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His Stolen Bride
Barbara Dunlop


To love, honor, and abduct a beautiful bride… Only from New York Times bestselling author Barbara Dunlop.“Will you take this woman?” Yes. As a favor to his estranged father, investigator Jackson Rush agrees to kidnap Crista Corday from her high society wedding. His job is to stop her marriage to a conman, not seduce the alluring Crista himself. But two days together, on the run from her fiancé’s shady family, obliterate every rule…Crista has no idea of the danger drawing near. Jackson can’t reveal it without divulging who really sent him. And that’s a risk that could cost him everything…unless Crista will put herself under his passionate protection forever.









“I don’t usually do this,” he said.


He didn’t usually kidnap women or unbutton their wedding gowns?

Crista knew she should ask. No, she shouldn’t ask. She should move now, back away, lock herself in the bathroom until her emotions were under control.

But he slowly lifted his hand. His fingertips grazed her shoulder. Then his palm cradled her neck, slipping up to her hairline. The touch was smooth and warm, his obvious strength couched by tenderness.

She couldn’t bring herself to pull away. In fact, it was a fight to keep from leaning into his caress.

Jackson dipped his head.

She knew what came next. Anybody would know what came next.

His lips touched hers, kissing her gently, testing her texture and then her taste. Arousal instantly flooded her body. He stepped forward, his free arm going around her waist, settling at the small of her back, strong and hot against her exposed skin.

She didn’t move away.

* * *

His Stolen Bride is part of the Chicago Sons series: Men who work hard, love harder and live with their fathers’ legacies…




His Stolen Bride

Barbara Dunlop







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


BARBARA DUNLOP writes romantic stories while curled up in a log cabin in Canada’s far north, where bears outnumber people and it snows six months of the year. Fortunately she has a brawny husband and two teenage children to haul firewood and clear the driveway while she sips cocoa and muses about her upcoming chapters. Barbara loves to hear from readers. You can contact her through her website, www.barbaradunlop.com (http://www.barbaradunlop.com).


To Mom with love


Contents

Cover (#ub7a0e505-1dbc-5e5a-bafd-aeb243245415)

Introduction (#uaf197bd3-361d-5879-8ae9-1546197b297b)

Title Page (#ufe0a2a36-e090-5dbe-aa65-04af520f1d91)

About the Author (#uf51d0949-51e2-5012-b0b3-93b683f154ac)

Dedication (#u0da3186d-f3ea-5d7a-a82c-a2c69f31d006)

One (#u94090323-1fde-52b1-912d-f2c2dac62caa)

Two (#u1614103c-619d-541d-8fae-a428b8b1a8c2)

Three (#ue4ae833f-7cc9-59b6-a96d-0fd532786888)

Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


One (#ulink_dfe95754-694e-56bd-8dd0-b812dafcd489)

A heavy metal door clanged shut behind Jackson Rush, echoing down the hallway of the Riverway State Correctional Institute in northeast Illinois. He paused to mentally brace himself as he took in the unfamiliar surroundings. Then he walked forward, his boot heels clacking against the worn linoleum. He couldn’t help thinking the prison would make a perfect movie set, with its cell bars, scarred gray cinder blocks, flickering fluorescent lights and the scattered shouts from connecting rooms and hallways.

His father, Colin Rush, had been locked up here for nearly seventeen years, ever since he was caught stealing thirty-five million dollars from the unsuspecting investors in his personal Ponzi scheme.

His dramatic arrest had taken place on Jackson’s thirteenth birthday. The police rushed the backyard pool party, sending guests shrieking and scattering. Jackson could still see the two-tiered blue-and-white layer cake sliding from the table, splattering on the grass, obliterating his name as it oozed into a pile of goo.

At first, his father had stridently proclaimed his innocence. Jackson’s mother had taken Jackson to the courtroom every day of the trial, where they’d sat stoically and supportively behind the defense. But it soon became clear that Colin was guilty. Far from being a brilliant investor, he was a common thief.

When one of his former clients committed suicide, he lost all public sympathy and was sentenced to twenty years in jail. Jackson hadn’t seen his father since.

Now he rounded the corner to the visiting area, prepared for stark wooden benches, Plexiglas partitions and hardwired black telephone receivers. Instead, he was surprised to find himself in a bright, open room that looked like a high school cafeteria. A dozen round red tables were positioned throughout, each with four stools connected by thick metal braces directly to the table base. The hall had high rectangular windows and checkerboard tile floors. A few guards milled around while the other visitors seemed to be mostly families.

A man stood up at one of the tables and made eye contact. It took Jackson a moment to recognize his father. Colin had aged considerably, showing deep wrinkles around his eyes and along his pale, hollow cheeks. His posture was stooped, and his hairline had receded. But there was no mistaking it was him, and he smiled.

Jackson didn’t smile back. He was here under protest. He didn’t know why his father had insisted he come, only that the emails and voice messages had become increasingly frequent and sounded more and more urgent. He’d eventually relented in order to make them stop.

Now he marched toward the table, determined to get the visit over and done with.

“Dad,” he greeted flatly, sticking out his hand, preempting what would surely be the most awkward hug in history.

“Hello, son,” said Colin, emotion shimmering in his eyes as he shook Jackson’s hand.

His grip was firmer than Jackson had expected.

Jackson’s attention shifted to a second man seated at the round table, half annoyed by his presence, but half curious as well.

“It’s good to see you,” said Colin.

Jackson didn’t respond, instead raising his brow inquiringly at the stranger.

Colin cleared his throat and released Jackson’s hand. “Jackson, this is Trent Corday. Trent and I have been cell mates for the past year.”

It seemed more than strange that Colin would bring a friend to this meeting. But Jackson wasn’t about to waste time dwelling on the question.

He looked back to his father. “What is it you want?”

He could only guess there must be a parole hearing coming up. If there was, Colin was on his own. Jackson wouldn’t help him get out of prison early. Colin had three years left on his sentence, and as far as Jackson was concerned, he deserved every minute.

His selfish actions had harmed dozens of victims, not the least of which was Jackson’s mother. She’d been inconsolable after the trial, drinking too much, abusing prescription painkillers, succumbing to cancer five years later just as Jackson graduated from high school.

Colin gestured to one of the stools. “Please, sit.”

Jackson perched himself on the small metal seat.

“Trent has a problem,” said Colin, sitting down himself.

What Trent’s problem could possibly have to do with Jackson was the first question that came to mind. But he didn’t ask—instead, he waited.

Trent filled the silence. “It’s my daughter. I’ve only been inside for three years. A misunderstanding, really, I—”

“Save it,” said Jackson.

Seventeen years ago, he’d listened to Colin protest endlessly about how he’d been framed, then railroaded, then misunderstood. Jackson wasn’t here to listen to the lies of a stranger.

“Yes, well...” Trent glanced away.

Jackson looked at his watch.

“She’s fallen victim,” said Trent. He fished into the pocket of his blue cotton shirt. “It’s the Gerhard family. I don’t know if you’ve heard of them.”

Jackson gave a curt nod.

Trent put a photograph on the table in front of Jackson. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

Jackson’s gaze flicked down.

The woman in the picture was indeed beautiful, likely in her midtwenties, with rich auburn hair, a bright, open smile, shining green eyes. But her looks were a moot point.

“She’s getting married,” said Trent. “To Vern Gerhard. They hide it well. But that family’s known to a lot of the guys in here. Vern is a con artist and a crook. So is his father, and his father before that.”

The woman obviously had questionable taste in men. Jackson found that less than noteworthy. In his line of work, he’d come across plenty of women who’d married the wrong guy, even more whose husbands didn’t meet with the approval of their fathers. Again, this had nothing to do with him.

He looked back to Colin. “What is it you want from me?”

“We want you to stop the wedding,” said Colin.

It took a second for the words to compute inside Jackson’s head. “Why would I do anything like that?”

“He’s after her money,” said Trent.

“She’s a grown woman.” Jackson’s glance strayed to the photo again.

She looked to be twenty-six or twenty-seven. He doubted she was thirty. With a face like that and any kind of money in the mix, she had to know she was going to attract a few losers. If she didn’t recognize them herself, there wasn’t anything Jackson could do about it.

