Chapter 17
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. Making a hasty escape, she hurried to her own room, her pulse pounding.
She thought he’d wanted to marry her because he wanted entrée into an old New Orleans family. Now she knew it was more than that. 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 realized.
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.
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 tee 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 and her arms. When he cupped his palms around her breasts, she made a startled exclamation.
What are you doing?
What we both want to do.
You shouldn’t. When she tried to sit up, he pressed 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 sucked in a sharp breath. 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 while he lifted and shaped her breasts.
She closed her eyes, unable to pull away from the sensations.
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 name who that might be.
She squirmed against the bottom sheet.
Stop.
You don’t like it?
You know I do.
Then 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 attention, 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. Sleep. You need your rest.
What about you? she managed to ask.
That was good for me, too. And it gives me something to look forward to. When I get you back, we’ll finish what we started.
She prayed that he was right. Prayed that he would be able to get her away from the man who had sent thugs to bring her back to him.
Stephanie woke with the memory of making love with Craig and a smile on her face. She’d dreamed of having a warm, close relationship with a lover, but she’d been sure it would never happen to her until she met Craig. That was one of the reasons she’d settled for John Reynard.
She turned her head, expecting to see her one true love lying beside her. Instead, reality slammed back like a prison door clanging behind her.
She wasn’t with Craig. Not at all. She was in a bedroom in John Reynard’s house. Thank the Lord, not Reynard’s bedroom.
She clenched her hands into fists, wanting to pound them against the walls for all the good that would do her.
When she looked toward the bedside table, she saw the letter opener she’d put there—which looked like she’d been expecting to be attacked in the night. What a revealing thing to do.
Hoping that no one had looked in on her, she put the weapon back on the desk and went to the bathroom, where she got ready and pulled on jeans and a tee shirt.
People were moving around the house when she came down, and John and Claire were sitting at the dining room table, talking as intimately as they had been in the lounge the night before.
Claire noticed her first. “There she is.”
“Yes, we let you get your beauty sleep,” John added as he gave her a considering look. “I’m sorry I drank so much last night. It won’t happen again.”
When she was scrambling for a reply, he said, “The wedding will be this afternoon.”
“What?” she gasped, feeling like the breath had been knocked out of her. “I thought you wanted a morning wedding.”
“I changed my mind,” he answered.
“Yes. We have everything arranged,” Claire said brightly.
Unable to stand, Stephanie dropped into a chair at the table. She’d known that John wanted to move quickly, but she’d had no idea the wedding would be today,
Claire bustled over and set a notebook in front of her.
“Since you were asleep, I took the liberty of making some selections. I thought Prestige would be an ideal caterer. They’re bringing the food from their kitchen in New Orleans.
But there’s no need to go into the city for the floral arrangements.
There’s a branch of Just for You Flowers about twenty minutes away.
I’ve sent out e-mail invitations to several of John’s business associates, and I’ve already received some replies, but I think we can expect a small group—perhaps twenty guests.
And we’ll have your father picked up and brought here.
We decided that a justice of the peace was the easiest choice for an official.
Mr. Vincent Lacey will be here at five.”
Stephanie fought a wave of dizziness. “Five? The ceremony is at five?”
“Yes. Your dress has also arrived. And I can do your hair and makeup. That’s what I used to do—for one of the local TV stations—before I came to work for you.”
“Oh,” was all Stephanie could answer, ordering herself not to start shaking. She had to hold it together but knew she was on the edge of a meltdown. The worst part was that when she tried to contact Craig, she couldn’t locate him. It was like he’d fallen off the edge of the earth again.
Harold Goddard clicked off the phone with a broad grin on his face. He had some good news for a change. He’d known from his men that someone else was looking for Stephanie Swift and Craig Branson in Houma.
There was a chance it could be someone who knew about the clinic’s purpose, but he doubted it. Maybe this had to do with her fiancé, John Reynard. Harold had used the old Reynard murder connection to get Craig and Stephanie together. But it looked like Reynard wasn’t prepared to give her up.
Now there was a massive mobilization at Reynard’s country estate. Mobilization for a quickie wedding. Caterer, florist, a justice of the peace. The works.
Which made it pretty clear that Stephanie wasn’t dead. Reynard must have taken her back to the plantation. Maybe his men had even blown up that cottage and killed Branson.
