Kate Fortune’s Journal Entry

Can the Fortune family get together without some misadventure always happening? Judging by the latest fiasco in which my Isabelle ran away from her own wedding, I suspect not. Still, I can’t help but be relieved that Isabelle finally saw the light and acted with some gumption. In spite of what her parents said, she had no business marrying that Brad Rowan. Even I could see that he wasn’t on the up and up.

According to the Fortune rumor mill, the investigator hired to look into Mike Dodd’s murder is now protecting her from Brad at a secluded mountain cabin. I’ve already seen how Isabelle and Link look at each other. And I can’t stop hoping that Isabelle will own up to her feelings and put this poor man out of his misery…by marrying him!

Dear Reader,

The year 2000 has been a special time for Silhouette, as we’ve celebrated our 20th anniversary. Readers from all over the world have written to tell us what they love about our books, and we’d like to share with you part of a letter from Carolyn Dann of Grand Bend, Ontario, who’s a fan of Silhouette Desire. Carolyn wrote, “I like the storylines…the characters…the front covers… All the characters in the books are the kind of people you like to read about. They’re all down-to-earth, everyday people.” And as a grand finale to our anniversary year, Silhouette Desire offers six of your favorite authors for an especially memorable month’s worth of passionate, powerful, provocative reading!

We begin the lineup with the always wonderful Barbara Boswell’s MAN OF THE MONTH, Irresistible You, in which a single woman nine months pregnant meets her perfect hero while on jury duty. The incomparable Cait London continues her exciting miniseries FREEDOM VALLEY with Slow Fever. Against a beautiful Montana backdrop, the oldest Bennett sister is courted by a man who spurned her in their teenage years. And A Season for Love, in which Sheriff Jericho Rivers regains his lost love, continues the new miniseries MEN OF BELLE TERRE by beloved author BJ James.

Don’t miss the thrilling conclusion to the Desire miniseries FORTUNE’S CHILDREN: THE GROOMS in Peggy Moreland’s Groom of Fortune. Elizabeth Bevarly will delight you with Monahan’s Gamble. And Expecting the Boss’s Baby is the launch title of Leanne Banks’s new miniseries, MILLION DOLLAR MEN, which offers wealthy, philanthropic bachelors guaranteed to seduce you.

We hope all readers of Silhouette Desire will treasure the gift of this special month.

Happy holidays!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Groom of Fortune
Peggy Moreland

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Leanne Banks, Kathryn Jensen, Shawna Delacorte and

Caroline Cross. It was an honor to participate with you all in this

series and a thrill to add another limb to the Fortune family tree.

PEGGY MORELAND

published her first romance with Silhouette in 1989 and continues to delight readers with stories set in her home state of Texas. Winner of the National Readers’ Choice Award, a nominee for the Romantic Times Magazine Reviewer’s Choice Award and a finalist for the prestigious RITA Award, Peggy has appeared on the USA Today and Waldenbooks bestseller lists. When not writing, she enjoys spending time at the farm riding her quarter horse, Lo-Jump. She, her husband and three children make their home in Round Rock, Texas. You may write to Peggy at P.O. Box 2453, Round Rock, TX 78680-2453.

Meet the Arizona Fortunes—a family with a legacy of wealth, influence and power. As they gather for a host of weddings, a shocking plot against the family is revealed…and passionate new romances are ignited.

ISABELLE FORTUNE: She’d narrowly escaped marrying a murderer. But now, stranded alone in a remote cabin with Link Templeton, her heart was facing an even greater danger!

LINK TEMPLETON: This streetwise man had pulled himself up from the gutter by his bootstraps, but now he was facing his biggest challenge—staying away from a woman thirteen years his junior, a woman whose innocence and privileged background posed a stark contrast to his own. A woman he’d lusted after for nearly a year.

BRAD ROWAN: He’d offered Isabelle Fortune a marriage deal he thought she couldn’t refuse, but now she suspected him of murder!

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Epilogue

One

She didn’t love him.

She wasn’t sure she even liked him.

Yet, within minutes she would become his wife.

Having slipped away unnoticed by her attendants, Isabelle Fortune stood in the vestibule with her fingers clutched tightly around her bridal bouquet, her nose pressed against the sanctuary door’s tiny window, watching her fiancé enter the sanctuary through the side door and walk toward the altar. Dressed in black tails and wearing a confident smile, Brad Rowan looked very much the part of the eager groom.

And Isabelle felt like a lamb being led to slaughter.

With a shudder, she forced her gaze away from Brad and to the pews already crowded with family and friends. More than a thousand engraved wedding invitations had been mailed, and it appeared that not a one of the recipients had sent their regrets. Not that she was surprised. When the Fortunes threw a party, no matter what the occasion, all of Pueblo turned out for the event, knowing that the Fortunes would spare no expense.

And they wouldn’t be disappointed this time, either. The caterers her parents had hired had worked frantically for days, preparing the succulent hors d’oeuvres, entrées and desserts for the wedding reception, while a crew of workers readied the grounds of the Fortune estate for the outdoor gala, already touted as the social event of the year. A new marble fountain flown in from Italy had been installed in the swimming pool, and the gardens had been pruned and filled with a colorful array of flowering plants. White canvas canopies dotted the sprawling lawn, and a portable dance floor and a stage for the orchestra had been constructed beneath the largest of the tents.

No, the Fortunes had spared no expense in marrying off their only daughter.

A knot of dread formed in Isabelle’s stomach as she slowly scanned the ornately decorated church illuminated by hundreds of flickering candles, a glimmering reminder of the money invested in this day. Tall, slender tapers stood on the ledges of the windows, bringing to life the scenes depicted on the etched stained glass. Behind the altar, a dozen gracefully curved silver candelabra pedestals held even more of the slender tapers, while towering, fat columns of wax rose from the ropes of ivy on the altar’s railing.

Mesmerized by the flickering candles, she stared, the dread twisting tighter and tighter, until Brad stepped into her line of vision again, making her flinch. She watched him stop in front of the altar and take his place to the right of the priest, her fingers convulsing on the ribbon-wrapped stem of her bouquet. She knew it was considered bad luck for a bride to see her groom on the day of their wedding, but considering the fact that her marriage was a mockery, devoid of any emotion other than that of duty, she didn’t think that luck, good or bad, would have much effect on the success of their union.

Regret over her hasty decision to accept Brad’s marriage proposal burned through her, momentarily overriding the dread, and she was helpless to force it back. She was sacrificing her life, her dreams, for her parents, a payback of sorts for all they’d suffered and sacrificed for her through the years.

