The Wedding Wrecker

6. James

6

JAMES

" Y our nine o'clock is here," Derek announced, leaning against my office doorframe. "Fair warning—she's already crying."

I looked up from the stack of surveillance photos on my desk. Even after all these years, it was hard not to notice how Derek commanded attention just by existing. He had that kind of presence—tall, dark-haired, with the kind of face that made the office assistants constantly find excuses to deliver files in person. But his easy grin and perpetual bedhead kept him from looking too polished, which probably explained why women found him so approachable.

"They're always crying," I said.

"Yeah, but this one brought her own fancy monogrammed handkerchief. If you’re going to noisily cry, why not do it in style?" He dropped into one of my client chairs, propping his feet on my desk. "Also, Carol in accounting wants to know if you're ever going to turn in your expense reports, or if she should just assume all those hotel bar receipts are for 'investigating.'"

I knocked his feet off my desk. "They are for investigating."

"Uh huh." Derek had been my best friend since college, and somehow I'd let him talk me into handling the business side of my... unique enterprise. "And that bottle of Macallan 18?"

"Research."

"Into what? Liver failure?"

I ignored him, straightening my tie as I stood. "How much time do I have?"

"Enough to tell me why you're still wearing that tie."

I glanced down at the dark blue silk. "What's wrong with my tie?"

"Nothing. Except it’s the same one you wore yesterday.”

I made an effort not to touch it self-consciously. Oops.

Derek leaned forward, eyes searching my face. “You know, you always blow me off when I bring it up. But I still think you haven’t gotten over that girl you told me about. Your Irish flower.”

“Stop calling her that. I was drunk, and I was in my feelings. She’s not even Irish, so it hardly makes sense.”

Derek smirked. “Anyway… this Irish flower of yours rocks your world. Suddenly, my friend who is usually going home with a different woman every night has lost interest in dating. He’s ‘taking a break’. Well, James, I’m calling bullshit.” He spread his palms with a shrug. “I think you still have feelings for your little flower, and you’re saving yourself for her. Frankly, it’s adorable.”

“This is why I keep you in the office and don’t let you investigate weddings. You’re assuming a hell of a lot. And you’re completely wrong.”

“Am I?” Derek asked. His smug smile said it all.

I leaned back in my chair, arms folded. “Was there something you actually needed, or were you just here to annoy me?”

“Your nine-o-clock. Or did you forget because I mentioned your Irish flower, and all your thoughts went to your long lost love?”

“You can go,” I said firmly, but not without the faintest hint of a smile. “Send her in.”

Derek stood with a sarcastic salute. “For the record,” he said, leaning across my desk and lowering his voice. “You may be fooling yourself. But nobody else is falling for it.”

With a knock of his knuckles on my desk, Derek was gone.

The woman who entered looked exactly how I’d expected, complete with designer clothes and a monogrammed handkerchief she was currently twisting between manicured fingers.

"Mrs. Holloway?" I gestured to the chair Derek had vacated. "Please, sit. Tell me why you're here."

She perched on the edge of the seat. "It's about my daughter. She's engaged to... I think he's going to hurt her."

I kept my face neutral as she explained her concerns. The fiancé was too smooth, too perfect. Money disappeared from joint accounts. There were late-night calls he wouldn't explain.

"Have you told your daughter your concerns?"

Mrs. Holloway dabbed at her eyes. "She says I'm being paranoid. That I need to trust her judgment."

"And you understand how this works, right? They gave you the paperwork?"

“Well, yes,” she said, twisting that handkerchief again. “But I was thinking maybe we could save her the drama. If you… find something, I mean. Couldn’t we just show her quietly? Let her make her own decision?”

“No,” I said firmly. “That’s not what we do here.” I found my thoughts picking at old wounds—thinking of all the people who knew the truth and the obvious signs I’d ignored.

