Swept Away (49 page)

Clark Spencer then came walking from the same direction the bridesmaids had, all decked out
in black and white, looking like the perfect father of the bride. Brock hated him in that moment
as he never had before. For ripping him away from his grandfather ten years ago. For cajoling
Kat into this marriage. For endangering his family—particularly her—by storing smuggled
goods on that island.

But then a vision in white drew his gaze across the vestibule.

Damn, she looked like an angel floating across the floor, and the mere sight of her stole his
breath.

The angel looked up, and their eyes met.

Chapter Eighteen

For a split second, Brock imagined taking her hand and running from the church, Dustin Hoffman style in The Graduate.

But as quickly as the image passed through his head, Kat switched her gaze to her dad, they
exchanged warm smiles, and Clark said, “Ready, sweetheart?”

She gave a slight but sure nod, then gently hooked her arm through her father’s. Brock’s blood
ran cold as he watched his kitten walk up the aisle toward another man.

He moved up to the door, unworried about being seen now. Every eye in the place focused on Katrina Spencer, princess and soon-to-be high-society wife. A lump rose to his throat as the
profound wrongness of this union washed over him.

For the first real time, he thought about stopping the wedding. About stepping through the door
and speaking up when the minister asked if anyone had any reason to object.

Could he really do that? And was he going to tell them why he objected, what Kat had done
with him on the island? The things she’d shared about her feelings for Ian?

Kat would hate him forever. But maybe it would be worth it.

Brock stood watching, waiting. He wasn’t the sort of guy who stuck his nose into other
people’s business, but he thought he was about to become one. He tried to plan his words—
enough to stop this travesty, but as little as possible that would hurt Kat.

Hell, what was he thinking? No matter how he said it, she’d be severely wounded. So maybe
he should just spout out the brutal truth. She doesn’t love him. She just spent three days
making wild passionate love to me. She’s only marrying him to bail her father out of financial
trouble, and because I wasn’t willing to commit.

But by the time he had it worked out in his head, he realized that they must have cut that part of
the ceremony—since he never had a chance to say anything before the minister asked, “Katrina
Spencer, do you take Ian Zeller to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Kat stared at Ian’s chest as the minister went on with, “To have and to hold, to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, in good times and bad, from this day forward, so help you
God?”

So help her God. Why had she never really heard that part before? She might have been rolling
her eyes at God out on the island when Brock showed up, being dangled before her like a bit of
cheese to a hungry mouse—but she actually held God in high reverence.

And it suddenly hit her, hard, that here she stood, in a church, about to marry a man she knew she didn’t feel the right way for. She could try to love and cherish him, but could she promise?

And somewhere Brock was watching. She could feel him, still here. When she’d spotted him
out in the foyer, her heart had nearly burst in her chest. With love. And hurt. And strange hope
—because why had he come?

But that didn’t really matter, because he hadn’t dropped to his knees, declared his undying love for her, and begged her to come away with him—and that’s what she wanted, demanded, from a man.

The kind of love and cherishing the minister was asking of her right now.
The kind she couldn’t give Ian.

Because it just wasn’t in her heart, no matter how much she might wish it was.
The minister cleared his throat; she’d taken too long to answer.

God, what the hell was she even doing here?

“No,” she said meekly.

“What?” the minister and Ian both spat in unison.

Tears threatened, making her eyes burn, clogging her throat. “No,” she managed again anyway.
“I can’t. I’m so sorry.”

With that, she turned, lifted the skirt of her dress slightly, and ran for all she was worth back
down the aisle. She heard the rustling of the fabric with each frantic stride, the low gasp that
echoed from the crowd, and the stunned silence that followed.

Sprinting through the foyer, she looked for Brock despite herself, and tried not to be crushed
when he wasn’t there. Still, her heart plummeted.

She burst through the front doors out into the blistering hot sun. Still no Brock, just pristine
palms and lines of shiny cars, but she wasn’t really looking for him anymore so much as seeking escape. Damn it, why hadn’t she gotten married at night? She yearned for some
darkness to blend in to. And cool air—some cooler air would be welcome at the moment since
she feared she might soon pass out.

Directly before her at the end of the walk sat an elegant white horse and carriage —a startled
driver in a top hat looked up from his cigarette, clearly surprised to see the bride quite so soon,
and by herself. Where was a getaway car when you needed one?

And then, as if by magic, an iridescent jade green Porsche convertible pulled to a stop just
beyond the carriage.

“Kitten. Get in.”

