Mystery Bride

So why was he still here? Why didn’t he just turn and run?

THE LAST THING on Will Sheridan’s mind was running. Admittedly, the situation was odd, and it appeared things wouldn’t be quite as easy as he first might have hoped. But that had never stopped him when he wanted something.

And he wanted Samantha. When he looked at her he was struck by one clear thought: he wouldn’t mind waking up to that face every morning. Tiny freckles trailed across the bridge of a cute little nose, golden lashes framed wide warm sea-green eyes, suntanned skin glowed on prominent cheekbones.

She’d been stunning at the party. But without makeup, she looked…delectable.

It wasn’t just her face or her lovely body—something he could see a lot of right now. There was something…intriguing about this woman. Mysterious.

“So,” he said again, hoping she’d help him out. He watched her shoot a glance down the block in the same direction she’d been looking when he’d first seen her. He followed her gaze down the quiet street to what appeared to be a small, one-story nursing home. The sign in front read, Lazy Rest. A tan Buick was parked in the for-the-disabled space out front. The car had a rental sticker on it but no disabled decal.

He could feel her tension. It was as strong as the low-frequency hum that vibrated between them. Was she meeting someone? Was that why she wanted him out of the car? She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t involved. Temporarily, he hoped.

“If I could just get your phone number,” he said, wanting so much more. Home address, work number, e-mail, social security number and first-grade school photo. “I’d like to call you for a date, to start with—”

Her gaze swung around to his, her eyes wide. “You tracked me down just to ask me for a date—?”

She sounded incredulous. And almost suspicious. As if there was some other reason she thought he’d come looking for her.

“—To start with?”

Definitely suspicious now. Imagine what she’d say if he told her his real intention.

Up the block, the front doors of the rest home opened and a short, stocky man in his late thirties came down the long walkway. Was this the man she’d been waiting for? Shorty headed for the tan Buick parked at the curb.

Samantha seemed to catch the movement out of the corner of her eye. She swung around in her seat to stare in the man’s direction, tense as a tightrope walker.

“Look, you seem busy. What are you doing tonight?”

“Tonight wouldn’t be good,” she said, her gaze on the man now opening the driver’s door of the Buick. “Why don’t I call you?”

Did she really think she could get rid of him that easily? “Samantha, I have no idea what’s going on here, but I’m not getting out of this car until you at least talk to me. If you hadn’t kissed me the way you had—”

SO IT HAD BEEN that blamed kiss! She’d regretted it for two days now. But only because she hadn’t been able to put it—or Will Sheridan—out of her mind. She’d wondered, what if… What if they’d met under different circumstances. What if she ran into him again?

And now she had. And at the worst possible time!

She glanced over at him. One look, and she knew he meant what he’d said. He wasn’t getting out of her car until he got some answers. Not that she could blame him. But he was making this very difficult.

She looked back to see the man getting into the rental car look back toward the nursing home, and she knew what she was going to have to do.

This is just part of the job.

Sure it is.

She threw herself into Will’s arms and kissed him. Again. Only this time she didn’t lose herself in his kiss. This time she kept it short and sweet. She couldn’t afford not to.

WILL DREW BACK from the kiss, startled by the distinct click that reverberated through the Firebird. He felt something cold and metallic, looked down at his right wrist, and was shocked to see the handcuff there. Instinctively, he pulled, only to find the other end attached to a piece of steel that had been welded under the dash. How convenient.

“Samantha?” he asked, feeling a little disoriented.

“Will, I hate to do this, but you left me no choice.” She slid out of the car before he could ask exactly what she hated to do. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

Like he was going anywhere. “Samantha?” But she was already gone, jogging toward the Lazy Rest. He thought about calling after her as he watched her run, her ponytail pendulumming back and forth—but he didn’t. What would be the point? He doubted she’d have handcuffed him to the car if anything had been up for discussion.

The short guy who’d come out of the rest home was standing by the car, looking around. He seemed edgy when he saw Samantha. Will couldn’t blame him.

She’d almost reached the tan Buick and Shorty, when she stopped beneath a large willow tree and leaned with her palms against the thick trunk to stretch her calves. Very nice calves, he noticed.

The man beside the Buick, he saw, was noticing, as well.

Just then, another man came out of the rest home, this one taller and a little less stocky, but definitely muscular. He had a kid with him, a small boy wearing a Mariners baseball cap and a navy backpack over his red jacket. The kid had the cap pulled down so low his ears stood out like thumbs from his head; a pair of headphones hung around his neck; and he cradled what looked like a CD player in his hands.

The man had one hand on the boy’s shoulder. He looked around, and noticed Samantha stretching.

Samantha straightened and started jogging again—right toward them. The man’s steps slowed as he and the boy approached the Buick, and Shorty, who was waiting there.

Samantha didn’t appear to notice as she jogged in their direction, but Will had the distinct impression she was watching them. That she’d been waiting for them to come out. And if she kept running she’d connect with them in a matter of—

“What the—”

To his amazement, Samantha tripped and fell. She tumbled onto the lawn just feet from them and grabbed at her ankle. From where he sat, he heard her cry out in pain.

He jerked on the handcuff, wanting to go to her. What had the woman been thinking, locking him up like this?

The two men seemed startled, almost leery of her, and glanced around as if looking for something or someone. The quiet neighborhood dozed in the warm fall afternoon sun as Samantha cried and hugged her ankle.

After a moment, they hesitantly stepped over to her. No doubt her skimpy attire helped convince them.

Will couldn’t hear what was being said even though the driver’s window of the Firebird was still down, but it was obvious they were offering some sort of assistance. The short one helped her to her feet. The second man released the boy to take her other arm.

She appeared afraid to put weight on her injured ankle. Slowly, she attempted a step.

Then everything happened so fast Will wasn’t even sure later what he’d seen. Maybe because he was hoping he’d just imagined it.

He watched in horror as Samantha dropped Shorty with a swift kick, sent the other man sprawling face-first onto the grass with some sort of karate chop, and grabbed the kid.

In the blink of an eye, Samantha was running back toward the Firebird with the boy in her arms. She opened the driver’s door, tossed him the kid and leaped in.

The Firebird engine roared, and she peeled out, throwing gravel and dust as she whipped a cookie in the middle of the street, then took off in a tremulous thunder of engine and speed that flattened him against his seat.

“Wow,” the kid said.

“Samantha?” Will asked quietly, the way he might talk to a disturbed patient on a mental ward. “I know this probably isn’t a good time, either, but could you tell me what’s going on here?”

The Firebird screamed around a corner. “I’d suggest you get the boy buckled in,” she said calmly. “You might want to do the same.”

Being handcuffed to the dash didn’t make the task easy, but as she took the next corner on two wheels, Will managed to get the kid buckled in between them on the bench seat before the Firebird rocked back down on all four tires. He snapped his own seat belt as she took a gravel-throwing turn.