She closed the door, turned on the ignition and lowered the window. He handed her the photos, convinced he would soon have a rational explanation for everything.
Hadn't she trusted him with the truth about Billy Ray, as if that wasn't the granddaddy of all secrets?
The color drained from Marly's face, and tears sprang to her eyes. "Where?" Her voice held a note of hysteria. "Where did you get these?"
"From the P.I.," he answered, the rising bile in his throat threatening to choke him.
Her hands trembled as she tore the photographs to shreds with quick, jerky motions. "The negatives?"
"I don't have them."
"Get them. Please, Carter. Get them for me."
He took a step toward her. "Tell me what's going on, Marly."
She shook her head, and a cascade of tears spilled down her cheeks. "What did the P.I. tell you?"
Carter swallowed, each word slicing through his insides like a razor. "That you aren't Marly Alcott."
Her wide blue eyes turned to him. "And you believe him?"
"I don't know what to believe. That's why I'm asking you."
She opened her mouth as if to respond, then closed it again. Lifting a hand in appeal, she whispered, "I wanted to tell you, Carter. So many times, but I … I couldn't."
"Tell me now, Marly. Tell me it's just a mix-up."
"I can't." She bowed her head. "I can't lie to you anymore."
He felt ill. He'd wanted the P.I. to be wrong, wanted Marly to prove him wrong. Instead, he'd found his own wife was … what? Another person? That she'd married him, slept beside him, made love with him, all under false pretenses?
He took a deep breath, hoping for calm, for restraint, but finding it impossible. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.
"Not like this, Carter. I can't tell you like this."
"How, then? With candles and soft music to break it to me gently?" He turned his gaze to the house, squinting into the distance as he tried to process the past hour of his life, to make sense of the chaos. His jaw felt stiff, and his temples throbbed in undeniable agony. "Are you going to tell me you're someone else's wife?"
She gasped and had the decency to look shocked.
"What do you expect me to think?" he shouted, bracing his hands on the door.
She didn't even flinch at his harsh words. Instead, she yelled back, "I expect you to think I had a good reason to do this—" Her voice broke, pitiful with accusation. "A damn good reason to give up my entire life and to live in someone else's. It's not exactly a commonplace occurrence."
"So explain it to me." He gripped the edge of the window. "Make me understand."
She shook her head, swiping at her tears. "When I get back. I have to go now."
"I'm going with you."
"No, please." She clutched the steering wheel with both hands, staring straight ahead. "I need some time alone, to think. Without distractions. I've decided to testify against Billy Ray."
"Great." Carter shoved a rough hand through his hair. "And when were you planning on telling me about this?"
"When you got home."
"I see," he said, but he didn't. He didn't see at all. He had no idea what in the hell was going on. Worse, he had no idea how to go about finding out. "My God, what happened between our last phone call and now?"
She shrugged as silent tears checkered down her face. "Reality bit us in the butt." Then she added in a soft voice, full of such sadness it tore at his gut, "You said you liked it when I talked dirty."
They both turned then. Their gazes met and held. If misery could have been painted, he imagined they would have made twin portraits.
He wanted to reach through the window and grab her, to throttle some answers out of her, to demand an explanation, to hold her close and never let go. He'd coerced this woman into his life, never intending to let her slip past his defenses. But she had, and now his need for her was crippling, like a cruel blow at the back of his knees.
In her eyes, he saw anguish, not fear. And for some reason, a cold, dismal knot coiled in his belly. Whatever inner battle waged behind those eyes, it evidently surpassed the likes of Billy Ray. That realization did nothing for his confusion, served only to heighten his uneasiness, thereby taking some of the edge off his anger.
He had no idea what lurked beneath the murky waters, only an innate suspicion that he'd need a big stick to test the depths.
"I'll be back Sunday night," she said softly.
He wanted to believe her, but like a photo negative, she'd reversed his entire world. He no longer knew if her leaving was a bad thing or a good thing.