Colin spoke up again. “She can’t possibly know she’s being conned. The girl places a huge value on honesty and integrity, has done her entire life. If she knew the truth, she wouldn’t have anything to do with him.”

“So tell her.”

“She won’t speak to me,” said Trent. “She sure won’t listen to me. She doesn’t trust me as far as she can throw me.”

“I’m sure you can relate to that particular viewpoint,” said Colin, an edge to his voice.

“That’s what you want to say to me?” Jackson rose to his feet. No way, no how was he buying into a guilt trip from his old man.

“Sit down,” said Colin.

“Please,” said Trent. “Year ago, I put something in her name, shares in a diamond mine.”

“Lucky for her.”

The woman might well be picking the wrong husband, but at least she’d have a comfortable lifestyle.

“She doesn’t know about it,” said Trent.

For the first time since he’d walked in, Jackson’s curiosity was piqued. “She doesn’t know she owns a diamond mine?”

Both men shook their heads.

Jackson looked at the picture again, picking it up from the table. She didn’t appear naive. In fact, if he had to guess, he’d say she looked intelligent. But she was drop-dead gorgeous. In his eight years as a private detective, he’d discovered features like that made women targets.

“Hear us out,” said Colin. “Please, son.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Okay. Fine. Whatever you want.” Colin was nodding again.

“You hear things in here. And the Gerhards are dangerous,” said Trent.

“More dangerous than you two felons?” Jackson didn’t like that he’d become intrigued by the circumstances, but he had.

“Yes,” said Trent.

Jackson hesitated for a beat, but then he sat back down. Another ten minutes wouldn’t kill him.

“They found out about the mine,” said Trent, his tone earnest.

“You know this for sure?” asked Jackson.

“I do.”

“How?”

“A friend of a friend. The Borezone Mine made a promising new discovery a year ago. Only days later, Vern Gerhard made contact with my daughter. Final assaying is about to be announced, and the value will go through the roof.”

“Is it publicly traded?” asked Jackson.

“Privately held.”

“Then how did Gerhard know about the discovery?”

“Friends, industry contacts, rumors. It’s not that hard if you know where to ask.”

“It could be a coincidence.”

“It’s not.” There was cold anger in Trent’s voice. “The Gerhards are bottom-feeders. They heard about the discovery. They targeted her. And as soon as the ink is dry on the marriage certificate, they’ll rob her blind and dump her like last week’s trash.”

Jackson traced his index finger around the woman’s face. “You have proof of that? You have evidence that he’s not in love with her?”

With that fresh-faced smile and those intelligent eyes, Jackson could imagine any number of men could simply fall in love, money or no money.

“That’s what we need you for,” said Colin.

“Expose their con,” said Trent. “Look into their secret, slimy business dealings and tell my Crista what you find. Convince her she’s being played and stop that wedding.”

Crista. Her name was Crista. It suited her.

Despite himself, Jackson was beginning to think his way through the problem, calculate the time he’d need for a cursory look into the Gerhard family’s business. At the moment, things weren’t too busy in the Chicago office of Rush Investigations. He’d planned to use the lull to visit the Boston office and discuss a possible expansion. But if push came to shove, he could make some time for this.

She was pretty. He’d give her that. Nobody in the Boston office was anywhere near this pretty.

“Will you do it?” asked Colin.

“I’ll scratch the surface,” said Jackson, pocketing the photo.

Trent opened his mouth, looking like he might protest Jackson taking the picture. But he obviously thought better of it and closed his mouth again.

“Keep us posted?” asked Colin.

For a split second, Jackson wondered if this was all a ruse to keep him in contact with his father. Did Colin plan to string him along for a while for some hidden reason of his own? He was, after all, a gifted con artist.

“The wedding’s Saturday,” said Trent.

That diverted Jackson’s attention. “This Saturday?”

“Yes.”

That was three days away.

“Why didn’t you start this sooner?” Jackson demanded. What did they expect him to accomplish in only three days?

“We did,” Colin said quietly.

Jackson clamped his jaw. Yeah, his father had been trying to get hold of him for a month. He’d been studiously ignoring the requests, just like he’d been doing for years. He owed Colin nothing.

He stood. “It’s not much time, but I’ll see what I can find.”

“She cannot marry him.” Trent’s undertone was rock hard with vehemence.

“She’s a grown woman,” Jackson repeated.

He’d look into the Gerhards. But if Crista Corday had fallen for a bad boy, there might be nothing her daddy or anyone else could do to change her mind.

* * *

Crista Corday swayed back and forth in front of the full-length mirror, her strapless lace and tulle wedding gown rustling softly against her legs. Her hair was swept up in a profusion of curls and braids. Her makeup had been meticulously applied. Even her underwear was white silk perfection.

She stifled a laugh at the absurdity of it all. She was a struggling jewelry designer, living in a basement suite off Winter Street. She didn’t wear antique diamonds. She didn’t get married in the magnificent Saint Luke’s Cathedral with a reception at the Brookbend Country Club. And she didn’t get swept off her feet by the most eligible prince charming in all of greater Chicago.

Except for the part where she did, and she had.

Cinderella had nothing on her.

There was a knock on the Gerhard mansion’s bedroom door.

“Crista?” the male voice called out. It was Vern’s cousin Hadley, one of the groomsmen.

“Come in,” she called in return.

She liked Hadley. He was a few years younger than Vern, laid-back by Gerhard standards, fun-loving and friendly. Taller than most of the men in the family, he was athletic and good-looking, with a jaunty swath of dark blond hair that swooped across his forehead.

He lived in Boston rather than Chicago, but he visited often, sometimes staying at the mansion, sometimes using a hotel. Crista assumed he preferred a hotel when he had a date. Vern’s mother, Delores, was staunchly religious and would not have allowed Hadley to have an overnight guest.

The door opened, and he stepped into the spacious, sumptuously decorated guest room. Crista had spent the night here, while Vern had stayed in his apartment downtown. Maybe it was Dolores’s influence, but Crista had been feeling old-fashioned the past few weeks, insisting she and Vern sleep apart until the honeymoon. Vern had reluctantly agreed.

Hadley halted. Then he pushed the door shut behind him and seemed to take in her ensemble.

“What?” she asked, checking herself out, wondering if she’d missed some glaring flaw.

“You look amazing,” he said.

Crista scoffed. “I sure hope I do.” She spread her arms. “Do you have any idea how much this all cost?”

Hadley grinned. “Aunt Delores wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I feel like an impostor.” Crista’s stomach fluttered with a resurgence of apprehension.

“Why?” he asked. His tone was gentle, and he moved closer.

“Because I grew up on the lower west side.”

“You don’t think we’re your people?”

She turned back to the mirror and gazed at her reflection. The woman staring back was her, but not her. It was a surreal sensation.

“Do you think you’re my people?” she asked him.

“If you want us to be,” he said.

Their gazes met in the mirror.

“But it’s not too late,” he added.

“Too late for what?”

“To back out.” He looked serious, but he had to be joking.

“You’re wrong about that.” Not that she wanted to back out. Not that she’d even consider backing out. In fact, she couldn’t imagine how their conversation had come to this.

“You look scared,” he said.

“Of the wedding, sure. I’m probably going to trip on my way down the aisle. But I’m not afraid of the marriage.”

It was Vern. She was marrying smart, respectful, polite Vern. The man who’d stepped up to invest in her jewelry design company, who’d introduced her to the finer things, who’d swept her away for a fantasy weekend in New York City and another in Paris. There wasn’t much about Vern that wasn’t fantastic.

“The future in-laws?” Hadley asked.

Crista quirked a smile. “Intimidated, not afraid.”

The intensity left his expression, and he smiled in return. “Who wouldn’t be intimidated by them?”

“Nobody I know, that’s for sure.”

Manfred Gerhard was a humorless workaholic. He was exacting and demanding, with a cutting voice and an abrupt manner. His wife, Delores, was prim and uptight, excruciatingly conscious of the social hierarchy, but skittish whenever Manfred was in the room, constantly catering to his whims.

