Safe Passage (4 page)

Scott closed the paper, folded it, watched the action across the street. Two men in suits climbed out of a red convertible parked directly in front of the church. Scott studied them, but he couldn’t see the groom.

Then a Harley, identical to Skye’s, rumbled into one of the parking spaces behind the convertible. Another man in a suit. He carried his helmet under one arm, entered the church.

The activity seemed to die down a little. Scott glanced at his watch. It was almost six-thirty now. By his count there were at least forty wedding guests already waiting inside the church for the bridal party to arrive.

Then he saw it.

A sleek, white limousine cruised down the street, pulled to a stop in front of the chapel. It had no adornment. No silly paper flowers. No ribbons. For some reason, Scott thought this was appropriate and in keeping with the direct and no-nonsense nature of the woman he’d recently met.

A photographer snapped the scene as the driver’s door opened. An elderly gentleman stepped out, dapper in a crisp gray suit. Scott recognized him from the general store. The man walked around the vehicle to open the passenger door. A slim blonde stepped out, the same one Scott had seen at Skye’s house this morning. A long dress the dark blue of midnight skimmed the curves of her body. It was draped in a way that reminded Scott of ancient Greece. She was followed by a miniature version, maybe six years old, with wild fair curls. The little flower girl clung to a simple basket of petals.

Then came the bride.

Dr. Skye Van Rijn stepped out of the bridal vehicle and took the old man’s arm.

And she clean stole Scott’s breath.

She was an ancient Greek goddess. An Aphrodite. A high priestess in virginal white. She stood tall, elegant, strong, the simple yet exquisite fall of her dress in the style of old Athens. Her rich dark hair was loosely piled upon her head, held with a tiny silvery-white wreath of leaves. Loose, smoky tendrils curled down, teasing her shoulders. Her arms were bare. Behind her the small stone chapel was silhouetted against the evening sea and a spring sky turning pale violet as the faraway sun set. Scott could think only of white doves and peace offerings and the gods of Mount Olympus. The bug lady looked like she should be marrying Zeus, for Christ’s sake. Not some guy called Jozsef. The woman was a dream. Brains. Beauty…

And a suspect.

Keep that in your confounded brain, Agent.

But he couldn’t tear his eyes from Skye as the blond woman helped her with the back of her dress. He watched as she climbed the stairs, passed through the chapel doors.

He watched the double doors swing shut behind her. And he imagined her walking down the aisle. “Lucky bastard,” he muttered, resting his head against the truck window.

Honey thumped her tail.

“Not you, you hairy mutt.” Scott eased his aching leg into a more comfortable position and closed his eyes. He took himself back. Back to his own wedding all those years ago. In his mind he saw Leni walking down the aisle. Toward him. A spectral, shimmering vision of white. But he couldn’t see her properly. He strained to make out her face, her features, to call out to her. But she was gone. In a searing flash of white flame. His eyes snapped open. His hand clenched on the door handle. Perspiration pricked along his brow.

He was dwelling again where he feared to tread. This mission was going to drive him clear over the edge. The sooner he unearthed the bug lady’s secret, the better. Then he was outta here. And out of the damn country. He had to get himself back into the field. The international one. Not this domestic crap.

“You look beautiful, Skye. What made you go for the Greek theme?” Charly fidgeted with the train of Skye’s dress for the umpteenth time.

Skye sighed, exasperated. “I’ve told you a hundred times. I just like it. Quit trying to distract me.” They’d been waiting in the little antechamber way too long. The organist was going through her repertoire yet again.

Charly’s little niece, Jennifer, sat patiently on a stiff wooden chair, swinging legs that didn’t reach the ground, wilting faster than her basket of petals.

Mike Henderson, the owner of the Haven General Store, a long-time local and dear acquaintance of Skye’s who’d been more than delighted when asked to give her away, opened the door a crack, peeked into the chapel. “He’s still not here.”

“What’s keeping him?” Charly asked.