And she wondered now if it wasn’t all a colossal mistake, one that she’d regret for the rest of her life.

If she had any courage at all, she fretted, she’d leave right now, before the ceremony began. And why not? she thought, grasping at the idea. She’d simply tell her parents she couldn’t go through with the marriage, that she didn’t love Brad, that she’d only accepted his proposal for their sakes, so that the Fortune family could claim ownership to Lightfoot’s Plateau, and preserve the cave used as a spiritual retreat by Native American tribes, restoring it in memory of their ancestor, Natasha Lightfoot, Isabelle’s grandmother.

She’d explain it all to them, she told herself, relief flooding through her. They’d understand.

But the relief was short-lived as her gaze strayed to the candelabra and the candles that flickered there. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, reminded of her parents’ delight in her marriage to Brad. Would they understand? she wondered, doubt niggling at her confidence. Or would they…

She jumped at a sound that came from behind her, and spun to see the entry door swinging open. Not wanting to be seen, she looked wildly around for a place to hide. Grabbing fistfuls of satin, she gathered up the skirt of her wedding gown and ran, ducking quickly behind the partially open door of the coat closet. Holding her breath, she listened to the echo of footsteps on the vestibule’s marble floor.

“Are we late?” came a man’s low voice.

“I don’t think so” was the reply, “though the music’s already started.”

“Lucky son of a bitch,” she heard the first man mutter. “Marrying into all that money.”

Her mouth gaping, Isabelle leaned closer to the partially open door, straining to hear. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t put a face to it.

There was a wry laugh from the other man. “As if he didn’t already have a direct pipeline into the Fortune’s bank account.”

The first man laughed, too. “The greedy son of a bitch.”

“Greedy, hell. He’s a genius, and we’re damn lucky to be in on the take.”

“Yeah,” the first agreed. “Though I have to admit I was worried there for a bit when Mike started demanding a bigger slice of the pie.”

Mike? Isabelle repeated silently in confusion. Mike Dodd? Though she hadn’t personally known the construction foreman who had been killed earlier that year in an elevator crash at the site of the Children’s Hospital her family was building, she had been affected by his death, as had all the Fortune family. But what pie were the men talking about? She pressed her ear closer to the door, hoping to hear more.

“Brad handled it,” the second man was saying. “That guy’s cool as a cucumber when under pressure. Cold-blooded, he is, and that’s a fact.”

Isabelle pressed a hand against her mouth to stifle the startled cry that rose. Her fiancé was involved in Mike Dodd’s death? But how? Why?

“Easy enough when there’s nothing but ice running in your veins.”

Numbed by what she’d overheard, Isabelle listened as the sanctuary door squeaked open on its hinges. Organ music spilled out into the church’s vestibule as the latecomers slipped inside the nave. Then, only silence.

Isabelle sagged weakly against the coat closet’s door, her eyes wide, her hand still clamped over her mouth.

Oh, God. If what she’d overheard was true, then her fiancé was responsible for Mike Dodd’s death.

And within minutes, she would become the wife of a murderer.

Link Templeton glanced at the clock on his dash, then back at the street ahead, and pressed the accelerator a little closer to the floor. He had to get to the church before it was too late. He had to get there before the wedding took place.

He downshifted to third, made the turn onto Feather Road on two wheels, then stomped down on the accelerator again, fishtailing for a moment before he was able to bring the city-issue, four-wheel-drive Blazer under control. Perspiration beaded his forehead and ran in an irritating trickle between his shoulder blades.

He knew in his gut that Brad Rowan was guilty of murder. Though he had no sound evidence to back up his theory, other than the papers found by Mike Dodd’s sister, Angelica, and given to Link by Angelica’s lawyer, Cynthia Fortune, which pointed to a deliberate cover-up. And he’d learned over the years to trust his gut instincts on a case. They were rarely wrong.

The papers had provided him with the information he needed to clear Riley Fortune as a suspect in the murder case though, and they had substantiated Link’s theory that Brad was the man responsible for Dodd’s murder. But Link still lacked the solid evidence he needed to put Rowan behind bars and win a conviction in a trial.

Evidence or not, he told himself, he had to stop the wedding before it was too late.

But how would Isabelle take the news when he told her that the man she loved was a murderer?

She’d hate him. He’d had enough experience handing out bad news in his job as a criminal investigator for the city of Pueblo to know that the messenger rarely received any praise from the family and friends of the accused. Hadn’t he already felt the sting of the Fortunes’ outrage when he’d been forced to arrest Riley Fortune, Isabelle’s brother, as a suspect in the death of Mike Dodd?

He growled low in his throat, glaring at the road ahead. It didn’t matter what Isabelle Fortune or her family thought of him. It was the case that was important. It was slapping iron on a guilty man’s wrists and jerking another criminal off the streets that brought him satisfaction. It was his job.

But stopping a society wedding wasn’t.

He slapped an angry palm against the steering wheel. But he couldn’t just stand by and permit Isabelle to marry Brad Rowan. Not when he knew the man was capable of murder. What if, after their marriage, Isabelle happened upon some bit of information that pointed to Brad’s guilt? Would Brad kill her, too, as he had Mike Dodd, to silence her? The very thought had Link curling his fingers tighter around the steering wheel. He wouldn’t let Brad harm her. He couldn’t. He—

He shoved the unwanted thoughts away, but try as he might, he couldn’t erase the image of Isabelle the thoughts had drawn. He remembered the day when he’d dropped by Cynthia Fortune’s and had stumbled, unknowingly, into a wedding shower held in Isabelle’s honor. When his gaze had met Isabelle’s across the room, it was as if lightning had struck. He’d stood immobile, paralyzed by the violet eyes that met his, his pulse pounding in his ears, every nerve in his body burning with awareness.

And he was sure that she’d been similarly affected. A laugh from a guest was what had finally shocked him into movement. He’d torn his gaze from hers and turned away…but he’d never forgotten the look in her eyes. The awareness. The desire. He’d recognized them, because he’d lived with both ever since that day.

He snorted in disgust. She’s in love with another man, he reminded himself. And even if she wasn’t, he was too old and too jaded to make a play for a woman like her.

He caught a flash of red in the church parking lot ahead, then a convertible sports car shot out of the lot and directly into his path. “Damn!” He stomped on the brake, whipping the steering wheel to the right to avoid broadsiding the small foreign car.

His heart pumping like a jackhammer, he stared after the car, watching as the woman behind the wheel ripped a wedding veil from her head and held it up, letting the wind have it. The delicate lace panels sailed behind her for a moment, then floated slowly to the street, like a kite with a broken string.

