CINDERELLA BRIDE

by Monica McLean

  "That's why I asked."

  "Carter, why?" Marly tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling. "Why is he doing this?" Her voice wavered, and Carter gathered her into his arms. She sagged against him, more tired than she had felt in a long, long time.

  "Because he's a thug. And that's what thugs do. They find your weak spot, and they exploit it."

  "Oh, God." She pulled back and stared into Carter's eyes. "Don't you see what this means? My kids, my center, you… You're all in danger because of me."

  "Now, wait just a minute. Let's not forget that you have the upper hand here."

  She shook her head, burying her face against his shirt. "If I have the upper hand, why do I feel like some sort of puppet?"

  Carter cleared his throat. "Mrs. King, if you would look up for just a moment." When she complied, he continued, "You are the strongest woman I have ever known, and I mean that. I seriously doubt you could ever be anyone's puppet. Don't let Billy Ray Cameron get away with this." He said the words slowly, with deliberate enunciation. "Please, sweetheart. Just say the word. If you go to the police, you can crush him with your pinkie."

  "Oh, Carter. I wish it were that simple."

  "It may not be simple, but it's reality. That bastard isn't going to touch one precious hair on your head, Marly. I won't let him. I swear it."

  "I believe you," she whispered, lifting her face to stare up into Carter's. He was a strong, powerful man, but he was also compassionate, honest and fiercely loyal. He expected the truth from his wife, and he deserved nothing less.

  How she wanted to tell him. It was ripping her apart to look into his eyes day after day and to have to lie to him. She trusted him on so many levels, yet she couldn't trust him with the truth of her identity. To do so would have proved the ultimate test of faith, but Marly's faith had been tested enough for one lifetime. She wasn't a cat with eight more lives to spare.

  She watched a myriad of emotions flicker across Carter's face before he chased them all away. She could sense him abandoning some resolve and knew he was going kiss her. She rose on her tiptoes to meet his lips, threading her hands through his hair as she held him to her, savoring his touch, his taste and everything that was Carter.

  She sensed tension in his muscles, taut beneath her fingertips, but he started to loosen up gradually as she kissed him long and deep. And then his hands were moving, first meandering and then with purpose, rubbing her arms, her back, her bottom.

  Every place he touched fueled a pulsating need inside her. It grew and grew, until she literally ached inside, as if her body were crying out for him, pleading for him, yearning for him to fill her and make her whole again. What had Carter awakened in her? What switch had he flipped that made her want him so desperately? Whenever she kissed him, she forgot herself. She lost herself in him.

  "Marly," Carter groaned, and she could not mistake the agony in his voice.

  Did the same feelings rivet through his body, if not his heart? And could she get to one from another? When he held her in his arms and he touched her the way he was doing now, she almost believed she could do anything.

  "Marly, we have to stop. Dinner—" He broke off with an expletive as she rubbed against him.

  "What about dinner?"

  Carter closed his eyes and swallowed, setting her away. "It's getting cold."

  Marly took in the wonderful spread on the table before her. It was the kind of simple meal that completed the homey setting she'd craved as a young girl. The woman she'd become cherished it almost as much as she cherished the man who had created it. Almost. Because at that moment, all Marly could think about was clearing a spot on the table large enough for her to seduce him.

  She pushed her plate to the side.

  Carter's eyes darkened.

  She moistened her lips and pushed aside her salad bowl.

  He swore—again—then shoved a hand through his hair and turned from her. "I—uh, I think I'd better eat my dinner in the study."

  "What?" His words penetrated her passion-filled haze.

  "Work," Carter said without looking at her. "I have work to do. Lots. Big project. Potential merger. Preparation."

  "Tonight?"

  "Yeah." He swooped up his plate and salad bowl, balancing them on his arm as he reached for his glass. "I won't make this a routine. I promise. I just need to get away, just this once. I mean, I have a lot of work to do … to catch up on … before the night's over … for tomorrow, you know."

  She didn't know what to say, and so she just nodded and watched him gather everything. The plate and bowl clanked against each other, and she couldn't mistake the flash of regret in his eyes before he turned.

