Lori Wilde - There Goes The Bride (5 page)

“I don’t want your approval.”

“Why not?” Skylar crossed her legs and the wheels of her skates left dirty marks on the sheets.

Delaney cringed. “Watch the linens, will you?”

“What? Scared you’ll become like me? Scared Mommy won’t love you anymore if you do?”

That’s exactly what she was scared of, but Delaney couldn’t tell her sister that. “I am going to wear this veil on my wedding day. Wait and see.”

“Sure you are,” Skylar scoffed.

“I am!”

“Nah.” Skylar pushed the top hat back off her forehead and assessed Delaney with a pensive stare. “You’ll cave and our mother will get her way yet again.”

“I won’t.”

“We’ll see.”

Delaney clutched the sack to her chest, knowing her sister was right. If she responded true to form and accepted her mother’s edicts for what constituted the perfect wedding, she would not be wearing the consignment shop veil.

“I have an idea on how to handle Mother.” Skylar smirked. “If you’ve got the balls for it.”

“There’s no need to be crude.” Delaney pressed her lips together. “What’s your idea?”

“Why don’t you sew a designer label on the veil, put it in an expensive box, and tell Mom someone very high up on the blue-blood food chain sent it to you. Like one of our Philadelphia relatives we’ve never met.”

Delaney gasped. “But I can’t do that. It’s underhanded and sneaky.”

“I knew you didn’t have the balls for it. Night, Chicken Little.” Skylar swung her legs off the bed, the wheels of her skates making a clacking noise as she stood. “See ya in your dreams.”

“Wait, don’t go.”

Skylar paused. “Yeah?”

“Do you really think your plan would work?”

“Guaranteed.” She winked.

Delaney worried her bottom lip. She wasn’t a liar, but she wanted so badly to wear the veil at her wedding.

“I’ll tell you something else,” Skylar added.

“Oh?”

“I was hanging out tonight, eavesdropping on your dinner conversation with your friends, and I think they’re right.”

“About what?”

“Seducing Evan. Making him your sex hostage. Sounds totally hot. Go for it. Maybe it’ll be the jump start you two need.”

“Your glowing endorsement is all the more reason not to do it.” Delaney glowered.

“You sound just like her, you know.” Skylar wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue.

“Just like whom?”

“Who do you think?”

Skylar was right. She did sound just like their mother. Judgmental, inflexible, overly concerned with appearances. And that was the last thing Delaney wanted.

She dragged a hand through her hair. “This is horrible! How can I stop from becoming like her?”

“Do the most outrageous thing you can think to do. Kidnap Evan from his office, take him to the woods, and have your way with him. I triple dog dare you.”

“Fine,” Delaney said. “If that’s what it takes to prove to you I’m not like Mother, I’ll do it.”

Skylar snorted. “Seeing is believing, pipsqueak.”

Following that snarky comment, Delaney woke up.

Detective Dominic Vinetti watched Dr. Evan Van Zandt stride into the exam room, frowning at the chart in his hand and shaking his head. A bullet of dread ricocheted through the ventricles of Nick’s heart at the serious expression on the other man’s face.

“I’ve received the results of your follow-up tests,” Van Zandt said, “and I’m sorry, Nick, but the outcome isn’t as favorable as we had hoped.”

Sweat broke across Nick’s brow. He fisted his hands and swallowed hard. In this stupid paper gown he was nearly naked and felt too damn exposed. He scowled past his anxiety and mouthed toughly, “Whaddya mean?”

“It’s been eight weeks since the injury and while your leg is improved, you’re still healing at a much slower rate than I anticipated. I’m afraid I can’t yet allow you to return to work.”

Fear swamped him. Anxiety soup. Followed on its heels by a thick, rolling wave of despair.
Son of a bitch.
He could not spend one more hour watching bad television. Could not play one more video game or surf the net one more time or he’d lose his frickin’ mind.

