The Bride and the Mercenary Page 3

  But even the combined forces of the O’Connell women and Terry Sullivan couldn’t hold off the delayed wedding for much longer, Ainslie told herself. Not for the first time since she’d accepted Pearson’s proposal, she felt a pang of longing for her mother—a longing that had never really faded over the ten years since Mary O’Connell’s untimely passing.

  When Thomas Sullivan, Sully’s feckless and charming father, had walked out on his second wife and his young daughter, taking his son by a previous marriage with him, at five years old she’d felt as if her world had been torn apart, Ainslie remembered. Reverting to her maiden name, Mary O’Connell had moved in with her sister Jackie’s family and the O’Connell clan had practically smothered Ainslie with love. But the lack of a father had always hurt. Even when her beloved half brother Sully had come back into her life years later, his reappearance hadn’t been able to completely make up for Thomas’s absence.

  Her aunts and Sully would always be there for her, Ainslie thought, meeting Kate’s inquiring gaze. But her mother would have known without asking that she still intended to go through with this wedding. She wanted Tara to have the one thing she’d missed out on—the presence of a stable father figure in her life.

  “We’re not scrubbing this event, Aunt Kate.” She forced a smile and smoothed down a ruffle. “You were the one who taught me to leave the butterflies outside when I stepped into the ring. I—I guess I just forgot that for a minute.”

  “Is that all it was, butterflies?” Her aunt looked unconvinced, and Ainslie nodded decisively.

  “Plain old-fashioned bridal nerves,” she said firmly, and saw the doubt in her aunt’s eyes disappear. “Ladies, start your engines—or at least get your butts out of here so the bride and her chief bridesmaid can make an entrance in a minute or so.”

  The older woman’s craggy features broke into a rare smile. “Some of the stuffier McNeils are going to bust a gut when they realize it’s Kiss of Death Katie who’s giving the bride away, darlin’. I can hardly wait to see their faces. Ciss, Jackie—let’s get out there and raise some eyebrows.”

  With the squeak of sneakers and the tapping of heels receding down the hall, Ainslie took a deep breath and turned to face Tara with the same grin she’d given her aunts still fixed on her face. “Well, pumpkin, it’s just you and me now,” she said bracingly. “Ready?”

  “No.” The teen’s one-word answer was flatly antagonistic.

  Shocked, Ainslie stared at her. In the limo, Tara’s recalcitrance had obviously stemmed from a childlike need for reassurance, but there was nothing childlike about the white, set face turned to her now. Tara’s gaze, as it met hers, was disconcertingly adult.

  “You lied to them. I was the only one close enough to see what happened, and I know it wasn’t just butterflies, Aunt Lee. You saw someone, didn’t you? You saw Seamus Malone.”

  Ainslie felt her own face pale. “How do you know that name?” She realized her hands were clenched at her sides, and with an effort she relaxed them. “Don’t tell me—your uncle Sully, right?”

  Tara shrugged, her shoulders tense under the sea-green chiffon.

  “It couldn’t have been Malone I just saw, because he did die. I went to his funeral. I was there when they buried him. He walked out of my arms one night and he never came back. And he hasn’t now,” she whispered fiercely, her words not directed at the young girl in front of her. “It’s time to let him go.”

  “At Uncle Sully’s marriage to Bailey you told me that true love was the rarest thing there was. You said that if a person ever found it, she should never, ever let it go. What if you did see Malone, Auntie Lee? Even if it’s impossible, what if you did?”

  Under the lace and ruffles, Ainslie felt as if an iron band was constricting her chest. “I didn’t. And I don’t want to talk about it any more, Tara,” she said tightly. “Now, I’m walking out that door to get married to Pearson. Are you coming?”

  For a long moment Tara’s gaze defiantly held hers. Then the soft young lips quivered, and with an impulsiveness that she’d begun to display less and less often since becoming a teenager, she rushed to Ainslie and wrapped her arms around her.