  "Your dinner's getting cold, Mrs. King. You'd better eat soon."

  "I will." She slumped into her chair, staring at the table now set for one and telling herself that it was best, that she needed some distance to regain her perspective. But it didn't help. Nothing would. She was too far gone.

  * * *

  Carter pulled his spoon back and flung a wad of mashed potatoes into the fireplace. So much for willpower. For the third night in a row, he was eating his dinner in the study. He didn't like it, and he knew Marly didn't like it. But man, the way she looked at him…

  Every time he thought he had things under control, one look. That was all it took before he was wanting her all over again—wanting, needing, craving. And when he kissed her, she was so damn responsive. So unlike Eva Ann. So unlike any woman he'd ever known.

  Three nights' abstinence hadn't done a thing for his equilibrium, so until he could get a grip, there was no other way. No man with half a brain would allow a woman this much control over him.

  Still, he hated for Marly to feel as if he were ignoring her. If only he could strike some sort of balance—and soon.

  At lunch that day, he'd foregone his usual sandwich-at-his-desk and opted, instead, to walk down to the library. Didn't take long for him to find the information he wanted: the average married couple made love once a week. Once. He could do that. Couldn't he?

  He flipped open his Franklin Planner and circled last Monday. Today was Thursday. Damn. Four more days.

  "Carter?" Marly tapped the door before she came in.

  "Hey." He shut the leather-bound planner and shoved it aside, feeling as though he'd been caught reading some nudey magazine.

  "How's it coming?" she asked from the door.

  "Fine, fine. You?"

  "Okay, I guess. Can I get you anything?"

  "No, thanks."

  "I loved your raspberry cobbler."

  "Did you? Great. Look, I've got a lot—"

  "I know. I'm going."

  "Marly, wait." He rubbed his jaw in an effort to keep from clenching it. "I'm really sorry about this. I promise, it won't be much longer."

  She lifted her shoulder in a delicate shrug. "It's okay. I understand. I'd rather have you home, at least, instead of at the office."

  Carter smiled as she left, and wondered if he looked as much the besotted fool as he felt.

  * * *

  Marly didn't look into the mirror as she brushed her teeth and washed her face. She didn't want to see what the rest of the world saw when they looked at her, didn't want to see what her husband saw when he evaded her touch, when he excused himself to his study each night, when he waited until he thought she was asleep before he came to bed.

  She'd never thought herself a shallow woman—until now.

  For the first time in eight years, she mourned for the face she'd lost, for the beauty that would never again be hers. She turned off the bathroom light and squeezed her eyes shut against silent tears of vanity.

  It was past midnight, and Carter still hadn't come to bed, just like the past three nights. Of course, he'd said he had work to do, and it wasn't that she didn't believe him. She just wasn't entirely sure. And the guilt of that uncertainty ate at her.

  Was she an awful and terrible, self-absorbed person for doubting him? Or was she intuitive in sensing th
at her husband was using any excuse to avoid her, to avoid intimacy with her? A man who had married her for the explicit purpose of having children, and now he couldn't bring himself to sleep with her? It didn't make sense.

  She hadn't mistaken his desire. She hadn't!

  Marly climbed onto the four-poster and pulled the covers over her. Her fingertips traced the dent in the pillow where Carter's head had been last night.

  On impulse, she sat up and switched her pillow with his. Pulling it close, she inhaled his scent, seeking and finding the comfort she needed to contemplate her decision regarding Billy Ray.

  Carter was right. She needed to go to the police. And she would. It was the right thing to do.

  After the weekend. After she saw Tyler. After she reassured herself that she wasn't making the biggest mistake of her life.

  She and Carter planned to leave for the mountains after work the following evening. She would tell Carter her decision on their drive. That way, she couldn't chicken out come Monday.

  She'd tossed and turned most of the night, unable to stop thinking about what unknown facts Billy Ray had discovered about Marly Alcott. For that matter, she wondered again what Carter knew that she didn't.

