Christmas Getaway (14 page)

Marion Lennox

With thanks to Alexandra Patrikios for her assistance in sorting our muddle and coming up with something spectacular.

H
E DIDN'T DO
Christmas, and he sure as hell didn't do weddings. But here he was, planning Christmas as he sat in on a wedding straight out of a schmaltzy fairy tale.

The Southfork Texas Wedding Chapel looked like a vast, shiny meringue with lace on top. It was every bit of kitsch you'd ever want to see, and then some.

Aaagh.

But he had to be here.

Charlie, his eight-year-old nephew, had met him with his grandparents at the airport yesterday and had soon found a way to give him the facts. “Mr. O'Bannion is…
was
Dad's cousin and he's getting married tomorrow to Molly. Grandma and Great-Aunt Letitia say it'll cheer us up to be ring bearer and flower girls. But it won't. Molly's nice but even
she
thinks the dresses and stuff are silly. Lily might stop crying if you come.”

It was emotional blackmail at its finest. Charlie, eight, Lily, five, and Zoe, three, had lost their parents in a car crash six weeks back. Joe Cartland was their only uncle—their nearest relative apart from their not very paternal grandparents. He lived in Australia. They lived in the U.S. He hardly saw them.

He'd assumed their grandparents would take over. But Charlie had something to say about that.

“Grandma hates us being in the house. She says we get on
her nerves. Grandpa says if Zoe cries one more time, he'll take his belt to her.”

So he'd come. He was here for Christmas.

When had he last celebrated Christmas?

Joe worked for Zanapag Aeronautics and his role in crash analysis meant he could be called on at a moment's notice. Christmas was therefore easy to avoid. He either spent it working, or in his bachelor pad overlooking Sydney Harbour. Alone. Which was the way he liked it. He and his kid sister had been taught early that family stuff like Christmas was for everyone else.

Only Erica hadn't learned. She'd fallen for a scumbag of a… Well, he shouldn't think ill of the dead, but thinking about his brother-in-law still made Joe crazy enough to want to haul him out of the grave and slug him.

Joe's sister met her husband when she was eighteen. Vincent was rich, arrogant and masterful, and Erica, who'd drifted without purpose since their parents died, thought he was hot. She also loved the money. But Joe thought Vincent's wealth was suspicious. His explanations for his income were always vague and unsubstantiated. He described himself as a financial planner, but he never seemed to work.

And now… Maybe Joe's suspicions were right, for Vincent and Erica were dead and the police were saying it was no normal accident. Something was deeply wrong. Drugs? Some sort of money laundering? Who knew?

But at least the kids were safe, left with a babysitter that fateful night. They'd been living with Vincent's parents since the crash.

And the three of them were currently magnificently attired in purple tulle and purple velvet. Bridal gear.

They were not happy.

This ceremony was taking forever to start. Joe glanced along the aisle, expecting to see Connor O'Bannion waiting for his bride.

O'Bannion wasn't there. Odd. The rest of the groomsmen were present, though, glancing at their watches and looking nervous.

Connor's mother, the ghastly Letitia, the kids' great-aunt, looked as if she was about to have hysterics.

He perked up. He was stuck with two weddings before Christmas, this one and his foster sister Ellie's. He hated weddings, but hey, if he had to be here it might as well be interesting. Groom jilts bride…

Whoever this Molly was, she'd be best out of it. Mind, the kids would be disappointed.

The kids were outside, waiting for the bride.

Maybe he ought to check.

 

M
OLLY
B
ROADBENT
stepped out of the gleaming white Rolls-Royce. Six purple bridesmaids surged forward, ready to twitter over her veil and adjust her train. Two purple flower girls and one purple ring bearer were looking really uncomfortable in the background. Hot, itchy and, even at their age, aware they looked ludicrous.

She tried not to wince. Wincing was a bad look for a bride, but it was easy to do when her bridesmaids looked like over-ripe grapes. Each one was encased in a tightly waisted, Southern belle dress—hoops, flounces, velvet and bows—and their hair had been teased, primped and sprayed into artificial awfulness.