She sucked in her breath at the sight of Brock behind a pair of Ray-Bans in a killer ride. She absently yanked the veil off her head, letting it flutter away behind her as she hurried around a
smelly white horse and wide-eyed driver to leap into Brock’s passenger seat.

As the car squealed away, she looked up to see Nina and her mother and father all scurrying
out onto the front walk. Nina was smiling.

And for a few short seconds, her world was perfect. Her own personal Prince Charming had rescued her, and now they raced away from imminent disaster with the wind in their hair and the sun on their faces.

“Where the hell did you get this car?” An odd question at the moment, but it was an impressive vehicle—and not one she’d have imagined the average FBI guy could afford.

“Belonged to a drug dealer I brought down a few years ago. Bought it at a police auction.”
She nodded. “Nice.”

“Where do you want to go?” he asked as they wound through the well-manicured, water-lined neighborhood.

Where do you want to take me? She let out a sigh. “I don’t know. My place?”
“Tell me how to get there.”

She gave him directions and realized her heartbeat still hadn’t slowed from the moment she’d exited the church. She should probably be thinking about Ian, about all those people, about the colossal mess she’d left for her parents to clean up—but instead all her attention focused on the man to her left. Who now drove with the same single-minded purpose she’d witnessed on the
island when he got into work mode. And though a few days ago she would have phrased this
more delicately, this seemed no time to mince words. “You aren’t here to tell me you’ve changed your mind and want to take a shot at us being together, are you?”

Easing to a halt at a stop light, he turned to look at her, but she couldn’t see his eyes behind the
sunglasses. “I came to see if you’d really go through with it, and to stop it myself if I had to.”

She blinked. “For someone who planned to stop it, you let me get awfully damn close.”
He let out a long sigh. “You cut out the part asking if anybody objected.”
“It seemed prudent.”

“Well, it blew my plan to hell.”

“No backup plan, Mr. Secret Agent?”

“It was a last-minute idea—no time.”

As the light changed and the car vroomed forward, she said, “Answer my question.”

He didn’t pretend not to know which one. “Kitten, I’m just glad you made the right decision.
I’m proud as hell of you.”

But she didn’t need his pride, she needed his love. And she knew she wasn’t going to get it.
She really wasn’t sure why he’d bothered showing up at all. If he didn’t love her, didn’t want
her, what was the point? She stayed quiet, just wanting to get home, put on some comfy
clothes, and curl up with Vincent. How comforting to have someone in her life who couldn’t
ever ruin things by talking.

“Don’t be mad at me, honey.”

What do you care? She kept her gaze steeled on the road before them. “I’m not.” “I think you are.”

“Why does it even matter?” She hated how immature she must sound, but Brock had that effect
on her. He made her want what she wanted, now—the rest of the world be damned.

“You seem to be under the impression that I don’t care about you,” he replied pointedly, “but for your information, you couldn’t be more wrong. If I didn’t care, kitten, I wouldn’t have
shown up at that church, would I? And I wouldn’t have gotten you out of there.”

A lump rose to Kat’s throat as she looked at him long and hard, then quietly said, “Turn here,”
at the entrance to her apartment complex. She didn’t quite know how to respond, which was
just as well, since she doubted she could squeeze any more words from her clogged throat. He
was telling her he cared. Which, in one sense, helped. But if he cared so much, why was he
willing to walk right back out of her life and never see her again?

As she pointed toward her building and he parked, her chest tightened painfully. He might
claim he cared, but if he didn’t want her, why should she want him? And now she had to say
good-bye to him yet one more time. She was beginning to feel like that’s all her relationship with Brock was: a never-ending series of good-byes.

She couldn’t bear to look at his handsome face as she opened the door and said, “Thanks for
the ride.”

“I’m coming in.”

She looked over to see him getting out, too. “Why?”

He’d ditched his sunglasses, so she could see his eyes now. “Just want to make sure you get inside okay.”

“I’m a big girl, Brock.”

“Duly noted.”

“And it’s not like the police are chasing me or anything. My dad, maybe, but him I can handle.”

“Just the same, I’m taking you in,” he said, then rounded the car, grabbed her hand, and led her
toward the private-entry door as comfortably as if it were his place and not hers.

That’s when it hit her. “Damn, I don’t have my key—everything’s at the church.”

“Not a problem,” he replied, then reached in his back pocket, drew out a well-worn brown
leather wallet, then an American Express card. He slid it smoothly down the edge of the door
with one hand, gently turning the knob with the other, and the lock clicked open.