knot of dread formed in Isabelle’s stomach as she slowly scanned the ornately decorated church illuminated by hundreds of flickering candles, a glimmering reminder of the money invested in this day. Tall, slender tapers stood on the ledges of the windows, bringing to life the scenes depicted on the etched stained glass. Behind the altar, a dozen gracefully curved silver candelabra pedestals held even more of the slender tapers, while towering, fat columns of wax rose from the ropes of ivy on the altar’s railing.
Mesmerized by the flickering candles, she stared, the dread twisting tighter and tighter, until Brad stepped into her line of vision again, making her flinch. She watched him stop in front of the altar and take his place to the right of the priest, her fingers convulsing on the ribbon-wrapped stem of her bouquet. She knew it was considered bad luck for a bride to see her groom on the day of their wedding, but considering the fact that her marriage was a mockery, devoid of any emotion other than that of duty, she didn’t think that luck, good or bad, would have much effect on the success of their union.
Regret over her hasty decision to accept Brad’s marriage proposal burned through her, momentarily overriding the dread, and she was helpless to force it back. She was sacrificing her life, her dreams, for her parents, a payback of sorts for all they’d suffered and sacrificed for her through the years.
And she wondered now if it wasn’t all a colossal mistake, one that she’d regret for the rest of her life.
If she had any courage at all, she fretted, she’d leave right now, before the ceremony began. And why not? she thought, grasping at the idea. She’d simply tell her parents she couldn’t go through with the marriage, that she didn’t love Brad, that she’d only accepted his proposal for their sakes, so that the Fortune family could claim ownership to Lightfoot’s Plateau, and preserve the cave used as a spiritual retreat by Native American tribes, restoring it in memory of their ancestor, Natasha Lightfoot, Isabelle’s grandmother.
She’d explain it all to them, she told herself, relief flooding through her. They’d understand.
But the relief was short-lived as her gaze strayed to the candelabra and the candles that flickered there. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, reminded of her parents’ delight in her marriage to Brad. Would they understand? she wondered, doubt niggling at her confidence. Or would they…
She jumped at a sound that came from behind her, and spun to see the entry door swinging open. Not wanting to be seen, she looked wildly around for a place to hide. Grabbing fistfuls of satin, she gathered up the skirt of her wedding gown and ran, ducking quickly behind the partially open door of the coat closet. Holding her breath, she listened to the echo of footsteps on the vestibule’s marble floor.
“Are we late?” came a man’s low voice.
“I don’t think so” was the reply, “though the music’s already started.”
“Lucky son of a bitch,” she heard the first man mutter. “Marrying into all that money.”
Her mouth gaping, Isabelle leaned closer to the partially open door, straining to hear. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t put a face to it.
There was a wry laugh from the other man. “As if he didn’t already have a direct pipeline into the Fortune’s bank account.”
The first man laughed, too. “The greedy son of a bitch.”
“Greedy, hell. He’s a genius, and we’re damn lucky to be in on the take.”
“Yeah,” the first agreed. “Though I have to admit I was worried there for a bit when Mike started demanding a bigger slice of the pie.”
Mike? Isabelle repeated silently in confusion. Mike Dodd? Though she hadn’t personally known the construction foreman who had been killed earlier that year in an elevator crash at the site of the Children’s Hospital her family was building, she had been affected by his death, as had all the Fortune family. But what pie were the men talking about? She pressed her ear closer to the door, hoping to hear more.
“Brad handled it,” the second man was saying. “That guy’s cool as a cucumber when under pressure. Cold-blooded, he is, and that’s a fact.”
Isabelle pressed a hand against her mouth to stifle the startled cry that rose. Her fiancé was involved in Mike Dodd’s death? But how? Why?
“Easy enough when there’s nothing but ice running in your veins.”
Numbed by what she’d overheard, Isabelle listened as the sanctuary door squeaked open on its hinges. Organ music spilled out into the church’s vestibule as the latecomers slipped inside the nave. Then, only silence.
Isabelle sagged weakly against the coat closet’s door, her eyes wide, her hand still clamped over her mouth.
Oh, God. If what she’d overheard was true, then her fiancé was responsible for Mike Dodd’s death.
And within minutes, she would become the wife of a murderer.
Link Templeton glanced at the clock on his dash, then back at the street ahead, and pressed the accelerator a little closer to the floor. He had to get to the church before it was too late. He had to get there before the wedding took place.
He downshifted to third, made the turn onto Feather Road on two wheels, then stomped down on the accelerator again, fishtailing for a moment before he was able to bring the city-issue, four-wheel-drive Blazer under control. Perspiration beaded his forehead and ran in an irritating trickle between his shoulder blades.
He knew in his gut that Brad Rowan was guilty of murder. Though he had no sound evidence to back up his theory, other than the papers found by Mike Dodd’s sister, Angelica, and given to Link by Angelica’s lawyer, Cynthia Fortune, which pointed to a deliberate cover-up. And he’d learned over the years to trust his gut instincts on a case. They were rarely wrong.
The papers had provided him with the information he needed to clear Riley Fortune as a suspect in the murder case though, and they had substantiated Link’s theory that Brad was the man responsible for Dodd’s murder. But Link still lacked the solid evidence he needed to put Rowan behind bars and win a conviction in a trial.
Evidence or not, he told himself, he had to stop the wedding before it was too late.
But how would Isabelle take the news when he told her that the man she loved was a murderer?
She’d hate him. He’d had enough experience handing out bad news in his job as a criminal investigator for the city of Pueblo to know that the messenger rarely received any praise from the family and friends of the accused. Hadn’t he already felt the sting of the Fortunes’ outrage when he’d been forced to arrest Riley Fortune, Isabelle’s brother, as a suspect in the death of Mike Dodd?
He growled low in his throat, glaring at the road ahead. It didn’t matter what Isabelle Fortune or her family thought of him. It was the case that was important. It was slapping iron on a guilty man’s wrists and jerking another criminal off the streets that brought him satisfaction. It was his job.
But stopping a society wedding wasn’t.
He slapped an angry palm against the steering wheel. But he couldn’t just stand by and permit Isabelle to marry Brad Rowan. Not when he knew the man was capable of murder. What if, after their marriage, Isabelle happened upon some bit of information that pointed to Brad’s guilt? Would
