BRIDAL JEOPARDY

by Rebecca York

  “So were Tanya and Mickey,” he bit out, referring to the telepaths who had tried to kill them.

  “Craig and Stephanie are different. They’re good people. They just want to be free to live their lives.”

  “So we can stay clear of them.”

  “Maybe that’s not going to work.”

  “Maybe it has to,” Jake said, punching out the words. He tipped Rachel’s body so that she was looking up at him. “I was along for the ride on that mental conference call. Something you’re not saying is that someone was after Craig. Not Reynard’s men. There’s something else going on.”

  He saw her swallow. “Yes.”

  “Maybe someone who knows about the clinic.”

  She gave a small nod.

  “Wellington and Solomon are dead. So who is it?”

  * * *

  CRAIG BRACED HIS HAND against the wall, fighting to stay on his feet. His head was swimming as though he’d just suffered a blow to the jaw. But he didn’t care.

  He knew Stephanie was alive. And she knew he was okay, too. That was important, because Reynard had her, and if she thought Craig was dead, there was no telling what she’d do.

  And he knew where she was. At least the general location. He started to charge out of the motel room, then checked himself. Men had chased him around Houma. If they didn’t think he’d been blown up in that explosion, they would be searching for him again.

  First he looked out the window to make sure nobody was lurking in the parking lot. Then he cautiously stepped outside.

  He climbed into his car and used the GPS to set a course for Morgan City, driving below the speed limit so as not to call attention to himself. All he needed was to get stopped by a cop and have them find out he was still alive. If they did, they’d probably hold him for questioning in the death of Ike Broussard—when they found out he was the guy who’d gotten caught in the explosion.

  Hopefully, that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon because the big advantage Craig had now was that Reynard thought he was dead. If he could keep it that way, he’d have a better chance to get Stephanie out of there.

  And then what? He’d worry about that after he sprang her.

  When he reached the approximate vicinity, he stopped at one of the gas stations. After filling his tank, he went inside the station. As soon as he saw the racks of junk food, he realized he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. He put a soft drink and some peanut-butter cheese crackers on the counter and paid for them, along with the gas, glad that he’d brought a fair amount of cash with him—and that he also had the use of the thugs’ money. But eventually he was going to need more cash. Maybe he could rob the gas station, he thought with a snort before turning toward the cashier.

  He ran his hand through his hair and looked around as if he thought the interior of the station would answer a vital question.

  “I’m supposed to be delivering an important package to the Reynard estate,” he said as he put his wallet back into his pocket, “but I’m not sure of the address. Can you tell me where it is?”

  “It’s about five miles south of town on the Old River Road,” the man answered. “But you won’t get in unless they’re expecting you, because there’s a guard at the gate.”

  “Thanks for the information,” he said.

  Before leaving town, he stopped at a dry-goods store and bought a tractor cap and a work shirt, which he put on in the men’s room. He would have to stop to buy some more clothing, because he’d lost everything in the explosion. But he had brought his computer along in the car, which kept him from having to make a major purchase.

  After doing what he could on short notice to disguise his appearance, he used the GPS to find Old River Road, then drove south. As the gas-station attendant had said, the Reynard estate was surrounded by a high chain-link fence, topped with razor wire, and a gate, with several men in attendance, controlling access to the property. As he drove past without stopping, he glimpsed a stately plantation house through the live oaks lining the drive.

  How much surveillance equipment did Reynard have? he wondered as he put a mile between himself and the gate. Pulling off the road, into a small clearing, he tried to send his mind to Stephanie, but he was too far away and couldn’t reach her.

  He’d have to come back at night and hope that he could get close enough without alerting the guards.

  * * *

  A KNOCK AT THE DOOR made Stephanie go rigid. When the door opened, she expected to see John, but it was only Claire.

  “How are you feeling?” her assistant asked.

  “Better.”

  “Dinner is in an hour. I’m sure you want to look your best. Why don’t you take a nice hot shower? And there are clothes in the closet.”

  “Thank you,” she said as she climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom, which turned out to be large and luxurious—a place she would have enjoyed if her stomach hadn’t been tied in knots.

  A shower and nice clothing. Was John thinking about taking her to bed after dinner? If he was, she prayed she could derail that plan.

  Once she’d showered, she dried her hair and tamed it into a style she knew John admired. Then she went to the closet to see what clothing was available.

  There were a number of tasteful gowns and dresses, probably chosen by Claire, who was using the knowledge of style she’d learned at the shop.

  Stephanie ground her teeth when she thought about her sweet little assistant. It went to show that you couldn’t always tell a person’s real motivations. She should have thought about that when she’d let John Reynard into her life. Well, it was too late to worry about what she should have done. She had to think carefully about what she was going to do now.