At least Molly had Jean—her best friend from college and maid of honor—to support her. She caught Jean's gaze and felt a huge surge of guilt for embroiling her friend in this. The
other women were Connor's relations, women Molly's future mother-in-law insisted would be deeply offended if they weren't part of the wedding party.

“A Christmas wedding,” Letitia had said in deep satisfaction when Molly and Connor had broken the news of their engagement. “Okay, ten days before Christmas, but it still counts. Now I know you don't have your own mama anymore, my dear,” she'd said to Molly, “so I'll do it all. Oh, I see it all….”

Bemused, Molly let her have her way. What did it matter?

In truth, Molly could see little point to this wedding. She and Connor had been together for three years now—or almost together. As together as she ever wanted to get in a relationship.

Molly was a corporate lawyer. Connor was a cop with the Boston P.D., but he'd inherited money and his sideline was financial investment. He was doing very well; so well the cost of this wedding was waved away with an airy nonchalance.

“Whatever it takes, Mom. We'll do it in style.”

Why were they doing it at all?

It had been Connor's idea. “Honey, if I'm going to move up in the force then I need to be married. I know you like your independence but you could still have it. We don't want kids. Neither of us want clinging vines for partners. But I do need a wife.”

It wasn't fair not to agree, Molly had decided. Connor suited her very well. He was smart and funny. He was her partner when she needed a partner, he was attentive and solicitous and he knew instinctively to melt away when she needed personal space.

Molly had already made partner at her Boston law firm. Marriage wasn't a necessity for her. Years of spite and hurt between her parents—she'd buried her head under a pillow as a little girl to block out the sounds of hate—had put her off the institution for life. But Connor was insistent.

“Look, we can always get divorced afterwards,” he'd said, and he hadn't been joking. “Molly, if I can't marry you…”

He'd left the sentence unfinished but she knew what he meant. He'd have to find someone else. And he did suit her.

Molly had spent a week thinking about it. She'd used Connor, as much as he'd used her. As a corporate lawyer on her way up, having a partner in her life made her seem reliable and respectable.

Already a senior detective, Connor truly believed marriage would help him advance even further. Maybe it wasn't a huge ask. And if he didn't mean what he said about maintaining her independence, well, yeah, a divorce was no drama. Her parents had surely shown her that.

And a little part of her had even thought maybe, just maybe, taking this next step might work. Despite her parents' example, other marriages didn't fail and she'd been lonely for so long…

So she'd agreed and then the ghastly Letitia had stepped in, decreeing they have their wedding in Connor's hometown of Dallas. And now she was surrounded by grapes.

“We have to wait a bit,” Jean whispered as she smoothed the veil around her friend's shoulders. “The groom's not here yet.”

“Connor's not here?” Molly almost fell over with shock. Under Letitia's direction this event had been choreographed to the last nanosecond. Right now Connor and his six groomsmen should be standing at the other end of the aisle, waiting for her grand entrance.

She was the requisite ten minutes late. For Connor not to be here…

“Maybe he's got cold feet,” one of the other bridesmaids said, and gave a nervous titter.

“You want to drive round the block a couple of times and come back?” It was Sam, Molly's brother. He was standing
on the far side of the car, looking doubtful. In truth Sam had looked doubtful since she'd told him she was getting married. He and Molly saw very little of each other—Sam was almost ten years older than she was and he was a free spirit, but they held each other in deep affection. He'd met Connor a few times before this and had been noncommittal, but last night…

“These friends of Connor… Moll, are you sure you know what you're getting into?”

“They're police officers. What could possibly be wrong?”

“They're not the sort of cops I know.”

“What are you telling me?” It had been straight after the wedding rehearsal. She'd been preparing to go on to the formal prewedding dinner so there'd been little time to talk, but he'd been deeply uneasy.

“Molly, these guys…the groomsmen… Something's not right.”

“Trouble,” she said, and sighed. “You look for it everywhere. That's because you're a lawman yourself, these guys are in suits, they're all wearing hair oil and I'm your baby sister. Relax.”