Isabelle? he asked himself, recognizing the pricey foreign car and its driver. Where was she going? She was supposed to be getting married. What the hell had happened?

He glanced toward the church for an answer, but the thick entry doors were closed. And though the parking lot was full, there wasn’t a soul in sight. He glanced again in the direction of the red sports car, then back to the church where the wedding was to have taken place. It’s none of your business, he told himself. You’ve got no jurisdiction when it comes to Isabelle Fortune’s personal affairs.

“Like hell, I don’t,” he muttered. Setting his jaw, he turned his face to the street ahead, stomped on the clutch and shifted into first. Peeling out and leaving a trail of black rubber in his wake, he took off in the direction the red sports car had taken.

Isabelle fairly flew along the stretch of two-lane highway that led into the desert, intent on nothing but putting miles between her and the church. She drove for nearly an hour, her mind frozen, her fingers cinched tightly around the wheel. The wind whipped tendrils loose from her upswept hair and stung her eyes, but she was oblivious to everything but the white line that stretched in front of her.

A raindrop splattered against the windshield. Another struck her cheek, a needle-sharp pain, jolting her from her trancelike state. Glancing up, she saw that the sky had turned an ominous yellowish-green. She slowed, guiding her car to the shoulder. With fingers that shook uncontrollably, she pressed the electronic switch to raise the convertible’s top, locked it into place, then accelerated back onto the highway.

She didn’t know where she was going. But her destination wasn’t important. The only thing that mattered was getting away.

Tears filled her eyes. What would her parents say when they discovered her missing? Would they be angry? Worried? What would all the guests say when they realized the bride had run away and left the groom at the altar?

Brad.

What would he say? Do? Would he follow her?

Murderer.

A shiver chased down her spine at the reminder.

It was so hard to believe, yet something deep inside her told her it was true. Although she’d known Brad most of her life, she’d never completely trusted him. Granted, he’d never been anything but polite and attentive to her, especially since their engagement three months ago, but she’d always felt as if a different personality lurked beneath his carefully groomed facade.

She shivered again as the rain fell harder, hammering her car and obstructing her view of the road ahead. She switched on the windshield wipers and tightened her hands on the wheel. Storms came up quickly in the desert and could be treacherous, she knew.

And Isabelle had never liked storms, a fact her brothers had often teased her about.

She bit back a scream when a clap of thunder, so loud it nearly deafened her, shook her low-slung car. It was followed by a flash of lightning that ripped like a knife across the almost black sky, seemingly splitting it in two.

Wishing that she’d chosen another direction in which to run, Isabelle glanced frantically around, looking for somewhere safe to wait out the storm…but there was nothing but miles of desert surrounding her and the shadowed hump of dark mountains ahead.

She drove on, the rain continuing to batter her car, her emotions, shattering her already frayed nerves. Lightning flashed dangerously close to the earth time and time again in front of her. Thunder crashed violently around her, until the sound echoed continuously in her head, winding her nerves tighter and tighter.

Hoping to find a radio station with a weather report or, at the very least, some soothing music to block out the sounds of the storm, she reached for the control panel. At the same moment, the car’s front tires hit a sheet of water on the highway and the steering wheel was wrenched from her hand. She bit back a scream as she grabbed for the wheel, gripping it with both hands, trying to regain control. But the car spun crazily, around and around and around, then slammed into the ditch.

A scream rent the air. Her own.

Darkness followed.

Link hung back, not wanting Isabelle to know he was following her. He feared that if she picked up on the tail, she might panic and end up wrecking her car. And at the speed she was traveling, he was pretty sure she wouldn’t walk away from the accident unharmed.

When the rain started, he shortened the distance between them, but stayed only close enough to keep her taillights in sight.

“Slow down, Isabelle,” he warned under his breath.

He’d no sooner muttered the warning when a bolt of lightning lit up the sky, illuminating her car fully. He saw the water that covered the low spot in the highway ahead and prayed she saw it, too. Pressing the accelerator closer to the floor, he closed the distance between them, silently willing her to slow down.

“Oh, God, no,” he moaned when he realized the sports car was out of control. He eased on the brake, his heart lurching to his throat while he watched helplessly as the car in front of him spun wildly, headed straight for the ditch. Whipping the steering wheel of his Blazer to the right, he slid to a stop on the shoulder of the highway, jerked on the emergency brake and jumped out. Rain stung his face, blinding him as he ran for her car. Within seconds he was drenched to the skin.

He jerked open the door on the driver’s side but could see only the top of her head above the inflated air bag. “Isabelle!” he yelled, trying to make himself heard over the pounding rain. When she didn’t respond, he rammed his hand into his jeans pocket in search of his knife.

“Isabelle!” he shouted again, louder. “Hang on. I’ll get you out.” He stabbed his knife into the air bag, ripping a long slit to speed its deflation, then pressed both hands against it, forcing out the air. Shoving the bag out of his way, he bent over her. Her face was covered with the fine white powder the air bag had emitted. Carefully, he brushed it away, searching her face for any sign of injury, then moved his fingers to the long, smooth column of her throat, feeling for a pulse. Relieved to find one, though thready, he hunkered down beside her and framed her face with his hands. “Isabelle,” he whispered, frightened by the paleness of her skin, eyes that remained stubbornly closed.

After what seemed an eternity, her eyelashes fluttered and her lids slowly lifted. He could see that her pupils were dilated, and was sure that, although conscious, she wasn’t aware of his presence. He grabbed her hands and chafed them between his own. “You’re all right,” he told her, as if in saying it, he could make it true. “You’re going to be okay now.”

She blinked twice, slowly bringing him into focus. “Link?” she whispered in disbelief.

“Yeah, it’s me. I followed you from the church.”

Tears flooded her violet eyes. “Oh, Link,” she cried, and fell against his chest.

He wrapped his arms around her and shifted his weight until he was sitting on the edge of the seat beside her. “It’s okay,” he murmured, stroking a hand over her wind-tangled raven-black hair. “I’ve got you. You’re all right now.”

She tightened her arms around his neck, holding on as if her very life depended on it. “You’ve got to help me,” she sobbed hysterically. “I’ve got to get away.”

“Shh,” he soothed. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

Rain streamed down his back, reminding him of the storm and his need to get them to safety. He pushed her to arm’s length. “Are you hurt?”

Her breath hitched, and she lifted her gaze to his, her wide eyes drenched and darkened with fear. “N-no, I d-don’t think so.” She pressed her palm between her breasts. “Just m-my chest.”

