Hollow

by Maggie Shayne

  The Shattered Sisters Series

  Reckless

  Forgotten

  Broken

  Hollow

  Hunted

  Copyright 2016 by Margaret S. Lewis

  First Published 2005 as The Bride Wore A Forty-Four

  http://www.MaggieShayne.com

  Cover art and formatting by Jessica Lewis

  http://authorslifesaver.com

  Editing by Jena O’Connor

  http://practicalproofing.com

  Second Edition

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author. All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They arc not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Hunted

  Also Available

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Kira Shanahan pawed through her designer handbag for a compact, pushing past the comforting bulge of the Glock 43–six in the clip and one in the chamber–before finding it. She pulled it out just as she and Peter sat down at an outdoor table in a bustling village marketplace, just outside Nairobi.

  “You look beautiful,” Peter assured her, reaching across to cover her hand with his own, his fingers absently brushing over the diamond ring she wore. It was obscenely huge and frankly, she thought, kind of like wearing a “rob me” sign on her back. But whatever.

  “I’m uh–” She bit her lip before the words sweating like a pig escaped them. “Just powdering away the moisture,” she said. And then she patted her face with the little puff while angling the mirror left and right to see behind her. There were women in bright colored kangas and kaftans browsing goods for sale at shaded stands. Everything imaginable was available, from produce and clothing to statues and drums. But that wasn’t what she was looking for.

  She spotted her father at last, engaged in a friendly debate over the price of a traditional mask. Pat, pat, turn the mirror. And then she spotted Michael, standing near a rack of woven straw hats ten yards from where her father stood.

  He was looking right at her—dark, teasing eyes, full sexy lips curved in that almost smile that only she could detect. Like always, her stomach did a little flip flop when their eyes met, and a pang of longing shot through her like hunger. There was nothing on the planet that could compare to what was between them. Never had been. Never would be.

  She was ruining it, and she knew it. She’d put distance between them. She couldn’t seem to stop it from widening.

  “Here, use this,” Peter said, handing across a woven fan. He’d picked up a pair of them at one of the stands as they’d meandered through the market together. He worshipped her. She tolerated him.

  She closed her compact with a snap so Michael’s smoky eyes were no longer locked with hers in a secret rendezvous conducted entirely through a mirror. Smiling at Peter, she accepted the fan, waved it under her face, tipped her head back and closed her eyes. “Ah, thanks. That’s so much better.”

  “I thought so. Are you hungry? Shall we eat?”

  She brought her head level and met his light blue eyes. He had sandy hair and a slight accent that was something between German and Afrikaans. “Oh, I’m not too hungry yet. I just need to rest a minute.”

  He looked up, spotted someone in the crowd. The elusive Mr. White, she hoped. Yeah, she wasn’t the only one with “friends” tagging along trying not to be noticed. She didn’t think Peter knew about hers, but she certainly was onto his. “Rest then,” he said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “Of course.” She smiled adoringly as he got up and headed away, around a corner, vanishing into a crowd.

  As soon as she lifted her hand to scratch an imaginary spot on her cheek, Michael’s voice came softly from the inner band of her watch.

  “I’m on him.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw him weaving through the crowd in the same direction Peter had gone.

  Her father sidled closer, his newly-purchased mask in hand, and sat at a nearby table, pretending to admire it.

  “Are you still furious with me?” she asked softly, leaning back in her seat and gazing at the people passing by, so many people. Even a donkey now and then. No camels yet, but she’d seen them in other markets like this one. She hated her father being angry with her. She hated the rift between them more. But he’d done that, with the secrets he’d been keeping.

  She’d trusted her father more than she’d ever trusted anyone. And he’d been lying to her for her entire life.

  So she didn’t feel all that guilty about keeping a few secrets of her own. The job had been the first one, but of course, that was out, now. He still didn’t know about Michael though.

  “I’m angry with you. I never wanted this for you, but it’s your life, your choice. Besides, I can’t say you’ve kept any more secrets from me than I’ve kept from you over the years.”

  “You can say that again.” He was referring to the job. She wasn’t.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  She cleared her throat, reined in her anger. “Secrets are an occupational hazard, I guess.”

  “They are. You’re doing beautifully,” he said. Because he knew something was very wrong between them and thought it was his opposition to her current employment. Compliments would surely fix it, in his mind.

  But he was wrong on both counts.

  “I kick ass at this.” She stood up, walked a few steps away to a stand selling straw backpacks that would go beautifully with the ridiculous $800 “safari” clothes she was wearing—cargo pants and a button-down shirt over a tank. She could’ve owned the entire outfit for fifty bucks at Old Navy, sans designer tags. “Guess I come by it naturally.”

  “Guess so.”

  A few more steps took her out of speaking range and into the shade of a juvenile acacia tree, already flat topped and broad. And then something rocked the ground and roared in her ears. An unseen force slammed into her chest, propelling her airborne, until her head cracked against the tree trunk.

