Serial Bride (9 page)

 

B
RYCE BRUSHED
his mouth over Sylvie's lightly, with more sweetness than passion, more caring than lust, more searching than claiming. But the fire his lips ignited burned to her toes.

She couldn't let herself want this. She couldn't let herself take that step to the edge. Placing her hands against his chest, she pushed him away. “I'm sorry. I can't do this.”

His eyes burned into her, fanning the fire. “I'm sorry. I was out of line.” But he didn't look as though he thought he was out of line. He looked as though he wanted to kiss her again.

Trembles moved through her like water boiling under her skin. She could say she didn't want to see
him, didn't want to be around him, and for God's sake, didn't want to
kiss
him. But she'd be lying on all three counts. And she'd bet he could see straight through those lies. “It's not a good time.” He couldn't argue with that.

He nodded as if accepting her answer. “I hope there will be a good time. Someday.”

She did, too. But she couldn't tell him that. She could hardly admit it to herself. Not that hope would change anything. No matter what she wanted, no matter what he promised, she knew how things would turn out. And she couldn't let herself take that leap off the cliff when she knew too well how painful it was to land on those jagged rocks below.

“I need some time by myself. It's very late and I'm tired and…” She trailed off. She could see in his eyes that he knew what she was saying. That she didn't need sleep as much as she wanted to escape him.

But this time he didn't argue. He didn't point out their deal. This time he merely nodded and started walking in the direction of the BMW. “I'll drop you off at the hotel.”

 

T
HE HOTEL PHONE
jangled Sylvie from a dead sleep. She bolted upright in bed. Where was she? What time was it? Who could be calling? The details of the day before hit her along with the second ring. Heart
pounding, she grabbed the phone in sweat-slicked hands and held it to her ear. “Hello?”

“Ms. Hayes?” A deep voice, calm. Not Bryce. Not Perreth.

“Who is this?”

“Charles Rowe. I'm a resident at the hospital.”

Sylvie's heart tripped into double time. “Reed? Is he okay?”

“Mr. McCaskey? Actually, yes. He's asking for you.”

“He's awake?”

“He insisted I call. I'm sorry it's so early, but he said it was urgent.”

She glanced at the clock: 4:00 a.m. It wasn't even dawn yet. But that didn't matter. Reed was awake. He was going to be okay. And she could talk to him. “Tell him I'll be right there.”

“He'll be happy to hear it.”

Sylvie didn't wait for goodbyes. She dropped the phone in the cradle, untangled her legs from the sheets and raced into the bathroom.

She ripped off the Chicago Bears T-shirt she'd been sleeping in and slipped on a bra, jeans and a sweater. After brushing her teeth and shoving her feet into a pair of boots, she grabbed her jacket and was out the door.

Outside the hotel, the city was still dark. The streets stretched quiet under the streetlights' glow.
Only an occasional car drove by. She hadn't thought about how she was going to get to the hospital. She glanced back at the hotel lobby. It would take time to call a cab. Time she didn't want to waste.

Of course, she could call Bryce.

She shook her head. As tired as she'd been when he dropped her off at the hotel, she hadn't been able to fall asleep for more than a hour. Instead she'd stared at the ceiling and tried to untangle her feelings. She hadn't succeeded. If anything, she'd felt more tempted to fling herself off the emotional cliff and more afraid he wouldn't be there to catch her if she did.

The roar of an engine saved her from her thoughts. A block away, a Madison Metro bus lumbered toward her. A bus. Perfect. She dashed the few yards to the bus stop.

The bus roared to the curb, brakes hissing. The door opened and she climbed inside, digging in her purse for the fare. “Does this bus stop at the hospital on South Park Street?”

The driver, an older man, squinted at her through wire-rimmed glasses and offered an apologetic smile. “The closest I can get you is about three blocks.”

She could walk three blocks. She certainly wasn't going to wait who knew how long for a bus to come along that would take her door to door. “Sounds
good.” She deposited money in the fare box and took one of the side-facing seats behind the driver.