If Vern ever acted like his father, Crista would kick him to the curb. No way, no how would she put up with that. Then the thought brought her up short. Vern wasn’t at all like his father. She’d never seen anything to even suggest he might behave like Manfred.

“He’s very close to them,” said Hadley.

He was watching her intently again, and for a split second Crista wondered if he could read her thoughts.

“He’s talking about buying an apartment in New York City.” She liked the idea of putting some distance between Vern and his family. He loved them dearly, but she couldn’t see spending every Sunday evening at the mansion the way Vern seemed to like.

“I’ll believe that when it happens,” said Hadley.

But Crista knew it was already decided. “It’s so I can expand the business,” she elaborated.

“Are you having second thoughts?” asked Hadley.

“No.” She turned to face him. She wasn’t. “What makes you say that? What makes you ask that?”

“Maybe I want you for myself.”

“Very funny.”

He hesitated for a moment then gave an unconcerned shrug. “I’m not sure I’d marry into this family.”

“Too bad you’re already in this family.”

He looked her straight in the eyes. “So, you’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I love him, Hadley. And he loves me. Everything else will work itself out around that.”

He gave a nod of acquiescence. “Okay. If I can’t get you to call off the wedding, then I’m here to tell you the limos have arrived.”

“It’s time?” The flutter in her stomach turned into a spasm.

It was perfectly normal, she told herself. She was about to walk down the aisle in front of hundreds of people, including her future in-laws and a who’s who list of notable Chicagoans. She’d be a fool to be calm under these circumstances.

“You just turned pale,” said Hadley.

“I told you, I’m afraid of tripping halfway down the aisle.”

“You want me to walk you?”

“That’s not how we rehearsed it.”

Crista’s father was in prison, and she didn’t have a close male relative to escort her down the aisle. And in this day and age, it seemed ridiculous to scramble for a figurehead to “give her away” to Vern. She was walking down the aisle alone, and she was perfectly fine with that.

“I could still do it,” said Hadley.

“No, you can’t. You need to stand up front with Vern. Otherwise the numbers will be off, more bridesmaids than groomsmen. Dolores would faint dead away.”

Hadley straightened the sleeves of his tux. “You got that right.”

Crista pictured her six bridesmaids at the front of the cathedral in their one-shoulder crisscross aqua dresses. Their bouquets would be plum and white, smaller versions of the dramatic rose-and-peony creation Delores had ordered for Crista. It was going to be heavy, but Delores had said with a congregation that large, people needed to see it from a distance. They could probably see it from Mars.

“The flowers are here?” asked Crista, half hoping they hadn’t arrived so she wouldn’t have to lug the monstrosity around.

“Yes. They’re looking for you downstairs to get some pictures before you leave.”

“It’s time,” said Crista, bracing herself.

“It’s not too late,” said Hadley. “We can make a break for it through the rose garden.”

“You need to shut up.”

He grinned. “Shutting up now.”

Crista was getting married today. It might have happened fast. The ceremony might be huge. And her new family might be overwhelming. But all she had to do was put one foot in front of the other, say, “I do,” and smile in all the right places.

By tonight, she’d be Mrs. Vern Gerhard. By this time tomorrow, she’d be off on a Mediterranean honeymoon. A posh private jet would take them to a sleek private yacht for a vacation in keeping with the stature of the Gerhard family.

Hadley offered her his arm, and she took it, feeling a sudden need to hang on tight.

“I’ll see you at the church,” he said.

She could do this. She would do this. There was no downside. Any woman would be thrilled by such a complete and total change in her lifestyle.

* * *

Dressed in a crisp tuxedo, freshly shaved, his short hair neatly trimmed, Jackson stood outside Saint Luke’s Cathedral north of Chicago in the Saturday afternoon sunshine pretending he belonged. It was a picture-perfect June wedding day. The last of the well-heeled guests had just been escorted inside, and the groomsmen now stood in a cluster on the outside stairs. Vern Gerhard was nowhere to be seen, likely locked up in an anteroom with the best man waiting for Crista Corday to arrive.

Jackson had learned a lot about Crista over the past three days. He’d learned she was beautiful, creative and reputedly hardworking.

As a girl, she’d grown up in a modest neighborhood, living with her single mother, her father, Trent, having visitation rights and apparently providing some small amount of financial support. She’d attended community college, taking a diploma in fine arts. It was during that time that she’d lost her mother in a car accident.

After graduation she’d found a job in women’s clothing in a local department store. He assumed she must have worked on her jewelry designs in her off hours.

So far, she seemed exactly as she appeared, an ordinary, working-class Chicago native who’d been living a perfectly ordinary life until she’d met her fiancé. The most remarkable thing about her seemed to be her father’s conviction on fraud charges. Then again, maybe it wasn’t so remarkable. This was Chicago, and Jackson was definitely familiar with having a convicted criminal in the family.

Vern and the Gerhards had proven harder for him to gauge. Their public and social media presence was slick and heavily controlled. Their family company, Gerhard Incorporated, was privately held, having been started as a hardware store by Vern’s great-grandfather during the Depression. It now centered on commercial real estate ownership and development.

Their estimated net worth was high, but Jackson hadn’t found anything illegal or shady in their business dealings. They did seem to have incredible timing, often buying up properties at fire sale prices in the months before corporate mergers, gentrification or zoning changes boosted their value. It was enough to make Jackson curious, but the individual instances weren’t overly suspicious, and what he had so far didn’t come close to proving they were conning Crista.

Despite Trent’s suspicions, Vern Gerhard and Crista’s romance seemed to be just that, a romance.

“I say more power to him.” One of the groomsmen’s voices carried from the cathedral staircase, catching Jackson’s attention.

“I almost told her at the house,” said another groomsman. This one looked younger. He had the trademark Gerhard brown eyes, but he was taller than most, younger than Vern. His flashy hairstyle made him look like he belonged in a boy band.

“Why would you do that?” asked a third. This man was shorter, balding, and his bow tie was already askew. Jackson recognized him as a brother-in-law to Vern.

“You don’t think she deserves to know?” asked the younger one.

“Who cares? She’s hot,” said the bald one. “That body, hoo boy.”

“Such a sweet ass,” said the first groomsman, grinning.

“Nice,” Jackson muttered under his breath. The Gerhards might be rich, but they didn’t seem to have much in the way of class.

“So, why does he need Gracie?” asked the younger groomsman, glancing around the circle for support. “He should break it off already.”

“You want to stick to just one ice cream flavor?” asked the balding man.

“For the rest of your life?” asked the first groomsman.

“Some days I feel like praline pecan. Some days I feel like rocky road,” said the heavyset one with a chortle.

“And that’s why you’re sleeping with Lacey Hanniberry.”

“Lumpy Lacey.”

The other men laughed.

“Vern hit the jackpot.” The first groomsman made a rude gesture with his hips.

“On both fronts,” said the bald one. “Crista’s the lady, Gracie’s the tramp.”

“She’s going to find out,” said the younger man with the flashy hair.

“Not if you don’t tell her she won’t,” said the first man, a warning in his tone.

Jackson had half a mind to tell her himself. Vern sounded like a pig. And most of his friends didn’t seem any better.

“Gracie won’t last, anyway,” said the heavyset man.

“Vern will trade up,” said the balding one.

“Uncle Manfred’s girlfriends have been twenty-five for the past thirty years.”

“Wives age, girlfriends don’t.”

They all laughed, except for the young guy. He frowned instead. “Crista’s different.”

“No, she’s not.” The first groomsman slapped him on the back. “You’re young, naive. All your girlfriends are twenty-five.”

“I don’t cheat on them.”

“Then you’re not trying hard enough.”

“Get with the program.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jackson saw two white limos pull up to the curb. The groomsmen spotted them, too, and they turned to head up the wide staircase to the cathedral entrance, their voices and laughter fading with the distance.

So, Vern was cheating on Crista. It was a coldhearted and idiotic move, but it was none of Jackson’s business. Maybe she knew and accepted it. Or maybe she wasn’t as smart as everyone seemed to think, and she was oblivious. Or maybe—and this was a real possibility—she was only marrying the guy for his money and didn’t care about his fidelity one way or the other.

