THE HONOR BOUND GROOM

by Jennifer Greene

  She had to catch him.

  He whipped across the street against a red light, dodging cars, making brakes screech and horns blare. She whipped after him, screaming for help, screaming for her daughter. A red van almost hit her; she crashed into an older woman shopper laden with packages. Tears blinded her eyes, frantic, infuriating tears that affected how clearly she could see, and he was gaining yards on her. Her three-inch heels were slowing her down; she kicked them off and kept chasing him, ignoring the bite and scrapes of concrete on her stocking feet.

  Strangers stopped, obviously confused by the reason for a woman running hell-bent for leather down the city streets—maybe they would have helped, but their stopping only impeded her trying to duck and dodge around them. The man turned a corner, ran down an alley between tall concrete buildings, then clambered around another corner. When she caught up, her lungs were heaving and the stitch in her right side cut like a knife … but suddenly he was gone.

  No sign of him. Nothing. There were buildings everywhere. Street traffic. A taxi zooming past, pedestrians staring at her—but no blond man with a pink blanket flapping behind him. Dozens of doors lined the street, doors to businesses and stores and everything else—he had to have gone in one of them, but which? A wrong guess could mean the difference in her baby's life. A wrong guess could mean…

  Fear clenched her heart in a tight fist of agony. A stranger had Annie. A kidnapper. Her worst fear, Mac's worst fear … and nothing in life could have given her a more unbearable punch in the soul.

  She had to find their baby.

  She had to.

  * * *

  Mac had a meeting with four men in the office when his secretary poked her head in. "I need you, Mr. Fortune."

  Mac promptly excused himself and followed her into the outer office. "What's wrong?"

  "I don't know." He knew there was trouble—she'd never have interrupted him otherwise. But in the ten years they'd worked together, he'd never heard Ellen's voice quiver or seen her hands shaky. "Something is. George is beside himself … I've got him on line one—"

  "George?" He was already reaching for the phone

  "George, the security guard in the parking lot…"

  The instant she identified which George she meant, Mac's heart started to slam. And then he heard the guard's croaking voice. "Somebody got your baby, Mr. Fortune. I got a look at him. I got the cops called right away. I saw it all. I was right here when Mrs. Fortune drove in, watching for her so I could walk her in, you know, like we set up. Only I was on the phone, and she hadn't parked yet so I'd know where she'd be, because I would have headed right for her, only it all happened so fast—"

  "George—" The guard was talking so fast he was stuttering.

  "Your cousin was right here in the lot, going to lunch, saw it, too, went after him, too … but Mrs. Fortune, she was really running, and the other Mr. Fortune, he stopped like I did, thinking to call the cops, and she was out of sight so fast. And I'm so sorry I'm sick. I swear I was watching for her, and I wasn't that far away, and there were people all over the place, company people. Nobody'd be so crazy to kidnap a baby in broad daylight in front of everyone like that and I just—"

  "George. Stop. Take a breath. Where is my wife?"

  "I don't know, sir. She's gone. She just tore after him ain't nobody was gonna stop her. I yelled out, so did Sam Johnson, you know the chemist who works up on three, but I'm telling you, nobody could have made her stop. I— Oh, I see the cops pulling in right now—"

  "Tell the police everything you know. Don't wait. Don't wait for anything. Get them going after her. And I'll be right there."

  In every life crisis Mac had been through, he'd turned cool and controlled. Battering down the hall, down the elevator, blasting through the side door to the parking lot, he couldn't get to that steel layer of cool. It seemed as if something hot and acid was pumping through his lungs. He could breathe it. Guilt. Blame. Scissoring up to the surface like a volcanic fissure that was cracking at the seams. Cracking him. At his seams.

  He couldn't survive if something happened to Kelly and the baby. Not a chance. Not a prayer. He couldn't lose her. He couldn't lose either of them.