  After looking through the dresses, she selected a pale green dinner gown, then did a careful job with her makeup, trying to present herself as the happy bride who had finally moved into the very well-appointed home of her fiancé.

  But she hesitated at the door to her room, wishing she could stay locked away where John couldn’t touch her.

  “Stop it,” she muttered to herself. “You have to face him, and you have to make him absolutely sure that you’re relieved to be here.”

  After taking a deep breath and letting it out, she stepped into the hall and headed for the stairs.

  John and Claire were waiting for her in the drawing room, sitting with their heads together, speaking in low voices. She stood for a moment in the doorway, observing the intimacy between them and confirming her earlier thought that they were probably sleeping together. That would have made her angry if she’d cared about her relationship with John Reynard. Under the circumstances, she couldn’t help thinking that the other woman was doing her a big favor, letting John blow off sexual steam with her instead of his fiancée.

  They stopped talking abruptly when they noticed her in the doorway, and she suspected they had been talking about her.

  John looked her up and down, taking in the makeup and the dress she’d chosen.

  “I must say, you look lovely, my dear,” he said, getting up and coming over to plant a kiss on her cheek.

  “Thank you.”

  “Can I offer you some wine? I remember you like Merlot.”

  “Yes,” she answered. She wasn’t going to drink much because she needed to keep her wits about her. But she’d gotten an idea when John had offered her a drink.

  She looked toward the glass he’d left on the end table and saw amber liquid and ice cubes. Probably bourbon, which was his whiskey of choice.

  Have some more bourbon, she silently told him. Drink more bourbon. You want to drink a lot of it tonight—to celebrate your impending marriage.

  She waited with her heart pounding while he poured her a glass of the red wine, then hesitated for a moment at the bar.

 
Again she sent her message and felt a thrill of relief and satisfaction when he reached for the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and poured himself a drink.

  He brought her the wine, then did a double take when he realized he already had a glass of whiskey sitting on the side table. Quickly he took it away and put it in the sink.

  “We should eat,” he said. “Matilda has prepared a delicious dinner for your homecoming. All the Creole treats you love. We’re starting with Oysters Bienville. Then we have jambalaya, and we’re finishing with bananas Foster.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” she said, when she wondered how she could swallow any of it.

  Bring your drink, she told John, and he obliged her by picking up his glass and carrying it into the dining room.

  They took their seats at the table, where the staff gave everybody speculative looks, and she wondered what had been going on between John and Claire. Had they flaunted their relationship, or had the servants simply picked up on the intimacy between them?

  The maid brought the baked oysters, the shells resting on a bed of hot salt, then served each of them two.

  As Stephanie started to scoop the contents out of the shell, using the small oyster fork, a jolt of mental energy made her hand shake and the shell clatter against the dish.

  John gave her a sharp look. “What?”

  “I...just touched the hot oyster shell by accident,” she lied.

  “Let me see.”

  “Really, it was just enough to startle me,” she said as she held out her hand, fighting madly to stay calm.

  Craig had just contacted her.

  Sorry, he apologized.

  Where are you? she asked as she bent to fork up the oyster in its creamy sauce, hoping her face wasn’t flushed. Craig was close by. Close enough to contact her.

  I’m at the edge of the plantation. Around back.

  Be careful, she warned, marveling that he could speak to her from so far away. Maybe something that woman Rachel had done had boosted the signal between her and Craig.

  I am being careful. I just wanted you to know I’m here.

  She forced herself to eat the oyster, then smile at John. “This is so good.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I’d like some more wine,” she said. And you want more bourbon. Lots more bourbon.

  They finished the meal, and when they got up from the table, John approached her, putting his arm around her shoulder so that his fingers brushed the top of her breast.

  She caught her breath, knowing that she was playing a dangerous game. The whiskey had made him amorous, but had he drunk enough to keep him from performing?

  “Let’s have a nightcap in the lounge,” she murmured, reinforcing the invitation with a mental suggestion, which she expanded to include Claire. The longer she could keep the other woman with them, the longer she could keep John from pawing her, she hoped.

  The three of them sat together in the lounge. To avoid conversation, she suggested, Let’s watch a movie.

  “I wanted...” John said, then trailed off as though he had forgotten that he was hot to take his fiancée to bed.

  Stephanie silently pushed the movie idea as she brought everyone a drink.

  John picked an action-adventure, which was better than something sexy. But he crowded against her on the sofa, his lips brushing her cheek and his hand touching her leg or the side of her breast.

  She fought not to cringe as she kept making suggestions that he drink, and by the time the movie was over, he was unsteady on his feet. Yet he clamped his arm around her as they walked to the stairs.

  Her heart was in her throat as she let him walk her up the steps. Inside she was screaming, You’re so sleepy. All you want to do is fall on your bed and sleep. You’ll enjoy making love to Stephanie so much more when your head doesn’t feel so fuzzy.