The limo doors opened and a group of pretty bridesmaids spilled out of one. The driver of the other vehicle quickly hopped to the back door, helping the bride step onto the sidewalk.

Crista straightened and rose in the bright sunshine, looking absolutely stunning. Her auburn hair was swept up in braids, thick at the nape of her neck, wispy and delicate around her beautiful face. Her shoulders were bare and looked creamy smooth. The white dress was tight across her breasts and her waist, showing off an amazing figure. The lace and beading on the full skirt glittered with every little movement.

Jackson didn’t normally fantasize about brides. But if he had, they’d look exactly like her. His annoyance at Vern redoubled. What was the man’s problem? If Jackson had someone like Crista in his bed, he’d never so much as look at another woman.

The bridesmaids giggled and clustered around her while the drivers returned to their cars to move them from the busy street.

“This is it,” said one bridesmaid, fussing with Crista’s bouquet and taking a critical look at her face and hairdo.

“I’m okay?” Crista asked.

“You’re perfect.”

Crista drew in a deep breath.

The women started for the staircase that led to the cathedral’s big front doors. Jackson’s first instinct was to step forward and offer his arm, but he held back.

Crista spotted him. She looked puzzled at first, as if she was struggling to recognize him. Their gazes locked, and he felt a shot to his solar plexus.

Her eyes were green as a South Pacific sea and just as deep, flickering in the sunshine. She looked honest. She looked honorable. In that split second, he knew her father’s words had been true. She wouldn’t put up with a cheating husband, which meant she didn’t know about Vern and Gracie.

Jackson wanted to shout at her to stop, to get out of here. She might not know it, but she was making a mistake. Deep down in his gut, he knew she was making a terrible mistake.

Maybe he should tell her the truth about Vern, just call out, right here, right now. Then at least she’d know what she was getting herself into. He told himself to do it. He owed Vern absolutely nothing. He formed the words inside his head, opened his mouth and was ready to blurt it out.

But then a bridesmaid whispered to Crista. She laughed, and her gaze broke from Jackson’s, releasing him from the spell.

The women moved up the staircase, and the moment was lost.

He shook himself. It was time for him to leave. There was nothing more he could do here, nothing he could do for Trent except hope the man was wrong. The Gerhards seemed like a singularly distasteful family, and if they really were after her diamond mine, she had herself some trouble. But it wasn’t Jackson’s trouble to borrow. He’d done as he’d promised, and he’d found nothing concrete, nothing that said the Gerhards were nefarious criminals.

The bridesmaids filed in through the doorway, chattering among themselves. Crista hung back, touching each of her earrings, fingering her necklace then grasping her large bouquet in both hands and tipping up her chin.

Then, unexpectedly, she twisted her head to look back again. He felt that same rush of emotion tighten his chest cavity. He knew with an instant certainty that she deserved better than Vern. It might be none of his business, but surely she wouldn’t tolerate a husband who’d sneak off and sleep with a string of mistresses.

The heavy door swung shut behind the bridesmaids.

Just he and Crista were left outside.

Jackson glanced around and confirmed that for these short seconds, they were alone.

Before his brain could form a thought, his feet were moving. He was striding toward her.

Her green eyes went wide, and she drew her head back in obvious surprise.

“Crista Corday?” he asked.

“Are you a friend of Vern’s?” Her sexy voice seemed to strum along his nervous system.

“Not for long,” he said. He scooped her into his arms and began walking.

“What?” she squeaked, one of her hands pushing on his shoulder, the other gripping the big bouquet.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He lengthened his stride to the sidewalk.

“You’re not...what are you doing?”

“There are things you don’t know about Vern.”

“Put me down!” She started to squirm, glancing frantically around.

“I will,” he promised, speeding up his pace. “In a moment.”

He reached out and opened the driver’s door of his SUV. He shoved her across to the passenger side. Before she had a chance to react, he jumped in behind her, cranked the engine and gunned the accelerator, peeling away from the curb, narrowly missing a taxi, which responded with a long blast from its horn.

“You can’t do this,” Crista cried, twisting her neck to look back at the church.

“I only want to talk.”

“I’m getting married.”

“After you hear me out if you still want to get married, I’ll take you back to him.”

And, he would. Trent was a criminal. He could easily be lying about the Gerhards for reasons of his own. So, if Crista was okay with infidelity, Jackson would return her to Vern. It would go against every instinct inside him, but he’d do it.


Two (#ulink_9629a3bb-2d88-5648-84a3-094e42ebc2d5)

“Take me back now,” Crista shouted at the stranger who seemed to be abducting her. Her mind raced to make some sense out of the situation.

“As soon as you hear me out.” His jaw was tight, his eyes straight ahead, his hands firm on the wheel as they gathered speed.

“Who are you?” She struggled not to panic.

She’d always considered herself a smart, sensible, capable woman. But in this scenario she had no idea what to do.

“Jackson Rush. I’m an investigator.”

“Investigating what?” She struggled to stay calm. What was he doing? Why had he taken her?

Then she saw a red light coming up. He’d have to stop for it. When he did, she’d jump from the vehicle. She quickly glanced at the passenger door to locate the handle.

She’d open the door, jump out and run to... She scanned the businesses along the section of the street. The Greek restaurant might be closed. The apartment building doors would be locked. But the drug store. That would be open, and it would be crowded. Surely one of the clerks would lend a bride a phone.

She realized she was still holding onto her bouquet, and she let it slip from her hand to the floor. She didn’t need it slowing her down. Vern’s mother would flip. Then again, Vern’s mother, along with everyone else, was probably flipping already. Had anyone seen this man, Jackson, take her?

She surreptitiously slanted a glance his way. He was maybe thirty. He looked tough and determined, maybe a little world-weary. But there was no denying he was attractive. He was obviously fit under the tux, and very well-groomed.

The vehicle was slowing. She lifted her hand, ready to grab the handle.

But suddenly he hit the accelerator, throwing her back in her seat and sideways as he made a hard right. Another car honked as their tires squealed against the pavement.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“How well do you know Vern Gerhard?”

What a ridiculous question. “He’s my fiancé.”

“Would it surprise you to know he was cheating on you?”

Crista’s jaw dropped. “Where did that come from?”

“Would it surprise you?” Jackson repeated.

“Vern’s not cheating on me.” The idea was preposterous.

Vern was sweet and kind and loyal. He made no secret of the fact that he adored Crista. They were about to be married. And his family was extremely old-fashioned. Vern would never risk disappointing his mother by cheating.

No, scratch that. Vern wouldn’t cheat because Vern wouldn’t cheat. It had nothing to do with Delores.

“Okay,” said Jackson, the skepticism clear in his tone.

“Take me back,” she said.

“I can’t do that. Not yet.”

“There are three hundred people in that church. They’re all waiting for me to walk down the aisle.”

She could only imagine the scene as the guests grew more restless and Vern grew more confused. She wasn’t wearing a watch, and she didn’t have her cell phone. But what time was it? Exactly how late was she to her own wedding?

She scanned the dashboard for a clock. Traffic was light, and Jackson seemed able to gauge the stoplights and adjust his speed, making sure he didn’t have to come to a halt.

“Would you care if he was cheating?” asked Jackson, eyeing her quickly. “Would that be a deal breaker for you?”

“He’s not cheating.” It didn’t look like she’d have a chance to bail out anytime soon. “Do you want money? Will you call in a ransom demand? They’ll probably pay. They’ll probably pay more if you take me back there right away.”

“This isn’t about money.”

“Then what’s it about?” She struggled to keep her tone even but panic was creeping in.

He seemed to hesitate over his answer. “You deserve to be sure. About Vern.”

“You don’t even know me.” She stared at him more closely. “Do you? Have we met?”

Could he be some long-lost person from her past?

“We haven’t met,” he said.

She racked her brain for an explanation. “Then do you know Vern? Did he do something bad to you?”

She realized she ought to be frightened. She’d been kidnapped—kidnapped. This stranger was holding her hostage and wouldn’t let her go.