  Unanswered questions had nagged at her subconscious from the time Carter had brought up the subject of John, the college boyfriend, on their wedding night. She'd felt uneasy ever since, as if waiting for the next inevitable blunder, the one that would force her hand.

  What would happen then? Would her treachery snowball the longer time passed, as Carter's deception had with Eva Ann? Would Carter never forgive her?

  She must have fallen asleep eventually, because she didn't realize when Carter came to bed, nor when he woke up, but there was a dent in the pillow next to hers to suggest he'd been there and a note on the bedside table confirming their plans to visit Tyler.

  That evening, Marly arrived home before Carter. She'd taken the Caravan to work that day and already had it fueled for their trip. She made a few sandwiches, cut up some raw veggies and tossed the plastic bags of food into an ice-filled cooler, along with some sodas. After grabbing her overnight bag, she went to load the Caravan. But when she slid open the side door of the vehicle, a cold, peculiar sensation crawled up her spine.

  Marly's eyes widened, and she spun around.

  Nothing. Just the stillness of the garage. She took a deep breath.

  That made twice today. Twice that she'd felt that odd sense of foreboding. The first time was at her center, just before she'd left. She'd forgotten an important computer disk and run back to her office. Upon returning, she'd climbed into the driver's side and immediately frozen with a sick sense of apprehension. Only, she didn't know why. The parking lot was deserted.

  In the stillness of the garage, she gave a nervous laugh. "You're being melodramatic, Hilary." With lightning speed, she clamped a hand over her mouth. Her heart racing ninety-miles an hour, she slammed the side door of the Caravan shut and ran into the house.

  That background check was wreaking havoc with her mind. She wanted to know what information it contained, and she wanted to know right now. She cursed herself for not asking Carter before. Suddenly, it seemed imperative that she find out right away. Besides an obvious blunder on her part, she had to know if there was anything—anything at all—that could link her true identity with Marly's.

  With shaking fingers, she dialed Carter's office.

  "Carter King."

  "Carter, it's Marly."

  "Hey, just wrapping things up. Should be out of here in the next five minutes. You need anything from the store?"

  "No. I packed some sandwiches. I—everything's ready. It's just—"

  "Marly, are you okay?"

  "No—I mean, yes." She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor. She gripped the receiver in both hands. "Carter, that background check. The one you had done on me. Do you still have it?"

  "Well, yes…"

  "Where is it?"

  "My desk in the study. The file drawer. You sure you're okay?"

  "Yeah, fine. Come home now, okay? I want to hit the road before dark."

  "I'm on my way."

  In the study, Marly pulled open Carter's file drawer and thumbed through the file tabs.

  Auto, Banking, Horses, Investments, Leisure, Medical, Mortgages, Newspaper, Personal Correspondence, Travel, Utilities. The man had a file tab for everything. Everything but Background Checks. Of course, it couldn't be that easy. Why hadn't she thought to ask him exactly where he'd filed it?

  Marly rifled through Leisure and then through Society, where she found a newspaper clipping of a wedding announcement. "Eva Ann Putnam weds Roger Thornton IV." She stared at the picture of Carter's ex-wife. She had wide-set eyes and a coy smile. She was beautiful, the kind of woman who made men stop and take notice.

  Carter had obviously stopped and taken notice. But he hadn't fallen in love with her. Just what kind of woman did it take to steal Carter King's heart?

  Marly frowned and replaced the clipping, turning back to the hanging folders.

  Cinderella Candidates. The file tab caught her eye. Curious, she reached for it.

  * * *

  Carter reached for the phone and answered his inside line. "Carter King."

  "Mr. King," came his secretary's voice on the other end. "There's a Mike Rodgers here to see you. I can ask him to come back—"

  "No, send him in. Please." He shot to his feet.

  When the P.I. entered, he carried a large, yellow envelope. The men exchanged greetings and shook hands before Carter closed the door. He indicated two chairs in the sitting area. "Something new?" he asked, eyeing the thin envelope.