“Damned if I know,” Skye snapped. She thought of Jozsef. Of his recent behavior. His hesitation when she asked questions. His unusual appearances at the lab. The increasing frequency of his trips abroad. His growing self-indulgence. Her own insecurities. Her incomprehensible, primal feelings for her new neighbor. And suddenly Skye couldn’t take any more. Anxiety, the likes of which she hadn’t felt in a decade, swooped down on her, clawed at her heart.

The urge to run swamped her.

She took a deep breath, stepped forward. With both hands, she threw open the antechamber doors, glared at the rows of pews filled with her close acquaintances. Not friends. Acquaintances. Colleagues. Dear people. But not family.

Not friends.

Everyone turned to stare at her.

She read shock, pity, on their faces. Skye took one tentative step into the chapel. The organist broke into the strains of the wedding march.

Here comes the bride.

Skye took another step, then another and another. The organ music sped up to match her increasing pace.

All dressed in white.

Skye lifted her dress up about her knees, stormed down the aisle, heart pounding, vaguely aware of Charly running after her.

A murmur rippled through the guests like storm wind through a forest of trees. Some jumped to their feet as Skye marched past them. The crazy organist madly beat at the wedding march tune, trying to match Skye’s pace. She finally gave up in a discordant thrash of keys as Skye reached Jozsef’s best man, who stood patiently near the altar.

Silence now hung thick, anticipatory, under the dark curved beams, the stained glass.

“Where is he?”

“Skye, I’m sorry, I don’t know. We tried calling his home, his cell—”

“For chrissake, you’re the best man, Peter. Isn’t your job to see that the groom gets to the damn church on time?”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Forget it. I made a mistake. Give me the keys.” She held out her hand. It trembled violently.

“They’re my bike keys.”

She dropped her voice to a harsh whisper. “You gonna humiliate me further or are you going to give me those keys?”

Peter fumbled in his pocket, extracted the keys. “Skye, I’m pleading with you. Let’s take the limo. You’re in no state—”

“You expect me to leave in the
bridal vehicle?
You’re nuts. Just give them to me.”

Peter reluctantly held them out. She snatched them.

Charly tried to take her arm. “Skye, please—”

She shrugged her off, hoisted her dress up with one hand and turned to face the small crowd. “That’s it, folks. Party’s over. Thanks for coming. Maybe next time.”

But there’d never be a next time, another wedding, not as long as she lived.

Skye stormed down the aisle, heading for the massive arched chapel doors, a chorus of shocked murmurs flowing in her wake.

The chapel doors flung open. Scott jerked to attention.

He realized with a shock that he’d dozed off.

He squinted, trying to make sense of the vision in front of him.

The Greek goddess stormed out of the church, down the stone stairs, dress hiked up about her knees. He rubbed his fist in his eyes. Maybe he was still asleep.

He watched in numb fascination as the bride lifted her dress, straddled the motorbike and kicked it viciously to life.

Tires screeched as she pulled out of the parking space and smoked down the road, hair, ribbons of white fabric fighting in the wind behind her.

“Oh, sweet Mother Mary.” He snapped into action, fired the ignition.

“Buckle up, Honey. Looks like we got us a runaway bride.”

Chapter 4

S
cott floored the gas, swerved out onto the coastal highway in hot pursuit of the bride bent low on the Harley. Honey skidded across the seat, bashed against the passenger door as the truck hugged a corner.

“Sorry, bud. Hang ten.”

The road grew narrow, climbed, hugged cliffs that dropped sheer to the ocean. Skye veered to the right, following the curve of the twisting tar ribbon.

His hands tensed around the wheel.

She leaned low into the bend, naked knee almost skimming the tarmac. Scott winced, prayed her long dress wouldn’t catch on anything. If she wiped out at this speed, she’d be grated to shreds. And that laurel garland on her wind-whipped tresses was nowhere near a helmet.