  A thousand pictures replayed in his mind in those seconds he was charging toward the cop cars and uniforms and people milling around and George. Their wedding night, when she'd offered him a chaste kiss that rocked his world. Her blubbering when she couldn't tie her shoe laces. The radiance in her face when she'd cradled the newborn Annie in her arms. Her politely explaining the need for her hugs, her yelling, "Mac, you're home!" as she hurled around a corner, her singing off-key when she made cookies. Her buttery-soft laughter in the darkness, making love with her in the tub, making her come alive, watching his love turn sultry and sassy and sky-high on her newfound feminine powers. And that first night, her so like a virgin, trembling in that black satin nightgown, when he'd felt like a trembling virgin himself when he realized what he'd unleashed…

  "Mr. Fortune?" The sea of people let him through—there wasn't anyone on the property who didn't know him. Except for the gray-haired, barrel-shaped cop who immediately stepped toward him. "I'm Detective Spaulding—Henry Spaulding."

  Mac never had to say, "Find my wife. Find my baby." The detective was already reeling off what they were doing. State, city, county cops contacted. Every free man mobilized. Four cops already on foot, on the trail. Every second counted, but they had a lot going for resolving this—how fast they'd been able to move, how many witnesses had seen the man, that he was on foot. And he'd be noticeable, running with a baby.

  "But just in case…" The detective started to say.

  Mac already had a thousand "just in cases" threatening to erupt that volcano of fear inside him. "I want the media contacted. Show a picture of the baby. Flash it on every local news—now, while there's a chance he's still out there and people have seen him. And an appeal. He's a kidnapper. He wants money. He can have everything I've got. I just want them back safe—"

  "I hear you, Mr. Fortune, but—"

  He couldn't slow down. As long as he was thinking, acting, the red-hot panic couldn't erupt inside him. "I can add men to this. We've used private security services for years. Gabe Devereaux is the best—and I don't know what you need, a place to set up an information base? Pictures? Manpower? Whatever it is, I don't care, I can make it happen—"

  "Mr. Fortune—"

  "Don't try telling me to sit still and stay out of this," Mac said fiercely. "I can't sit. I can't wait. And I'm not the kind of average Joe who's going to fall apart on you. I know what a crisis is. I know how to pull people together. I can organize anything you want organized I can get as many people here as you can use. You just have to tell me how to work with the police effort, how it's done, how you set up phone lines and everything else—"

  The detective's face reflected so much empathy that Mac understood he was talking too fast, too wild. But his heart was roaring in his ears, his stomach clenched like barbed wire. He slammed a fist into his palm. "I need my wife. I need you to find her. Not tomorrow, not in an hour. Now, right now. I need to know the son of a bitch hasn't gotten her, too."

  "We have no reason to think he has her—"

  "That's not good enough!"

  "I've got two daughters, sir. I'd be just as scared as you are. But I really want you to come inside with me and sit down. Just for a minute," the detective urged him.

  "I can't sit. There has to be something I can do—"

  "Mr. Fortune, all the things you were talking about … you're thinking good ideas, and we may do all of them. The power you've got in this city could make a difference. But right now … you have to realize it's too soon. Everyone's goal is the same—to catch this guy while the trail's hot, and there are cops on that right now. But there's been no possible time for them to report back. Once we know more about what the situation is, then we can do that organizing, do a plan. No one is going to cut you out. But the best help you can be for the nex
t few minutes is just to take a time-out and get a grip."

  He couldn't get a grip. Because the other memory lodged in his brain like a bullet wound was the night he'd proposed to Kelly. The night she'd been attacked … in this exact same parking lot … and had come running into the building, crying for help and barreling straight into him.

  Something in his blood had ignited that night. It wasn't about her being a vulnerable, pregnant woman in trouble. It wasn't about his feeling a family responsibility because of his brother's putting Kelly in a dangerous, vulnerable position. Mac had told himself those things because they were true. They were facts. They were reasons. They were nothing.

  It was always her. Those killer-soft blue eyes. That silver-blond hair. The way she reached for him.

  He hadn't been in love with her then. Hell, Mac didn't know what love was, then, or for a while into the marriage, either. There was always just something there, that never existed until he met her. Something in him that tugged and troubled and unsealed some rusty emotional lock that Mac hadn't even known needed a key.