Now he was going to make sure his bride didn’t escape again. Harold tapped his finger against his lips, thinking. He’d sent two guys to Houma, but it looked like Reynard had a lot more than that at the plantation. Harold had better get some extra help and send them down there.
The plantation was fenced in—with a gate. But the guards would be expecting wedding guests, which meant it wouldn’t be that hard to crash the gate and snatch the bride.
With Branson out of the picture now, it would be very instructive to see what had happened to Stephanie with her lover gone. He’d check out her mental state, then put her out of her misery.
Craig had been busy. Last night he’d spent some time in the bathroom of the cheap motel where he was staying using a clipper on his thick dark hair and then shaving his head.
He’d cut himself a couple of times, but the effect of the hair removal was startling.
He didn’t recognize the ugly-looking man who stared back at him in the mirror. Hopefully, Reynard wouldn’t either.
Next, he took a chance and wired five thousand dollars from an account he kept under another name to a Western Union office in a nearby town.
He’d used some of the cash to buy spy equipment to monitor phone communications at the plantation, and that had already paid off. Reynard was planning his wedding for that afternoon.
Craig swore. The bastard was moving fast. But as he listened to the preparations, he got an idea.
After learning Reynard’s plans, he stopped at a discount department store and bought some extra shirts in several sizes, which he put on in layers, bulking up his body to change his physique a little.
As he passed the cosmetics department, he had another couple of ideas.
He bought some dark eyebrow pencils and some fake tanning cream.
He spent some time in the men’s room putting on the tanning stuff and doing his eyebrows, trying to make them look thicker but natural.
Next, he stopped in a hardware store and bought some little rubber rings, which he stuck into his nostrils to make his nose look bigger.
After altering his appearance, he ran a couple more errands.
With the state’s lenient gun laws, he was able to pick up a Sig semiautomatic with a couple of spare clips—plus other equipment he was going to need.
When he was as prepared as he could be, he drove to Just for You Flowers, where the staff was frantically working to get the impromptu Reynard order ready in time.
He’d asked for a wedding bouquet of white roses and baby’s breath, plus several vases of flowers in stands to decorate the pool area where the wedding was being held.
“Hi, I’m Craig Barnes from the New Orleans store,” he told the woman behind the counter. “When they heard you were doing a job for John Reynard, they sent me down here to help.”
She gave him an annoyed look, and he was fairly sure that with his bald head and heavy eyebrows, he looked like a thug.
“No need, we have it under control,” she said.
But I’m going to drive the van that brings in the flowers, Craig said, putting in every ounce of mental energy he could muster.
He’d done this before with Sam. He’d done it with Stephanie.
He’d never done it on his own, but he knew Stephanie had been pushing John in the direction she wanted, and if she could do it, so could he.
He reinforced the silent observation with a second repetition.
The woman’s expression was still doubtful. “I’m just going to call Phil at the New Orleans shop and check on that.”
“It was Phil who sent me.”
She reached for the phone, and he sent her a fast and furious message. Don’t call Phil. Don’t call Phil. You need Branson to drive the truck.
He kept repeating the message, waiting with his heart pounding.
If she didn’t take him up on the offer, he’d have to go to plan B, and he had no freaking idea what that was.
But he had to get inside that plantation compound if he had a chance of rescuing Stephanie before she ended up in Reynard’s bed tonight.
“We could use a driver. Some of the stands we’ll need are heavy, and we only have women in the shop today.”
“I’m glad to help with that,” Craig said.
“And while you’re here, there are some deliveries that need to be put in the refrigerator.”
Several miles away, Rachel and Jake Harper were tuned in to the preparations at the estate.
“He’s going to marry her this afternoon,” Rachel said, a note of disgust in her voice. “And Craig Branson is ready to go in there and rescue her.”
“He could get himself killed,” her husband answered.
“I know that. But I want this to come out okay for them. What can we do about it?”
“I should say—nothing,” Jake answered firmly.
She gave him an incredulous look. “You’d leave two of the children from the Solomon Clinic in terrible danger?”
“I didn’t say I’d do that, but we have to think carefully about what we’re risking.”
“I know. But maybe we’d better start making some contingency plans.”
He answered with a tight nod, and she knew he would go along with her plans—if he didn’t think they were too dangerous.
She also knew he had grown up on the streets, committed to only himself.
Caring about no one but himself. He’d bonded with her because of the telepathic link they’d forged, but it was still difficult for him to see the importance of extending that bond to the others.
Especially after the first children from the clinic that they’d met had started off by attacking them.