“I’ve never met Vern,” he said.

“Then are you crazy? Though I suppose that’s a stupid question. Crazy people never question their own sanity.” She realized she was babbling, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

“I’m beginning to think I am,” he said.

“A sure sign that you’re not.”

He gave a chopped laugh and seemed to drop his guard.

She tried to take advantage. “Will you let me go? Please, just pull over and drop me off. I’ll find my own way back to the church.”

It had to be at least fifteen minutes now. Vern would be frantic. Delores would be incensed. Unless someone saw Jackson grab her, they probably thought she ran away.

Now she wondered what Hadley was thinking. He might guess she’d taken his advice, changed her mind, that she didn’t want to marry Vern after all. She scrunched her eyes shut and shook her head. How had things gotten so mixed up?

“He’s cheating on you, Crista. Why would you want to marry a man who’s cheating on you?”

“First of all, he’s not. And...” She paused, experienced a moment of clarity. “Wait a minute. If I say I don’t care if he’s cheating, will you let me go?”

“If you honestly don’t care and you want to marry him anyway, yeah, I’ll let you go.”

“Then I don’t care.” Why hadn’t she thought of this sooner? “It’s fine. No problem.” She waved a dismissive hand. “He can cheat away. I still want to marry him.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” She was.

“I don’t believe you.”

“You’ve never met me. You don’t know a thing about me.”

He shook his head. “I can tell you have pride.”

“I have no pride. Maybe I like to share. Maybe I’m into polygamy. After this wedding, Vern might find another wife. We’ll all live happily ever after.”

“As if.”

“Let me go!”

“I’m here because somebody out there cares about you, Crista.”

“I know somebody cares about me. His name is Vern Gerhard. Do you have any idea how upset he is right now?”

Jackson’s tone went dry. “Maybe Gracie could console him.”

The name set a shiver through Crista’s chest. “What did you say?”

“Gracie,” Jackson repeated, doing a double take at Crista’s face. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. No, I’m not. I’ve been kidnapped!”

“Do you know someone named Gracie?”

Crista did know Gracie Stolt. Or at least she knew of a Gracie Stolt. Vern had once used that name during a phone call. He’d said it was business. It had been business, making the name irrelevant to this conversation.

“I don’t know any Gracie,” she said to Jackson, her tone tart.

“He’s sleeping with Gracie.”

“Stop saying that.”

The vehicle bounced, and she grabbed the armrest to steady herself. She realized they’d turned off the main roads and onto a tree-lined lane.

A new and horrible thought crossed her mind, and her throat went dry. Was Jackson some sicko with a thing for brides?

“Are you going to hurt me?” she rasped.

“What?” He did another double take. “No. I told you. I’m not going to harm you at all.”

“I bet every psychopathic murderer says that.”

The corner of his mouth tipped up, but then quickly disappeared. “We have a mutual acquaintance. The person who sent me is someone who cares about you.”

“Who?”

“I can’t reveal my client.”

“I bet every psychopathic murderer says that, too.”

She was vacillating between genuine fear and disbelief that any of this could be real.

“I’m sorry you’re frightened right now, but I’m not going to hurt you. You’ll figure that out soon enough, I promise.”

They rounded a corner, and a lake fanned out before them, the gravel beach dotted with weathered docks. He pulled to the side of a small, deserted parking lot.

“Are we there?” she asked.

“Almost.” He nodded toward one of the docks.

A tall white cabin cruiser bobbed against its moor lines.

Crista shrank back against the seat, her voice going up an octave. “You’re going to dump my body in the lake?”

He extracted a cell phone from his inside jacket pocket. “I’m going to call my staff.”

“You have a phone?”

“Of course I have a phone.”

“You should make a ransom call. My fiancé is from a rich family. They’ll pay you.”

At least she hoped the Gerhards would pay to get her back. She was certain Vern would be willing. His father, maybe not so much.

* * *

Jackson hated that he was frightening Crista. But he was operating on the fly here. Taking her a quarter mile offshore on Lake Michigan was the best he could come up with to keep her safe but under wraps. He wasn’t about to tie her up in a basement while Mac and some of his other guys looked into Vern Gerhard’s love life.

“You’re going to jail, you know,” she said for about the twenty-fifth time.

She stood on the deck of the boat, gazing back at the mansions along the coastline, their lights coming up as the sun sank away. Her extravagant white wedding gown rustled in the breeze. The intricate lace-and bead-covered skirt was bell shaped, billowing out from a tight waist, while the strapless top accentuated her gorgeous figure.

She was right. He was taking a very stupid risk. But the alternative had been to let the wedding go ahead. Which he could have done. In fact, he should have done. He owed nothing to her father and nothing to his own father. And Crista was all but a stranger to him. She was an intelligent adult, and she’d made her choice in Vern. He should have walked away.

“I’m hoping you won’t press charges,” he said, moving to stand beside her.

“In what universe would I not press charges?”

Though he knew she was frightened, her expression was defiant. He couldn’t help but be impressed with her spirit.

“In the universe where I did you a favor.”

“You destroyed my wedding. Do you have any idea how important this was to my mother-in-law? How much she planned and spent?”

“To your mother-in-law?”

“Yes.”

“Not to you?”

Her expression faltered. “Well, me, too, of course. It was my wedding.”

“It was an odd way to put it, worrying about your mother-in-law first.”

“What I meant was, from my own perspective, I can get married any old time, in the courthouse, in Vegas, whatever. But she has certain expectations, a certain standing in the community. She wants to impress her friends and the rest of the family.”

“She sounds charming.”

“It comes with the Gerhard territory.” There was a resignation to her tone.

“What about Vern? How did he feel about the opulent wedding?”

“He was all for it. He’s close to his family. He wants them to be happy.”

“Does he want you to be happy?”

Crista glanced sharply up at Jackson. “Yes, he wants me to be happy. But he knows I don’t sweat the small stuff.”

Jackson lifted a brow. “The small stuff being your own wedding?”

She shrugged her bare shoulders, and he was suddenly seized by an urge to run his palms over them, to test the smoothness of her skin. Was she cold out here on the lake?

“It’ll work just as well with three hundred people in the room as it would with two witnesses and a judge.”

Jackson stifled a chuckle. “You sure don’t sound like the average bride.”

Her tone turned dry. “The average bride doesn’t have a five-hundred-dollar wedding bouquet.”

“Seriously?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I think that’s in the ballpark.”

Jackson drew back to take in the length of her. “And the dress?”

She spread her arms. “Custom-made in Paris.”

“You flew to Paris for a wedding dress.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The designer flew to Chicago.”

This time Jackson did laugh. “You have got to be kidding.”

“And that was only the start. I’m wearing antique diamonds.” She tilted her head to show him her ears.

He wanted to kiss her neck. It was ridiculous, given the circumstances, but there was something incredibly sensual about the curve of her neck, the line of her jaw, the lush red of her lips.

“And you should see my underwear,” she said.

Their gazes met. She took in his stare and obviously saw a flare of desire. Those gorgeous green eyes widened in surprise, and she took a step back.

He wanted to tell her he’d give pretty much anything to see her underwear. But he kept his mouth firmly shut.

“You wouldn’t,” she said, worry in her tone.

“I wouldn’t,” he affirmed. “I won’t. I’m not going to try anything out of line.” He turned his attention to the shoreline.

“Will you take me back?” she asked.

“I doubt there’s anybody left at the church.”

“They’ll be crazy with worry,” she said. “They’ll have called the police by now.”

“The police won’t take a missing-person report for twenty-four hours.”

“You don’t know my future in-laws.”

“I know the Chicago Police Department.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I was hired to look into Vern Gerhard’s integrity.”

“By who?”

Jackson shook his head. “I have a strict policy of client confidentiality.”

Given their understandably fractured relationship, bringing Trent’s name into it would be the fastest way to completely lose her trust. Not that he’d blame her. He felt the same about anything his own father touched.

“But you don’t have a strict policy against kidnapping innocent people?” she asked.

“To be honest, this is the first time it’s come up.”