  Pain clawed at him. It had taken him forever to figure out he loved her more than life. But for a man who had never broken a promise, a man of honor, a man who had never failed anyone before … he'd only made one promise to Kelly.

  To keep her and the baby safe.

  And he'd failed her.

  The April sun beat down. The detective took off; one cop car left the scene; another one drove in. People still milled around; the remaining police were going through witnesses who had seen Kelly, seen the man take off with the baby. Questions were painstakingly the same—what everyone looked like, what they were wearing—every bystander probed for any further details they might remember. Someone tried to put a foam mug of his coffee in his hand, but he didn't want it.

  He couldn't remember feeling more useless, more worthless. He told himself to mentally organize all the things he could put in motion at the next stage of this, yet he couldn't seem to force himself to move. The parking lot was where Kelly and the baby had last been. These people the last ones who had seen them. He was just a husband—of no account; he hadn't seen anything, couldn't contribute anything. But they had a tie to Kel, to Annie. In his own head, he knew it was crazy, but he didn't want to leave the spot as long as anyone who had last seen Kelly and the baby were still there.

  And then a cop car suddenly bounced into the lot, its light flashing but no siren on. The back passenger door opened … and there she was. Kelly, spilling out. No shoes, stockings in shreds. A navy blue dress that hugged her figure and showed off a bloody scraped knee. Her hair was all tangled, mascara tearstains shadowed her cheeks; her face was whiter than paper and there were a hundred years of terror in her eyes.

  Guilt roared through him like a freight train. It was because of his failure that she looked like this, was going through this. But he corked up that shame. That was his soul problem, not hers.

  He tried to reach her faster than the speed of sound. But there was an instant when her eyes darted from face to face. She spotted him, not George, not the other cops, not anyone else. And she barreled toward him as if she had that other night, as if he was the one man she really trusted that she could count on.

  She was crying even before she hurled herself into his arms. "I couldn't run fast enough, Mac. I couldn't keep up and I lost him. He's got our baby. He's—"

  "It's okay, it's okay…" The words were lies—Mac didn't know if anything was okay, if anything would ever be okay again. But she was shuddering and shaking from fear and shock and stress. He wrapped his arms around her, warmed her, and steered her away from prying eyes. She needed immediate care.

  For the moment, that was all he could do.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  «^

  Kelly knew she was strung tight enough to snap. They'd been home for an hour now. Too long. Every second of waiting dragged out like a year of torture, but so far there was no news. The police wanted the two of them settled at home, because this was the obvious place where the kidnapper would try to contact them. Only all this inactivity of waiting felt as if she was doing nothing for Annie. She couldn't stand it.

  When Mac suddenly showed in the library doorway—carrying a sloshing pan of hot water and a bottle of antiseptic—she wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. "Aw, Mac. I can't sit. Much less sit and soak my feet. Not at a time like this!"

  "Yeah, I figured you'd give me an argument." He set down the pan and a giant towel on the Oriental rug in front of the couch. Then came over to press a kiss on the top of her head. "But you can't keep pacing around on those bloody feet, Tiny. I hate to tell you this, but they're a mess."

  "I don't care about my damn feet!"

  "I know you don't." Another kiss, intended to coax her into sitting on the couch. And when she finally plunked down, he shifted behind her, his big strong hands kneading her shoulders and the tight knots in her neck. "There's only one thing on either of our minds. And nothing's going to get better or easier until we hear something. But those cuts and blisters aren't a joke, Kel. I know you don't want me to call a doctor—"

  "No doctor," she said adamantly.

  "And I know you're not willing to be upstairs in the tub or shower when the phone could ring—"

  "No way."

  "So I'd just soak 'em for five minutes. That's all. Enough to get some disinfectant working. Okay?"

  Nothing was okay. They both knew nothing was okay. But she put her bruised and blistered feet into the water, because he'd gone to the trouble of bringing it … the same way he'd brought her a hot mug of tea earlier, as thick as sludge with sugar, which he'd said she needed for shock.