But by God, the woman could ride. She looked as though she’d been born with a machine between her legs. She was one with it. And it looked as if nothing else but speed mattered to her right now. Speed and escape.

From what?

He matched her pace.

She veered sharply off onto a dirt track.

He rammed on the brakes, skidding sideways onto the shoulder.

He could see a plume of dust as she followed a rough switchback down to the sea.

“Hold on to your teeth, Honey!” Scott gunned the gas, kicked up dirt, fishtailed back onto tar and swerved onto the rutted track.

It was pocked with small craters, rock. He squinted into the dust. He’d have to slow down if he was going to make it down alive. Damn, he’d lost sight of her.

By the time he reached the isolated cove at the base of the dirt track, the bike was propped on its stand alongside a gnarled arbutus tree.

Scott opened his truck door and stepped out into a cloud of settling dust. Honey followed, staying close at his feet. She seemed to sense this was no time for play. “Where is she, girl?” he whispered to the dog at his side. Then he saw her in the dim evening light, across the white sand of the cove near a rock at the water’s edge.

She was frantically tugging at her clothes, shedding layers as though she was yanking and discarding parts of her life. She tore at the garland in her hair, tossed it to the sea. Wild wind-knotted curls fell loose below her shoulders.

Scott swallowed.

Her back was to him. She had nothing on now, save for a scrap of lace cut high away from the graceful curve of her buttocks. And she wore a white bra, the strap thin across the olive skin of her back.

“Sweet Mother Mary,” he whispered to no one in particular. Then he saw the lacy wedding garter around the top of her lean thigh.

What happened, Doctor? What happened to your wedding?

He watched, immobile, as she rubbed her hands through her hair, shook it free. Then she stepped into the water. Even from this distance, he could see the shiver that ran through her body. Then she took another step.

And another.

And she didn’t stop until she was waist deep. Scott watched as she dived, sleek, into the steel-gray water. He held his breath as the calm ocean swallowed her, leaving nothing but ripples where she’d last stood.

Then he saw her head come up yards away. She struck out with a strong, smooth crawl. And she was going.

Going.

Straight out to sea…

Scott came to his senses in that instant.

The woman was suicidal.

She had no intention of coming back.

He started to run down to the water, buckled in pain. He turned back, hobbled to the truck, grabbed his cane. He might not be able to run with his crippled leg, but by God, he could swim. He knew once he hit the water he’d get to her in no time.

But when he looked again, he saw her dark head over the gentle swells. And he saw that she had turned and was swimming back to shore.

The relief was overwhelming. He stopped, held back, retreated to his earlier vantage point under cover of the orange-skinned arbutus, heart beating wildly.

He gave her the space she seemed to need. But still he watched. He could leave. But he told himself it was for her own safety.

He told himself this was his assignment.

These were his orders.

To watch the doctor.

But never, not once in the course of his undercover work, had he ever felt so much like a voyeur. He was looking into some very naked, private and anguished moment in this exquisitely beautiful woman’s life. He felt both privileged and dirty. As foul and titillated as a damn Peeping Tom.

He wiped the back of his hand hard across his mouth, realized his heart was still hammering in his chest. He sucked down a deep breath of salted sea air, strained for calm. She was emerging from the water, a spectral vision in the dusk. He could see now how her bra was cut low against the firm swell of her breasts. Water shimmered down her flat belly. The garter was gone. Left to the sea. Her hair was slick as a seal’s. She ran her hands up over her face and over her head. Her chin was held high and she was breathing the night air in deep. He could see her chest rise and fall from the exertion of her swim, her ride…whatever had made her flee.

She sat on the rock, upon the remains of her wedding gown, facing the ocean, her back to him.

She sat like that for a long time, until it got dark. There was pale light from a fat gibbous moon. It shimmered like silver sovereigns scattered in a path over the bay. Scott could see Skye’s silhouette against the water. Honey made a plaintive little noise at his side. It was getting cold. Still the doctor sat, damp, on her rock, wearing nothing but her underwear.

