Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (Fantascapes) (32 page)

“
So did I. Until now. While we were struggling with the blue egg, the gems caught the overhead lights. The whole thing seemed to waver, sparkle. . . like waves on water. And it came to me. It’s may be nothing, nothing at all, just one of my stupid hunches . . . Blast it,” I groaned as this interminable day suddenly rose up and grabbed me. I am
so
tired.” I put my head back and gave up control. Tomorrow I’d take it back, but tonight . . .

When Rhys and I came together later that night, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was for the last time. If this was all there ever was to be. In spite of my fierce urge to survive, my determination to always come out on top, I had that niggling feeling that tomorrow might be the day Trouble shot down Lainie Halliday, instead of the other way around.

Chapter Nineteen

I came awake slowly, savoring Rhys’s warmth, the
rightness
of his presence in my bed. I breathed in the male scent of him . . . snuggled closer . . . my lips sneaking toward the enticing curve of his ear that poked through his slightly too long dark hair . . .

Reality hit me. It was Saturday! The day of reckoning. Doomsday.

Stifling a groan, I dropped back onto my pillow. I told myself Saturday was
good
, even if I didn’t have time for early morning nookie. Twelve hours from now, we’d know the truth, one way or the other. Would the day be another triumph for Weddings Extraordinaire? Or . . . ?

I inched toward the edge of the bed. Rhys had time for a few more minutes of sleep. I didn’t. His hand shot out and pulled me back. “I have to go,” I protested. “It’s
Saturday
!”

“
Bloody right,” Rhys growled, “and you’re not going anywhere until you listen to me.”

Well . . . hell. Scarcely the sexy once-more-before-breakfast I’d expected.

“
I meant to talk to you last night,” Rhys said, looking grim, “but we–um–got a bit distracted. So you’ll listen now, Laine. And don’t give me any of that I’m-an-independent-female shit. For once in your life, pay attention!”

It’s kind of hard to spout independent female crap when you’re lying nose to nose in bed with your lover, so I settled for a scowl and a raised eyebrow. Evidently, I’d gone to bed with Rhys Tarrant and waked up with the Man from Interpol.

“
You’re going to be all alone in there, Laine. No wire, nothing but your cell phone. The audio and video bugs may be working, but the closest any of us can get without being seen is the strip mall. A lot can happen in a quarter mile. If something goes wrong in there, you have to remember you’re not law enforcement of any kind. Your job is to save yourself. Do you understand, Laine? No heroics, no blazing guns. No capturing the bad guys single-handed. The place will be surrounded by cops. Let them do their job. Is. That. Clear?”

I sat up fast, clutching the bedspread. The Man from Interpol didn’t deserve a peek at the goodies. “Who made
you
my boss?”

“
Laine . . .” He reached for my hand. I slapped him away.

“
I’ll do whatever has to be done.” I stalked toward the bathroom, the bedspread trailing behind me. Not the way I wanted to start the day. I could only hope it wasn’t an omen. Okay, so I knew Rhys was lecturing because he cared about me, but, damn it, he had no right . . .

Not true. I was closer to Rhys than I’d been to any man in my life. The dangers we’d shared had given us more knowledge of each other than many husbands and wives learned in a lifetime. He respected me. Or so I’d thought. And his sudden reversion to
Me Tarzan, You Jane
hurt.

I sulked while I donned a ridiculously frilly chiffon wrap dress in a flower print in the same shades as Viktor’s eggs (and, yes, I’d chosen it on purpose). I slammed my cell phone into a lacy pouch Gramma Blaine had made to hang around my neck on a gold chain. It wasn’t new. I had a bunch of the pouches for times when pockets and belts weren’t an option. Or when there was a possibility of being separated from my purse. Like if things went south today.

I checked my image in a full-length mirror, from my unruly hair, now confined in a French twist, to my pastel blue three-inch heels. Something loomed behind me. I shut my eyes, leaned back. “Perfect,” Rhys purred, his arms tightening around me. His lips nuzzled my ear. “Go get ‘em, tiger,” he whispered.

