had passed, but the nerve-racking search was wearing her out. She’d found no trace of the missing necklaces. If they were in this house, they weren’t in the bedrooms. She headed into the living room and contemplated the shrouded furnishings. The wind wailed against the house like a tortured creature crying for mercy, and for the first time in her long ordeal, she felt as though she might break down and cry, too.

  A sudden lull in the storm coincided with the sound of a key in the front door. Blood froze in Lyssa’s veins. Panic climbed into her throat, then she realized it had to be Craig Rival. The maniac didn’t know her whereabouts. Just the same, she couldn't be found here by Wayne’s nephew. He’d toss her out on her ear, and she’d never retrieve her grandmother’s necklace.

  The door swung open, and she hit the floor behind the sofa and slipped the sheet over herself.

  Craig dropped his suitcase and a tiny grocery sack to the floor, shook the rain from his hair like a wet dog, and kicked the door shut. Whatever David’s reason for making himself scarce, he was to be alone. Before he left for the funeral he wanted to reacquaint himself with Windance.

  He let his gaze roam the entry way. Confirmation of Lyssa Carlyle’s attack on him remained clearly in evidence: the sheet that had covered the trestle table and antique bench heaped against the floorboards and the swept-up pile of broken Dresden vase in the corner. Ironically, someone had returned the throw rug to its rightful place.

  An image of Lyssa Carlyle flashed into his mind again, highlighted by her arresting sea-green eyes, startling him, pulling a wealth of irrational emotions through him. What was it about this woman that he couldn’t get her out of his mind? Why did he long to see her again, to talk to her, to know that she was safe?

  The storm battered the house, sending a chill to his bones. He switched on the electric thermostat and moved into the living room. The window shades blocked his view of the wicked weather and cast spectral shadows over the sheet clad furniture. Craig drew a deep breath, re-familiarizing himself with the special scent of his lifelong home. He could almost swear that he smelled a faint, lingering aroma of “sea monster.”

  Oddly enough, however, there was not the damp, musty smell he would have expected in a beach house that had been closed for a year. It appeared someone had used the house in his absence as Ms. Carlyle claimed. If not Wayne, then who? Stacey?

  Deciding to check his utility bills the first chance he got, Craig strode across the room and worked the Levolur cords one by one until all five plate glass windows were uncovered and the storm was in full view.

  Lyssa cowered against the couch, afraid to breathe. Dust tickled her nose. She felt a sneeze building and struggled to stifle it.

  Craig stared at the violent waves and thought of another September day on the Canal, a day of warm blue skies and slate smooth water, a day for father and son to strengthen their bond, a perfect day, until his father had drowned.

  God, how he missed his dad. He shoved away from the windows and began stripping the sheets from the furniture.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A woman huddled behind the sofa, gaping up at Craig.

  Craig jolted back, his heart skipping dangerously. “What the--?”

  Strands of the woman’s long golden hair stood out, static-charged from the friction of removing the sheet. Horror spread across her face.

  Those sea green eyes. Lyssa Carlyle! What in the hell was she doing back in his home?

  Before he could ask, she leaped to her feet, screaming and swinging her fists, swatting aside his attempts to grab her. Good God! She still thought he was the maniac who'd tried to kill her. “Wait! I’m not--”

  Her knee rocketed toward his groin. Craig jerked back. The blow landed off center. Craig grunted, doubling over.

  Lyssa ran for the foyer.

  Clumsily, Craig followed. “Ms. Carlyle! I’m not the one who tried to kill you!”

  She kept running. She charged through the foyer into the kitchen and grasped the door knob just as Craig caught up. He snapped his arms crisscrossed over her upper torso, locked his hands above each wrist and hauled her roughly to him.

  She fought like a rabid squirrel, kicking and shrieking. “No, no, please don't hurt me.”

  “I’m not going to harm you in any way. I promise. I am Craig Rival. And this time I have my wallet to prove it.”

  The thunderstorm outside was less fierce than the conflict inside. Lyssa’s continued struggles told Craig he wasn’t getting through to her. No doubt shock.

