She tried to speak, but she couldn’t get the words out. John’s face swam before her, and she saw the panic in his eyes.
“I’m sick. Migraine headache. Need to lie down,” she managed to gasp out.
“I didn’t know you had migraines.”
Neither did I, she thought, but she only said, “Yes.”
Because she needed to be alone. Now.
John helped Stephanie to the bedroom, taking in her pale face as she kicked off her shoes. She looked sick. No doubt about it, but he was having trouble believing anything she said now.
She hadn’t slept with Branson. He wanted it to be true, but he couldn’t be sure.
She was such a beautiful, desirable woman—from an old family that had seen better days. Probably her social standing had been one of the reasons he’d been willing to wait until marriage to make love to her. That and the convenience of having Claire as a willing bed partner. It had amused him to sleep with the woman who was spying on his fiancée. He’d even entertained some fantasies of taking the two of them to bed and letting them both arouse him. He knew Claire would be totally okay with that. Maybe it would take some persuading to get Stephanie to participate.
She was a lady, and he’d thought she was adhering to what she considered proper.
His mind circled back to the moment when he’d decided to marry Stephanie Swift. It had been at one of the damn charity events that he was expected to attend. This time at the St. Charles Country Club. One of the other men there, Larry Dalton, had called him aside to ask how their business transaction was shaping up. Larry had gone in with John on an import deal, two million dollars worth of heroin packed in toys coming in from Taiwan. Only someone must have tipped off the Feds because they’d sent in an inspector to check the shipment. And it had been the guy’s bad luck.
John’s men had caught him on the boat while it was at sea, and the federal agent had ended up overboard in the Pacific Ocean.
John had gotten a report about it before he’d left for the reception, and when Larry had approached him at the event, he’d been in a bad mood. He’d told him about it, watching the man’s face as he realized he was a party to murder.
John had enjoyed spoiling the man’s evening. And then he’d turned around and seen Stephanie Swift behind him. Had sheheard? He wasn’t sure, and she certainly hadn’t said anything, but he wasn’t going to take a chance on her telling anyone about it. Which was why he’d started keeping her close.
He’d decided that if she married him, she couldn’t testify against him, and he’d been glad when she’d agreed to the marriage because he’d rather screw her than kill her. But maybe he was going to end up doing both.
Of course, now he had other things to think about. Like why had Branson been dragging her around? Had he talked about the long-ago death of his brother—and of Arthur Polaski? If she knew about any of that, she was more dangerous to him. But he’d find out after the wedding. After he took what she owed him.
Craig had dozed off. He jerked awake when he heard a voice in his head. A woman’s voice.
Craig Branson.
Hope flared inside him.
Stephanie? Oh Lord, is that you, Stephanie?
No. I’m a friend.
He tried to cope with the instant wave of despair, and with the confusion swirling in his mind. Had grief driven him mad, and he had invented an invisible friend to compensate for the loss of the woman he loved?
The voice pulled him back to her.You aren’t crazy. This is important.
I doubt it.
Stephanie isn’t dead.
His whole body went rigid as the words blasted into him, yet he couldn’t allow himself to believe. Sitting up, he looked around the motel room, confirming he was alone.
Who are you?he repeated.
Rachel.
She was speaking to him—the way Sam and Stephanie had spoken to him.
Do I know you?he asked in an inner voice that he couldn’t quite hold steady.
No.