“It's kind of early to be out and about. Sun's not even up yet,” the driver said, closing the door and shifting the bus into gear.

She forced a smile in answer. She didn't want to be rude, but she wasn't in much of a mood for small talk. Her mind was still doing loop-de-loops and she hadn't even had a sip of coffee yet.

“You be careful out there walking. There's been some strange stuff going on. Young women like you getting attacked. Very scary.”

Like the body the police found. The body they thought was Diana's.

Sylvie pushed that possibility from her mind. Diana had to be alive. She just had to be. Sylvie wouldn't believe otherwise.

The bus roared down quiet streets. Up ahead the hospital rose over houses and low-riding apartment buildings, dark against the slight pink of dawn just beginning to tinge the sky.

The bus swung to the curb and hissed to a stop. The driver glanced over his shoulder. “This is the closest I can get you.”

Sylvie grabbed the nearest chrome pole and stood. “Thanks. I'll be careful.” She walked down the stairs and stepped into the cool morning. Holding her breath against a cloud of exhaust as the bus roared away
from the curb, she pulled her jacket tightly around her shoulders and started down a block lined with cute little homes surrounded by boxwood hedges.

The lingering glow of a streetlight filtered through orange leaves clinging to the branches of a sugar maple. Her breath puffed in front of her in frosty clouds. Cold poked through her jacket and between the fibers of her sweater, knifing straight to her skin.

She usually loved mornings. The world was so fresh and new at dawn, the air itself feeling ready to burst with potential. But today was different. Whether due to Diana's disappearance, the bus driver's warning or the hush that descended on upper Midwest mornings after most birds flew south for the winter, this morning felt cold, sinister, dangerous.

Jamming gloveless hands into her pockets, she picked up her pace. Three blocks, the driver had said. Three blocks and she could see Reed, tell him all she'd learned, figure out what she should do next.

A car hummed along the street. A car door slammed behind her. The sounds of people. Sounds that should be reassuring but weren't.

She twisted around, trying to see over her shoulder.

A shadow moved between cars and stepped onto the sidewalk behind her. Heavy footfalls echoed, even and brittle, off the dark-windowed houses flanking the street.

Male
footfalls.

A dose of adrenaline shot into her bloodstream, setting her already-agitated nerves on edge. The guy was probably returning home from the third shift or after a post-bar-time breakfast. He had every right to use the sidewalk, and she had no reason to feel so panicked. No rational reason.

She walked faster, but still he gained on her. He clearly was in a hurry. Maybe if she allowed him to pass she could push her paranoia aside and focus on what was important—such as how she was going to tell Reed about Diana's apparent fascination with Dryden Kane.

Slowing, she moved to one side of the walk. A thought flashed through her mind, a memory of slowing her steps in the hospital stairwell, of her pursuer slowing, as well.

But his steps behind her didn't slow. If anything, he seemed to walk faster. He drew even with her.

She glanced over her shoulder. Her hair blew in her eyes, obscuring her vision, but she could still make out broad shoulders decked out in a puffy university jacket.

And dark eyes peering out of a red ski mask.

The weather was cold, but not nearly cold enough for a ski mask.

Her heart lurched against her rib cage.

A gloved hand clamped around her bicep.

She spun to the side and pulled back, trying to rip
her arm from his grasp. Her feet skidded. She went down, her knee smacking the concrete.

His fingers tightened, bruising strong. He yanked her to her feet. Her back slammed against a solid chest. His other arm circled her throat.

She pushed out a scream, wild and desperate. She scratched at his arm, his hands, her fingernails scraping slick nylon and leather. She kicked backward, connecting with a shin.

A muffled grunt vibrated through his chest. His arm pressed against her throat, cutting off her voice, cutting off her breath.

A scream vibrated in the dawn air. Sylvie's scream.

Bryce yanked his pistol out of his coat pocket and launched into a dead run. From the moment he'd seen her getting on that bus, he'd had a bad feeling. A desperate feeling. And when the white minivan with no license plates pulled out behind the bus, he'd known she was in danger.