“I don’t understand why you can’t just?—”

“Let me help you understand, then,” I said, sounding more harsh than I intended. “Because I’ve tried it both ways. Let’s say we find out this guy is cheating or scamming her. We bring the evidence to your daughter. She’s going to do one of two things. One: she gives him another chance because he lathers on the perfect apology and promises to make it up to her. Meanwhile, he’ll go on lying and staying a snake. Two: she actually breaks it off, which almost nobody does.”

“Well,” she said, lips working quietly as she gathered her thoughts. “She wouldn’t stay with a cheater. And you said it yourself… she might break things off.”

“To put it frankly, I care deeply about preventing failed marriages, Mrs. Holloway. I don’t like investing my time to investigate couples if I don’t have assurances I can do things my way. I’m not interested in leaving it up to the bride or groom to do the right thing, because most of them don’t. So if you hire me, you’ll have to sign that you understand exactly how I operate. If there’s cause, I’ll wreck the wedding. It’s as simple as that. Of course, there’s a chance I’ll find nothing. In that case, you only have to pay to cover my investigation expenses, and no one ever has to know you hired me to look into their relationship.”

After Mrs. Holloway left, Derek reappeared with coffee. "So? Taking the case?"

"Yeah." I accepted the cup. "And the guy's definitely hiding something."

"You always say that."

"I'm usually right."

"Usually." He dropped a stack of papers on my desk. "But not always. Remember the Richardson wedding last month? Guy was clean as a whistle."

I scowled. That had been... disappointing.

"You almost looked sad about it," Derek continued. "Like maybe you wanted him to be guilty. Which is kind of fucked up, if you think about it."

"I'm helping people."

"Are you? Or are you just spreading your own trauma around like a party favor? Do you ever wonder if this business of yours is just keeping the wound open? I mean… Katie was years ago, man. And you still haven’t ever seemed the same since that day. One guy can only suffer so many wounds before he bleeds out, you know. You’ve either got to close them up or stop letting yourself get hurt."

I shot him a look. "Am I paying you to be my therapist, or handle the bullshit paperwork I don’t want to handle?"

"Fine, avoid the subject. But you know I'm right." He headed for the door, then paused. "Oh, almost forgot. This came for you."

He tossed an envelope onto my desk. Heavy cream paper, expensive. The return address was for a law firm I didn't recognize.

Inside was a single sheet of paper:

Dear Mr. Carter,

My daughter is engaged to marry a man I don’t trust. I heard about what you do from my older daughter, and I never thought I’d need your services, but here I am. Her fianc é is part of a very influential and powerful family, so I would need to know that every aspect of our arrangement could stay completely confidential.

Is that possible?

The man I want you to investigate is Marcus Wellington III, and my daughter is Lily Marshall. They’re planning to get married in five months at an exclusive resort in Breckrenridge, Colorado. I’m sure I could get you invited to the wedding by claiming you were an old friend, or something of the sort. Would that work?

Please get back to me as soon as you can.

Martha Marshall

I read it twice, something nagging at the back of my mind. I wasn’t sure I recognized the names, but something about the letter was setting off warning bells.

"Hey, Derek?"

"Yeah?"

"Run a search on Marcus Wellington III."

He pulled out his phone, fingers blurring across the screen. Then he whistled low. "Damn. Old money. Like, really old money. Getting married in December at some fancy resort in Colorado. Lucky bride. Hm.” More typing and a few clicks. “Actually, maybe he’s the lucky one. That bride looks like a supermodel, but more down to Earth. Like the girl next door on steroids. Sheesh. No wonder he wants to tie the knot."

My blood ran cold as I saw the photo on the page Derek had pulled up.

Marcus Wellington III and his fiancée, Lily Marshall, smiled up at me. But it was the second picture that caught my eye. Lower down on the page, there was a photo of a slightly younger version of Lily with her sister beaming at the camera. The caption below said Lily’s own sister was planning the wedding.

Of course she was.

And of course I recognized the face of her sister. Her sister was Emma Marshal. My Irish Flower, as Derek liked to tease.

Fuck.