by Jean Barrett
Stuart had left with his father, who had arrived on the scene earlier this morning to lavish on his son the overdue, much-needed attention he deserved. Down the hall Chris was at the bedside of a conscious, rapidly recovering Allison, and refused to be separated from her. From the manner of his loving attention to her, Lane guessed that her friend would someday soon be married after all. Dorothy wasn’t being allowed any visitors yet, though her condition was improving hourly.
Which, Lane thought, leaves only me. Because Jack, who would have made a much better subject for this interrogation, had run out on her. And when she’d questioned the nurse at the station about his mysterious disappearance, she had been told he had mumbled something about “seeing her soon” as he strode out of the building. Nothing more.
Damn him, what had happened to him? Was he having second thoughts about them? Regretting his desire for a reconciliation? The possibility scared her. She needed an explanation, but the reporter was still waiting for the last answers she needed.
“There isn’t much left to tell,” Lane continued. “Dan intended to eliminate Allison. He realized, though, that if she alone died, as her heir to the island he’d be a prime suspect, even though the rest of her estate was to go elsewhere. But he could hide her death in a mass murder.”
“And blame it on someone else if they had a strong enough motive for killing all those people.”
“That’s where Chris Beaver came in,” Lane said. “Dan knew Chris had a reputation where Native American rights are concerned—and a hot temper. He’d make the perfect scapegoat, especially since Chris was so wild over his break with Allison.”
“So Judge Whitney made sure it was Chris, and not his brother, who was there for the weekend.”
“That’s right. Chris was meant to be the only survivor found on the island. They would have to assume he was guilty. A crazed Menominee who’d massacred everyone for their violations of the sacred caves and even struck his sister down when she tried to stop him.”
“And, of course,” Marsha noted, “Judge Whitney would be rescued from that fishing shanty on the ice to tell his own elaborate lies about the weekend.”
“After which,” Lane said, “he would have withdrawn the sale of the island to the state, pretending to be too devastated to deal with it, and then later when it was safe he would quietly turn it over to the developer.”
“He probably would have gotten away with it, too,” the reporter said. “That’s the chilling part. That and the knowledge that a reputable judge could have so cold-bloodedly sacrificed all those people.”
Lane nodded. “Where gain was concerned, Dan Whitney had no conscience. A truly evil man.”
Marsha closed her notebook and reached for her purse. Lane was relieved. The session was ending. She could concentrate on her concern over Jack. Deal with her fear that he was gone before she was able to tell him she loved him. Would that precious moment be denied to her now?
The reporter was gazing at her, seeing her troubled expression. “You must be glad to be off the island after all the tragedy you experienced there.”
Lane glanced at the anemic-looking poinsettia on the desk. It was as impersonal as the rest of the furnishings in the contemporary office. All of it seemed a bit strange to her after the remoteness of Thunder Island.
“I suppose that’s true,” she said. “But, you know, it’s funny. When they finally airlifted us off the island, I looked down and all I could think was how beautiful it is.”
“Probably a healthy way to remember it,” Marsha said.
She was getting into her coat and thanking Lane for the interview when a nurse entered the room.
“There’s a gentleman out at the desk who’s come to collect you, Ms. Eastman. Not looking too patient about having to wait for you, either.”
Jack! Lane thought excitedly. Jack had come back to get her!
She parted from the reporter with a quick goodbye and hurried along the corridor without a thought for her wounded thigh. But her elation vanished when she reached the front desk. It wasn’t Jack waiting there. It was a stranger. A stranger wearing, off all things, a chauffeur’s uniform.
“Ms. Eastman?”
“Yes.”
“Name is Oscar. I’m your driver.” He displayed his identification for her inspection.
“This is a mistake. I didn’t hire a driver.”
“Well, it was all arranged, Ms. Eastman.”
“By whom?”
“That I don’t know. Girl in our office took the call. All I know is to collect you and drive you over to the other side of town. Like I say, it’s all arranged and paid for.”
This didn’t make any sense. Unless...
“You need to check out first, Ms. Eastman?”
Lane shook her head. The hospital had already officially released her shortly after her treatment. “I do have a bag somewhere, though.”
“Already got it loaded in the car for you. Part of the instructions. You ready then, ma’am?”
He had her coat, too, and was holding it for her to slip into. A bit dazed by the situation, she put on the coat. Hope was competing now with bewilderment inside her head as she accompanied him out of the hospital.
She was astonished by the sight of the elegant Bentley limousine sitting at the curb. The driver opened the door for her, indicating a fully stocked bar.
“Help yourself to any of the refreshments,” he invited her. “All included in the service.”
Lane was too bemused to want anything but an explanation, but she figured she wouldn’t get one until they reached their destination. She settled herself on the soft leather seat, and a moment later they were smoothly under way.
A career in hotel management made her familiar with limousines, but she had never ridden in any as luxurious as this one. She was so busy admiring the interior that she forgot to ask the driver where they were going. When she did remember, they were already there.
The Bentley glided along a tree-lined driveway and stopped in front of one of those restored Victorian mansions known as painted ladies. The sign out front identified it as Hamilton House, a bed-and-breakfast inn.
The mystery deepened when Lane was met on the front porch by a smiling, silver-haired woman. “Welcome to Hamilton House, Ms. Eastman. I’m your hostess, Eve Lundstrom. No, don’t worry about your bag. Oscar will bring it up. I think you’ll like the rooms. Come on, I’ll show you.”
