Missing: One Bride. Alice Sharpe

sofa, half expecting to find Thorn gone again, but apparently his late-night reverie out on the balcony had taken its toll. He lay asleep, half on the sofa, one arm hanging off to the side, both feet dangling over the end. He’d kicked off the blanket she’d given him the night before and it lay in a heap on the floor. Thankfully, he at least slept in his underwear.

      She stared at him longer than was strictly necessary. His hands and forearms were tanned the same deep color as his face, the rest of him a shade lighter. He had very nice legs, well shaped, muscular. She liked his ankles. He stirred and she turned away at once.

      False alarm. When she dared to take another peek, he was sound asleep again, on his side, all arms and legs, his head half buried under an arm. Alex let herself out onto the balcony, anxious to escape Thorn.

      The rocks below were black and jagged, the ocean that swirled around them, sapphire blue. For some time, Alex stared at the water. She was wearing the robe—indeed, she’d slept in the robe—and she tightened the belt around her waist. What was she going to put on this morning? Would Thorn have any clothes that would fit her? Maybe she could borrow his gold card and buy herself something in the gift shop—shorts and a T-shirt, a touristy dress printed with whales or dolphins. Anything!

      She winced when she thought about the prices she knew she’d find. A confirmed bargain hunter, she tended to wait until clothing was marked down so far, it was a giveaway. Well, desperate situations called for desperate measures and all that.

      As she turned to go back into the room, she caught sight of a small yellow sports car pulled up to the front of the inn. Then she realized what had really drawn her attention was the driver. He was a very tanned man with long white hair caught in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He was facing the inn, a striking man in his fifties with eyes dark enough to stand out at a distance. He looked like the male lead in a spy movie.

      She was about to turn away when a woman in a kneelength coat approached the passenger door of the car. The coat was an unusual shade, more orange than red, vibrant, eye-catching, hemmed in heavy black braid. A distinctive coat, a familiar coat, one Alex had seeh every morning for the past six months. With a feeling of inevitability, her gaze traveled from the coat to a swirl of reddish-blond hair, and then, as the woman turned, to an upturned nose and a pair of huge dark glasses.

      Alex raced back into the room, calling Thorn’s name as she ran. By the time she got to the sofa, he was blinking the sleep from his eyes. She stood above him and pointed outside. “Natalie,” she managed to say.

      In a flash, he was on his feet and out the doors. She saw him peer over the railing, then back into the room toward her.

      “Where?”

      “Getting into a yellow car.”

      He looked over the railing. His expression as he faced Alex confirmed what she was afraid of.

      “Too late?” she asked as she joined him.

      “Apparently. Are you sure it was her?”

      “Absolutely positive.”

      He nodded briskly. “Okay. Tell me what you saw while I get dressed.”

      Following him back into the room, she said, “There was a man in a yellow car.”

      He stopped dead in his tracks and turned again. “A man,” he repeated woodenly.

      “Yes. A much older man.” She left out the part about the way the man looked, the square set of his shoulders, his distinctive mane of hair. The man might be older than Thorn, but he was no slouch and he certainly didn’t look like anyone’s father. Of course, Thorn standing there only half-dressed didn’t look like a slouch, either!

      “Go on,” Thorn said as he picked up his suitcase and threw it on the bed.

      “In a second. I don’t suppose there’s anything in that suitcase I could wear?”

      Thorn had grabbed the first clothes he came to—a white shirt and a pair of khaki slacks. With Alex’s question, he turned to look at her, and for the first time, he seemed to notice she was in a robe, seemed to remember than she had no luggage. “I don’t know, I’m a lot bigger than you are—”

      “What about this?” Alex asked as she pulled a bright red-and-white Hawaiian shirt out of his bag.

      “Sure, I don’t care. Take anything you want. Just hurry.”

      As he dressed in the bathroom she described the rest of what she’d seen, her voice raised so he could hear through the wooden door. As she spoke, she put on the shirt and dug through his suitcase, emerging with a pair of baggy white swim trunks. They had a cord at the waist and she slipped them on, tightening the cord, then knotting the shirt. His shoes were impossibly big for her and she couldn’t face the heels, so she decided to go barefoot.

      By the time this was done, Thorn was out of the bathroom, completely dressed, looking like a million bucks. Again.

      They opted for the stairs when the elevator took too long to answer the call. Thorn was at the desk before Alex. By the time she got there, the desk clerk was being grilled.

      “Yes, I know who you are, Mr. Powell, and might I offer my heartfelt congratulations on your marriage.”

      This clerk was middle-aged with thinning black hair and a clipped mustache. Alex had seen him watch her approach the desk in Thorn’s wake. When she stopped beside Thorn, the clerk actually gave her a double take, as though he couldn’t believe the Thorn Powell was hitched to this frizzy-haired woman swimming in men’s clothes. Alex smiled pleasantly and said, “Good morning.”

      “Morning, ma’am,” he said. His name was Alfred. To Alex, he looked like an Alfred. She couldn’t imagine anyone calling him Alfie.

      “Yes, yes,” Thorn said. “I want to know about the woman who just left here. About five-eight, reddish hair, orange coat—”

      “You mean Miss Blackwell,” the clerk interrupted.

      “Miss Blackwell?”

      “Jasmine Blackwell. She’s here with her father, Gerald Blackwell.”

      Alex leaned forward. “A man in his fifties with long white hair and black eyes?”

      “Yes, that’s him,” the clerk said.

      Thorn, his hands in tight fists, said, “How long have they been here?”

      “Since yesterday afternoon,” the desk clerk answered as he punched up the information on his screen.

      “Did they arrive together or separately?”

      Alfred gave a pained little smile and sighed. “Mr. Powell, I must assure you that I would not have answered even this many questions if it wasn’t for the fact that you are such a valued guest and Mr. Hanks has left explicit instructions that we accommodate you in any way we can, but really, sir—”

      “Together or apart?” Thorn repeated.

      The desk clerk must have heard in Thorn’s voice the same note of authority tinged with recklessness that Alex heard. He said, “Apart. Mr. Blackwell checked in several hours before Miss Blackwell.”

      Thorn stared at his feet. Alex knew he was reviewing facts in his mind. Then he said, “Where did they go?”

      “Now, sir—”

      The clerk slid Alex a loaded glance that clearly said, This man is your husband. Get him off my back! Alex smiled and shrugged.

      “I’m sure I don’t know,” the clerk said at last.

      “And I’m sure you do!” Thorn thundered.

      Alex pulled on his arm. “Now, honey, this poor man is just doing his job, protecting the privacy of everyone, you know how it is. Remember when you got that other man fired, what was his name, Phil? Maybe it was Bill. Anyway, we don’t want this man’s job on our conscience now, do we?”

      Thorn