  “Of course I’m coming, Aunt Lee. It’s not often a girl gets a chance to wear sea-foam green, for goodness’ sake.” Her laugh was uneven, but as she gave Ainslie one last crushing hug and stepped back, her smile was tender. “Besides, even with the door open, that perfume is getting to me. Aunt Cissie must have doused herself in it—she’s the only one who would wear something so romantically old-fashioned as roses.”

  “Aunt Cissie doesn’t wear perfume,” Ainslie said absently. “She’s allergic to it.” Straightening her veil and turning to leave, she stopped, her heart suddenly crashing in her chest.

  It was no ghost of a scent. Tara was right—it was overpowering, as overpowering as it had been half an hour ago, when Ainslie’d finally convinced herself that both the aroma and the man had been illusions. But now it seemed that the scent of roses was real. And Tara was conscious of it, too.

  What if Malone hadn’t been an illusion, either?

  “Red roses for true love,” she said through numb lips. “What if he’s still alive? What if he’s still alive?”

  “The perfume means something to you, doesn’t it?” Tara’s gaze was fixed on her, her eyes enormous in the paleness of her face. “You think he has come back, don’t you?”

  “But how could he?”

  In an unconscious reversal of their roles, Ainslie turned to her adopted daughter. Tara wasn’t a child any longer, she realized with a small start. She was a young woman, and her steady gaze was filled with a wisdom beyond her years.

  “One way or another, you have to be sure, Aunt Lee. If you don’t go after him you’ll never forgive yourself.” Tara gave her a little shake. “I’ll never forgive you.”

  “But Pearson…Father Flynn…all those guests!” Was she actually considering this? Ainslie thought. “I can’t just walk out on my own wedding! Besides, I’ll run into the same crush outside as before. That Susan Frank will have a film crew right on my heels.”

  “Go out the back.” Tara jerked her head toward the door leading to the parking lot, her voice quickening in excitement. “He went down that alley about a block away, didn’t he? This street should get you there just as well as the one in front of the church, and it’s quieter. No one will even see you.”

  Even as she spoke Ainslie was shaking her head. “Someone will notice, and in this getup I can’t exactly outrun the mob. Leaving Pearson waiting at the altar is terrible enough. He doesn’t deserve his wedding to be made into a public joke in all the papers.”

  “You’re right. That would destroy him,” Tara said slowly, her face clouding. Then she brightened. Darting to the small table near where she’d been sitting earlier, she bent over and grabbed something up. She whirled back to Ainslie, her palm outstretched. “Here.”

  Ainslie blinked at the object Tara was handing her. It was a small plastic skull with glowing red eyes. Attached to it was a key.

  “It’s Bobby’s.” Tara blushed, and all of a sudden she was a teenager again. “Cool, huh? He was showing it to me and in all the excitement I guess I forgot to give it back to him.” She saw the confusion on Ainslie’s face and elaborated impatiently. “It’s the key to his motorcycle, Aunt Lee. It’s right outside—I’m sure if Bobby knew he’d tell you to go ahead and use it. After all, this is kind of an emergency, isn’t it?”

  Tara was right, it was an emergency. With any luck, this wild-goose chase could be over and done with in less than five minutes. If it wasn’t—

  “Get this darn veil off me, pumpkin.” As Tara swiftly complied, Ainslie bent and lifted the masses of ruffles, revealing the two stiff crinolines that had made her walk up the red carpet resemble the stately progression of an unwieldy ocean liner being nudged along by a tugboat. Stripping them off, she turned back to Tara, feeling blessedly less encumbered.

  “Go find Uncle Sully and tell
him everything. If I’m not back in ten minutes, he’s to make up some kind of story that’ll save Pearson’s face, okay?”

  With that she was gone, running toward the yellow Yamaha that was the only motorcycle in the lot, holding her skirt high as she flew across the gravel.

  SHE LOOKED RIDICULOUS, and she knew it. She also didn’t care. Letting the motorcycle’s revs climb as her riding skills came automatically back to her, Ainslie tore down the conveniently deserted street and into the alley. It was flanked, she saw, by a small commercial hotel, boarded up and abandoned.

