Right Bride, Wrong Groom Read online

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  Atlantic Bridge

  www.atlanticbridge.net

  Copyright ©2007 by Jade Morrison

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Published by Liquid Silver Books, Imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana. Copyright 2007, Jade Morrison. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the authors.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Dedication

  This book is for my good friend Shell who kept me believing it was possible to get published-we did it! For Alison, who gave me the idea over lunch one day; for Holly, the queen of Google searches and for Lynn because she was there when I needed her. Last, but certainly not least, for Devin, editor extraordinaire.

  Chapter One

  Jeffrey Shelton stood in a heavily shadowed doorway watching the wedding preparations taking place at St. Paul's Cathedral across the street. Unlike the brightly attired guests, he was dressed in black from head to toe. Although he had just flown into New York's John F. Kennedy International Airport from Hong Kong, he looked like he should be performing in a rodeo. He was wearing jeans, a western styled shirt, and cowboy boots with lots of silver trim. He leaned with his back against the wall, one foot propped up on the bricks while he leisurely smoked a cigarette. Outwardly, he gave no indication of concern for the festivities he was watching. To those who passed by, he seemed nothing more than a casual observer. Inside, however, was a different matter; his emotions were in turmoil.

  He loved the bride.

  Jeffrey knew he should just walk away and leave her alone, let her get married without interrupting her. He owed her that much after walking out on her two years ago. It would be the least he could do. He should let her enjoy her wedding day without bringing up the past.

  But he knew he couldn't.

  The memory of her haunted him. He and Lynne had spent four terrific years together—the four happiest years of Jeffrey's life, if he would allow himself to admit it. But that wasn't easy for him to do. Long ago, he'd learned to protect himself emotionally, as well as physically.

  Growing up poverty stricken, in a dusty west Texas town, Jeffrey had endured an abusive father and an alcoholic mother. He learned at an early age that love was cruel. Sometimes brutal. So, it came as no surprise, least of all to him, that he got his heart broken in his first serious relationship. After that, Jeffrey promised he would remain faithful only to himself.

  It had worked. Until he met Lynne Barnett.

  Now, he was standing in New York City, with his heart in his throat, watching the woman he loved prepare to marry another man. And he knew he had to see her just one more time.

  He wanted to touch her, to taste her again. He wanted to make love to her for hours until they were too exhausted to move. That was the kind of relationship they had enjoyed before he had left the United States to spend two years in Hong Kong working undercover for the CIA.

  When he left without so much as a goodbye, he told himself their love was only physical. He could live without her. But he lied.

  * * * *

  St. Paul's Cathedral was overflowing with flowers and guests. People poured into the beautiful old church like a living stream. They spilled down the steps and into the street just as they had on many other occasions over the past 100 years. In an Italian community, weddings, funerals, and baptisms were taken seriously.

  Today was Lynne Barnett's wedding day. Three hundred and fifty guests were waiting expectantly for her to walk down the aisle to wed Perry “Angel” Angelo. Lynne stood in the bridal parlor listening to the haunting strains of instrumental music echoing inside the high-ceilinged cathedral. She shut her eyes against the emotion welling up inside of her. She didn't want to smear her eye makeup by crying.

  "You picked such sad music for your wedding day,” her mother whispered, putting her hand tenderly on Lynne's cheek. Her worried eyes searched her daughter's face knowing full well what the problem was. “Are you okay?"

  Lynne looked down at her beautiful ivory wedding gown with its pearl covered bodice and layers of tulle. In her hand was a bouquet of flowers she had gathered from the garden of her childhood home. She had chosen the flowers for their symbolic message, even if she was the only one who would understand. Purple hyacinth conveyed her sorrow, while the bluish hydrangea and yellow bursts of marigold represented the cold despair that was creeping into her heart. The single yellow chrysanthemum told of her slighted love, while the solitary begonia, like the red, all-knowing eye of her conscience, peeked out at her from the top with veiled warning.

  "I'm fine,” she lied, with a heartbreaking smile.

  Eva Barnett sighed gently, smoothing a dark blond curl back from her daughter's face.

  "You need to forget about him."

  "I have,” Lynne lied again.

  "He's not coming back,” Eva warned.

  The silence stretched between them like a living thing.

  "I know.” Lynne's voice was saturated in anguish.

  Eva couldn't bear the pain in her daughter's blue eyes. She gathered her into her arms for a long supportive hug. Lynne returned her embrace, laying her cheek on her mother's shoulder like she had when she was a child.

  "Perry's a good man,” Lynne whispered, as if trying to convince herself. “He'll make a wonderful husband."

  Eva hugged her daughter tighter. “If I didn't believe that I'd never let you walk down the aisle."

  Mother and daughter were nearly mirror images of one another, in both looks and personality. They stood silent for a moment before gathering their strength to face the occasion looming before them. “It's going to be okay,” Eva assured her daughter with another quick squeeze before letting her go.

  Lynne nodded because she couldn't find the words to agree.