I drew a ragged breath, my sulk going poof, like the snap of a wizard’s fingers. We closed the cop-civilian gap, re-establishing our own version of international relations so well I was forced to re-tie my wrap-around dress and re-apply my lipstick. No complaints. This wasn’t a day I wanted to go off mad. No matter the bravado I put on, I sensed danger. This morning, unlike the usual optimism I radiated for events by Weddings Extraordinaire, I felt that yawning pit in my gut that said Viktor’s wedding was more likely to go the way we feared than the way we’d planned. Nonetheless . . . I’d been contracted to do a job, and until such time as everything blew up in my face, I would fulfill my obligations.

I picked up Marina and Dasha and brought them back to the salon in our building for the complete wedding package—hair, nails, foot massage, pedicure, make-up. While the girls were occupied, I sat at my desk in the office and made last-minute phone calls to Dad, to Doug, to Jeff, and to Flint. Since I expected to be checked by Viktor’s goon squad, I couldn’t wear a wire. Or carry a gun. My only direct communication would be with Jeff, via walkie-talkie-type cell phone. With Rhys, Doug, and the Gerries on speed-dial. But with Dasha and Marina constantly under foot, I’d be making no calls at all unless something went very wrong.

I picked up brunch for all three of us at the café down the hall, which we ate in my office, and then it was time. As we drove the four blocks to The Beach Inn, I froze out lingering thoughts of Rhys’s final embrace. Even the warm fuzzies about what a beautiful bride Marina would make. Time for reality. And reality was scary.

We loaded the Lexus, piling in suitcases, gown bags, bouffant petticoat, veil, and a shining white and silver shopping bag loaded with accessories. And then we were off, heading south and east along the Tamiami Trail to the town of Three Rivers, the Slavic American Club . . . and destiny.

As we cruised through Three Rivers at a properly sedate pace for the delivery of a bride to her wedding, I kept a sharp eye out for lurking law enforcement, and saw absolutely nothing. It was noon, so even the promised “courtesy” patrol cars were not yet in place on the narrow road leading to the club.

Viktor’s security, however, was very much in evidence. From brawny professionals to a phalanx of sturdy locals—undoubtedly the friends of the grandson Arlan had mentioned. They ringed the parking lot, the younger ones stepping forward eagerly to begin their job of directing traffic. All of Viktor’s men wore dark suits with sparkling white shirts beneath, the jackets loose enough to conceal a variety of weapons. And, yes, some of them were wearing fedoras. The young wannabe wiseguys were helpful, I had to admit, rushing forward to unload the car and carry everything inside, where we encountered the three goons from last night. Lumbering forward to check us out.

And, damn them, they even patted down the bride. Poor Marina looked utterly bewildered. Dasha, as usual, affected boredom. Obviously, she considered security guards beneath her notice, unworthy of flirtation or encouragement as their hands strayed too far south. Fortunately for them, they didn’t try any tricks with me. Just the standard pat-down for a wire or weapons. They were thorough, but respectful. As they’d been with Marina.
Thank you, Viktor.

The corner room where the bride would dress was nicely furnished, even boasting a tall mirror of the old-fashioned pier glass variety, perfectly angled so a bride could get a full-length view. Obviously, Marina was not the first bride to grace this room. It was five before one, and since Marina had to be in place at least fifteen minutes before the two o’clock wedding to allow the audience to be seated, time was of the essence. While Dasha dressed herself, I helped Marina, who was so overcome by emotion her shining eyes kept brimming with tears. She was already wearing the pearl eardrops we had bought yesterday, her new lacy bra and panties, and the silkiest, most flesh-toned stockings we could find. We added a blue garter with seed pearls and white satin slippers, the toes also dotted with pearls. I hauled the petticoat out of its bag, and Marina stepped into it. It wasn’t quite as broad as a Civil War era hoop skirt, but close enough. It would just make it inside the egg.