  Fearing he was bruising her, Craig nonetheless bundled her back to the living room and dropped her onto the sofa. They were both breathing hard. The exertion had started his head pounding like a devilish drumbeat. Ignoring it, Craig plopped on top of her, straddling her legs with his, pinning her beneath him, clamping her wrists over her head with one hand. She bucked, trying to throw him. Her ear shattering scream found new life. “Shut up!” He reached behind him to grab his wallet from his pants pocket.

  Taking advantage, Lyssa lurched to her left, pulling him off balance. Craig swore. Then, yanked her back into an upright position and rammed his driver's license under her nose. “Look. See what it says? Craig Rival.”

  Blinking with terror--her lungs struggling to pull in tiny chirps of breath--Lyssa stared at the license. The words swam before her eyes. Five seconds passed before the name registered. Craig Rival. She gazed from the man to the picture. Three times. It was one of the few flattering auto license photographs she'd ever seen, and left absolutely no doubt--the handsome man pinning her to the couch was Craig Rival, Wayne's nephew.

  Her heartbeat faltered and her breath hitched as she lifted her gaze to Craig. There wasn't a fleck of murderous intent or innate madness in his black-brown eyes. Only concern. And compassion. Reality hit her like a gust of cold wind; this man hadn't tried to kill her. A dry sob racked her, then another and another until she was overcome with them.

  With a relieved sigh, Craig felt the rigidity drain from his tensed muscles. He released her and retreated to the cushion beside her, then pulled her close, gently this time. Her body seemed all loose bone as she slumped against him. “I know, I know. You’ve had a hell of a time, but you’re safe now.”

  Safe. Yes, safe. Like a drowning woman who’d been thrown a life preserver, Lyssa suddenly grabbed for him, tunneling her arms beneath Craig’s jacket, encircling his lean waist, and digging her fingers into the folds of his silk shirt, burrowing her head against his muscled chest. In the security of his embrace, with his erratic heartbeat thrumming in her ears, she sobbed, letting out the fear and anger and relief that flowed forth like an untapped gusher.

  Resting his chin on her head, Craig stroked her heaving back and caressed her sun streaked hair. Gone was the sea monster stench. She smelled of shampoo, and felt as helpless and vulnerable as a child, a child Fate had thrust into his unwilling care. And yet a part of him was not reacting to her in any fatherly stretch of the imagination. What was it about her? He didn't know Lyssa Carlyle from Eve. Hell, he suspected her of the worst kind of duplicity, but even that didn’t lessen this almost obsessive concern for her he’d had since she’d cracked him on the head.

  He shifted his hands across her back, protectively, disturbed by the intangible bond he felt forging between himself and this woman. It wasn’t something he could hold in his hands and examine. Nonetheless it was as real as the Hope diamond--and he understood at least a part of it was rooted in the trauma they had shared, that terrifying, equalizing experience.

  Lyssa’s sobs quieted to a soft mewling, but she made no attempt to disengage herself. Apparently the close contact of a nonthreatening male was somehow comforting her. Craig had to admit being needed like this, if even momentarily, felt damned good.

  It was amazing. In less than twenty-four hours what he'd been through because of this woman had done for him what a whole year in Europe hadn’t: made him care whether or not he was alive. Even the thought of Wayne’s
funeral tomorrow no longer filled him with dread. Yes, he was alone, but he needn’t be lonely.

  Through the picture windows, he watched distant lightning bolts stab the choppy water. The storm was passing. He felt Lyssa’s shoulders quaver, heard her weary sigh, and knew the storm inside her was also abating.

  He looked down. She was gazing up at him with those sea green eyes that reminded him of hot, lazy nights walking the shores of the Mediterranean. His pulse skittered. She wore absolutely no makeup and, though her nose was red and her eyes and her mouth slightly swollen from crying, she was not in the least unattractive.

  In fact, just the opposite.

  Her mouth was pouty, the bottom lip fuller than the top, her nose narrow, straight, her eyes round, large, her best feature. She looked more teenager than woman, definitely not the sophisticated type he invariably preferred, and yet, there was no denying she had his heart beating faster.

