take a number and stand in line. You’d better call the police. If you’ll excuse me, I have a party to stop and a wedding to cancel.” She pivoted on her heels and walked back out the door, half expecting any minute for him to call out to her to stop. To say something, anything. But he didn’t.
Minutes later, fighting to control the anger that surged and swirled inside him, Declan hung up the phone from the police. There was little that could be done right now. He’d visit the station first thing in the morning.
He drummed his fingers on the desk, selecting and discarding ideas as to what to do next. Steve Crenshaw had single-handedly dealt the blow that could devastate Cavaliere Developments and put his entire staff out of work. Informing his board of directors would be the logical thing to do; no doubt the police would want to speak to them, too, once he’d formalised his statement.
He slammed his hands flat on the desk. Damn! To be so close, to be on the verge of success and have it all snatched away. That Gwen Jones had been the bearer of these particular bad tidings should have struck him as cruelly ironic. She was synonymous with everything that had gone wrong in his life in the past eight years.
It disturbed him a great deal more than he wanted to admit, seeing her so up close and personal just now—and to his absolute disgust his reaction hadn’t been entirely emotional. All along, while Steve had crowed about his forthcoming nuptials he’d pushed away the thought of the other man’s hands against Gwen’s alabaster skin. But Declan had no claim on her—nor did he want one.
Still, her vulnerability struck him square in the solar plexus. She was as much a victim in this as him. More, in fact. She’d been on the verge of marrying the creep in eight days time. What did that say about her taste in men?
A flicker of an idea hovered on the periphery of his mind, then flamed to full-blown life. He’d be nuts to even consider it—but maybe that’s exactly why it would work.
Despite everything, he would help Gwen Jones.
And whether she realized it now, or not, she would help him, too.
Gwen parked her station wagon in the secured basement parking allocated to Libby’s waterfront apartment, then rode the lift to her floor. Outside the apartment the pain in Gwen’s stomach wound up another notch. Judging by the racket on the other side of the door Libby hadn’t had time to cancel the party—if she’d even retrieved Gwen’s message by now. Gwen swiftly depressed the doorbell and turned away, forcing herself to take in a deep, steadying breath. The outlook through the massive window at the end of the corridor, over Auckland’s Waitemata Harbour, usually had a calming effect on her, but tonight the city view glittered like tears reflected on the inky harbour, doing nothing to soothe her splintered thoughts.
“Gwen! Where the hell have you been?” Libby’s voice penetrated the worry that encapsulated her brain. “And where’s Steve?” she whispered, grabbing Gwen by the arm and dragging her inside.
“Libby, didn’t you get my message? I need to talk to you. In private.”
“Private? Sorry, chickie, but there’s no privacy here.” She threw out a hand to encompass the seething throng of guests.
“No, Libby. I mean it. We have to talk.” She grabbed hold of Libby’s arm, but the other woman slipped from her grasp.
“There’s the door again, I’ll be back in a minute. Here,” she grabbed a glass of champagne from a tray full of filled glasses on the sideboard and pushed it into Gwen’s hand. “Wrap yourself around this while I see who it is. Maybe it’s Steve.”
Gwen put out a hand to stop her friend, but it was useless. Libby was on a roll and nothing short of a three-foot-thick plate of steel would halt her in full stride.
People pressed around. Many, colleagues of Steve’s—some, her own clients she’d grown to like and respect. All of whom were oblivious to her turmoil and none of whom she knew well enough to slit an emotional vein and pour her news to, except Libby. Gwen scanned the room, nervously waiting for her friend to return. The babble of conversations seethed around her until she thought she would scream.
“Hey, everybody, look who’s arrived!” Libby shouted above the crowd.
Heads turned, Gwen’s included, as Declan was ushered into the room. His eyes searched the sea of heads, and Gwen pressed herself against the wall, as if she could make herself invisible by blending into the paintwork. Too late. He found her. He dropped a kiss on Libby’s cheek and, with one of his killer smiles firmly on his face, started to work his way through the room, heading straight in her direction. People parted before him, like the Red Sea.
“Everyone, can I have your attention, please?” Libby’s voice again rang out. Voices slowly stopped midconversation and all heads turned. “One of our guests of honour is here at last. The other’s obviously running late, but in the meantime I’d like you all to charge your glasses in a toast to my favourite buddy and our bride-to-be.”
Gwen felt the room tilt slightly as a sudden flurry of activity saw glasses rapidly being refilled in preparation for a toast. “No-o-o.” The strangled protest was lost in the babble of noise around her.
Declan saw tension paint stark lines of fear on Gwen’s face. His stomach tightened in a knot. He wasn’t too late. Clearly Libby didn’t know about Steve’s desertion—yet.
A raised hand from Libby, obviously relishing playing hostess, drew the assembly to quiet again. “Now I know some of you haven’t seen Gwen in a while, and I’m sure she joins me in thanking you for celebrating with us.” She turned and bestowed a beaming, loving smile at her pale-faced friend. “Please, everyone, raise your glasses to Gwen. May you have many, many happy years.”
“To Gwen!” Voices echoed all around her and multiple clinks of crystal repeated throughout the room. Declan watched as the remaining colour leached from Gwen’s face, leaving it ghostly pale. She swayed slightly on legs that appeared to have become too weak to bear her slender frame.
An instinctive surge of protection billowed through him. He pressed forward, determined to reach her side before she collapsed. As his arm slipped around her waist a shout penetrated the air.
“So, where’s your lucky man, Gwen?”
The tightly wound tension in her body transferred itself to him as all eyes swivelled to Gwen, who right now looked nothing like a radiant bride-to-be should. Sheer terror flew across her face, her colourless lips incapable of moving. The growing silence around them hung in the air like a fully charged rocket about to be launched.
As if suddenly aware of his presence she turned slightly towards Declan. Her eyes locked onto his, their shimmering grey depths reflecting a fierce combination of fear, distress and barely veiled entreaty.
Electricity curled through him, until he felt as though he crackled with unearthed energy. This was his opportunity. Decisively, he linked his free hand through the cold trembling fingers of hers. He drew them to his lips and brushed a kiss across the whitened knuckles.
His eyes still locked with hers, he pitched his voice to ring through the room.
“I’m right here.”
Two
With only three short syllables Gwen was trapped in a nightmare that had grown to gargantuan proportions.
