Groom Of Fortune. Peggy Moreland

he asked himself, recognizing the pricey foreign car and its driver. Where was she going? She was supposed to be getting married. What the hell had happened?

      He glanced toward the church for an answer, but the thick entry doors were closed. And though the parking lot was full, there wasn’t a soul in sight. He glanced again in the direction of the red sports car, then back to the church where the wedding was to have taken place. It’s none of your business, he told himself. You’ve got no jurisdiction when it comes to Isabelle Fortune’s personal affairs.

      “Like hell, I don’t,” he muttered. Setting his jaw, he turned his face to the street ahead, stomped on the clutch and shifted into first. Peeling out and leaving a trail of black rubber in his wake, he took off in the direction the red sports car had taken.

      Isabelle fairly flew along the stretch of two-lane highway that led into the desert, intent on nothing but putting miles between her and the church. She drove for nearly an hour, her mind frozen, her fingers cinched tightly around the wheel. The wind whipped tendrils loose from her upswept hair and stung her eyes, but she was oblivious to everything but the white line that stretched in front of her.

      A raindrop splattered against the windshield. Another struck her cheek, a needle-sharp pain, jolting her from her trancelike state. Glancing up, she saw that the sky had turned an ominous yellowish-green. She slowed, guiding her car to the shoulder. With fingers that shook uncontrollably, she pressed the electronic switch to raise the convertible’s top, locked it into place, then accelerated back onto the highway.

      She didn’t know where she was going. But her destination wasn’t important. The only thing that mattered was getting away.

      Tears filled her eyes. What would her parents say when they discovered her missing? Would they be angry? Worried? What would all the guests say when they realized the bride had run away and left the groom at the altar?

      Brad.

      What would he say? Do? Would he follow her?

      Murderer.

      A shiver chased down her spine at the reminder.

      It was so hard to believe, yet something deep inside her told her it was true. Although she’d known Brad most of her life, she’d never completely trusted him. Granted, he’d never been anything but polite and attentive to her, especially since their engagement three months ago, but she’d always felt as if a different personality lurked beneath his carefully groomed facade.

      She shivered again as the rain fell harder, hammering her car and obstructing her view of the road ahead. She switched on the windshield wipers and tightened her hands on the wheel. Storms came up quickly in the desert and could be treacherous, she knew.

      And Isabelle had never liked storms, a fact her brothers had often teased her about.

      She bit back a scream when a clap of thunder, so loud it nearly deafened her, shook her low-slung car. It was followed by a flash of lightning that ripped like a knife across the almost black sky, seemingly splitting it in two.

      Wishing that she’d chosen another direction in which to run, Isabelle glanced frantically around, looking for somewhere safe to wait out the storm…but there was nothing but miles of desert surrounding her and the shadowed hump of dark mountains ahead.

      She drove on, the rain continuing to batter her car, her emotions, shattering her already frayed nerves. Lightning flashed dangerously close to the earth time and time again in front of her. Thunder crashed violently around her, until the sound echoed continuously in her head, winding her nerves tighter and tighter.

      Hoping to find a radio station with a weather report or, at the very least, some soothing music to block out the sounds of the storm, she reached for the control panel. At the same moment, the car’s front tires hit a sheet of water on the highway and the steering wheel was wrenched from her hand. She bit back a scream as she grabbed for the wheel, gripping it with both hands, trying to regain control. But the car spun crazily, around and around and around, then slammed into the ditch.

      A scream rent the air. Her own.

      Darkness followed.

      Link hung back, not wanting Isabelle to know he was following her. He feared that if she picked up on the tail, she might panic and end up wrecking her car. And at the speed she was traveling, he was pretty sure she wouldn’t walk away from the accident unharmed.

      When the rain started, he shortened the distance between them, but stayed only close enough to keep her taillights in sight.

      “Slow down, Isabelle,” he warned under his breath.

      He’d no sooner muttered the warning when a bolt of lightning lit up the sky, illuminating her car fully. He saw the water that covered the low spot in the highway ahead and prayed she saw it, too. Pressing the accelerator closer to the floor, he closed the distance between them, silently willing her to slow down.

      “Oh, God, no,” he moaned when he realized the sports car was out of control. He eased on the brake, his heart lurching to his throat while he watched helplessly as the car in front of him spun wildly, headed straight for the ditch. Whipping the steering wheel of his Blazer to the right, he slid to a stop on the shoulder of the highway, jerked on the emergency brake and jumped out. Rain stung his face, blinding him as he ran for her car. Within seconds he was drenched to the skin.

      He jerked open the door on the driver’s side but could see only the top of her head above the inflated air bag. “Isabelle!” he yelled, trying to make himself heard over the pounding rain. When she didn’t respond, he rammed his hand into his jeans pocket in search of his knife.

      “Isabelle!” he shouted again, louder. “Hang on. I’ll get you out.” He stabbed his knife into the air bag, ripping a long slit to speed its deflation, then pressed both hands against it, forcing out the air. Shoving the bag out of his way, he bent over her. Her face was covered with the fine white powder the air bag had emitted. Carefully, he brushed it away, searching her face for any sign of injury, then moved his fingers to the long, smooth column of her throat, feeling for a pulse. Relieved to find one, though thready, he hunkered down beside her and framed her face with his hands. “Isabelle,” he whispered, frightened by the paleness of her skin, eyes that remained stubbornly closed.

      After what seemed an eternity, her eyelashes fluttered and her lids slowly lifted. He could see that her pupils were dilated, and was sure that, although conscious, she wasn’t aware of his presence. He grabbed her hands and chafed them between his own. “You’re all right,” he told her, as if in saying it, he could make it true. “You’re going to be okay now.”

      She blinked twice, slowly bringing him into focus. “Link?” she whispered in disbelief.

      “Yeah, it’s me. I followed you from the church.”

      Tears flooded her violet eyes. “Oh, Link,” she cried, and fell against his chest.

      He wrapped his arms around her and shifted his weight until he was sitting on the edge of the seat beside her. “It’s okay,” he murmured, stroking a hand over her wind-tangled raven-black hair. “I’ve got you. You’re all right now.”

      She tightened her arms around his neck, holding on as if her very life depended on it. “You’ve got to help me,” she sobbed hysterically. “I’ve got to get away.”

      “Shh,” he soothed. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

      Rain streamed down his back, reminding him of the storm and his need to get them to safety. He pushed her to arm’s length. “Are you hurt?”

      Her breath hitched, and she lifted her gaze to his, her wide eyes drenched and darkened with fear. “N-no, I d-don’t think so.” She pressed her palm between her breasts. “Just m-my chest.”

      He slid from the seat to stand outside the car, then leaned back inside, his face inches from hers in the cramped quarters. “I’m going to carry you to my truck. If you feel any pain, tell me.”

      Her