  She held her breath as they passed her room, then continued on to his.

  He stood wavering in the doorway, and she helped him inside, easing him onto the bed. He closed his eyes as she pulled off his shoes. Then his eyes blinked open and focused on her.

  “Did you hear me talking about that murder?” he asked.

  “What?” she gasped. “What are you talking about?”

  “At that reception at the...what was it...the St. Charles Club. You know, where we first met. I was talking to Larry Dalton about...you know.”

  Her heart was in her throat.

  “I know what?”

  “That drug-enforcement agent who went into the ocean when he was messing with my shipment from Taiwan.”

  “No,” she breathed.

  “Got to keep you close,” he muttered, “in case you heard.”

  Her heart was already pounding so hard she could barely breathe. Then, as his hand reached for her, she felt her heart leap into her throat.

  Chapter Seventeen

  As John made a grab for Stephanie, she stepped out of the way.

  Sleep. Just sleep. You need to sleep, and you’ll feel so much better in the morning.

  To her profound relief, he accepted the suggestion and sank into sleep, and she exited his room, then hurried to her own, her pulse pounding.

  She’d thought he’d wanted to marry her because he wanted entrée into an old New Orleans family. Apparently it was more than that. It seemed he thought she’d overheard a conversation about a murder he’d ordered.

  She hadn’t heard him. But now she knew. In the morning, would he remember that he’d told her?

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, thinking that she was in more trouble than she’d even known.

  As soon as she closed the door, Craig was in her head.

  Thank God.

  You were watching that.

  Yeah.

  You heard about...a murder.

  Yeah.

  What am I going to do?

  Hope to hell he doesn’t focus on it when he wakes up.

  As she caught the raw edge in his silent voice, she shuddered. Then she picked up that he was thinking about her in bed with Reynard, not about the man’s murderous past. He already knew about that.

  But now the dark and dangerous images swirling in his mind made her gasp. You can’t break in here. Don’t try. They’ll catch you.

  I’m coming in for you.

  Wait

  I will. I’ll figure something out.

  She pulled off her gown and shoes and found a long T-shirt she could wear—something very unsexy, if John appeared in her room.

  She knew Craig caught that thought and tried to ignore his instant flare of anger. But then she walked to the desk, picked up a letter opener she’d seen there and set it on the bedside table.

  She heard Craig catch his breath.

  You think you could get out of there alive if you stabbed him?

  You have a better idea?

  Wait for me to get there.

  Praying that was possible, she washed her face, brushed her teeth and used the toilet before climbing into bed.

  Closing her eyes, she imagined Craig lying beside her.

  Soon, he whispered in her mind, and she hoped it was going to work out the way they wanted.

  She made a strangled sound when she felt his lips against hers.

  Her eyes flew open, but the room was empty.

  How did you do that?

  In the darkness she heard him chuckle.

  It’s like moving books in the bookcase. Only more fun. As she heard his voice in her mind, she felt his invisible fingers stroking her hair, her arms. When he cupped his palms around her breasts, she caught her breath.

  What are you doing?

  What we both want to do.

  You shouldn’t. When she tried to sit up, he presse
d his hand against her shoulder. Don’t run away from me.

  But you’re making me hot. And what can I do about it?

  He laughed again. I can do something about it. You’ve had a terrible day. Let me make it up to you.

  It’s not your fault.

  You begged me to take you with me. I wouldn’t listen.

  She swallowed hard. But that might have gotten you killed. I think that blast at the cabin was meant for you.

  Yeah. And the poor cop was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. But let’s not focus on that now.

  As he spoke, he brushed his invisible lips against hers as he lifted and shaped her breasts. She closed her eyes, unable to pull away from the sensations. And as she enjoyed his kisses and his touch, it was difficult to remember that he wasn’t there in the bed with her. When his thumbs and fingers closed around her nipples, she had to take her lower lip between her teeth to keep from crying out. That was all she needed—to bring someone charging down the hall. She didn’t allow herself to actually name who that might be.

  She squirmed against the mattress.

  Stop.

  You don’t like it?

  You know I do.

  Than let me give you pleasure.

  But...

  He stopped her protest with a long, passionate kiss as he tugged at one nipple while his other hand drifted down her body toward the juncture of her legs.

  She didn’t have to open them for him. Using his phantom hands, he had complete access to the most intimate parts of her, and she caught his satisfaction in knowing what he was doing to her.

  Her hips rose and fell as he stroked a finger through her folds, dipping into her and turning his finger in a maddening circle, then traveling upward to the point of her greatest sensation. He kept up the arousing attentions, making it impossible for her to focus on anything else as he drove her up and up toward a climax that burst over and through her, making her gasp as she struggled not to cry out in pleasure.

  And when he was finished, he whispered in her mind, Sleep now. You need your rest.

  What about you? she managed to ask.