  She cut the bike’s engine, realizing in the sudden silence that she had absolutely no idea what to do next. Aside from the usual litter of junk and garbage, only made notable by a discarded and rotting sofa bed a few feet away, the alleyway was empty.

  What had she expected? Ainslie asked herself, her heart sinking. From his odd appearance, the man she’d seen obviously wasn’t completely normal, and when she’d unexpectedly focused her attention on him she’d probably frightened him. Had she really thought it possible that he would be waiting for her around some corner?

  Very slowly, she reached for the key in the ignition. As she did so she caught a gleam just beyond the discarded sofa bed, as if something shiny was catching the light there.

  She knew what it was even before she jumped off the motorcycle and ran over to it. Lying on its side, covered with a piece of torn plastic, was a shopping cart. Its contents had spilled out onto the ground, but right in front of her eyes was a pair of worn boots.

  Looking up, recessed into the wall of the abandoned hotel, she noticed a door painted the same faded red as the brick of the building.

  It was slightly ajar.

  It had to be where he lived, Ainslie thought, her pulse racing. It had to be. Condemned or not, the place offered shelter and some kind of privacy; she knew instinctively that the man she’d glimpsed would find it impossible to bunk down with a roomful of strangers every night in a shelter. Like a wild animal, he would have a place where he could go to earth.

  It would be impossible to find him in there. She hardly had time for a room-to-room search. There was only one way she could force him out.

  “Malone! Malone!” Standing in the middle of the alleyway, she shouted the name as loudly as she could. He wasn’t Malone—he couldn’t be, there was no way he could be—but if this was his private lair, she was drawing attention to it. He would want her to go away, but she wouldn’t—not until she saw him face-to-face.

  “Malone, I know you’re in there!”

  For some reason she knew the stranger wouldn’t hurt her if he did appear. He’d definitely been odd, but there’d been nothing threatening in his oddness. Again she saw the flash of anguish she’d seen in those green eyes that had been too much like Malone’s. The memory was so clear that again her heart leaped crazily.

  “Malone!”

  “Stop shouting! Dammit, lady, you’re going to lead them right to me!”

  The hoarse warning came from directly behind her. Whirling around in shock, Ainslie stared at the big man in the army greatcoat standing only inches away.

  The bottom fell out of her world.

  Dark hair fell to his shoulders, and most of his face was obscured by a heavy growth of beard. His skin bore the weathered tan of someone who spent most of his time in the elements, and there was a smear of black grease high on each cheekbone. But through the tangle of hair that fell over his forehead she could see those eyes.

  She tried to take a step toward him, but her limbs wouldn’t work. “Malone—it really is you!”

  This time when the hot tears streamed down her face she made no attempt to wipe them away.

  “They told me you were dead, Malone! They told me you were dead, and I didn’t believe them, but when you didn’t come back to me I thought I’d lost you forever!”

  The words tumbled out of her almost incoherently, and the ice that had surrounded her finally broke. With a little cry of incredulous happiness she rushed to him, wanting only to feel his arms around her, his heartbeat close to hers.

  Swiftly he stepped back out of her reach. His eyes narrowed and his whole body seemed to suddenly tense.

  In confusion, Ainslie met his gaze, and as she did, the wild joy that had been flooding through her instantly turned to sharp fear.

  He was looking at her with no recognition at all. Those green eyes were blank and shuttered.

  “Malone?” she breathed tremulously. “Malone, what’s the matter?”

  “My name’s not Malone, lady.” His answer was unequivocally antagonistic. “And I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  Chapter Three

  Ainslie stared at the man in front of her.

  For a long moment his eyes, narrowed in suspicion, remained locked on hers. Then his shoulders stiffened under the tattered coat and he darted a quick glance down the alleyway before turning back to her.

  “Did you lead them here?” His question was more of an accusation. It was so unexpected that she was jolted into a reply.

  “Of course not.” She caught herself. “Lead who here?”

  “Them,” he said impatiently, as if she were being deliberately obtuse. He looked down at the other end of the alleyway and then seemed to come to a decision. “Maybe you didn’t, but they’re coming anyway. They must have seen you. We’d better get going.”