“I gotta go back to work, Doc. I’ll take a desk job. Sit on my butt, no chasing suspects. I promise.” He held up his palm as if he were taking an oath on the witness stand.

Van Zandt fidgeted with his tie, then flipped up the tail of his lab coat and took a seat on the rolling stool. He had the butter-soft face of a man who’d lived an easy life. “I can’t in good conscience sign the release form.”

Nick pressed his palms together, supplicating. “I’m going nuts, here. Please don’t make me beg.”

“Have you been doing your exercises?”

“Regular as a nun to mass.”

Van Zandt threw back his head and brayed loudly at Nick’s comment. “Well, at least you still have your sense of humor.”

Irritation dug into Nick’s gut. The guy laughed like a freaking barnyard donkey. “Yeah, lucky me. Ha, ha.”

“Have you been taking your antibiotics?” Van Zandt asked.

“Morning, noon, and night.”

“What about the pain pills?”

“Not so much.”

“When was the last time you took one?”

“I never got the prescription filled when I left the hospital,” he admitted.

“You’re kidding.”

Nick shook his head.

“There’s no need to be macho. If you’re hurting, take the Vicodin. Pain inhibits healing.”

“Pills make me feel dulled.”

“Take them anyway.”

“I’ve seen a lot of people get addicted to those things.”

“You’re too strong-minded to get addicted.”

“You have no idea how bored I am.”

“Let’s listen to your lungs.” Van Zandt took a stethoscope out of his pocket. He placed the earpieces in his ears and pressed the bell of the stethoscope against Nick’s back. The damn thing felt as if he’d just pulled it out of the freezer. “Deep breath.”

Nick inhaled.

“Have you been eating a healthy diet?”

“I have a slice of pizza now and again, but otherwise I’m doing the whole rabbit food thing and staying away from beer like you said the last time I was here.”

“Good, good.” Van Zandt nodded.

“Why am I not healing? You really think it’s just because I haven’t been taking the pain pills?”

“Could be. How’s your stress level?”

“I told you, I’m going stir-crazy with nothing to do.”

“Anything else going on?” Van Zandt finished listening to his lungs and came around the examination table to lay the stethoscope against Nick’s heart.

“You mean beside the fact my grandfather died two days after I got wounded on the job? And my income has been cut by a third while I’m on disability? And oh, yes, my ex-wife, who left me on our honeymoon last year, just sent me a wedding invitation. Guess what? She’s three months pregnant, marrying a famous stand-up comedian, and moving to Martha’s Vineyard.”

Nick didn’t like discussing his private business, especially that bit about Amber, but he was playing the sympathy card, hoping Van Zandt would feel sorry enough for him that he’d sign that release form.

“Really?” Van Zandt looked surprised and dropped his stethoscope back into the pocket of his lab coat.

“Yeah, my life’s a regular soap opera. You’ve heard it on TV, maybe read it in the tabloids. I’m the schmuck who got cuckolded by Gary Feldstein.” It occurred to Nick that he felt as empty inside as those new plastic specimen cups lining the shelf over the sink.

He’d closed himself off emotionally and he was dead numb. Talking about it was like poking your arm with a needle after it had been submerged in ice-cold water for a long time—you’d already lost all the feeling, it was the perfect time for more pain, before the arm woke up and started throbbing like hell.

“Ouch,” Van Zandt said.

“Tell me about it. See why I have to get back to work? My mind’s a mess. I need the distraction.”

“I see why you’re not healing. Excess stress takes a tremendous toll on our bodies. I’m getting married myself in August, so I do understand the anxiety involved. Although I can’t imagine what it must be like to get dumped on your honeymoon.” Van Zandt tried to appear empathetic, but only succeeded in looking constipated.

“I would say congratulations, Doc, but I’m sorta soured on the whole subject of marriage.”

“Understandably so.”

“Word to the wise. Watch your back.”

“I appreciate the warning, but I can assure you my fiancée isn’t like that.”