“I am going to press charges.” It was clear she was serious.

There was no denying that the situation had spiraled out of control. But there was also nothing to do but keep moving forward. If he took her back now, the Gerhards would definitely have him arrested. His only hope was to find proof of Vern’s infidelity and turn Crista against her fiancé.

His phone rang. He kept eye contact with her as he reached for it.

It was Mac, his right-hand man.

“Hey,” Jackson answered.

“Everything okay so far?” asked Mac.

“Yeah.” Jackson turned away from Crista and moved along the deck toward the bridge. “You come up with anything?”

“Rumors, yes. But nothing that gives us proof. Norway’s looking into Gracie.”

“Pictures would be good.”

“Videotape better.”

“I’d take videotape,” said Jackson. “Is somebody on the family?”

“I am.”

“And?”

“They’ve contacted the police, but they’re being waved off until morning. I guess runaway brides aren’t that unusual.”

“If Vern Gerhard is a typical example of our gender, I don’t blame them.”

Mac coughed out a laugh.

“I guess we’ve got till morning,” said Jackson.

It was less time than he would have liked. But that’s what happened when you threw a plan together at the last minute.

“And then?” asked Mac. “Have you thought through what happens in the morning?”

He had, and most of the options were not good. “We better have something concrete by then.”

“Otherwise she’s a liability,” said Mac.

Jackson had to agree. “At that point, she’s going to be a huge liability.”

Crista was predictably angry at having her posh wedding ruined. If they didn’t find something to incriminate Vern, Jackson’s career if not his freedom would be at stake.

He heard a sudden splash behind him.

He spun to find the deck empty, Crista gone. His gaze moved frantically from corner to corner as he rushed to the stern and spotted her in the water. “You gotta be kidding me!”

“What?” asked Mac.

“Call you back.” Jackson dropped his phone.

She was flailing in the choppy waves, obviously hampered by the voluminous white dress. She gasped and went under.

He immediately tossed two life jackets overboard, as close to her as he could.

“Grab one!” he shouted. Then he stripped off his jacket, kicked off his shoes and dived in.

The water closed icy cold around him. He surfaced and gasped in a big breath. She was twenty feet away, and he kicked hard. He dug in with his arms, propelling himself toward her.

When he looked up again, she was gone. He twisted his head, peering in all directions, spotting a wisp of white below the surface. He dived under, groping in the dark until he caught hold of her arm. He clamped his hand tight and hauled her upward, breaking the surface and wrapping his arm firmly around her chest.

She coughed and sputtered.

“Relax,” he told her. “Just relax and let me do the work.”

She coughed again.

He grabbed one of the life jackets and tucked it beneath her. The boat was close, but the water was frigid. He wasn’t going to be able to swim for long. Her teeth were already chattering.

He found another life jacket and looped it around the arm that supported her. He used his legs and free arm to move them through the water.

“You okay?” he asked her. “You breathing?”

She nodded against his chest.

“Don’t fight me,” he cautioned.

“I won’t,” she rasped.

The side of the boat loomed closer. He aimed for the stern where there was a small swimming platform. It was a relief to grasp on to something solid. His muscles throbbed from the effects of the cold water, and his limbs were starting to shake.

He unceremoniously cupped her rear end and shoved her onto the platform. She scrambled up, her dress catching and tearing. He kept her braced until she was stable. Then he looped both forearms over the platform and hoisted himself up, sitting on the edge, dragging in deep breaths.

“What the heck?” he demanded.

She was breathing hard. “I thought I could make it.”

“To the beach?”

“It’s not that far.”

“It’s a quarter mile. And you’re dressed in an anchor.”

“The fabric is light.”

“Maybe when it’s bone-dry.” He reached up and pulled himself to his feet. His legs trembled, and his knees felt weak, but he put an arm around her waist and lifted her up beside him.

With near-numb fingers, he released the catch on the deck gate and swung it open.

“Careful,” he cautioned as he propelled her back onto the deck.

She held on and stepped shakily forward. “It tangled around my legs.”

“You could have killed us both.” He followed her.

“It’d serve you right.”

“To be dead? You’d be dead, too.”

“I’m going to be dead anyway.”

“What?” He was baffled now.

She was shivering. “I heard you on the phone. You said tomorrow morning I’d be a liability. We both know what that means.”

“One of us obviously doesn’t.”

“Don’t bother to deny it.”

“Nobody’s killing anyone.” He gazed out at the dark water. “Despite your best attempt.”

“You can’t let me live. I’ll turn you in. You’ll go to jail.”

“You might not turn me in.”

“Would you actually believe me if I said I wouldn’t?”

“At the moment, no.”

Right now, she was having a perfectly normal reaction to the circumstances. Proof of the truth might mitigate her anger eventually, but they didn’t have that yet.

“Then that was a really stupid statement,” she said.

“What I am going to prove is that I mean you no harm.”

It was the best he could come up with for the moment. The breeze was chilling, and he ushered her past the bridge, opening the door to the cabin.

“How are you going to do that?”

“For starters by not harming you. Let’s find you something dry.”

She glared at him. “I’m not taking off my dress.”

He pointed inside. “You can change in the head—the bathroom. I’ve got some T-shirts on board and maybe some sweatpants, though they’d probably drop right off you.”

“This is your boat?”

“Of course it’s my boat. Whose boat did you think it was?”

She passed through the door and stopped between the sofa and the kitchenette. “I thought maybe you stole it.”

“I’m not a thief.”

“You’re a kidnapper.”

He realized she’d made a fair point. “Yeah, well, that’s the sum total of my criminal activity to date.” He started working on his soggy tie. “If you let me get past you, I’ll see what I can find.”

She shrank out of his way against the counter.

He turned sideways to pass her, and their thighs brushed together. She arched her back to keep her breasts from touching his chest. It made things worse, because her wet cleavage swelled above the snug, stiff fabric.

Reaction slammed through his body, and he faltered, unable to stop himself from staring. She was soaked to the skin, her auburn hair plastered to her head, her makeup smeared. And yet she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

“Jackson,” she said, her voice coming out a whisper.

He lifted his gaze to meet hers. It was all he could do to keep his hands by his sides. He wanted to smooth her hair, brush the droplets from her cheeks and run his thumb across her lips.

“Thank you,” she said.

The words took him by surprise. “You’re welcome,” he automatically answered.

For a minute, it seemed that neither of them could break eye contact. Longing roiled inside him. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to do so much more. And he wanted it very, very badly.

Finally, she looked away. “You better, uh...”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’d better.” He moved, but the touch of her thighs made him feel like he’d been branded.

* * *

Crista reached and twisted. She stretched her arms in every direction, but no matter how she contorted, she couldn’t push the tiny buttons through the loops on the back of her dress.

“Come on,” she muttered. Then she whacked her elbow against a small cabinet. “Ouch!”

“You okay?” came Jackson’s deep voice.

He was obviously only inches from the other side of the small door, and the sound made her jerk back. Her hip caught the corner of the vanity, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

“Fine,” she called back.

“I’m getting changed out here.”

“Thanks for the warning.” An unwelcome picture bloomed in her mind of Jackson peeling off his dress shirt, revealing what had to be washboard abs and muscular shoulders. She’d clung to him in the ocean and again climbing onto the boat. She’d felt what was under his dress shirt, and her brain easily filled in the picture.

She shook away the vision and redoubled her efforts with the buttons. But it wasn’t going to happen. She couldn’t get out of the dress alone. She had two choices—stay in the soaking-wet garment or ask him for help. Both were equally disagreeable.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the small mirror. The wedding gown was stained and torn. She crouched a little, cringing at the mess of her hair. It was stringy and lopsided. If she didn’t undo the braids and rinse out the mess from the lake water she’d probably have to shave it off in the morning.

“Are you decent?” she called through the door.

“Sure,” he answered.

She opened the small door, stepped over the sill, and Jackson filled her vision. The cabin was softly lit around him. His hair was damp, and his chest was bare. A pair of worn gray sweatpants hung on his hips. As she’d expected, his abs were washboard hard.

“What happened?” he asked, taking in her dress.

“I can’t reach the buttons.”