Lane was conducted into the house and up a magnificent winding stairway. At the top they paused in front of a door that already stood invitingly open.
“This is it.” Eve said brightly. “It’s all waiting for you inside. Enjoy your stay.”
As if that explained everything, Eve parted from her and retreated down the stairs. A little breathless now with anticipation, eager to learn exactly what was waiting for her inside, Lane stepped through the doorway.
She found herself in a sitting room lavishly furnished with antiques. There were tall windows and a marble fireplace where a wood fire burned cheerfully. Through an open door on the other side she glimpsed a massive four-poster.
All of it was a delightful surprise, but it was the centerpiece that deeply moved her. Mounted on a skirted table was a perfect little Christmas tree blazing with tiny candle-style lights. Shedding her coat, she moved slowly toward the tree. One of the old-fashioned ornaments suspended from a bough contained a music box mechanism softly tinkling, “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”
It was all crazy and sentimental, and it brought tears to her eyes.
A step sounded behind her, and she turned her head as Jack appeared from the bedroom where the driver was depositing her luggage. Jack watched her for a second, an anxious look on his handsome face. He waited until the driver had departed, then crossed the room to stand before her.
“Like it?” he asked.
If this had been a shabby motel room, it wouldn’t have mattered. She would have experienced the same surge of joy at the sight of him.
&nb
sp; “It’s wonderful, all of it.”
He grinned with relief and came to join her by the tree.
“But why?” she wondered.
“Because we missed the Christmas we should have had. The one that was supposed to be memorable because I was spending it with you. I didn’t want to be cheated of that, so we’re going to have Christmas here and now. All right?”
“Very all right.” Her gaze dropped to the colorfully wrapped gifts that were heaped at the base of the tree. “You’ve been busy.”
“Most of them are just empty packages I put there for effect,” he admitted. “Christmas isn’t Christmas without lots of presents. But there are a few of them that have goodies inside. You can open them up later. But there’s one I want you to unwrap now.”
He seized one of the packages and drew her to a window seat that overlooked a snow-covered lawn with a gazebo at one end.
“Sit,” he directed her, “and rest that leg.”
“The leg is fine,” she assured him.
But she settled gladly on the window seat, not for the sake of the leg but for the pleasure of having him sit close beside her. He put the package into her lap.
“Jack, I don’t have a thing for you.”
His grin was still in place, and there was a meaningful gleam in his blue eyes as he glanced in the direction of the four-poster in the adjoining bedroom. “Maybe you can improvise,” he suggested softly. “Say, between eggnog and Christmas dinner?”
The promise of sharing that four-poster with him conjured up lush images that made her weak with anticipation. But for now...
She began to unwrap the package while he happily watched. Under the ribbon and gold foil was a box. She removed the lid and parted the tissue, gazing in wonder at what was nested inside.
It was a finely crafted angel in a Renaissance style. She and Jack had had one very much like it on the tops of their Christmas trees when they were married. But the cherished ornament had been broken in a move, and before it could be replaced for the next holiday season, they were divorced.
“Oh, Jack,” she whispered. And that was all she could utter, because the catch in her voice prevented her from saying more.
The gift of the angel was a message that needed no explanation.
“It’s for us,” he said hopefully. “Not just to put at the top of this tree but for all the trees I want us to share after this one. That is, if you’ll have me again. Will you have me, Lane?”
Regaining a measure of self-control, she challenged him with a wry smile. “Are you proposing to me, Donovan?”
He nodded solemnly. “Guess you could say that’s what this is, Eastman. So, what do you think?”
“That I love you. There, I’ve been waiting since yesterday to get that out.”
“Told you you did. And what else?” he coaxed.
“Uh, I missed you and was lonely without you?”
“Ah, that’s what I’ve been waiting for. But just to keep this thing in balance...”
“Yes?”
He lifted his hands to frame her face on either side. “I love you, Mrs. Donovan. All right, so I’m being premature. But, damn, it feels good to say that again. I plan to say it a lot. Plan to do this a lot, too.”
His mouth settled on hers in a deep, prolonged kiss that expressed more profoundly than words the shared joy of their new beginning together.
But it was a beginning not without challenges, and Lane knew that the time had come to deal with the first of them. “Now, about this baby,” she began when his mouth finally parted from hers.
“Sweetheart, no. We don’t have to have a baby. As long as I have you, and we’re together—”
“No deal, then,” she informed him crisply.
He gazed at her, his smile slow and definitely carnal. “Suppose we negotiate that subject.”
“Between eggnog and Christmas dinner,” she agreed, thinking of the four-poster that was waiting for them in the next room.
“Maybe even before then.” He took her hand and held it, his manner turning sober again. “Lane, are you still scared? About us, I mean.”
She considered his concern, then shook her head confidently. “Not anymore. We can’t fail this time. We’ve got too much going for us. Oh, look, even the weather is on our side!”
They turned their heads to the window behind them where snowflakes were beginning to drift past the glass. Lane considered it the perfect touch.
“Merry Christmas, Jack.”
“Merry Christmas, love.”
He went on holding her hand as they watched the falling snow, which was beginning to collect on the roof of the gazebo. Lane discovered there was something that still worried him, though, when he turned to her and frowned.
“The one thing is, Eastman, I can’t promise you I won’t go on protecting you.”
Lane thought about that for a minute. “That’s all right, Donovan,” she assured him. “It won’t be one-sided. This time, we’ll take care of each other.”
ISBN: 978-1-4592-8394-7
White Wedding
Copyright © 1995 by Robert L. Rogers
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