He slid from the seat to stand outside the car, then leaned back inside, his face inches from hers in the cramped quarters. “I’m going to carry you to my truck. If you feel any pain, tell me.”

Her breath hitched again, and she nodded, never once moving her gaze from his. “All right.”

“Here,” he said, and took her arm and guided it around his neck. “Hold on to me.” He slipped one hand beneath her knees and the other behind her back. “Ready?”

“Y-yes,” she stammered, her teeth beginning to chatter.

Straightening, he lifted her from the car, then looked down at her. Rain sluiced down his face and over his chin, dropping to stain the satin of her wedding gown. Bowing his head over hers and hunching his shoulders, he tried his best to protect her from the worst of the storm’s fury. “You okay?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the storm that continued to rage around them. “Any pain?”

“I’m o-okay.” She tucked her face into the curve of his neck. “P-please. Just h-hurry.”

He jogged his way back to his truck, slipping and sliding on the rain-slick ground. When he reached his truck, he braced her against the side in order to free a hand to open the door. Quickly, he slid her onto the seat, then straightened, his breath coming in hard, grabbing gasps. “I’ll be right back. I need to lock up your car.”

He slammed the door and ran back for her vehicle. He ducked inside and grabbed the keys from the ignition. As he withdrew, he noticed the suitcase on the back seat and grabbed it, too. By the time he reached the Blazer again, his boots were saturated with water and felt as if they were filled with cement. He heaved her suitcase into the back, then hopped inside the truck, slamming the door behind him. He dragged a hand down his face, wiping away the rain, then braced a hand against the steering wheel and turned to face her. Her gaze was on his, her eyes wide, her lips trembling. Her fingers were twisted into a knot on her lap. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Y-yes. Th-thank you.”

Always polite. Always the lady. But there was an edge of desperation, of hysteria, behind the polite manners. “What happened?”

“I—I lost c-control of my c-car.”

“I mean before. At the church.”

“I—I ran away.”

He watched her eyes fill again, and hated himself for asking. But he had to know. “Last-minute jitters?”

The violet eyes turned stormy, wild, and she grabbed for him, her nails biting deeply into his forearm. “I’ve got to get away. Please, Link,” she begged. “You’ve got to help me.”

Seeing the panic swirling in her eyes and hearing the hysteria rising in her voice, he knew he couldn’t press her for answers. Not now. He stared at her a moment, wondering if he’d regret asking the one question he needed answered. “Do you trust me?”

When she hesitated a second too long, he looked away, scowling at the rain-streaked windshield and the shadowed mountains ahead. “Doesn’t matter,” he said gruffly, and reached for the ignition key. “Right now I’m your only hope.”

The decision to head for the mountains with Isabelle wasn’t one Link made easily…nor was the drive he made to reach them. The storm that had blown up so quickly in the desert decided to hang around awhile, seemingly chasing them into the mountains and making the narrow roads treacherous to navigate in the growing darkness. More than once Link had felt the Blazer’s tires spin on the muddy incline and the rear of the vehicle fishtail out of control. Even with the four-wheel drive engaged, progress up the mountain was slow and tedious.

By the time he reached the well-concealed turnoff he’d been watching for, the tendons in his neck and shoulders felt like steel rods and a headache was punching him between his eyes. After making the turn, he glanced over at Isabelle and found her still curled against the passenger door asleep. How she’d been able to sleep through the hair-raising drive, he wasn’t sure. But after assuring himself she hadn’t suffered a head injury, he had let her sleep, thankful that she could. He wasn’t in the mood to make polite conversation…not that he’d know how.

She was the one with the manners, he reminded himself bitterly. All those years spent at that fancy boarding school back east where her parents had sent her, the finishing school in Europe that followed. The only school Link’s parents had ever sent him to was the school of hard knocks.

He bit back a growl and turned his face away from her, narrowing an eye at the road ahead and the trees that crowded it on both sides. But it was that school of hard knocks that had nudged him toward law enforcement, he reminded himself, and it was that same school that had given him the instincts he needed to succeed where others had failed.

And those instincts were the ones he’d use to protect Isabelle. Keep her alive.

The Blazer’s headlights bounced off the cabin’s windows and reflected the light back at the Blazer, making Link squint. He slowed, downshifting as he pulled as close to the front porch as he dared. Switching off the engine, he turned to look at Isabelle again. Asleep she looked even more innocent and fragile than she did when she was awake…and, if possible, more beautiful. He reached out a hand to brush the tendril of hair that curled like a damp question mark against her cheek…but caught himself just shy of touching her. That porcelain skin. All that womanliness. That innocence. Curling his fingers into a fist, he withdrew his hand and turned to shoulder open his door.

The storm had lost most of its steam and now only a light rain fell, misting his face and hair as he circled to the passenger side of the truck. He opened the door carefully, not wanting to startle her. “Isabelle?” he said softly. When she didn’t respond, he leaned inside, bracing one hand against the dashboard and laying the other on her shoulder. “Isabelle,” he said, gently shaking her. “Wake up. We’re here.”

She moaned softly and turned away, snuggling her cheek deeper against the Blazer’s worn upholstery. With a glance over his shoulder at the dilapidated cabin he was taking her to, he decided it might be better to let her sleep. He guided her arm around his neck and scooped her up into his arms, then headed for the porch. As he brushed past the post that supported the sagging front porch, the train of her dress snagged on the rough cedar, stopping him. He gave the train a sharp tug and swore under his breath when he heard the delicate fabric rip.

She awoke then, shoving at his chest as she tried to struggle free.

He tightened his grip on her. “Be still now, or you’re going to make me drop you.”

Her fingers froze on his neck as her eyes snapped to his. He saw the remembrance slowly settle there…as well as the fear.

She tore her gaze from his and glanced nervously around. “Wh-where are we?”

“At a buddy of mine’s cabin in the mountains. You’ll be safe here,” he added as she turned those wide, violet eyes on his again.

“He can’t find me,” she whispered, her grip on him growing desperate. “Please don’t let him find me.”

Something twisted in Link’s gut as he looked down at her. Something he thought he’d lost long ago. The ability to care. “He won’t find you,” he said gruffly, and reached for the door. “Not on this mountain. Nobody could.”

He pushed open the door and caught up her train as he hefted her higher in his arms. As he stepped inside the cabin, he was struck at the irony in that gesture. Link Templeton carrying a bride across a threshold. The man who’d sworn he’d never marry, who’d sworn he’d never be foolish enough to fall in love, was carrying a bride across a threshold.

The only comfort he found in that thought was that the bride wasn’t his.

She was a runaway.