Damn. It had taken him too long to reach his car. Too long to figure out where the bus must have taken her.

Too long
.

And to top it off, when he'd reached the hospital, she wasn't there. Not in the drive. Not in the lobby.

And now the scream
.

He pushed his legs harder, faster, running in the direction of the sound. His shoes jarred against pavement. Cold air rasped in his throat and ached in his lungs. He rounded the corner onto a side street.

Except for a circle of yellow light from the streetlight on the far corner, shadows cloaked this block and the next. But even through the darkness, he could make out the shape of a man a block up ahead—a man dragging something toward a van.

Not something. Someone.
Sylvie.

She struggled. Hitting. Kicking.

Bryce's heart pounded high in his chest. He pushed his legs to move faster. He had to get closer. He couldn't shoot from here. He'd never hit the guy from this distance. And he couldn't risk hitting Sylvie.

The man stopped beside the van and shifted Sylvie to one arm.

“Hey!” Bryce yelled. “Let her go!”

The man looked in Bryce's direction.

Sylvie yanked herself backward, nearly twisting away. He grabbed her in both arms, pinning one arm to her side. Sylvie fought back, thrashing at the man's face with her free hand.

The muscles in Bryce's legs burned. He had to move faster. He had to reach her before that man wrestled her into the van.

The man pulled back his arm, hand forming a fist. He plowed it into Sylvie's jaw.

Her head snapped back. Her body sagged, dazed and limp.

Rage blistered through Bryce. Adrenaline poured
into his blood and fueled his legs. He dashed across the street and cut through the corner yard, straight for the van. He leaped over a rake lying in the yard and vaulted a low boxwood hedge.

The man slid the van door open. He stuffed Sylvie inside and climbed in himself.

Bryce raised the gun. He was almost there. Almost. He couldn't let the man close the door. He couldn't let him get away.

The door began to slide.

Bryce lunged for it. He gripped the steel edge with his left hand. Fighting to gain leverage, he pulled backward.

The door stopped its slide.

Bryce pulled harder, but it wouldn't move.

A fist shot from the opening, smashing into his nose.

Hot blood gushed down his face and filled his mouth. Dizziness swamped him. He shook his head, trying to clear it. The space narrowed. Steel sandwiched the fingers of his left hand. Pinching. Crushing. He couldn't let go. If the door closed, Sylvie was gone.

He brandished the pistol. “Open the door.”

Suddenly the door gave. Bryce slid it wide enough to see inside.

Shadow cloaked the interior, but he could still see a red ski mask, an arm around Sylvie's throat and a knife just under her jaw.

“Back away from the van or she dies.”

Bryce released the door. He took a step back and pointed the pistol at the man's head.

“Drop the gun.”

Bryce didn't move. If he dropped the pistol, he'd have no way to fight back, no way to keep the man from closing the door and driving the van away with Sylvie inside. “Let her go.”

“Drop it!” The man pressed the flat part of the blade against her tender skin. A ribbon of red bloomed along the blade's edge.

A flick of the wrist and she'd be dead.

“Okay, okay.” Bryce jerked the barrel up, pointing at the sky.

“Drop it! Now!”

Bryce opened his fingers and let the pistol fall to the ground. It hit the curb and skittered under the van.

The door slid closed.

Bryce lunged for the door. He couldn't just let him take her. He wouldn't.

A thump hit the inside of the door. Then another.

Sylvie?

Bryce gripped the door handle and threw his weight against it.

Something red slammed against the window inside the van. The door slid open like a shot. The attacker's back was to him.

Bryce lunged into the open door. Circling the man's throat with his arm, he yanked him out of the van.

The man swung and missed.

Bryce dragged him back, away from the minivan, away from Sylvie.

The man slugged again, this time connecting.

Bryce's head throbbed. His ears rang. He spun the man around and pushed him over the hedge.