Scott crouched next to Honey, spoke softly in her ear. “Wait for me in the truck, pooch. I think the lady out there needs some help.” Either that or she was going to get pneumonia.

Scott let Honey back into the truck, grabbed his old brown leather jacket, made his way slowly over the sand of the cove. She didn’t seem to hear him approach. She was shivering, holding her hands tight over her knees.

“Skye,” he whispered behind her. A jolt cracked through her body at the sound of her name. But she didn’t move otherwise.

“It’s okay, Skye.” He carefully positioned his jacket over her shoulders, lifting her wet hair away from her back. A small noise escaped from somewhere deep in her throat at his touch. It was so primal, so basic a sound of need, it sliced clean through to his core.

“Skye, I’m going to take you home. You need to get dry. Warm.”

She turned then to face him.

He sucked in his breath.

Her face was pale as porcelain in the moonlight. Her eyes dark and big. Mascara traced sooty trails of tears and saltwaterdown her cheeks.

She looked like a broken doll.

“Oh, Skye…” He didn’t plan it, just did it. Gathered her into his arms. It was the right thing to do. The only thing. And he held her like that, under the moon, wondering what in hell he’d gotten himself into.

“Skye, I’d carry you if I could, but I can’t, with this bloody leg. Lean on me and I’ll lean on my crutch and we’ll both get there. Together.”

She did as he asked. In silence.

Honey’s face was eager in the truck as she saw them approach. Scott helped Skye into the passenger seat. She climbed in, grasped on to Honey as if for warmth, for tactile comfort.

“Is that your bike?”

She shook her head.

“Okay. So we’ll leave it here. Is there someone I can call to come and fetch it?”

She nodded.

“Fine. I’ll call whoever it is when we get home.”

Scott pulled into Skye’s driveway, heater still cranked.

“No!”

It was the first time she’d spoken since the beach.

“Not here. Not my house…please.”

He looked at her. She was still shivering under his leather jacket, arms still wrapped around Honey. “Where?”

“Anywhere but here.” She looked away, out the dark window. “The wedding stuff. The caterer’s stuff…it’s all in there. In my house.”

“I see. Is there anywhere else, anyone you want to stay with?”

She shook her head.

Scott backed slowly out of Skye’s driveway, turned down his. He couldn’t think of another plan. The woman was in shock. And if she didn’t get some clothes on, her core temperature up soon, she’d be dealing with hypothermia, as well. If she wasn’t already.

Scott ran a hot bath, then fished around in his closet for something for her to wear. It all looked foreign to him. Rex had provided him with a “writer’s” wardrobe. Scott found a pair of sweatpants, a T-shirt and a fleece sweatshirt. She would swim in them, but they’d keep her warm.

While she bathed, he built a fire. He heated soup and poured a large brandy. This he pushed into her hands when she walked into his living room.

“Here. Want some soup?”

She looked deep into his eyes, as if seeing him for the first time. “Scott, thank you. I—I don’t know what to say…”

“It’s okay. Come, sit here by the fire.” He pulled the sofa up close to the warmth of the flames. She sat. Her hair hung in damp, dark waves, her silver eyes were wide, startling against her impossibly thick dark lashes and pale skin.

She took a deep sip of the brandy, swallowed, coughed, eyes watering. Honey settled at her feet, curled into a ball. Scott watched the blush of color creep back under those high cheekbones, into that lush mouth.

He tore his focus from her lips, seated himself in the chair on the opposite end of the hearth. “What happened? Why’d you run?”

She didn’t look at him, just stared into the flickering flames, shaking her head.

“Skye?” he said softly.

Her eyes looked slowly up into his. He swallowed sharply. What he saw there was vulnerable, raw. She’d dropped the veil. She was all naked emotion as she looked at him. It threw him completely.