Two

After stripping off his wet shirt and changing into a pair of dry jeans he found in the closet, bare-chested Link pulled fresh linens from the dresser drawer and began making the bed. Anxious to finish the job before Isabelle emerged from the bathroom, he kept an ear cocked to the sounds coming from behind the door she’d closed between them. The soft gurgle of water as it ran from the ancient faucet and splashed into the rust-stained sink. The dull thump of a satin heel striking the old footed tub, or perhaps the side of the toilet. The whisper of satin and lace as it whisked against the scarred plank floor.

He tried not to think about Isabelle unbuttoning that long row of tiny, satin-covered buttons, of slipping the dress from her shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. Of her stepping from the cloud of white, her bare flesh pebbling as the cabin’s cool air struck it…the bobbing of ripe, full breasts, free now from constraints…the feminine curve of her waist…the heart-shaped buttocks he’d already defined earlier when he’d carried her into the cabin.

But the vision was there, filling his mind and making his fingers knot in the quilt he held.

Furious with himself and his wayward thoughts, he sailed the quilt over the freshly made bed, then stretched to tuck one end under the foot of the mattress. He jerked his head up when the hinges on the bathroom door squeaked. His breath locked in his lungs as Isabelle stepped into the opening, dressed in an ankle-length gown and robe of ivory silk. She looked as virginal and nervous as any bride might on her wedding night. Straightening slowly, he let the quilt slip from slack fingers and simply stared, letting his gaze slide from liquid eyes to bare toes that curled self-consciously against the hardwood floor.

Her hair hung past her shoulders, its dark ends curling gently around the swell of each breast, emphasizing their fullness and the twin knots of flesh puckered at their peaks. The silk hugged her body like a second skin, skimming over her flat abdomen, molding her slim hips, rising above the sharp planes of her pelvic bones, then dipping slightly into the juncture of her legs, before tumbling like a moonlit waterfall to her feet. When his gaze reached the gown’s hem, he saw the fabric’s slight quivering and realized it was caused by trembling knees.

Slowly, he moved his gaze back to her face. “My God” was all he could say when his eyes met hers again.

Color flamed in her already flushed cheeks and she hugged one arm at her waist while crossing the other over her breasts. She pressed her fingertips at her throat in a failed attempt to cover herself. “I—I’m sorry,” she said, dropping her gaze from his. “All I have with me is my trousseau, the clothes I packed for my honeymoon.”

Link forced a swallow, then drew in a ragged breath. “No problem,” he murmured, his voice sounding raw even to his own ears. But it was a problem, he knew. A big one. There was no way he’d be able to stay in the cabin with her. Not with her dressed like that. Not and keep his hands off her.

But he had no other choice.

Knowing that, he scowled as he strode to the closet, snatched a flannel shirt from a hanger and tossed it to her. “Put this on,” he ordered gruffly, then pulled another out and shrugged it on to cover his own bare chest. “I found a can of stew in the pantry,” he said, and gestured toward the bedroom doorway and the main room beyond, indicating for her to precede him. “It’s probably hot by now.”

With an uneasy glance his way, Isabelle darted for the door. Link watched her and slowly released the breath he’d held. How he’d ever survive the night without touching her, he didn’t know.

But it was his duty to keep her safe, he reminded himself. And Link Templeton was a man who honored duty above all else. Even his own safety.

His own sanity.

Setting his jaw, he followed her into the kitchen, pulled down heavy mugs from the cupboard and filled them with the thick stew while she hung back, watching, her arms hugging the flannel shirt over her breasts. He gestured with one of the mugs toward the small, crude table, waited until she was seated, then plunked a mug down in front of her and sat down in the chair opposite hers.

Picking up a spoon, he stirred, keeping his gaze on his stew, watching the steam rise from it. “Think you can tell me now what happened at the church?” he asked after a moment.

When she didn’t immediately respond, he glanced up to find her gaze on his hands. Her eyes slid up to his. Their gazes met, held for a moment, his narrowing in steely determination, hers going from shy curiosity to fear in the time it took for his heart to take one more rib-threatening kick at the mere sight of her.

“I’m a cop,” he said gruffly. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

“You arrested my brother.”

Link frowned at the accusation in her tone. “I had no choice. The evidence was there against him.”

She fisted her hands on the tabletop and leaned toward him, her defensive stance taking him by surprise. A lamb turning lioness before his eyes. “Riley didn’t kill Mike,” she said angrily. “You know him better than that. Riley would never harm anyone.”

Yes, Link acknowledged silently. In his gut, he had known that. In his heart, too, if he thought he had one. But gut instincts didn’t hold any weight in a court of law. Evidence did. And the evidence stacked against Riley Fortune had been damning. So, Link had done his duty, arrested a man for a crime he knew he didn’t commit…then busted his ass to uncover the evidence he needed to clear his name. Now all he needed was enough evidence to win a conviction against the real murderer. But Isabelle didn’t know any of that, nor would he tell her.

“Do you know who did?” he asked instead.

He heard her quick inhalation of breath, saw her body stiffen, before she dropped her gaze to the hands she still held fisted on the table. “Yes,” she said, her voice trembling. She slicked her tongue across lips that fear had parched. “I know who killed Mike.”

“Who?” he asked, needing to hear her name the man his gut told him was responsible for the crime, the man the current evidence pointed to. The man she’d planned to marry. The man he despised for no other reason than Isabelle Fortune had agreed to marry him.

Slowly she lifted her face until her eyes met his again. “Brad,” she whispered, then said more strongly. “Brad Rowan.”

The certainty with which she named her fiancé, the venom behind the accusation, took Link by surprise. He’d expected her to defend him, to try to protect the man she loved. “You have proof?”

“No. But Brad killed Mike. I know he did.”

With a snort, Link dropped his spoon into the mug and reared his chair back on two legs, eyeing her sardonically. “I know a lot of guilty men who are walking the streets, but without proof, that’s exactly where they’re going to stay. On the streets. The same as Brad Rowan will.”

Her lips parted on a shocked gasp, her eyes shooting wide. “What! You aren’t going to arrest him?”

He lifted a shoulder. “On what grounds? On the circumstantial evidence I currently have? On your unfounded accusation?”

She yanked her hands to her lap and glared at him across the width of the table. “It isn’t unfounded. I heard two men talking in the vestibule.”

He dropped his chair back to all four legs. “What two men?”