  * * * *

  Jeffrey watched the crowd begin to filter inside. He could almost feel their anticipation. His mouth was dry and his heart was beating like he had run a marathon. Taking a final drag from the unfiltered cigarette, he held the smoke in his lungs for a long, relaxing moment before exhaling. Then he tossed the cigarette down on the concrete step and ground it out with the heel of his boot.

  It was now or never.

  Still, he remained where he was, struggling with the war raging within him. Working as a field agent for the CIA had trained him for any number of stressful situations, but this, this was the worst. The tightness in his chest was a slow building pressure that felt like he was going to explode from the inside out.

  This was personal.

  Jeffrey didn't normally operate on a personal level. He was cold, calculating and, some would say, brutal. Nothing touched him. Nothing but Lynne. All the years he was stationed in Hong Kong, he couldn't forget her. She had managed to find his vulnerable spot and bury herself deeply into his soul.

  Heaving a sigh of surrender, Jeffrey pushed away from the wall, shaking back his straight, shoulder length hair. He slipped a pair of sunglasses on his handsome face, smiling a predator's smile. H
is brown eyes were hidden beneath the dark shades but he missed none of the activity going on across the street.

  He started walking toward the church.

  * * * *

  Lynne heard the first strains of the traditional wedding march and the crowd instantly grew quiet. Her breathing accelerated until she was afraid she would hyperventilate.

  "It's time,” Eva whispered, with tears shimmering in her eyes. “You're a beautiful bride."

  Lynne made a hesitant step toward the door and felt her heart tighten painfully. Panic grasped her and she turned back to face her mother. “I still love him."

  Silent tears tracked down Eva's face. “I know."

  Mother and daughter exchanged a moment of silent understanding before Lynne stepped through the doorway to begin the march toward her soon-to-be husband. She promised herself she would make him a good wife. She would make him happy. She would forget Jeffrey.

  She took a step onto the petal-strewn aisle and faltered. The guests all turned to look at her, smiling with encouragement. Lynne took another step forward, hesitantly.

  Her heart wept for Jeffrey.

  The bouquet in her hands trembled. She hadn't thought it would be this difficult to find closure after two years.

  From the corner of her eye she saw her niece throw a kiss. Her five-year-old eyes were shining at the fairytale moment. Lynne smiled at her as she passed and knew she had run out of happy endings in her own life.

  Looking across the wide expanse of church, at the man she would soon be married to, Lynne could tell by the expression on his face he was curious about her hesitant walk down the aisle. Still, despite his uncertainty, he gave her a slight smile. Perry was a very restrained man, polite, charming and utterly civil. He was nothing at all like Jeffrey Shelton, who didn't give a damn if he was polite, charming, or civil.

  Lynne took her place at Perry's side. She had walked alone down the aisle. Her father was dead; he'd been a New York City cop fated to be on the wrong side of the gun. It had happened years ago, but Lynne still missed him.

  Perry raised one eyebrow questioningly at her and Lynne lowered her eyes, avoiding his stare, hoping he would take her reluctance for nervousness.

  Father Falcamato smiled at both of them, either ignoring, or unaware, of the tension. He began the ceremony and Lynne had to force herself to stop trembling.

  "Repeat your holy vows after me,” the priest was saying when Lynne heard the collective gasp that rippled across the crowd. She watched Father Falcamato look up in startled confusion. His words trailed away to silence as he stared uneasily at the doors of the church.

  Perry immediately turned around to focus his stare in the direction Father Falcamato and the guests were gawking. Anger settled across his normally placid features and he shot a hard glance at Lynne.

  Lynne's heart leapt to her throat. She knew what she would see before she looked. Only one person she knew could cause that much chaos without making a sound. She felt his presence; she always could. It was as if an invisible cord of consciousness connected them somehow.

  She turned around slowly.

  Jeffrey was standing just inside the church doors. With his dark clothing, black hair and warm skin he was wickedly handsome in a worldly, sensual sort of way. It was as if Lucifer himself had entered the church.

  It occurred to Lynne that Father Falcamato must have thought so too. His normally florid face turned pale and he crossed himself. His hand unconsciously reached for the rosary that hung on his belt.

  * * * *

  Jeffrey had only meant to observe the ceremony. He hadn't intended to reach for her. But he caught the delicate curve of her face, the shine of her strawberry blonde hair and emotion flooded over him so strongly he nearly took a step forward. When he saw the hopeful expression in her sapphire eyes, he reached out his hand to her, holding it open in invitation.

  Like a puppet on a string, Lynne took a step forward, then another, then she began to run toward him, her veil billowing out behind her. She had tears streaming down her face as she buried herself into his chest, hugging him tightly around the waist. She held on to him as if she was afraid he was just a dream. She held on like she was afraid to let go of him. Afraid he might disappear. And, for the first time in two years of madness, Jeffrey felt he was where he belonged.

  The wedding guests were buzzing with stunned excitement.