“Yeah,” Nick muttered. “That’s what I thought.”

“My fiancée and I have known each other since we were children. She’s sweet-tempered, quiet, and modest. I’ve never met anyone so easy to get along with.”

“Well, you know what they say about the quiet ones.”

“I have no cause for concern.”

The son of a bitch looked so damn smug. Like he had the world by the balls. As if he was so sure that something like that could never happen to him.

“Whatever you say.” Nick shrugged. “Now that you understand where my tension is coming from, will you sign the form and put me back to work?”

Van Zandt’s smile was kind, but firm. “Nice try, but no. Now let’s have a look at that leg.”

He pulled back the paper sheet to study Nick’s injury, his fingers gently probing the knee. The wound was surprisingly tender, the scars still pink and fresh-looking. The kneecap was slightly puffy. Nick sucked in his breath at Van Zandt’s poking.

“It shouldn’t be this tender two months post-op.” Van Zandt shook his head. “And you’ve still got a lot of swelling. You’re going to have to baby it more. Take your pain pills. I know you’re an intense guy, but for God’s sake, man, try to find a way to relax.”

Nick sighed. Dammit all. “How much longer?”

“I’m headed to Guatemala with a surgical team, and I’ll be out of the country for six weeks,” Van Zandt said. “We’ll have Maryanne schedule you for an appointment the day after I get back.”

“Six more weeks!”

“I know it seems like a long time, but it’s what your body requires. If I allow you to go back to work too soon, you could have a relapse that would end your career as an undercover detective.” Van Zandt scribbled something on a prescription pad, tore off the top sheet, and handed it to him. “This is the name of a good massage therapist. She’ll teach you some relaxation techniques to get you through your recovery. In the meantime, try to find a low-key hobby to keep your mind busy.”

Massage therapy? Relaxation techniques? Hobbies? What a load of crap. He needed his job back. It was the only thing that grounded him when the world was shifting beneath his feet.

“If you require anything more while I’m out of town, Dr. Bullock will be standing in for me.”

Hmm, Nick thought. Maybe he could talk this Bullock character into signing his release form.

“And don’t think Dr. Bullock will send you back to work,” Van Zandt said. “I’m making a notation in your chart.”

Ass wipe.
“You know me too well.”

“Go ahead and get dressed. You can leave through the doctors’ entrance on the south side of the building. It’s closer to the parking lot so you won’t have so far to walk.”

“Thanks,” Nick forced himself to say.

Before he left the room, Van Zandt rested a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “It’s going to be all right if you do what I tell you. I promise. But if you don’t . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence. The warning was implicit.

Easy for him to say. He had a killer job and two good legs and a fiancée who loved him.

“Yeah.” Nick nodded.

He’d come to his appointment with the expectation that he’d be returning to work on Monday. He was leaving with the realization he was stuck with himself for six more weeks, or risk losing his career forever.

Fuck it all. He felt like he’d just received a roundhouse kick to the head.

Again.

The sleek architecture of the Medical Arts Center in northwest Houston where Evan leased office space exuded a clean, faultless charm achieved only by brand-new buildings.

Feeling like an extra from
The
Rocky Horror Picture Show
trying to sneak into the Oval Office for an audience with the president, Delaney paced the sidewalk outside the doctors’ entrance.

The black, thigh-high, vamp boots Jillian had loaned her pinched her toes, and the pink raincoat covering her skimpy black bustier, garters, and fishnet stockings rustled noisily. A modest-sized dildo, which Tish had insisted she buy when they’d finally made it over to the sex toy store, rested in her raincoat pocket.

With both hands she carried a small, lightweight tarp pilfered from her father’s barbecue grill. She had come fully prepared to carry out this sexy hostage-taking fantasy.

But doubt was making mincemeat of her already shaky self-confidence. Nervously, she nibbled her bottom lip, and then realized she was mangling her lipstick and forced herself to stop.