Grabbing Bryce's coat, the man pulled him down with him. They wrestled on the ground, trading punches. The guy was strong. And desperate. Bryce had to find a weapon, something to give him an edge.

The rake. The rake that lay near the hedge.

He groped the grass. His fingers hit the wood handle. Gripping the rake, he brought it up fast. The tines clipped the man under the chin.

A grunt filtered through the mask.

Bryce struck again before the man could recover, this time hitting his side. A sickening thud shuddered up the handle. He could only hope the bastard had a broken rib or two. Share the wealth.

Another swing.

His opponent ducked. And ran.

Movement near the van caught Bryce's eye.
Sylvie
. His heart leaped to his throat. She was right in the man's path to the van. Bryce started after him, but he knew he wasn't close enough. The guy had almost reached her.

She raised her hand, pointing toward the masked man. In her fist she held the gun.

The man dodged to the side. He stumbled toward the van.

Bryce braced himself, waiting for Sylvie to pull the trigger, waiting for the deadly pop of gunfire to split the air.

Nothing happened.

The masked man circled the van and jumped inside. Rubber squealed against pavement and the vehicle roared away down the street.

“Bryce!” Sylvie turned to him. Dropping her arm to her side, she let the gun slide from her hand. It fell to the grass unfired. She hobbled to him, tears streaming down her bruised face. “Are you okay? Please be okay.”

“I'm fine. I'm good.”

She stopped beside him. Stretching out her hand, she let her fingers hover an inch from his face, afraid to touch. “He hurt you. Oh, God, you're all bloody.”

He bet he looked like a mess. He sure hurt like hell. But it didn't matter. All that mattered was that Sylvie was safe. Here. Alive. “Let me get you to the hospital. But I'm afraid we'll be going through the emergency room.”

“Sure.” She smiled through her tears. “You can take me anywhere you want.”

 

W
HEN
P
ERRETH REACHED
the hospital, they were still sitting in the ER waiting room. Bryce's whole head throbbed, and the fingers of his left hand were as thick and stiff as bratwurst.

The bruise on Sylvie's face bloomed in a deep shade of pink along her swollen jaw. And her eyes held a glassy look—the result of either a concussion or shock, neither one a nice prospect. But apparently their injuries weren't serious enough to warrant the slightest bit of urgency on the part of the ER staff.

Perreth narrowed his beady eyes on Sylvie and cleared his throat with a wet smoker's cough. “Can you tell me what this guy looked like?”

“He was wearing a red ski mask.”

Perreth turned to Bryce. “License plate number?”

“No plates. But he drove a white minivan.”

“He's the one who kidnapped my sister. I know it. You've got to find him.”

“You're not giving me much to go on.”

Sylvie frowned, as if searching her mind for details. “He was about your size and had broad shoulders. And he was wearing a red Wisconsin Badgers jacket.”

“Oh, that helps. They're so rare around here.”

Bryce fought the urge to punch Perreth right in his sarcastic mouth. “It was dark. What do you expect?”

“What do you expect? Should I go out and arrest everyone who drives a minivan and wears a Badgers jacket? Half the Madison population would be in jail.”

He had a point. Their description wouldn't get him very far. But Bryce still didn't appreciate the smart-ass tone. Maybe Sylvie's suspicions were rubbing off on him, but even he was beginning to wonder about Perreth's agenda regarding this case. But then, maybe he was just an ass. “You could start by getting Sylvie some protection.”

Sylvie turned to look at him, but she didn't protest. Obviously her need to be on her own didn't apply to all situations. She was a realist when she had to be. Unless she had just been trying to get away from him.

He thought of last night's kiss. Inappropriate. Pure and simple. And it wouldn't happen again. “So, Perreth? Can you arrange for Sylvie's protection?”

The detective looked at him as if he'd just been jolted from a faraway dream. “Police protection?”

“What other kind?”

“Maybe a little common sense? Starting with not wandering around in the dark. Alone. Madison might be a pretty safe town, but there are some bad people out there. Especially lately.”