"Drive carefully," he said, his voice sounding as tight as his throat felt.
He watched her leave, and for a long time stood rooted to the same spot in the garage. A strange, aching heaviness weighed in his chest, and he couldn't bring himself to go inside the house. When he finally did, his gaze searched the kitchen for her note.
As his mama had said, Carter always had been one to sniff the milk just to make sure it was really sour.
The note took the form of a yellow sticky paper, affixed to a hanging folder. A very familiar hanging folder.
Cinderella Candidates.
The message, printed in small, neat script read: "Dear Carter, your plain-Jane wife has gone to Asheville. Be back Sunday." She hadn't bothered to sign it.
Carter crumpled the note in his fist and flung the wad across the room with a vicious oath.
* * *
He would never forgive her. If ever there had been a glimmer of hope, it was gone now. Maybe if he'd loved her, she would have stood a chance, but he didn't, and he never would. His file had proved that. There, she'd seen the reasons Carter had married her methodically enumerated—on a spreadsheet, no less—right up to his specification of a plain-Jane wife.
Carter King, always the man with the plan.
No wonder he'd avoided her recently. He'd never been attracted to her, only faked it. Twice, in case he hadn't impregnated her on the first try, no doubt.
So why the hurt, why the outrage, when she'd gone into their arrangement knowing full well what to expect? Hadn't she agreed to serve as his incubator? A plain-Jane incubator who understood poverty because of her own humble upbringing.
"Well, hallelujah! Give the boy a bright, shiny gold star for finding such a perfect fit for his model. Too bad Hilary Steele had to surface and rip it off your forehead." She bit her lip, gasping as she drew blood.
Grabbing a tissue, she turned on the overhead light and used the rearview mirror to blot the dots of red. She'd turned off the light and refocused on the road, when a sudden chill crawled up the back of her neck.
Her gaze flew again to the rearview mirror. Nothing. Just inky darkness.
Since she'd left the interstate, she hadn't seen the headlights of another vehicle for miles. Yet, for some unknown reason, she couldn't shake the disquieting feeling that someone was watching her.
Nerves.
After all, it wasn't every day that a woman found out that the man who had made love to her with such aching intensity had feigned every touch, every kiss, every word of passion.
Remorse and humiliation flooded Marly's cheeks. Damn but she'd bought his act for a while there. He'd been so blasted convincing in his role as the good husband. The perfect husband.
Almost as convincing as she in her role as Marly Alcott. She bit her lip again, wincing anew.
Ahead, a crooked sign advertising a local diner indicated her turnoff for the school. Soon two roads diverged in the woods, and she picked the unpaved one, steering the Caravan up the long, winding mountain road.
At the gates, the guard asked for identification, which she produced from her purse.
"One moment," he said, verifying her name in his computer's databank. "Hope you didn't have any trouble finding the place."
"No, the directions were quite sound," she said, using the password. The guard admitted her. The beam of her headlights slashed through the night, and s
he drove through the grounds.
It was nearly midnight, but she didn't want to wait until morning to see Tyler, even if it was just to hug him in his sleep.
She pulled into a parking spot and cut the engine. Dropping her head back against the headrest, she stretched her arms in front of her.
Something moved inside in the Caravan, and she craned her neck to peer into the back, expecting to find her overnight bag had fallen off the seat. Instead, she saw the silhouette of a long, thin ponytail.
A scream died in her throat. With lightning speed, Marly wrenched her seat belt free and jabbed the button that unlocked the doors. She hit the ground running.
Quick, but not quick enough.
An arm shot out, like a steel band across her chest, hurling her to the ground. And then he was on top of her, straddling her, pinning her with his weight. She lunged, trying to escape, when the ice-cold barrel of a gun bit into the flesh of her temple.
"Don't even think about it," Billy Ray admonished, his voice sounding cautiously vigilant, like a man who'd finally caught an errant mouse in his trap but hadn't yet discovered whether or not the rodent was dead.
"What do you want with me, Mr. Cameron?"