  Perry and several male members of the wedding party started walking angrily down the aisle in their direction. Jeffrey drew a gun from the shoulder holster that was hidden under his vest, while keeping one arm protectively around Lynne. He smiled challengingly, holding the gun unwaveringly on the groom.

  "You don't want to do this,” Perry said calmly, always the man of reason.

  "Yes,” Jeffrey answered in his quietest voice. “Yes, I do."

  Perry blinked once in surprise, as if he couldn't believe what he heard, but Jeffrey was unmovable. He kept the gun trained on Perry, not giving an inch.

  "Then you're a dead man,” Perry “Angel” Angelo whispered before turning away.

  * * * *

  At the sight of Jeffrey's gun, the crowd panicked. Women and children screamed shrilly. Guests shoved each other out of the way, running down the narrow aisles between the seats. A few of the more desperate cowards leapt across the back of the pews in an attempt to get as far away from the weapon as possible.

  "Now would be a real good time to find the exit, sweetcheeks,” Jeffrey urged, giving Lynne a gentle shove toward the doors. “Think you could distract these nitwits by throwing the bouquet?"

  Lynne gave a sobbing laugh, tossing the flowers carelessly over her shoulder as she and Jeffrey hit the door running, hand in hand. When they came rushing down the steps, the bored limo driver obligingly opened the door for them without looking. He was oblivious to the fact it wasn't the right groom escorting the bride into the back of the limousine.

  "Get us out of here,” Jeffrey ordered tersely, and the driver swerved out into traffic with total disregard for the blaring of horns and screamed obscenities. It was New York, after all. Who waited for a clearing in the traffic?

  * * * *

  In an unused office at the church, behind locked doors, Perry Angelo seethed with rage. He was still dressed in his tuxedo, surrounded by five men in dark suits, all remaining quiet, waiting for him to speak. Despite his fury, Angel's hands were steady as he poured himself a shot of straight whiskey, drinking it down in one impatient swallow.

  Regardless of his rapidly thinning brown hair, Angel knew he had a youthful, laid-back appearance. Outwardly, he seemed to be a gentle, imperturbable man. He often used that misconception to his advantage. Nothing, however, could be further from the truth. He was proud of the fact he headed one of the most successful crime syndicates in New York City. He was also senior partner in a criminal-friendly Wall Street law firm. He swelled with pride at his success. He had managed this before turning 40. He had heard himself described as brilliant and ruthless in the opposite worlds of crime and law. Even the old crime bosses feared him and he damn well meant to keep it that way.

  A stolen bride did not help his image.

  At last, Angel seemed to make up his mind. He stared directly at one of the men leaning with his hip propped on a desk, arms folded across his chest. “Frankie, find out who the hell that joker was. I want him dead by tomorrow."

  "No problem, Angel,” Frank DeMarco answered, pulling his lean frame up to his full six feet height.

  Angel had used Frankie to take care of security issues over the course of several years and he knew he didn't need further instructions. Frankie was a loyal employee and damned good at his job. Angel considered the problem taken care of now that he had handed it over to Frankie.

  Despite his mood, he couldn't help but smile when he watched Frank straighten his tie and finger comb his hair as he glanced at himself in the mirror on his way out. Frank was very conscious of his appearance. He said the cops left you alone if you looked successf
ul and Angel knew, to some extent, it was the truth.

  He turned to look at the rest of his wedding party. “No one,” he hissed, “no one makes me look like a fool. We've got enough problems with respect from the fucking street gangs. We've got to control this situation."

  One of the men flicked open a slender, gold cigarette case and lit a Marlboro, stepping forward to hand the cigarette to Angel. “What about Lynne?” he asked,

  Perry took the cigarette even though he was trying to quit. His gray eyes were ruthlessly cold. “Kill the bitch,” he answered without hesitation.

  * * * *

  In the back of the limousine, Jeffrey gathered Lynne into his arms. He pulled the veil off her head, carelessly discarding it on the floor. His fingers worked their way gently through her upswept curls, combing them out so her hair spilled around her face in tangled disarray. She looked like she'd been thoroughly kissed and Jeffrey meant to make that happen. “That's better,” he breathed, dropping his face to meet hers.

  Jeffrey's kiss was gentle, at first, and exquisitely slow. He reacquainted himself with the taste of her, taking his time, lingering in the moment. Lynne relaxed into him, drawing him closer, holding the back of his head and entwining her fingers in his thick hair. She whimpered softly at the pleasure of his caress and felt a responding tremor run through his body.

  At the sound of her enjoyment, Jeffrey deepened the kiss to one of passion. Lynne gave him entrance to her mouth and his tongue invaded her with aggression. Her head fell back when he pushed deeper. The kiss stretched into forever, until the only thing grounding him to reality was the feel of her soft body under him on the smooth leather of the limo seat.

  His hands were restricted from touching her intimately because of the volumes of tulle and the beading on her gown. He skimmed his fingers across the top of her bodice, tracing a path along her bare skin. Impatient to touch her, he dipped his fingers into the tight material and let his knuckles brush over her hard nipples.