  He moved quickly for such a big man. Before she realized his intention, his hand had wrapped around hers and he was pulling her toward the door to the abandoned hotel, and at that, her numbness dissipated.

  “No.” She tried to disengage her hand, but his grip was too strong.

  It was true, then, she thought with dull clarity. He wasn’t Malone, despite the shock of recognition she’d felt when she’d first seen him, despite her certainty of a few minutes ago. He was exactly what he appeared to be: a derelict, a man of the streets with more than a few problems of his own, although of the two of them, she wasn’t sure who was the crazier. Suddenly the full import of what she’d done slammed into her.

  What had she been thinking?

  If she hurried, she could be back at St. Margaret’s before Sully told the assembled guests the bride had gone AWOL.

  She tugged at her hand again. “No,” she said gently. “Whoever they are, they’re not after me. I should get back to my own world now.”

  She didn’t know why she’d phrased it like that, only that it seemed right. She looked up into the tanned, heavily bearded face, seeing him for the first time as the man he was, not as the man she’d so desperately and illogically wanted him to be. A pang of sadness stirred in her. She’d been right about one thing. The expression she’d thought she’d seen in those eyes was anguish. He was looking at her as if the very sight of her caused him immeasurable pain, and maybe it did. Maybe she reminded him of someone, too—a woman he’d known, a girl he’d loved, the life he’d lived before everything had spiralled out of control for him.

  “I’ll decoy them away from you.” She kept her voice soft. “A bride on a motorcycle would be enough to distract anyone, and that’ll give you a chance to get to safety.”

  Her attempt at reassurance didn’t have the effect she’d intended.

  “No!”

  The explosiveness of his answer was shockingly loud in the quiet alleyway, his voice amplified by the narrow brick walls of the buildings. Ainslie felt a twinge of nervousness, but almost immediately she realized that her unease wasn’t a result of his unexpected reaction.

  The alleyway was quiet. They were in the middle of a busy city—surely it wasn’t natural not to hear any signs of life. Now that she thought about it, she realized she hadn’t seen so much as a stray cat since she’d driven in here.

  She gave herself a mental shake. The man’s fear was contagious. This time when she tried to pull away from him, she put more force into it.

  Still he wouldn’t let go.

  “It’s too late. They have to know you’re with me, and they
won’t allow you to leave now. Come on. Maybe if we hide, they’ll keep on going.”

  He was more than just troubled. He was paranoid. Whoever they were, he’d credited them with almost supernatural powers. Now her uneasiness was because of him.

  Don’t upset him any more than he is already, for God’s sake, she told herself sharply. Keep everything calm and low key, and just walk out of here.

  “Even if they do come after me, they can’t catch me on that.” She nodded at Bobby’s motorcycle, garishly yellow against the crumbling wall. “It’ll be better if we split up and—”

  “Dammit, they’ll kill you!” For a moment reality faded again. He even sounded like Malone, Ainslie thought faintly—except Malone had never spoken to her with such fearful urgency. “Don’t you get it? These people are ruthless, Lee! We can’t let them find us!”

  Jerking her roughly toward the door, he shoved her inside and then pulled it shut. Ainslie heard him fumbling in the dark for something, and then the blackness was suddenly illuminated by the beam of a flashlight.

  “Up those stairs,” he whispered hoarsely. “Hurry!”

  She didn’t move. “What did you just call me?” Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. He looked impatiently at her, his beard and the tangle of hair falling across his eyes shadowing his face.

  “I said take the stairs. Come on, we have to get to the third floor!”

  “You called me Lee. How did you know my name?”

  “Dammit, we’re wasting time! They’re coming for us!”

  Grabbing her roughly by the arm again, he started up the stairs. The faint beam of the flashlight bobbing eerily ahead of them, Ainslie found herself stumbling up the first few steps. She felt her shoe catch on the trailing hem of her gown and heard it rip slightly before she could release it.

  “Watch the fifth step. It’s loose.” Frowning, he looked over his shoulder at her, not slowing his pace or loosening his grip. “What the hell are you wearing, anyway?”