“They're nervous and I don't know why. Molly, I don't like it.”

She didn't need this. She was nervous enough without it. “So Letitia's made this a bigger production than
Ben Hur,
” she snapped. “I'm nervous, too. Sam, stop it.” She'd taken a couple of deep breaths, calmed down and given him a hug. “I've been dating Connor for years. What could possibly be wrong?”

But now… She looked over at her brother and she saw the doubts of the night before cementing in his gaze.

Oh, for heaven's sake. If she got back into the car, Sam
would have her whisked to the nearest airport and somewhere far away. She'd decided to do this. Connor was late. So what?

“I'll wait on the porch,” she said, and picked up the weight of the truly appalling gown Letitia had persuaded her to buy and headed up the path.

“You can't come in.” Letitia was standing at the door to the chapel, barring the way. She had on the most extraordinary dress—floor-length, brilliant pink with burgundy sequins and exposing far too much bosom.

She looked like she was about to weep.

Despite her dislike of the woman Molly glanced sharply at her in concern. For this wedding to go awry…how could Letitia bear it?

But then Letitia was shoved aside, with such force that she almost fell. Connor's best man—Tommy Morrissey, a fellow cop—was pushing the door wide from behind her. He was barking orders into his cell phone and his other hand was on his hip.

“What's happening?” Molly demanded, but Tommy was looking past her.

Molly turned, expecting to see a car carrying her bridegroom. From where she stood on the steps she had a view back down the road, the way they'd come.

It wasn't Connor. There were three—no, four—squad cars getting closer. Police.

She turned back to Tommy, stunned. And what she saw stunned her further. The hand that had been on his hip was now holding a gun. It was small, blue-black and dreadful, held with deadly menace.

“Where's…where's Connor?” she whispered, appalled.

“He's done the dirty on us,” Tommy snapped. “Hell…if he's told the cops… We have to get out of here.”

He raised his gun hand.

She was hit hard from behind.

 

O
NE MINUTE SHE
was standing there, staring dumbly at Tommy. The next she was in the middle of the rosebushes in the side garden. She was pinned down by a deadweight. Dead? No. It moved.

Someone was lying on top of her!

“Shut up and keep still,” a voice hissed into her ear as she tried frantically to push herself up.

“Are you kidding? Get off me!”

“Struggle and I'll hit you,” the voice ordered. “Stay down.”

“But…”

Her words were cut off as something zinged above their heads, so close she felt it in her hair. It smashed into the masonry wall, sending a spurt of dried mortar over them.

What the…

Gunshots?

This was crazy. What were people doing shooting…
at her wedding?

Stupidly, instinctively, she shoved upward again. Two strong hands grabbed her shoulders and she was pushed firmer down into the roses.

They were carpet roses, she thought dumbly. No thorns. Thankfully or she'd be a pincushion by now. As it was there were twigs sticking into her all over.

She was a bride. On her wedding day. What was she doing lying in a rose bed?

With a man on top of her.

He wasn't even wearing a suit. That was a crazy thought, but it was the only one she could think of right now. It was a black leather jacket, fitted, smooth.

What was this creep doing wearing leather to
her
wedding?

“Get—get off me!” she stammered again. “Get off!”

The shots seemed to have ceased. The guy holding her down rolled over so they were side by side, allowing her to see him.

It was a leather jacket. Classy. He had the bluest of blue eyes she'd ever seen. His burned-red hair was cropped short. His face was tanned, weathered. He was thirtyish? Maybe a bit older? A bit life-worn.

What was she doing, making a list of his features? She was staring dumbly at him, but couldn't think where else to look.

“Are you okay?” he demanded, and she blinked and forced her fuddled mind to focus.

“Of—of course I'm okay. Except where you pushed…”

“Did they hit you? They were shooting.”

“Who was shooting?”

“Just answer the question,” he snapped. “You're not hurt?”

“No, but these…”

“I have to go,” he said urgently. “I have to find the kids. Stay down until the cops give you permission to move.” And for good measure he put his hand on the top of her head and shoved her farther down into the rosebushes.