  Pain ricocheted from her skull down her spine and radiated like electric shocks out to her fingertips and down her legs. She didn’t think she could move.

  She pushed herself up onto hands and knees, her ears ringing with a deafening hum, and managed to turn to look where her dad had last been standing. But there was only smoke and dust. The tables and vendors around them were litter on the ground.

  She pushed herself to her feet, swaying, vaguely aware of the warm stream of blood running down her face. Staggering forward, she tried to avoid the bodies on the on the ground, until she got to her father’s, and dropped to her knees beside him.

  She brushed dirt from his face and leaned over him, shaking him gently. “Dad, Dad, come on.”

  His eyes opened, ringed with dust. “Kira. I need to tell you—”

  But his voice seemed to come from the far end of a distant tunnel. Her head was pounding, her body trembling. She clung to consciousness with everything in her. “Tell me what?” she whispered, or maybe she sho
uted it. She was no longer fully connected to her body.

  She leaned closer, and he spoke into her ear tenuous grasp on consciousness dissolved, and she slumped across her father’s chest.

  Chapter 2

  6 Months Later….

  "No, no, absolutely not, Kira. Lilies could kill Aunt Thelma. You know she's allergic." They were in the wedding planner’s office for what Kira dearly hoped would be the last time.

  Not that she minded. Marshall Waters, the wedding planner, was an easy guy to be around. Gorgeous, too. She liked him better than anyone she’d met in recent memory. And recent memory was all she had. But the planning, that was getting to be enough already.

  She sighed in response to her mother's ruling out another element of her dream wedding. Or at least, what she thought was her dream wedding. She was really only guessing, at best. But lilies had seemed right

  "Sit up straight, dear.” As if she were ten instead of twenty-six. Or was it twenty-seven? “Why don't we go with something reasonable like roses? Red and white roses. Those stargazers are so tacky, anyway. Practically hot pink. We just don't do hot pink, love."

  “That sounds fine. Roses. And so unique for weddings, too.”

  The handsome wedding planner, met her eyes across the desk, a little light in his, a tiny uptick at the corners of his lips, like he was smiling on the inside. Yeah, he heard the sarcasm in her tone. It went right over her mother’s head. Kira honestly couldn’t drum up even fake enthusiasm about the choice of flowers. She was just tired.

  Her mother tapped the desk to get his attention, because he was watching Kira with complete understanding in his dark gray eyes. "Pay attention, Marshall. We want red and white roses. Perfectly elegant. Write it down."

  "If Kira wants lilies, Mrs. Shanahan—"

  "We've already established that lilies could kill someone, Mr. Waters. We don't want a beloved aunt dropping dead before the end of the ceremony, now do we? Lilies.”

  “No, we don’t want anyone dropping dead,” he replied. “In fact, my main goal for this event is maintaining a zero-body-count.” He smiled, and this time Kira got the feeling it was all on the outside. A smile for show.

  Her mother gave a genteel shudder. “Besides, the scent of lilies is absolutely cloying." She looked from Kira to Marshall and back again, possibly because Marshall was looking intently at Kira. So intently, Kira got the feeling he was trying to read her thoughts.

  She stifled another sigh. It was his job to figure out what she wanted. He was her wedding planner. Hell, he couldn't know how little she really cared about any of this. He’d probably never had a bride who cared less.

  Mother glanced at her watch. "I have to run. Meeting with the caterer in ten minutes. Come along, Kira."

  "You go ahead without me, Mom."

  Her mother blinked in surprise. "You don't want any input in the final decisions regarding the menu?"

  A flash of rebellion made her lift her chin and blurt, "I'm not gonna get any input whether I go or not. So, I'm opting out." The words came out harsh and laced with sarcasm. Totally unlike her—so much so that it surprised her to hear that tone in her voice instead of her usual, docile capitulation.

  Her mother was apparently surprised by it too. She pressed a hand to her chest and blinked as if wounded. "Kira?"

  Kira softened her expression, quieted the increasingly restless stranger who’d taken up residence somewhere in her psyche. Her mother had swooped in and picked up the pieces of Kira's life when it had been so torn apart she’d thought she would never be able to put it back together. She had screwed up. Everything. Badly. She didn't know how, exactly, but she had. Her mother never judged, never condemned, just swooped.

  And Kira had let her. Let her go just as far as she wanted with the coddling, the babying, the taking over and directing of her life. At first, after the explosion on her engagement trip to Kenya, she'd been physically unable to take charge for herself. Later, it was just easier to let her mother continue.

  She couldn't hate her mom for doing it. Hell, the poor woman needed something to focus on after the loss of her husband. It was probably therapeutic, having a helpless daughter to care for.

  And really, Kira was the one who had allowed it. Was still allowing it. And she didn't care about the details of the wedding, just as long as she got to marry the wonderful man her mother assured her she loved deeply.