Now a lecture on safety? Perreth was scoring all sorts of points with him this morning. “Sylvie
wouldn't have gone out alone without good reason.” He turned to her. Waiting to hear it himself.

“I got a call from a doctor. He said Reed was awake and wanted to see me. Have you talked to him yet, Detective?”

Perreth narrowed his eyes on her. “When did you get this call?”

“Right before I left the hotel. Around four this morning.”

“And it was a doctor, you say?”

“A resident.”

Perreth pulled out a pad and pen. “And this resident, did he give a name?”

“Charles Rowe.”

He made another note. “When did you first notice the van?”

“I didn't really. I heard a door slam, and he started following me.”

“You're sure you didn't notice him before that?”

Bryce remembered the van that had pulled out of its parking space right after Sylvie climbed aboard the bus. “Why?”

Perreth didn't spare a glance his way. Instead he focused on the door to the emergency room.

Bryce followed his gaze. A nurse emerged from the swinging door and peered at them. “Bryce Walker?”

There wasn't a chance he was letting Perreth get
away without telling him what was going on. Besides, he wasn't sure he even needed a doctor. He'd only come to the ER to convince Sylvie to get checked out. A concussion could be serious, but bruises he could handle. “Take Sylvie.”

Sylvie cast him a dour look, as if she didn't appreciate being called away any more than he did.

The nurse looked down at her clipboard. “Sylvie Hayes?”

Sylvie reluctantly lifted herself out of the chair. With one last pointed glance in Bryce's direction, she hobbled to the nurse's side and disappeared through the swinging doors.

Bryce turned back to Perreth. “The van followed Sylvie from the hotel. At least I'm pretty sure it was the same van.”

“How do you know that?”

“I was there. Watching out for her.”

Perreth frowned. “If you were there, why did you let her go off alone?”

He knew what the detective was thinking, that he'd stayed with Sylvie last night. As much as he wanted to get all self-righteously offended, he couldn't blame Perreth. If he'd had his way last night, he would have stayed.

He rubbed his forehead, trying to forget the torn look in Sylvie's eyes when he'd kissed her, when she'd pushed him away. He shouldn't have done it. The
problem was, even knowing it was a mistake, he still wanted to kiss her again. “I wasn't staying with her.”

“You were just wandering the hotel?”

Did the detective want him to paint a picture? A pitiful picture of him spending the night in a seating area down the hall from Sylvie's room? Not able to leave her alone, yet certainly not able to stay.

He blew a frustrated breath through tight lips. He had enough of answering Perreth's questions. He needed to ask a few of his own. “Why were you so interested in the call Sylvie got from the resident?”

“I'm just covering all the bases.”

“Right. And that's why you wrote down his name?”

Perreth gave him his trademark bored look and didn't answer.

“I suppose I could ask about the guy around the ICU.”

“Fine. There is no resident named Rowe caring for Reed McCaskey.”

“What do you mean?”

Perreth looked at him as if he were a bit slow on the uptake. “Exactly what I said. There is no Charles Rowe. McCaskey is under protection. Not everyone in a white coat can just waltz in to examine him.”

“Is McCaskey awake?”

Perreth didn't answer, but he didn't have to. Bryce could tell from the look on his face Reed hadn't
regained consciousness. And it was only a short hop, skip and jump to figure out what that meant. “So you
are
going to give Sylvie police protection, right? Now that you know this guy lured her out of the hotel to kidnap her?”

“I'll see what I can do, but I can't give guarantees.”

“Can't give guarantees? Even in this situation? You can't be serious.”

He shrugged. “The city budget is serious. We're seriously shorthanded. I said I'll see what I can do.”

“What more reason do you need? Her dead body?”

“Listen, if she agrees to stay in her hotel, I can send a uniform over to check on her every couple of hours. But that's as much as I can promise.”

“Every couple of
hours?
What's to keep this guy from attacking her between visits?”

He shrugged. “You seem to be around her a lot.”