For the second time in his life, Craig Branson was completely devastated. Sam’s death had almost killed him. He’d survived. But now he was facing unimaginable heartbreak. He had no idea where he was going as he put distance between himself and the terrible explosion. He simply drove aimlessly, wanting to get away from the place where Stephanie had died.
Moisture clouded his vision, and he finally pulled over to the side of the road, thinking that he was a menace to other drivers if he couldn’t see straight.
He sat for long moments, gripping the wheel and trying to get his emotions under control. But grief rolled over him, drowned him, making him wonder if there was any use going on without Stephanie. What if he just drove his car into a bayou? There would be no one to miss him. No one to mourn him.
He’d lived his life a certain way because he’d thought he’d never find a woman he could love. Never marry. He’d found Stephanie, and it had been wonderful, except for the serious complications. Not just because she was supposed to marry the man responsible for his brother’s death, but because someone had tried to kidnap them. He’d tried to find out who it was andhadn’t succeeded. It flickered through his mind that figuring out who they were would give him a goal.
If he could pull himself together again. For the moment, he was too paralyzed with grief.
He started to swing back onto the highway, then stopped short as a car horn blared, and he realized he’d almost plowed into another vehicle.
“Sorry,” he mouthed when the other driver gave him the finger. After that, he drove slowly to the next town and found a downscale motel where he could hole up.
He debated using his credit card, then decided that if he was supposed to be dead, maybe staying dead was the best way to go, for now. He paid in cash, then pulled back the covers on the lumpy bed and threw himself down, wondering how long he was going to be there and what he was going to do next.
He let the notion of getting a gun and shooting himself swirl around in his head. That’s what you did with an animal in pain, didn’t you? It had a lot of appeal, but at the same time, he hated the idea of giving up everything he had ever worked for.
Yeah, but what was it worth now? Without Stephanie.
Jake Harper cradled his wife Rachel in his arms. An hour earlier, she’d been struck by a thunderbolt. Not literally, but the effect was the same. She’d been standing in the kitchen loading the dishwasher when something had made her whole body jerk. Thank God he’d been there to catch her and take the plate out of her hand when she’d fallen.
He’d picked her up in his arms and asked her what was wrong, but she hadn’t been able to answer him, either aloud or in her mind. So he’d struggled to suppress his own fear as hecradled her in his lap and rocked her, waiting until the storm passed and she was able to function again.
Finally, she raised her head and looked around as though she didn’t recognize her surroundings—when they were in one of the apartments Jake owned in New Orleans. Long ago, he’d gotten into the habit of moving around the city. He had several comfortably furnished places, and he and Rachel split their time among them, including the plantation in Lafayette where Gabriella Bordeaux and Luke Buckley lived. With funding from Jake, Gabriella had turned her family’s plantation house into a showcase restaurant called Chez Gabriella. She and Luke lived upstairs in the plantation house, and Rachel and Jake had one of the cottages on the property, where they stayed part of the week. All four of them were children from the Solomon Clinic. And all four of them often joined forces to practice their psychic powers together.
Jake stroked Rachel’s hair. “What happened?” he asked.
“There was an explosion, near Houma. Turn on the television set.”
Jake picked up the remote from the end table and clicked on a news channel. Instantly, they were in the middle of a breathless report from the affiliate in Houma.
“It is believed that Mr. and Mrs. Craig Branson were killed in the explosion that destroyed a cottage at the Morning Glory B and B,” the reporter was saying. “Authorities are still not sure what caused the explosion.”
“A bomb,” Rachel whispered.
Jake shuddered. “And the couple are dead?”
Rachel closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against her forehead. “No.”
He stared at her. “What happened?”
She dragged in a breath and let it out. “They escaped. Craig was out trying to get some information about the Solomon Clinic. Stephanie . . .”
“Their names are Craig and Stephanie?”
“Craig Branson and Stephanie Swift.”
Jake’s eyes narrowed. “Doesn’t she have a dress shop on Royal Street?”
“Yes.”
“And . . . isn’t she supposed to marry a nasty piece of work named John Reynard?”
Rachel nodded. “Yes. Only that was her father’s idea. Then she met Craig, and she knew she couldn’t marry Reynard.” Rachel gripped her husband’s hand. “Reynard found out where she and Craig were staying. He found a way to get Craig out of the house. He kidnapped Stephanie and had his men set the cottage to explode when Craig came home. Only someone else set off the bomb.”
“And you know all this—how?” Jake asked in a rough voice.
“It . . . came to me.” She looked at her husband. “Stephanie and Craig each think the other is dead. Both are devastated. Think about how you’d feel if you thought I was . . . gone.”