  Peter was everything she’d never known she’d always wanted. And she had her mother to thank for remembering for her. Because her own memory was pretty much a tabula rasa. A blank slate.

  "Go on, Mom.” She softened her voice, regretting her sarcasm. She wouldn’t hurt her mother’s feelings for the world. “I'm just a little overtired. I’d be grateful if you could handle the final menu. I know whatever you pick will be perfect."

  Her mother nodded and pressed a palm to Kira's cheek. It was warm, soft, loving. "If you really want lilies—"

  "Not badly enough to make Aunt Thelma sick." She didn't even know who Aunt Thelma was. "Roses will be great."

  "All right, dear. I'll go on to the caterers. But how will you get home?”

  “Grab a taxi,” she said.

  Her mother grimaced. “A taxi. God, Kira, you really aren’t yourself today.”

  “I’ll see she gets safely home, Mrs. Shanahan,” Marshall said.

  “That makes me feel so much better. Thank you, Marshall.” She beamed at Kira. “I'll see you for dinner, darling. All right?"

  Kira nodded and watched her mother go. The woman shot a few worried glances over her shoulder on her way out, but finally she was gone. Kira couldn’t help the sigh of relief that wafted from her chest, or the way her body relaxed in the seat.

  "So, have you tried telling her that it's your wedding and not hers?" Marshall asked.

  Kira looked up, having all but forgotten he was in the room. No, that wasn't quite true. Marshall Waters had a presence that wasn't easy to forget. He looked for all the world as if he'd stepped off a men’s magazine cover. He had short, sable hair, an athlete’s physique, and intense, dark gray eyes. He did not look like a wedding planner.

  "Why bother, at this point?" she asked, smiling. "She's already picked the dress, the bridesmaids' gowns, the cake, the invitations—''

  "The groom?"

  She shrugged and sank further into the chair in front of his desk.

  "Where is Peter today?" he asked, rolling a pen between his fingers. "I thought he'd be with you for the final run-through and that long awaited floral decision." He put a little sarcasm into that final line, and that made her smile.

  "He had an important meeting."

  "It's Saturday. He shouldn't be working on Saturdays."

  She got the feeling, and often, that Marshall didn't much like Peter. "Why not?" she asked. "You're working."

  He shrugged. "Wouldn't be, if I had a gorgeous bride-to-be waiting at home."

  She met his eyes even as the compliment hit her squarely in the chest and spread its warmth through her, then lowered hers quickly, because his were seeing a little too much.

  "I should go bask in the silence of an empty house for a while. And I am getting a taxi.”

  “Feeling rebellious, are you?”

  “A little bit, yeah.” She frowned. “It’s odd. I don’t know where it’s coming from.”

  He nodded slow, watching her face, and after a pensive moment said, "Stay."

  “Stay?”

  He nodded. "You're hungry. Your stomach's been rumbling ever since you sat down. And I have a sandwich order due here any time now."

  "I have things to do."

  "I know you do. You have an appointment with the caterer, which you already wriggled out of. Meaning you're free. Stay. As your wedding consultant, I recommend a half hour of stress-free relaxation and a real meal, complete with cheese, mayo and potato chips."

  Before she could answer, he picked up the phone, told someone to double his lunch order, and to bring it up when it arrived. Then he put th
e phone down and got to his feet, came around the desk, and took her elbow in his hand. "Come on."

  "To where?" she asked.

  But he didn't answer, just ushered her out of his office through a side door she hadn't noticed before, up a set of industrial stairs and finally out through the door at the very top and onto the building's roof.

  Buildings in Syracuse were not terribly tall. But this one was one of the tallest, and from it, the entire city's skyline spread out—not to mention the rolling hills beyond it, all the way to the blue shores of Onondaga Lake.

  "Can you imagine it, a couple of centuries ago?" he asked. "Iroquois country. Probably nothing as far as the eye could see back then, besides smoke coming from an Indian village or two, and maybe the Sainte Marie mission."

  She smiled, trying to imagine it as he described it. The breeze blew bits of her hair free of its strategically messy knot, and she managed to draw her gaze in again and focus on her immediate surroundings.

  The roof was a garden. Decorative concrete urns, pots, and man-sized boxes lined it, all of them spilling over with greenery and flowers. A small patio table with an umbrella for shade stood near a four-foot-tall fountain, complete with cement cherubs playing harps.

  Marshall waved a hand at the chairs near that table. "Sit. Be comfy."

  "This is nice," she said, doing what he suggested, taking a seat. She tucked her navy skirt under her as she sat and unbuttoned the matching blazer. "You bring all your harried brides up here?"

  "Only the ones I've been dying to talk to without their overbearing mothers present."

  "She's not overbearing."

  "No more than a bulldozer." He paused. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.''

  "It's okay." She held up a hand. "I know how it looks. But she's only acting this way because I sort of...I sort of need her to."

  He lifted his brows. "I gotta admit I've been wondering. You're not a skittish seventeen-year-old, Kira."