forced words past the tightness in her throat. “Mother, please. He’ll be here.”
“But…he’s not here, Jamie. That’s just the point. No groom…no word…no show…”
Jamie stood suddenly, the skirt of her wedding gown swirling around her. “He’s late, that’s all. You know how Shawn is. Can’t keep time to save his life.”
“Actually, I don’t know. I mean, what do either one of us really know about him?”
Jamie clenched her hands, then realized she was crushing her bouquet of pink roses and starflowers. Everything was perfect for her wedding day: the plaster-white walls of the old adobe church, the golden New Mexico sun streaming through the window, the dazzling blue of the sky. Only one ingredient was missing. The groom.
“If he’s going to break your heart, best he do it now. Not wait until you’ve been married ten years—”
“Mother, stop, please.” Jamie’s throat ached now. “Don’t make this about you and Dad.”
Beyond the closed door, the sound of the organ came again, a forced march. How long could the woman play without the main event?
Jamie sank back down into her chair. She gazed at her mother, saw the lines of pride and bitterness etched into her face. Pride because Caroline Williams had managed to live almost twenty years without a man. Bitterness because she had never forgiven Jamie’s father for walking out on her.
It won’t happen to me. He’ll be here.
“We have to do something, Jamie. This is becoming ridiculous.”
She could no longer deny that much. Her fingers trembling just the slightest bit, Jamie punched the number of his cell phone. No response. Then his apartment number. The usual debonair “Shawn here” message on his answering machine had been replaced by another recording. “I’m sorry, Jamie.” Just that, his voice subdued. I’m sorry, Jamie.
Very carefully she set down the phone. “Well,” she said, surprised at the absolute calmness in her own voice. “At least we can tell that poor, wretched woman to stop playing her music.” A deep breath. “There isn’t going to be any wedding after all.”
JAMIE COULD JUST imagine the headlines in the local newspaper: “Woman Arrested at Ex-Fiancé’s Home.” Of course, she didn’t know if, strictly speaking, Shawn was her ex; his phone message had been so maddeningly obscure. And she wasn’t exactly breaking into the house. She’d knocked at the door, then given in to the temptation to poke her head through a half-open window.
Why did she feel like such an intruder, then? Why did she know so little about the man she loved?
Jamie rested her arms wearily on the sill. Over the past twenty-four hours her usual levelheadedness had deserted her. Operating solely on emotion, she’d flown over a thousand miles to end up here at Saint-Anne—a tiny, unfamiliar island off the Washington mainland. Never chase after a man, her mother had warned her. Maybe Mom had been right.
Then again, Mom had been lonely most of her life.
“See anything you like?” asked a voice behind Jamie.
She started, straightening up so suddenly that she banged her head against the window frame. In all her twenty-eight years Jamie had never had so much as a dizzy spell. Not once during her tomboy days of bumps and bruises and broken bones. Not once during her years of flying. But now she was done in by a combination of hunger, exhaustion and the jolt to her head. The sky seemed to tilt, the ground to shift. Nothing steady remained. Even her stomach churned, a cold, sick sweat flushing her skin.
A hand caught her by the elbow. She found herself led along a pathway for a short distance and then lowered into a chair.
“Deep breaths,” commanded the masculine voice. Strong fingers deftly probed the bump on her head. It was, admittedly, a rather pleasant sensation.
She would’ve laughed if she could. Yesterday she’d been a joyful bride-to-be. Today she was a certifiable wreck. But at last her ridiculous shakiness passed. The haze in front of her eyes cleared, and she saw a swimming pool off to her right with a flagstone patio curving around the back of the rambling shingled mansion. A glass of iced tea appeared before her. She sipped gratefully and focused on her rescuer. He was a man of considerable height, obliging her to crane her neck a bit.
Dark hair curling over a stern forehead. Aloof blue eyes. A Mediterranean heritage suggested by strong cheekbones and a deliberate jaw. A dash of France and Italy, a hint of Spain. Something exotic and dangerous. Something forbidding….
Jamie took another sip of the cold, spicy tea. She felt oddly disturbed by the man, unable to glance away from him. He gazed back at her assessingly, not saying a word.
“I’m looking for Shawn,” she volunteered at last.
“Hmm… Shawn’s not here,” the man said.
A stab of disappointment went through her. “The ferry captain—he said Mr. Sinclair was in residence—”
“I suppose he meant me. I’m Eric Sinclair. Shawn’s brother.”
All Jamie could do was stare at him. “But he never said anything about a brother. I just assumed…” Her voice trailed off. One more thing she hadn’t known about her fiancé. He’d seemed so open and giving yet ultimately had shared so little. And she’d done her best to ignore all her doubts about his reticence. She’d been in love…was still in love.
As she considered Eric Sinclair, she could see only a slight family resemblance. Perhaps the determined shape of the nose. And the confident stance—she recognized that. But this Sinclair had a gravity, a formal demeanor, even a certain grimness.
She sighed. “I’m Jamie Williams. Shawn and I—well, we were supposed to be on our honeymoon right about now.”
The expression on Eric Sinclair’s face was skeptical as he sat down across from her. His attire was more suited for a corporate boardroom than an island retreat. He wore a richly shaded charcoal suit and a silk tie slightly loosened. Almost unconsciously Jamie smoothed a wrinkle from her cotton skirt. Her rumpled condition, however, was the least of her worries.
“It seems your brother neglected a few items. Such as inviting you to the wedding…or bothering to show up at the altar.”
Eric’s look remained doubtful.
“He left a message for me,” Jamie went on stubbornly. “He was sorry, he said. That’s all—he was sorry. I don’t even know what he meant. Is he sorry he ever met me? Sorry that he’s hurt me? I need an explanation. I deserve an explanation. When two people make promises to each other…that has to count for something. It might even be worth fighting for. Some things are worth the fight.”
Eric loosened his tie a little more, as if preparing for a long story, yet there wasn’t much left to tell.
“Your brother seems to have vanished from New Mexico, Mr. Sinclair. He’d told me about growing up on this island—I took a chance he’d be here.” She paused. “Do you have any idea where he could be?”
“Ms. Williams, in the past I’ve cleaned up a fair share of my brother’s messes. Swore I wouldn’t do it