  Mac had been taking care of her nonstop, when she knew he was going through the same hell that she was. Except for the two policemen in the kitchen, they were alone in the house. The cops had been messing with the phone lines and setting up some kind of taping device. But now, they were just sitting and mainlining coffee and were stuck waiting for the next news, no different than she and Mac.

  But it wasn't their baby who was lost. The hot tea and the disinfectant soak were no help. But Mac's warm, kneading hands on her shoulders and neck seeped some strength into her. His gentle voice and quietly taking charge and caring for her darn near broke her heart. He just kept doing things to help her get a grip.

  Screaming and crying was hardly going to help. Neither was panicking. No matter what, they had to keep their heads. They had to be ready to think if the kidnapper called. They had to be smart enough, sharp enough, to respond to whatever the situation was in a way that would get Annie back to them safely.

  Mac's fingers kept gently working on the impossible knots in her neck. Those knots weren't going to give, she knew. Not as long as their baby was in the hands of a stranger. But the connection she felt to Mac, his warmth, his touch, his being with her, meant everything.

  "We'll get her back," she said.

  "I know we will."

  "It all just happened. It hasn't even been seven hours. And every cop in the city's on top of it. We'll get her back."

  "I know we will." His voice was quiet and sure, exactly what she needed to hear. And then he dropped his hands from her shoulders. "Okay. Let's see those feet, Tiny."

  She lifted one dripping foot, then the other. Mac winced when he hunched down and got a look at the scrapes and sores, but she wasn't paying attention. She was looking at him. His skin was gray, his eyes ancient, his face carved in austere lines of control. She understood he was holding all his fears on the inside. She understood that Mac had ways of coping that weren't like hers, but she was aware he hadn't let her be there for him. Not like the brick he was being for her.

  The phone suddenly rang. The sound hit both of them like an electric shock. There were receivers all over the house, but they weren't supposed to touch any telephone until the cops had given them the okay, so they both bolted at the same time for the kitchen.

  Henry Spaulding, the burly gray-
haired detective, almost collided with them coming through the doorway. "We've got her!" It was the first smile she'd seen on the man's face; she didn't know he could. "Your baby. She's okay. Perfectly okay—"

  "You're sure?" God, a choke welled in her throat even thicker than the tears of relief.

  "Positive. I promise. She's okay."

  Mac grabbed her and hugged, his fingers tight enough to bite. "Where is she?"

  "On her way. Be here in fifteen minutes," Henry assured them. "The kidnapper … we don't have him in custody yet, but we've got a bead. And we know who he is, Rawlin White, twenty-nine, lost a kid and a wife three years ago. Cracked up, hospitalized, got out. He was picked up last year on a complaint—a woman in a park with her baby said this guy scared her, wouldn't leave the baby alone. Another call two months ago, about him hanging around a preschool, not doing anything, just wouldn't leave. Anyway. The description was so right it rang a bell for Smythe—one of the cops, who handled the first mom's complaint. Nothing is one hundred percent until we get him, but the details all play, and so, he likely didn't plan any kidnapping, more like saw a chance to grab a baby and did. He's not dealing from a full deck, but if it'll relieve your mind any, it wasn't likely he meant to harm your baby. More like he's obsessed with the one he lost."

  "Annie—" Mac prompted him.

  "Yeah, you want to know how it went down … well, seems she started crying. Crying so loud she was drawing attention. Panicked him. He put her down and ran. Like I said, we haven't got him yet. But a woman called from an office building, the one who saw him, saw him put down the baby. She's a grandma herself, called 911, took the baby into her office until the officers got there…"

  There was more, but Kelly just couldn't listen any longer. She was waiting, waiting, at the open front door when the police car pulled in. Before the woman police officer carrying the baby even stepped out, Kelly was hurling herself toward the car. Annie was crying. Furious, hungry cries. Furious, hungry, healthy cries. Nothing had ever sounded so good in her entire life.