She waved away the question. “I don’t know. Just two men I overheard talking—”

The diamond engagement ring she wore caught the light and shimmered, drawing Link’s gaze to it. She stopped when she realized that he wasn’t listening to her any longer, then followed his gaze to the hand she held aloft. She stared at the ring, as if unaware until that moment that she still wore it. Then, with a whimper, she twisted the ring off and hurled it across the room. It bounced off the far wall, then fell to the floor, rolling a few feet before coming to a stop at the edge of a braided rug spread on the floor before the dark fireplace. The diamond caught the light again, glimmered, seeming to wink at Link, as if teasing him with all it symbolized.

Arching a brow, he slowly shifted his gaze back to hers. “Feel better?”

She scrubbed her fingers over the spot where the ring had rested for the last several months, as if ridding her skin of something vile. “Yes,” she said, her breath hitching. “Much.”

He pursed his lips and gave his chin a jerk. “Good. Now, about those two men…”

She drew in a deep breath, placed her palms over the top of the table as if to steady herself, and then told Link what she’d overheard. When she’d finished, she leaned forward, her eyes unwavering in their conviction as they met Link’s. “He killed him. Brad killed Mike. I know he did.”

“Did you recognize the voices?”

She caught her lip between her teeth as she sank slowly back against her chair. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Though they were both familiar.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because they were!” she cried, her frustration returning with a vengeance. “I’ve heard the voices before. Where, I’m not sure. But I’ve heard them.”

Link leaned across the table, convinced that the two unidentified men were the key he needed to put Brad Rowan behind bars where he belonged. And Isabelle held that key. “Think, Isabelle,” he growled. “Think. Without a name, or a place, I have nothing to go on.”

Her eyes filled with tears and she pressed her fingers against her temples, shaking her head. “I’ve tried,” she cried miserably. “While I was driving through the desert, their voices played through my mind over and over again, but I simply can’t place them.”

“Could they be friends of your father’s? Employees of his?”

Her eyes flipped wide and she jumped to her feet, knocking over her chair. “Oh, my God! My parents! They must be worried sick. I’ve got to call them.” She whirled, searching for a phone, but Link lunged across the table, caught her by the arm and jerked her back around.

“You can’t call your parents, Isabelle.”

“Wh-what?” she stammered, blinking at him.

“No calls.”

“But I have to!” She tugged her arm, trying to pull free. “They’ll be worried. Frightened. I have to call them. I have to let them know where I am, that I’m all right.”

Link rose and ducked a hip around the edge of the table, rounding it. He caught her other arm and forced her to face him. “Isabelle,” he said, giving her a hard shake when she continued to struggle against him. “Listen to me. You can’t call your parents. The call could be traced.”

She stilled, her eyes going wide. “Traced?”

“Yes. Brad, or anyone else who wanted to, could trace the call to this cabin.”

She shook her head, tears filling her eyes. “But my parents. They’ll be sick with worry. You don’t understand,” she cried, and tried to pull free. “I was kidnapped when I was young. I know what they went through then. How much they suffered. I can’t put them through that again. I just can’t!”

Link scowled as he held on to her, refusing to let her go. He understood, all right. He knew all about the kidnapping of Isabelle Fortune. The memory of her parents’ faces on the evening news when they’d offered a staggering reward for any information that would lead to the recovery of their daughter would forever be burned on his mind—as would the image of Isabelle’s pale, haunted face when she’d been rescued three days later and returned safely to her parents.

He released her so quickly, she staggered back a step, unbalanced. “My cell,” he said, and turned for the bedroom.

“What?” she said in confusion and hurried after him.

“My cell phone,” he explained, pulling it from its holster on the belt of his wet jeans. He turned and held it out to her. “City issue. Calls can’t be traced through it.”

She reached for the phone, then glanced up at him in surprise when he didn’t release his own grip on it.

“You can’t tell them where you are,” he warned, his blue eyes piercing hers. “Or that you’re with me. If you do, you’ll jeopardize your safety and that of your parents’. Do you understand?”

Frightened by the rigidity of his gaze and sobered by the threat he alluded to, she slowly nodded. “Y-yes. I understand.”

He released the phone, and she turned away. She punched in her parents’ number, then brought the phone to her ear. At the sound of her father’s voice, she pressed her fingertips to her lips, forcing back tears. “Dad?”

“Isabelle,” he cried in relief, making fresh tears flood her eyes. “My God, honey, where are you? Are you okay?” He clamped a hand over the mouthpiece and shouted for her mother, telling her that Isabelle was on the phone.

“Dad,” she said loudly, trying to make herself heard over his shouting. “Please listen. I can’t talk long. I just wanted you to know that I’m all right. That I’m safe.”

Then her mother was on the phone, sobbing, “My baby, my baby. Isabelle, darling, where are you?”

“I’m okay, Mother,” she said, struggling to keep the fear from her voice, the truth, not wanting to worry her parents any more than they already were. “I’m with—” She felt Link’s hand clamp over hers and glanced up at him, saw the fierce, silent warning in his eyes. “I can’t tell you where I am or who I’m with,” she explained, her gaze frozen on Link’s. “I just wanted you to know that I’m safe and that I’ll be back in contact with you as soon as I can.”

“Isabelle!” her mother wailed. “Darling, what is going on? Brad is beside himself with worry. He’s in the library now. Your father’s gone to tell him that you’re on the phone.”

Ice spilled through Isabelle’s veins at the mention of her fiancé. “I can’t talk to him,” she said, her stomach knotting at the idea of him, a murderer, in her parents’ home. “I have to go. I love you, Mother. Tell Dad that I love him, too.” She quickly pressed the disconnect button, cutting off her mother’s desperate pleas for her to remain on the line.

Link eased the phone from her paralyzed fingers and Isabelle turned away, covering her face with her hands. “Oh, God,” she moaned. “They sounded so worried. So frightened. This must be just like it was before for them.”

She felt a hand on her shoulder, the gentle squeeze of comforting fingers through the flannel shirt. She turned and buried her face against his chest. “I can’t do this,” she sobbed helplessly. “I can’t do this to them again. I’ve got to go home. Talk to them. Explain what’s happened. Tell them about Brad.”

“No.” When she twisted in his arms, trying to free herself from his embrace, Link tightened his arms around her. “Isabelle,” he ordered sternly, “think what you’re saying, what kind of danger you’d be placing yourself and your parents in. Brad’s a murderer. You know that. You heard what those men said. Once Brad knows that you’re aware of the part he played in Mike’s death, he’ll kill you, or try to, at the very least. He’ll have to, in order to save his own hide.”

“But you didn’t hear them, Link,” she sobbed. “They’re so worried. It’s just like before. I can’t bear it,” she cried, balling her hands against his chest. “I can’t put them through this again.”