  "Yeah." The usually nonchalant P.I. appeared nervous for the first time, which made Carter nervous in turn.

  "What is it?"

  "As you instructed, I retraced all prior steps to make sure we didn't miss anything. If you remember, my initial report indicated Miss Alcott had undergone reconstructive surgery approximately eight years ago."

  "Right. After the fire. She sustained numerous injuries."

  The P.I. nodded. "Like you, I assumed the reconstructive surgery was in conjunction with her other injuries from the fire. That's why I didn't probe any deeper at the time."

  "But now you have?"

  "Yes, I have."

  "And what have you found?"

  "This." The P.I. opened the envelope and extracted a piece of cardboard. Lying flat on the cardboard were two black-and-white photographs. He handed the first to Carter. The woman who stared back could have been a model for a cosmetics and in a fashion magazine. She had high cheekbones, a pert nose, pale eyes fringed with long lashes and well-shaped lips that didn't smile. Her mouth … there was something familiar about her mouth…

  Carter didn't know what to make of it. "Who is this?"

  "That's the 'before' photograph of the woman who came in for reconstructive surgery under the name of Marly Alcott."

  He frowned. She didn't look anything like Marly. Maybe there was a slight resemblance to the photos taken before the fire. But this woman's face didn't have any cuts or abrasions, no burn scars like the ones on Marly's hands. Nothing that would indicate surgery was required.

  "This isn't Marly," he said, shaking his head. "There's a resemblance, but it isn't her."

  The P.I. handed him a second photograph. "Here's the 'after.'"

  "That's her." Carter recognized his wife right away, then scowled, his gaze shifting from the 'before' to the 'after,' and back again. "The pictures must have gotten mixed up. This one's probably from someone else's file." He held up the 'before' shot.

  The P.I. took a deep breath, then shook his head slowly. "I thought the same thing myself … at first. But there's no mix-up, at least not with the photographs."

  "I'm not sure I understand what you're saying, Mike."

  "I'm not exactly sure I understand, either, sir. But what these photos suggest is that whoever you've married, she isn't Marly Alcott."r />
  * * *

  Chapter 15

  « ^ »

  Carter came home to find his wife climbing into the Caravan. He stopped and stared at her. A pounding rhythm reverberated through his eardrums, sounding as though gigantic thunderclouds were colliding inside his head.

  The blue of her jeans, the green of the Caravan and the strawberry blonde of her hair swirled together before his eyes. He could almost smell the sweet scent of her on the wind and feel the future narrowing before him like a tunnel.

  Stop. It's not what you think. Nothing has changed.

  The P.I. had obviously screwed up, mixed up the photographs and spewed some half-baked conclusions. In a matter of seconds, Marly would clear up the whole thing.

  All Carter had to do was show her the photographs and tell her the P.I.'s crazy innuendo. Then they'd both have a good laugh and take off for Asheville. And soon, he would forget all about the uneasiness in the pit of his stomach.

  "Hey, Marly," he called, surprised by the sudden lump in his throat. Why did his mind have to keep zeroing in on trivial details like her aversion to cameras, her nerves at the charity ball, her refusal to publicize their wedding or her self-proclaimed low profile? None of that had mattered before. Why did it matter now, just because some stupid P.I. had mixed up some ancient photographs?

  Never mind that the P.I. was one of the best in the country, that he'd come highly recommended. Even the best made mistakes, and this was obviously one of them.

  Marly turned then, and he noticed her eyes were red. "I left a note for you," she said, a funny catch in her voice.

  He told himself he had no justifiable reason to doubt his wife's integrity. It wasn't as though she didn't know how he felt about secrets in a marriage, didn't know why he felt the way he did. She did. And if there was something to tell him—something this huge—surely she would have done it by now. She'd had plenty of opportunities, especially after he'd gone and spilled his guts to her.

  So what kind of husband did that make him?

  The kind who had the entire drive to Asheville to grovel. The kind who needed closure before that, for his own peace of mind.

  "There's something I want to show you," he said, removing the photographs from the envelope. "Before we leave."