"Well now, ain't that an interesting question?" He snorted. "Seeing as you're the one who's planning on testifying against me. That's right. I heard you. But never mind that right now. Where is he?"
"Who?"
"Either you're denser than a box of rocks, or else you're messing with me. And I done already warned you twice now not to mess with me." The barrel of the gun dug deeper. "Ain't that so, pretty lady?" His gaze locked with hers. When she didn't reply, his hand rose to her neck. "Yeah, I believe it is," he said, answering his own question. "Now, where's our little witness? You ain't gonna be able to testify without him."
"I—I don't know what you're talking about."
"My son," he said through clenched teeth, his fingers tightening around the column of her neck. "I know you're hiding him."
"I'm not hiding anyone," Marly choked out, sputtering as Billy Ray increased his grip.
"You're lying."
"I'm not," she challenged with the belligerence of a woman who had nothing to lose.
"Then why are you here?"
"Because I'm a teacher," she whispered, her eyes watering at the bite of metal against her skull. "And this is a school."
"You're a natural-born liar, ain't you?" He gripped her head. "And you've had yourself a lot of practice, too, fooling all the good people of Durham. Your entire life's just one stinking lie, Hilary."
Her eyes widened in horror.
"That's right," he added with smug satisfaction. "I saw right through your righteous little act. Ain't nothing so pure as Miss Marly playing Miss Priss. I knew something was fishy from the start. Just didn't know what. But it all makes sense now, don't it?"
She didn't respond.
"Yeah, I think it does. Now I am done playing nice with you, so I'm gonna ask you one more time, and you'd better think real hard about the answer. Where the hell is my son?"
She closed her eyes. "You can go ahead and snap my neck, Billy Ray. It isn't going to change what I do and do not know. I told you before—I don't know where Tyler is."
"You lying whore," he swore. "I ought to kill you right now and get it over with."
"Why don't you, then? Why don't you just do it?"
He stared at her. "Uh-uh. You're just a little too anxious. I think we're going to have to draw this out. And don't be thinking it's gonna to be quick and easy after that stunt you just pulled."
He leaned over her, so close she could feel every revolting inch of his body. His mouth hovered inches from hers, and she could smell the stench of stale cigarettes on his breath. His gaze lowered to her breasts, then back up again.
In a flood of guilt and shame, she remembered that no other man had touched her before Carter, and remembered her avowal that no other man ever would. Dear God, it had been real for her, no matter what their arrangement. She had fallen in love with him, and she would take the memory of that one-sided love to her grave before she let Billy Ray touch her.
With the vestiges of her strength, she raised her knee, aiming for his groin. It connected with a solid thump, and Billy Ray cried out, doubling over in pain.
Marly shoved him away, scrambling to her feet. She managed to run thirty yards before he caught up with her and flung her to the ground again. She struggled, clawed at him, trying to get away, but he overpowered her, threw her on her back and pinned her beneath him. She shoved at him, bucking, trying to throw him off her. She swung her knee up, missed and tried again.
Billy Ray swore viciously, slamming the barrel of the gun against her thigh. She cried out in pain, and he gripped her throat, picking up her head and slamming it against the ground.
"Try that one more time and it's gonna be your kneecaps," he snarled, tightening his fingers until spots danced before her eyes. Until finally, she didn't see anything at all, except unbearable darkness.
When she started to come around, she realized someone was hitting her, slapping her arm. And then she felt a prickling sensation, like a pinch.
Like a needle.
"No!" she cried. But it was too late.
* * *
It was too late for Tyler to be up, but when he hadn't seen the Caravan at the motel, Carter knew where Marly had gone.
He'd paced the house for a good hour, and contemplated drowning himself in a bottle of bourbon. But none of those things had helped his situation. Nothing would, except answers. Answers only Marly could provide. And damn if he'd wait around until Her Highness showed up before he got them.