  Lyssa pulled her gaze from Craig’s and shoved herself from his embrace. She ought to be highly embarrassed, clinging to him--a Rival of all people--as she had. But she wasn’t. Not in the least.

  Then, for the first time, she noticed his dirty shirt front and the sickeningly purple bruise on his forehead. A replay of all she had done and said to this man from their first encounter until now came back in a rush--the crack on his head, tying him up, having him arrested, kneeing him…The embarrassment she'd denied a moment ago attacked full force. Her face burned and she drew her hands to her mouth. “Oh, God! You must hate me. I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

  Craig’s grin was lopsided, endearing. “You pack quite a wallop, but the doc says I’ll be good as new in a week or so.”

  “I could have killed you,” she whispered, horrified at the realization.

  “Naw, it will take more than a Dresdan vase to crack open my thick skull.”

  Lyssa winced, guessing from the amused glint in his dark eyes that he was teasing her, using her own description of his head to lighten the seriousness of the situation.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” Craig said, gently moving a strand of her hair off her cheek. “In your place I’d have reacted much the same.”

  It didn’t make her feel better at all; she could have caused him permanent damage. However, he did look and sound sincere. Probably just being polite. Then again, why should he be? In spite of her scorn for the Rivals, she felt her bond with Craig tighten a notch. She owed him much--the least of which was an explanation. “He-he came back…whoever was after me…after the police took you away."

  Remembering his denial of this, Craig realized now that it was the only scenario that made any sense. “That’s what we feared when your clothes were still in my dryer.” Craig touched the sleeve of her sweater, vaguely recalling the one she’d worn the night before had been a dingy red. Obviously the same sweater, clean. He lifted his gaze to her face. “Did you see the man? Can you describe him for the police?”

  Lyssa shook her head, remembering the figure in the raincoat and hat, remembering her inability to tell if it was a man or a woman. “No. If I had I’d known you weren’t him.”

  “That’s all right.” Craig was struck with a sense of awe at the courage this woman possessed, at what it must have taken for her to return to this house. But what had brought her back? Surely it was more than the need to retrieve an oversized sweater and a pair of knee-ripped denims. The urge to ask was strong, but he sensed he’d better take it slow. “How did you get away?”

  Wringing her hands, Lyssa rapidly filled him in on the night of terror she’d somehow survived.

  “The police surmised something similar,” he informed her, impressed that she’d had the presence of mind, despite her terror, to escape.

  Lyssa’s stomach pinched. “Then you’ve spoken to the police this morning. H-have they caught whoever was after me?”

  Craig pressed his lips together, hating having to tell her, then finally admitted, “No.”

  She shuddered and hugged herself against a fresh onslaught of shivers.

  There were a dozen questions he wanted to ask, but not while she was still shaky. He ought to call the police, let them know she was alive and well, but that too would have to wait. He was going to have his answers first, before the police took over. Craig stood, the ache in his head now only a dull hum, and extended his hand. “Come on. I picked up some coffee and soup and sandwich makings on the way home. I’m starving, and I’ll bet you haven't eaten anything today.”

  Lyssa realized he was right. She had had a snack on the plane Thursday afternoon, but nothing since. She took his hand, expecting his brotherly concern to feel brotherly, but as she placed her calloused hand into his much smoother, much larger, and definitely much warmer one, she was unprepared for the almost electrical shock that raced up her arm.

  He retrieved a small brown paper bag from next to his suitcase and led her into the kitchen to the table that occupied the bay window. Craig removed his jacket and dropped it onto a chair. Rolling up his shirt sleeves, he said, “Sit.”

  Lyssa stared at his strong, tanned forearms, lightly furred with black hair. Disconcerted by her awareness of this man, she tugged her gaze away and settled into the chair with the best view of the Canal, the chair which over the past few months she'd come to think of as her own special one.

  First thing in the morning and on work breaks, she’d sought this spot, watching the ever active wonders of nature and feeling a soul-warming peace. Not now. Lyssa gazed out the window at the clearing sky and the smoothing water and felt like an alien in a world that only a week before had been her second home. How could one week make such a difference?