He gave an eye roll and pulled a faded green T-shirt over his head. “I’ll give you a hand.”

She turned her back and steeled herself for his touch. The only reason she was letting him near her was that it was foolish to stay cold and uncomfortable in a ruined dress. She told herself that if he was going to kill her, he would have just let her go under. Instead, he’d saved her life.

His footfalls were muffled against the teak floor as he came up behind her. The sound stopped, and he drew in an audible breath. Then his fingertips grazed her skin above the top button, sending streaks of sensation up her spine. Her muscles contracted in reaction.

What was the matter with her? She wasn’t attracted to him. She was appalled by him. She wanted to get away from him, to never see him again.

But as his deft fingers released each button, there was no denying her growing arousal. It had to be some pathetic version of Stockholm syndrome. If she’d paid more attention in her psychology elective, she might know how to combat it.

The dress came loose, and she clasped her forearms against her chest to keep it in place.

“That should do it,” he said.

There was a husky timbre to his voice—a sexy rasp that played havoc with her emotions.

“Thanks,” she said before she could stop herself. “I mean...” She turned to take the sentiment back, and her gaze caught with his. “That is...”

They stared at each other.

“I don’t usually do this,” he said.

She didn’t know what he meant. He didn’t usually kidnap women, or he didn’t unbutton their wedding gowns?

She knew she should ask. No, she shouldn’t ask. She should move now, lock herself in the bathroom until her emotions came under control.

But he slowly lifted his hand. His fingertips grazed her shoulder. Then his palm cradled her neck, slipping up to her hairline. The touch was smooth and warm, his obvious strength couched by tenderness.

She couldn’t bring herself to pull away. In fact, it was a fight to keep from leaning into his caress.

He dipped his head.

She knew what came next. Anybody would know what came next.

His lips touched hers, kissing her gently, testing her texture and then her taste. Arousal instantly flooded her body. He stepped forward, his free arm going around her waist, settling at the small of her back, strong and hot against her exposed skin.

He pressed harder, kissed her deeper. She met his tongue, opening, drowning in the sweet sensations that enveloped her.

Good thing she didn’t marry Vern today.

The thought brought her up short.

She let out a small cry and jerked away.

What was the matter with her?

“What are you doing?” she demanded, tearing from his hold.

Her dress slipped, and she struggled to catch the bodice. She was a second too late, and she flashed him her bare breasts.

His eyes glowed, and his nostrils flared.

“Back off,” she ordered, quickly covering up.

“You kissed me too,” he pointed out.

“You took me by surprise.”

“We both know that’s a lie.”

“We do not,” she snapped, taking a step away.

“Whatever you say.”

“I’m engaged.”

“So I’ve heard,” he drawled. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

She couldn’t seem to frame an answer.

If not for Jackson, she’d already be married to Vern. They’d be at the reception, cutting the enormous cake and dancing to Strauss’s Snowdrops, Delores’s favorite waltz. Crista’s knees suddenly felt weak, and she sat down on the padded bench beside her.

“The thought of being married makes you feel faint?” Jackson asked.

“I’m worried about my mother-in-law. I can’t even imagine how she reacted. All those guests. All that planning. What did they do when I didn’t show up? Did they all just go home?”

“You’re not worried about Vern?”

“Yes, I’m worried about Vern. Quit putting words in my mouth.”

“You never said his name.”

“Vern, Vern, Vern. I’m worried sick about Vern. He’s going through hell.” Then a thought struck her. “You should call him. I should call him. I can at least let him know I’m all right.”

“I can’t let you use my phone.”

“Because then they’d discover it was you. And they’d arrest you. And you’d go to jail. You know, sooner than you’re already going to jail after I tell the police everything you did.” Crista paused. Maybe she wouldn’t tell them everything. Better to keep certain missteps off the public record.

“I’ve got five guys working on this.” Jackson lowered himself to the bench opposite, the compact table between them.

“Five guys working on what?” Her curiosity was piqued.

“Vern’s infidelity.”

“Vern wasn’t unfaithful.”

Jackson smirked. “Right. And you never kissed me too.”

Crista wasn’t about to lie again. “Just tell me what you want. Whatever is going on here, let’s please get this over with so I can go home.”

“I want you to wait here with me while I find out exactly what your husband-to-be has been up to with Gracie.”

“Gracie’s a business acquaintance.” Crista immediately realized her slipup.

Jackson caught it, too. “So, you do know her.”

Crista wasn’t about to renew the debate. She knew what she knew, and she trusted Vern.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked Jackson again.

“So you can decide whether or not you want to marry him.”

“I do want to marry him.”

His gaze slipped downward, and she realized her grip on her dress had relaxed. She was showing cleavage—a lot of cleavage. She quickly adjusted.

“Maybe,” he said softly.

“There’s no maybe about it.”

“What’s the harm in waiting?” he asked, sounding sincere. “The wedding’s already ruined.”

“Thanks to you.”

“My point is there’s no harm in waiting a few more hours.”

“Except for my frantic fiancé.”

Jackson seemed to think for a moment. “I can have someone call him, tell him you’re okay.”

“From a pay phone?” she mocked.

“Who uses pay phones? We’ve got plenty of burner phones.”

“Of course you do.”

“You want me to call?”

“Yes!” But then she thought about it. “No. Hang on. What are you going to tell him?”

“What do you want me to tell him?”

“The truth.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”

“Then tell him I’m okay. Tell him something unexpected came up. I’m...uh...” She bit down on her lower lip. “I don’t know. Other than the truth, what can I possibly say that doesn’t sound terrible?”

“You got me.”

“He’ll think I got cold feet.”

“He might.”

“No, he won’t.” She shook her head firmly. Vern knew her better than that. He knew she was committed to their marriage.

But Jackson would never send a message that incriminated himself. And anything else could make it sound like it had been her decision to run off. Maybe it was better to keep silent.

“How long do you think this will take?” she asked. “To clear Vern’s name?”

Jackson gave a shrug. “It could go pretty fast. My guys are good.”

Crista rose to her feet. “Then don’t call him. I’m going to change.”

“Good idea.”

“It doesn’t mean I’ve capitulated.”

“I took it to mean you wanted to be dry.”

“That’s exactly what it means.”

“Okay,” he agreed easily.

She turned away from his smug expression, gripping the front of her ruined wedding dress, struggling to hold on to some dignity as she made her way into the bathroom. She could feel his gaze on her back, taking in the expanse of bare skin. He knew she wasn’t wearing a bra, and he could probably see the white lace at the top of her panties.

A rush of heat coursed through her. She told herself it was anger. She didn’t care where he looked, or what he thought. It was the last he’d see of her that was remotely intimate.


Three (#ulink_7aa24b98-1f1f-5ffc-97d1-5597160d9911)

Jackson recognized Mac’s number and put his phone to his ear. “Find something?”

“Norway talked to the girl,” said Mac.

“Did she admit to the affair?”

“She says there’s nothing between them. But she’s lying. And she’s doing it badly. Norway got thirty seconds alone with her phone and grabbed some photos.”

That was encouraging. “Anything incriminating?”

“No nudity, but they do look intimate. Gerhard’s got an arm around her shoulders, and his expression says he slept with her. We’re combing through social media now.”

“Good. Keep me posted.”

“How are things at your end?”

Crista emerged from the bathroom. Her hair was still wet but combed straight. She’d washed her face, and she was dressed in Jackson’s white and maroon U of Chicago soccer jersey. It hung nearly to her knees, which were bare, as were her calves.

“Pants didn’t fit?” he asked.

“Huh?” asked Mac.

“Fell off,” she said.

“Stay safe,” Jackson said to Mac, setting down his phone.

“Who’s that?” asked Crista, moving to the sofa. She took the end opposite to Jackson and tucked the hem of the jersey over her knees.

“Mac.”

“He works for your agency?”

“He does.”

She nodded. She looked curious but stayed silent.

“Are you afraid to ask?” he guessed.

She flicked back her damp hair. “I’m not afraid to ask anything.”

“They found some pictures of Vern and Gracie.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“They’re not specifically incriminating—”

“I know they’re not.”