The yellow beam of the smog lights penetrated through the night, as he pulled past the guard shack and headed up the long, winding drive. He'd almost passed the first parking lot when the sight of the Caravan caught his eye. He saw it clearly through the fog because the interior lights were on.
Maneuvering into the adjacent spot, Carter realized both the driver's door and the side door were open. Strange. Why would Marly be unloading the car? Unless she planned to spend the night at the school, instead of the motel. But there were rules against that, and Marly knew them.
Carter shook his head. Something was wrong. He got out of the car and approached the Caravan, noting the keys dangling from the ignition, Marly's purse still in the passenger seat.
A peculiar sensation stole through him. His head jerked upright, his narrowed gaze combing the grounds.
He was here. Billy Ray Cameron, that sonofa—
He had Marly!
* * *
Marly's bleary gaze tried to focus on her surroundings. She was lying on a bed in a dimly lit room. There were three other twin beds arranged in the room, and painted murals on the cinder block walls, like at her center.
She must have been in the vacant dormitory by the parking lot. Vacant, save her and the man at the foot of the bed, the man tying each of her ankles to the bedposts.
No! She wanted to scream, but something obstructed her voice. A gag.
Gagged and bound. Oh, God. Of all the ways to die. Why like this?
Billy Ray finished his handiwork and came to stand beside her, a vile grin on his face. His hands went to his belt. "Still feeling feisty?" he jeered.
Tears rolled down Marly's cheeks as he slid the leather strap from around his waist and cracked it once.
"One last time," he said through clenched teeth, his beady eyes bulging from their hollowed sockets. "Where's Tyler?"
She closed her eyes, willing the nightmare to end, opening them again at the sound of a zipper being ripped down.
"Guess we'll have to play it your way." He lifted her skirt and ran his hand along the inside of her thigh.
Bile rose in the back of her throat, and a sound of agony tore from the depths of her being, low and dejected like a wounded animal. It echoed in the room, was bouncing back and forth between the cinder block walls, when, out of nowhere, came a thin streak of ligh
t, followed by a flash that nearly blinded her.
The door, she realized, had been flung open, but Billy Ray blocked her vision.
He whirled just as someone screamed "No" like a warrior's battle cry. She glimpsed surprise in his eyes as he lunged for the revolver on the bedside table.
In that split second, Marly saw Carter.
With the speed of a striking snake, he coiled his fist around Billy Ray's ponytail. The gun in Billy Ray's hand exploded as his body flew against the wall. His head smashed into the cinder block, and he slid to the floor, where he lay in a motionless heap.
Carter kicked the gun from his hand, then scooped it off the floor before running to Marly's bedside. He dropped to his knees, his hands shaking as he worked the knotted handkerchief.
"Marly." He chanted her name over and over. "I took a chance and started with the closest building. I almost walked past … if I hadn't heard you moan … damn this knot."
"Carter," she gasped like a diver escaping from a watery grave, when he'd removed her gag. Her mouth was so dry no more words would come out. And there was a strange pressure in her side.
"Two more seconds and we'll get you out of here." He started on the ropes that bound her hands, untying the first and moving to the other.
"Carter." She tugged at him with her free hand.
"I know. I could kill the bastard for this." He couldn't keep the venom from his voice.
"Carter!"
He'd heard the unmistakable sound of the switchblade an instant before Marly screamed his name. His hands—already in motion—grabbed the arm that held the knife dangerously close to slitting his throat.
It had been a long time, but some things, once learned, could never be forgotten. Like basic survival instincts.
Billy Ray hadn't anticipated the reaction, and Carter capitalized on the element of surprise, forcing the knife from his hand. It clattered to the ground, and they both scrambled for it. Carter stepped on Billy Ray's hand, kicking the knife away with his other foot. Billy Ray hurled at Carter's knees full force, knocking him off balance.
It was a street fight. Down and dirty. One Billy Ray could never have expected—not from Carter—but be caught on quickly. The streets had a way of recognizing their own.
CINDERELLA BRIDE Page 21