  The mouth watering smells of coffee and clam chowder intruded on her somber musing, once again drawing her attention to Craig. She was glad that that handsome face didn’t belong to a psycho, finding it harder by the moment to comprehend that she’d ever thought it could. But it was most difficult to imagine that Wayne and he had been uncle and nephew. There was not a shred of family resemblance. Wayne had been slight of build with hazel eyes and classic Scandinavian features, whereas Craig’s olive skin, his blue-black hair and regal nose hinted at Spanish ancestry.

  Her gaze roamed his long, lean body, wondering how she could ever have thought it average. Although his clothes were mussed and soiled, there was no mistaking the cut and quality, nor the fact that he appeared comfortable in business attire; the guys she knew would have changed into sweatsuits to cook. Not Craig. She had no trouble picturing him in a penthouse in Seattle with a panoramic view of Puget Sound, the hustle and bustle of the city the background music to the dynamic life he undoubtedly loved.

  Lyssa rolled her shoulders and thought about her own little house in Mesa, surprised that she didn't miss it. She’d spent most of the summer here, walking the beach, warm sand squishing between her bare toes and, until last night, she’d had grown to love the smell of salt water in her nose. Had even--now that her business was taking off--seriously considered relocating to one of the coastal cities, so she could build her own Windance.

  After last night the idea was less appealing.

  But what about Windance? Did it really belong to Craig, not Wayne? Recalling it now, she realized Wayne had always seemed out of place here. She couldn’t say the same of Craig; he wielded that wooden spoon as if he’d prepared more than one meal in this kitchen, and there was something about him as sturdy as the umber tile countertops, as bright as the chrome topped stove, and as natural as the hardwood floors.

  No, this man was not average. Men like Craig Rival stood out in crowds, possessing a magnetism that even rumpled clothing and domestic chores couldn’t conceal. She didn’t doubt he drew women like…like Kevin did.

  The thought of her ex-husband brought Lyssa lurching to her feet, scraping back her chair.

  The noise caught Craig’s attention. He turned toward Lyssa. Her face was pale again. He watched her cross to a bank of drawers and reach inside as though she knew this was where the silverware
was kept. Again, questions of her familiarity with his house begged to be asked. His hand gripped tighter on the wooden spoon. Patience, he warned himself. She was still too distressed, probably still thinking about her ordeal.

  Lyssa was still thinking about Craig…and Kevin. She caught hold of two teaspoons and two soup spoons, then went to the dish cupboard and brought Craig two cups and two bowls. He was looking at her oddly, his expression almost chagrined.

  Who knew what men like him thought about? For the past three years she had purposely avoided his type. Handsome men. Granted Craig wasn’t a male model like Kevin, but most good looking men had egos a mile wide that needed constant stroking from women. Lots of women. The image of Kevin in bed with her cousin darted into her mind, and Lyssa’s empty stomach pitched. Damn. The memory could still spoil her appetite. Not because she harbored any tender feelings for Kevin. She didn’t. But she never wanted to fall in love with another man who was even remotely like him.

  Tamping down the old resentment, Lyssa returned to her chair. Was it only Craig Rival’s handsome face that reminded her of Kevin? She set the spoons in place, thinking that something else had brought her ex-husband to mind. Something about Windance? Or Wayne? Something she ought to remember, but couldn’t.

  Well, perhaps it was just Craig…and his wild good looks that had triggered the comparison. She put a napkin in her lap. But why should she care if Craig was a lady killer? She’d only met the man. It couldn’t matter. But…somehow it did. Lord, this was crazy. Disastrous. The Rivals and the DeHavilands had been at odds for years. They had only one thing in common, and although it was a part of each of their family histories, their mutual desire for the Purity would never make them allies.

  Craig seemed to study her as he filled the bowls with chowder, the cups with coffee. He made two trips to the table, then finally sat opposite her. Almost immediately, her queasiness was conquered by the delicious aromas.

  Craig carried the conversation, keeping it light, comparing the richness of European cuisine with every bite of his canned clam chowder. He was rewarded to see her relax as she ate.