“But they are suggestive of more than a business relationship.”

“If suggestive is all you’ve got, then let me go.”

“It’s all we’ve got so far.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ve only been chasing this lead for five hours.”

She heaved an exaggerated sigh.

“You hungry?” he asked.

He was, and he doubted brides were inclined to eat heartily before their weddings.

“No,” she said.

“You really need to stop lying.”

“You’re criticizing my behavior?”

“You’re not going to help anything by starving.”

He rose, taking the few steps to the small kitchen and popping open a high cupboard.

“You’re not going to make me like you,” she said from behind him.

“Why would I want to make you like me?”

He wanted to convince her not to marry Vern. No, scratch that. He couldn’t care less if she married Vern. No, scratch that, too. Vern didn’t deserve her. If Jackson was sure of one thing in all this, it was that Vern didn’t deserve a woman like Crista.

“To make me more docile and easy to manipulate.”

Jackson located a stray bag of tortilla chips. “Docile? You? Are you kidding me?”

Her tone turned defensive. “I’m really quite easy to get along with. I mean, under normal circumstances.”

He also found a jar of salsa. It wasn’t much, but it would keep them from starving. If they were lucky, they’d find a few cans of beer in the mini fridge.

He turned back.

She froze, her expression a study in guilt, his phone pressed to her ear.

He swore, dropping the food, taking two swift steps to grab it from her. How could he have made such an idiotic mistake?

“Nine-one-one operator,” came a female voice through the phone. “What is your emergency?”

He hit the end button. “What did you do?”

“Tried to get help.” Her words were bold, but she shrank back against the sofa.

Jackson hit the speed dial for Mac.

“Yeah?” Mac answered immediately.

“I have to move. This phone is compromised. Tuck’s dock, zero eight hundred.”

“Roger that,” said Mac.

Jackson pushed open a window and tossed the phone overboard.

“That was stupid,” he said to Crista.

“I was trying to escape. How was that stupid?”

“You were reckless. I was stupid.”

He grasped her arm and pulled her to her feet.

“Hey,” she cried.

“Listen, I’m still not going to hurt you, but you had no way of knowing that for sure. I could have been a vengeful jerk.” He tugged her to the bridge, holding fast to her upper arm while he started the engine and engaged the anchor winch.

Her tone turned mulish. “I had to try.”

“I shouldn’t have given you the chance.”

“You let your guard down.”

“I did. And that was stupid.”

Not to mention completely unprofessional. He wasn’t sure what had distracted him. Their kiss? Her legs? The sight of her in his jersey?

He’d have to worry about it later. Right now, he couldn’t take a chance on an overzealous 911 operator tracing their location. Anchor up, he opened the throttle, and they surged forward.

She swayed, but he held her steady.

“You were trying to be nice,” she said.

He struggled not to laugh at that. “You’re trying to make me feel better about being stupid?”

“I’m saying... I’m not unappreciative of you offering me something to eat.”

“Well, I’m definitely unappreciative of you compromising our location.”

He set a course north along the coastline. His friend Tuck Tucker owned a beach house north of the city. Tuck wouldn’t mind Jackson using his dock. He might mind the kidnapping part, but Jackson didn’t plan to mention that. And if Mac and the others didn’t come through with proof positive by morning, Tuck’s reaction would be the least of Jackson’s worries.

“Where are we going?” Crista asked.

Jackson did chuckle at that. “Yeah, sure. I’m going to tell you.”

“It’s not like we still have a phone.” As she spoke, her gaze flicked to the radio.

“I’ll be disconnecting the battery to that long before I take my eyes off you,” he told her.

“What are you talking about?”

“You just looked at the radio. You might as well be wearing a neon sign that says it’s your next move.”

She drew an exasperated sigh and shifted her feet.

“You probably don’t want to consider a life of crime,” he said.

She lifted her chin and gave her damp hair a little toss. “I’m surprised you did.”

“It’s been a surprising day.”

“Not exactly what I expected, either.”

He’d have to hand her the win on that one.

He switched screens on the GPS, orienting himself to the shoreline.

“I’m hoping you’ll thank me later,” he said.

“Hoping? You don’t seem as confident as before.”

“The stakes just keep getting higher and higher. Now we’re headed for the state line.”

Her attention swung from the windshield to him. “You’re taking me to Wisconsin?”

“What’s wrong with Wisconsin?”

“It’s a long way from Chicago. Why are you taking me there? What’s happening?” She struggled to get away from him.

He regretted frightening her again. They weren’t really going all the way to Wisconsin.

“I didn’t plan to grab you today,” he told her. “I was only there to get a look at Gerhard.”

“Why?”

“To take his measure.”

“I mean why do you care about us at all?”

“It’s a job.”

“Who hired you?”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters to you is that your fiancé is already having an affair. You can’t marry a man like that.” Jackson wasn’t ready to tell her more. Mention of her father would likely alienate her further. He didn’t yet have proof of Trent’s accusations. And if she was having trouble accepting that Vern would cheat, she’d never believe he was conning her.

“He’s not like that. I don’t know where you even came up with that idea.”

She’d stopped struggling against his grip, and that was good. Her fear seemed to have been replaced by anger. Jackson’s guilt eased off.

“Wedding guests,” he said, opening the throttle to increase their speed. It was a clear, relatively calm night, thank goodness. They needed to put distance between them and the position where Crista had made the call.

“My wedding guests?”

“Technically, I would say they were Vern’s wedding guests. They seemed to know him, and they were joking about his relationship with Gracie. I realized I couldn’t in good conscience let you marry him, so I took the opportunity and grabbed you.”

She was silent for a moment. “So this isn’t so much crime as altruism.”

“Yes. The easiest thing for me would have been to walk away.”

“You can still walk away.”

“We’re on a boat.”

“Swim away, then. Or drop me off onshore and drive away—motor away? Float away? What do you call it?”

“Navigate away. And no, I’m not dropping you off onshore.” He made a show of looking her up and down, enjoying the view far too much. “You’re not dressed, for one thing.”

“I’ll put my wedding dress back on. It might be uncomfortable, but it’s better than staying here.”

“I’d get thrown in jail,” he said.

“Darn right. But that’s going to happen anyway.”

“Not for a few hours.” And hopefully not ever, although Jackson’s worry factor was steadily rising.

“How long until we get there?” she asked.

“Get where?”

“To the secret location, wherever it is you’re taking me. How long until we stop navigating?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m hungry.”

“Oh, now you’re hungry. Well, you’re going to have to wait.”

“I can eat while you navigate.”

“I’m not letting go of you.”

“I’m not going to jump.”

“That’s what I thought last time.”

“We’re way too far from shore.”

“Yeah, but I’m sure you’ve got another brilliant plan in mind already. Sabotage the engine, harpoon me from behind.”

“You have harpoons on board?”

“Give me strength,” he muttered.

She leaned close to him. “Am I annoying you? Frustrating you?”

“Yes on both counts.”

Her argumentative nature was annoying, but his frustration came from a whole other place. She was stimulating and exciting. She was a beautiful, feisty, apparently complex and intelligent woman, and he was battling hard against his sexual attraction to her. He didn’t want to be rushing from a crime scene with her as his captive, contemplating the best way to stay out of jail. He wanted to be on a date with her, somewhere great in the city, contemplating how best to get her into his bed.

“There’s a simple solution,” she told him.

It took a second for him to get his brain back on track. “Let you go?” he guessed.

“Bingo.”

“Not until we meet up with Mac tomorrow.”

“You’ll let me go then?”

He knew he was being cornered, but there really was no choice. He could only hope Mac could come up with definitive proof by morning.

“Yes,” said Jackson.

Crista’s mouth curved into a dazzling smile. They hit a swell, and she pressed against him. Her curves were soft, and her scent was fresh. For a moment the risk of jail seemed almost worth it.

* * *

When Crista awoke, she was disoriented. It took a few seconds to realize the warm body beside her wasn’t Vern. She was in bed with someone bigger, harder, with a deeper breathing pattern and an earthier scent. And the bed was moving beneath them.




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