I unzipped the wedding gown bag, carefully lifted out the dress. The tight-fitting scoop-necked bodice was solidly covered in re-embroidered lace, pearls, and rhinestones, but the skirt and three-quarter sleeves flowed in three progressively shorter layers of iridescent white chiffon, unadorned by anything but the quality of the fabric and the delicate picot-edged hem. I did up the long row of covered buttons down the back then fastened around Marina’s neck the necklace of cultured pearls we had also acquired yesterday.

Before setting the long veil in place, I took one last look. No doubt about it. Marina, with her exquisite figure, golden hair and shining blue eyes, her glorious innocence and eager anticipation, was enough to bring tears even to my cynical eyes. A shame to hide it all behind a veil. I glanced at my watch. One-forty. Oops. No time for sentiment. I took out the veil, shook it. A glare in Dasha’s direction prodded her into lifting her hands to help. The veil, about a yard long in front and dipping lower in the back, depended from a simple circlet of lace and pearls, with a big poofy bow of the iridescent chiffon hanging down the back. The result, even though it hid Marina’s face, was magical. When the door to the innermost iridescent white egg opened, she would step out, almost as if the egg itself had been transformed into the bride. A stunning effect. I was so proud you’d think I’d created every detail of this scenario myself.

One forty-seven.
One forty-seven!
Someone should have come for us by now. I gave Marina a reassuring smile, patted her on the shoulder, then poked my head out the door. One of Viktor’s goons was standing there, arms crossed. “It’s time,” I told him. “The bride has to get inside the egg.”

He closed the door in the face. My euphoria died on the spot. This was it then. The place where everything went south.

Not to panic. Undoubtedly, some of the guests were late. Viktor didn’t want Marina stuck inside the eggs too long.

At one fifty-five, I tried again. This time, the guard snarled, “
Nyet!
” before slamming the door in my face.

“
Laine?” Marina sounded as shaken as I felt.

I hadn’t wanted to believe, yet now . . . I looked at Dasha, who was studiously examining her perfectly manicured nails. I took out my cell phone and called Rhys. Dasha looked up, staring, her lips curled in derision, as if to say,
Too late, there’s not a thing you can do.

“
We’re stuck in the dressing room,” I hissed into the phone. “The door guarded. Any activity outside?”

“
Patrol cars report a stretch limo with so many bodyguards they can’t see the passengers. Going inside now. But that’s it. Is there another way out?”

“
Only if I can take Dasha.”

“
Don’t try it. Stay safe, Laine. Let it play out. We’re waiting. Whatever happens, the bastards won’t get away.”

Right. Sure. I was a Halliday, and passive wasn’t part of my gene pool. I hit the End button, cutting off Rhys who was still cautioning me to take the safe way out.

“
Okay, Dasha, what’s going on?” I was quite certain she spoke more English than she’d acknowledged.

She shrugged. “
Nichevo.
” The catch-all word to avoid an answer.

I stalked toward one of the side windows, wondering with every step what Dasha would do. I popped the latch and put my muscles into heaving open a window that probably hadn’t moved since the day it was installed. It groaned, and so did I as Dasha hit me hard in a shoulder block that would have qualified her for the NFL.

Okay, so now I knew. Fleetingly, I wished I’d paid more attention during
Crouching Tiger
and the
Kill Bill
s. But adrenaline’s an amazing thing. I don’t much like being knocked about, and in those scant seconds on the floor my temper went from a cold determination to find out what was going on to flat-out incandescent rage.

Dasha had paused her attack, evidently expecting the silly American wedding planner to cave at the first sign of trouble. She stood there, hands on her hips, waiting to see if I would stay down. I tried to looked cowed. Harmless. Down for the count. Guess it didn’t work. She launched herself forward, gathering momentum, her silk gown rustling as she ran straight at me.

I rolled like a dervish in a frenzy, barely evading the kick Dasha aimed at my head. I sprang up snarling and kicked her hard in the ribs while she was still off-balance. I followed up by jumping on her back, wrestling her to the ground. Not my best move, because if they gave black belts for wrestling, Dasha would have had one. Air whooshed out of me as I took a blow to the boob that almost made me wish I was flat-chested. In the two seconds it took for me to swallow the pain, Dasha had one of my legs pinned to the rug and was reaching for my throat.