“This isn’t your fault,” he told her, trying to calm her. “And it wasn’t your fault before, when you were kidnapped.”

“It is,” she argued stubbornly. “I shouldn’t have run away. I should have stayed at the church, found my father and told him what I overheard.”

Furious that he couldn’t make her understand the danger she was in, he pushed her to arm’s length and gave her a hard shake. “Don’t you know what kind of man we’re dealing with here? Brad Rowan’s crazy. Homicidal. If you’d stayed at the church and told your father what you overhead, Brad would have you by now, and God only knows what he would do to you to keep you quiet.” He watched the blood drain from her face, saw the fear in her eyes and knew that he was frightening her even more than she already was. “Isabelle,” he said, trying to keep his tone even, calm. “You did the right thing by running away. I can protect you here. I can keep you safe.”

She stared up at him, wet violet eyes searching his. “Here?” she repeated. “We’re staying here?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

He set his jaw, wondering again how he’d survive being alone with her for even one night. “As long it takes to get the evidence I need to put Brad Rowan behind bars.”

“But my parents…”

He released his hold on her. “As long as they are ignorant of Brad’s guilt, he would have no reason to harm them.”

“But—”

“I’ll arrange for twenty-four hour surveillance for both them and Rowan. At the first sign of danger, I’ll have Rowan arrested on suspicion of murder. Until then, I need for him to think his secret is safe, in hopes he’ll make a mistake and lead us to the evidence we need to nail him.”

Link dropped down onto the lumpy sofa with a weary sigh, scrubbed his hands over his face, then leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his thighs and his fists beneath his chin as he stared at the closed bedroom door.

Isabelle slept in the bed on the other side of the door. Isabelle Fortune. The woman he’d admired, even lusted after from afar, ever since her return to Pueblo less than a year earlier.

The irony of the situation didn’t escape him.

Link Templeton, criminal investigator, lowly employee of the city that the Fortune family all but owned, hiding out in a remote cabin with the Fortune’s only daughter, a woman thirteen years his junior, a woman whose innocence and privileged background was a stark contrast to the streetwise man who’d literally pulled himself from the gutter by his bootstraps.

As he stared at the door, knowing he was crazy for even thinking about her, an image of her as she’d appeared earlier that evening pushed itself, unwanted, into his mind. Standing in the bathroom doorway like a virginal bride on her wedding night. Her cheeks flushed, that thick mane of black hair framing a classically beautiful face and tumbling to hang past her slim shoulders. Breasts quivering beneath the thin silk that enhanced rather than concealed the feminine curves beneath it.

He could imagine himself stroking a hand down the smooth column of her throat, covering a breast, almost feel her flesh swell and arch against his palm, the heat rising from her skin to burn with his. Her head would drift back as he stroked her, her eyes would close, her lips part, and he would capture her mouth with his, sip at her sweetness, grow drunk on her erotic flavor, mate his tongue with hers even as he drew her hips hard against his.

Groaning at the image, he dived his fingers through his hair and held his head between his palms, trying to squeeze the lustful thoughts from his mind. “Crazy,” he muttered under his breath. “Insane. Impossible. Irrational.” Isabelle Fortune was out of his league, out of his realm. And he was out of his mind for even thinking about her. His job was to protect her. Nothing more.

Promising himself that he would remember that, he snatched his cell phone from the sofa beside him and quickly punched in a number.

“Hank,” he said when his partner answered. “It’s Link.”

“Where the hell are you? Isabelle Fortune has disappeared, and the whole town is in an uproar. The chief wants you on the case.”

“Isabelle’s with me. We’re at your cabin in the mountains.”

“Whoa. Back up, buddy, and say that again.”

Link sighed and dragged his palm over the top of his head, mussing his hair even more. “I’ve got Isabelle,” he said again. “She’s with me. I followed her when she left the church. She wrecked her car during the storm, and I picked her up and brought her to your cabin.”

“Damn, Link. Brad Rowan is one angry groom. But his black mood doesn’t come close to touching her old man’s. Hunter Fortune’s got the entire police force out looking for his daughter. He’ll have your ass over a fire for this one, I can guaran-damn-tee it. You better get her back here, and fast.”

“No.”

“No! Man, have you lost your mind? This is the Fortunes you’re dealing with, and you’re not exactly on their top-ten list since you arrested Riley and threw him in jail.”

“I know,” Link said in frustration, “but I can’t bring her back. She knows that Brad killed Mike Dodd.”

“The hell you say! Has she got proof?”

“No. That’s the problem. Just prior to the wedding, she heard two men who alluded to Brad’s involvement in Mike’s murder, but she can’t identify either one of them.”

“So you’re going to keep her under wraps until she can?”

Link’s scowl deepened. “It’s the only way I know to keep her alive.” He glanced at the door, then lowered his voice. “Listen. I need you to get me a list of all the wedding guests. I’m sure the Fortunes have a copy, but keep your reasons for needing it under your hat. I don’t want them to know that Isabelle’s with me, or that she suspects that Brad is the murderer.

“I need you to keep an eye on her parents,” he continued, “as well as Rowan. If he shows any sign that he suspects Isabelle is aware of his guilt, arrest him and hold him on suspicion of murder until I can get there.”

“What about her car? Do you want me to have it towed in? A set of wheels like that? Somebody’s bound to come along and strip it, and make a killing on the parts alone.”

Link dragged a hand over his hair. “No. If you do, someone might suspect that you know something, know where she is. I’d rather her family suffer the financial loss of the car than have them face the emotional loss of their only daughter if Rowan should trace her back here to the cabin.”

“Right.”

“And cover for me, will you? Make up some story about me chasing down a lead in another city. Or, hell, tell ’em I quit. I don’t care. Just don’t let on that you know where I am or who’s with me.”

“My lips are sealed. And, buddy,” Hank added, “watch your back. That Rowan is a cold son of a bitch and madder than a rabid dog. If he finds out you’ve got Isabelle…”

He let the warning drift off, unfinished. But Link didn’t need to hear the warning to know the danger he had placed himself in. “Don’t worry about me,” he told Hank. “Just get me that guest list.”

Isabelle awoke, screaming.

Link was awake and off the sofa and in the bedroom before she could fight her way free of the quilt tangled around her legs. He dropped down on the bed beside her and pulled her into his arms, trying to calm her.

She fought him like a wildcat, clawing at his chest and face with her hands and nails, while deafening him with bloodcurdling screams.