“He…he didn’t show.” Her voice was thick. “Jozsef left me at the altar.” Moisture pooled along the bottom rims of her eyes, making them glimmer like quicksilver in the fire-light. It spilled over onto her cheeks into shimmering trails.

Something snagged in his chest. He took a shallow breath, came quickly over to her side, put his arms tentatively around her. “It’s okay, Skye. Take it easy. You don’t have to talk now.” He lifted a hand, hesitated, then let it gently stroke her dark hair. His breath caught in a ball. It was soft. So soft under his palm.

“I—I should’ve seen the signs…” A soft sob jerked through her body. Tears spilled softly over her face.

“Shh.” He pulled her close, enveloped her in his arms. Her scent surrounded him, a clean freshness mingled with the sophisticated scent of brandy and the faint saline of seawater. He held her a little tighter, stealing her fragrance with a flare of his nostrils.

She relaxed slightly, rested her dark head against his chest. It was a movement so innocent, so trusting. He couldn’t seem to breathe normally. He allowed his cheek to brush softly against her head, to feel the sensation of her hair on his face.

And something swelled painfully inside him, brought a sharp prick of emotion to his eyes. He hadn’t held a woman like this in a long time. Not since his wife.

His jaw tensed.

Sure he’d held women in that time—but not like this. Not like it mattered.

He’d fought hard against this very feeling, this aching sense of vulnerability. He’d gotten himself out of civilization. He’d left home, family, friends—anyone who reminded him. He’d blocked it all out by fighting. Fighting against bio crime, terrorists, the world, himself, his guilt…against finding himself in a moment like this.

His heart beat a wildly increasing pace against his ribs.

And now he was here.

He felt afraid—of himself, of feeling. But the instinct was overpowering. He gave in to it furtively. He closed his eyes, allowed the sensation of her body, warm against his, to sink into him, through him. He nestled his nose softly against the top of her head, drank in the silkiness of her thick dark hair, of the little breaths that shuddered intermittently through her body as she fell asleep in his arms. He held her, listening to the pop and crack of flames in the hearth, to the sounds of the night outside.

He didn’t want to think of anything, only of how it felt to hold a woman in his arms. A woman who needed him.

Honey gave a little whimper. Scott’s eyes flickered open. The dog watched him with her liquid brown pools.

God, he’d fallen asleep with her. The flames were faint glowing embers, the cool night air creeping in as their quavering watch against the cold dwindled.

Shocked, Scott edged out from under Skye’s weight, careful not to wake her.

She murmured.

“Shh. Sleep,” he whispered.

She stirred. “The…the bike, Peter Cunningham’s bike—”

“Shh. Not to worry. I’ll call him. Get some rest. I’ll get you a blanket.”

She nodded, snuggled deeper into the sofa.

Scott covered her with a blanket, stoked the fire, flicked the living room lights off, leaving only the shimmying copper flames and dancing shadows on the walls. He stared down at her. She looked like something unreal. So exotic, so striking…yet fragile, vulnerable.

How, wondered Scott, could anyone in their right mind ditch a woman like Skye Van Rijn? How could a man leave a woman like this at the altar?

Then with a rude jolt, he remembered his mission. He dragged his hand hard through his hair, reached for his cane, went to look for the phone book.

He called Peter Cunningham from the kitchen.

“Thank God she’s all right.”

“Yeah. Your bike’s fine, too.” Scott told him where he could pick it up.

“
Who
did you say you were?”

“Scott McIntyre, her neighbor…a…a friend.”

“You weren’t at the church?”

“I was late. Caught her bolting, so I followed her.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. “The cops are out looking for her.”

“She’s okay, Peter. She’s sleeping, but I can wake her if you want…or you’re welcome to come ’round. Send the cops, whatever.”

Peter hesitated. “I’ll get Charly to come ’round. I think she’d prefer that.”

“Fine. Any idea what happened to her fiancé?”

Peter cleared his throat. “After the church, when I got home, I checked my voice mail. There was a message from Jozsef. He’s gone.”