He wrapped his arms around her, successfully pinning her hands and arms between them. “Isabelle. Isabelle!” he shouted to be heard over her screams. “It’s me. Link. I’ve got you. You’re okay. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

He repeated the same assurances over and over again until his voice, at last, penetrated the nightmare that seemed to hold her in its clutches. She grew still, though her body continued to tremble like a struck chord against his, her chest heaving against his with each grabbed breath. He drew her closer, his hands growing damp with the perspiration that soaked her gown and skin.

“It was just a dream,” he told her, stroking a hand down her hair. “Just a dream.”

She drew in a shuddery breath, another, then eased from his embrace and tipped her face up to his. In the darkness, her eyes were nothing but shadowed pools, her features indistinguishable. Needing to see her face, to reassure himself that she was all right, he stretched a hand behind him and switched on the bedside lamp. A soft golden glow spilled over the room, and when he turned back to her, he saw the wildness that flared in her eyes, the fear, and knew the nightmare still held her in its grip. “It was a dream,” he told her again, and dragged a knuckle across her cheek, catching a stray tear. “Just a dream.”

She shivered at his touch, her unblinking gaze locked on his. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from screaming. “A dream. A nightmare,” she said on a low moan, and shivered again.

He wanted to draw her back into his arms, comfort her, but thought better of it. Instead, he shifted away, preparing to rise, to put some distance between them. “Are you okay now?”

She grabbed his arm before he could stand. “Please,” she begged, her nails biting deep, her grip on him, as well as her gaze, desperate. “Don’t leave me.”

He sank back down beside her. “I won’t,” he promised. He slipped an arm around her shoulders, shifting her to his side, until their backs rested against the headboard. He stretched his legs out over the quilt still tangled with hers. “I’ll stay with you as long as you want.”

She seemed to wilt beneath his arm at his reassurance, her head dropping to rest on his shoulder. Her fingers found the edge of the quilt and drew it to her waist. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “The nightmare. I don’t have it often. Haven’t in years.” Her fingers curled into the fabric, her knuckles stark white against the colorful squares. “It’s always the same. The men grabbing me, stuffing me into the back of the van.”

A shiver shook her and he tightened his arm around her, held her firmly against his side. “The kidnapping?” he asked, though he was sure he knew her answer.

He felt her head move against his shoulder in silent assent.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice quivering with the horror of it. “The kidnapping. I was five. They took me to a cabin.” She lifted her head from his shoulder to look uneasily around the room, slowly taking in her surroundings. The scarred chest of drawers. The dark windows with muslin drapes pushed back to let the dim moonlight filter through.

“Like this one,” she said, as if just realizing the similarities. “But much more rustic. There was a bed,” she added, and released her grip on the quilt to smooth a palm over the covers beside her hip. “Nothing more than a bare mattress, really, lying flat on the floor. No sheets. Just a dirty blanket. They kept me there for three days,” she said, then turned her face up to his, her cheeks wet, her eyes haunted by the memory. “Three horrible, terrifying days.”

He could only imagine the fear she must have felt if it was anything close to that which shadowed her eyes. Unable to bear thinking of what she might have suffered, seeing it reflected on her face, in her eyes, he lifted his hand and pressed his palm against her head, forcing it back down to his shoulder. “Don’t think about it,” he ordered, his voice husky. He turned his lips to her hair. “Block it from your mind.”

He felt her stiffen, then she was shoving against his chest and from his embrace. “No,” she said furiously, shocking him with the depth of her emotion. “Not any longer. I want to talk about it. All of it. But my family won’t allow me. Every time I try, they change the subject or pretend they don’t hear.”

“It hurts them,” he said, understanding all too well her family’s avoidance of the subject. “Knowing how much you suffered, how terrified you were, hurts them. Hearing you speak of it would be forcing them to relive it again.”

“But I need to talk about it,” she cried. She pressed her palms against the sides of her head. “The memories are here, in my mind, haunting me, and I need to let them out. To rid myself of them. But nobody will listen. They try to erase it all by pretending it never happened. They always have.”

Her growing fury troubled him, as did her insistence to share the terrifying memories. He didn’t want to hear the details of her kidnapping any more than her parents did, maybe less.

A teenager at the time of the incident, Link had followed the details of the kidnapping on television, along with the other citizens of Pueblo. But unlike the rest of Pueblo’s citizens and the police force who were baffled by the few clues they had to follow, Link had exclusive information regarding Isabelle’s kidnapping…information provided to him by his stepbrother, Joe Razley. Information the police weren’t privy to.

But he’d listen to Isabelle recount the details of her kidnapping, he told himself, if only to ease her mind. “Tell me, then,” he offered hesitantly.

She slicked her lips, inched closer, her gaze on his. “I ran away. Just like I did today.”

He drew his head back frowning, sure that he’d known every detail of the kidnapping. But he’d never heard this one. “Ran away?”

“Yes,” she said, obviously relieved to finally be able to tell it all. “I was angry with my parents because they wouldn’t allow me to spend the night with one of my friends, so I decided to run away. I packed a backpack and snuck out of the house. I walked for miles, not really knowing where I planned to go, but determined to run away, to punish them.” Tears filled her eyes and she dashed her fingertips across her cheeks, swiping them away.

“I made it all the way downtown,” she said as the memories took her. “And I was frightened. More frightened than I’d ever been in my life. I never liked the dark. Always slept with a night-light on. There was a storm brewing. Much like the one today. Clouds covered the moon and stars and there was nothing but an occasional streetlight to relieve the shadows. I’d never walked alone in town, and I lost my way. I was crying, wanting to go back home, but unsure which way to go. A van pulled up to the curb beside me, and a man stuck his head out the window.” She narrowed her eyes, as if, even now, she could picture his face in her mind. “He was young. Nineteen. Or maybe twenty. He had a scar at the corner of his eye.” She touched her own face, demonstrating, then dropped her hand to her lap and gripped her fingers together.

“He asked me if I was lost. If I needed a ride. My parents had lectured me about not talking to strangers, but I was lost, desperate, frightened. I wanted to go home, and he promised that he would take me there. I told him my name and where I lived. I remember him turning to look at the other man, the one who was driving, and they started laughing. Then he opened the door and got out. The next thing I knew, he grabbed me and shoved me inside the van.

“I knew then that I had made a mistake, and I tried to get away. I started kicking and screaming, begging him to let me go, but he slapped me hard across the face and told me to be quiet. He tied my hands behind my back and my feet together at the ankles, then stuffed a dirty rag into my mouth and forced me down on the floor in the back of the van. I remember gagging at the sour taste on the rag. The van’s metal floor was rough and scraped my cheek and knees, making them bleed. I was sure that I was going to die, that they were going to kill me.”

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