The Tycoon Meets His Match. Barbara Benedict

far too many media ghouls. Rhys suffered no illusions. The fact that he owned several publications wouldn’t grant him immunity. This story would break in all the morning editions.

      He glared at the cell phone in his hand. “Just give me something,” he barked into it, despite still being on hold. Then he realized the battery had died. Frustrated, he bit his lip to keep himself under control. How like Trae not to keep her phone charged.

      He knew it was useless to rant at dead air, but he hated the inaction, the not knowing. He had to get to Lucie, talk some sense into her. Hadn’t they talked about this, both agreeing that their marriage was inevitable? Her parents expected it, everyone accepted it as a fait accompli. Today’s ceremony should have been a mere formality, the punctuation point of a carefully constructed sentence—only Lucie had suddenly changed the words. Up until an hour ago, she’d agreed that this marriage would benefit them both immensely. What could have changed her mind?

      But that was stupid; he knew what had happened. Her friends. More specifically, Trae Andrelini.

      He’d seen Trae, of course, talking to Lucie at the back of the church. How could he miss her in that outfit? The sexy, lime suit, the patent leather stilettos, all that red hair. Of course she’d said something, he decided. Ever since the two friends had met at college, Trae had been the devil on Lucie’s shoulder, forever coaxing her into trouble, yet never around when it came time to bail her out. That was his job—the mopping up, the covering over, all the king’s men putting Lucie together again. With a pang, Rhys pictured his fiancée, alone and frightened in some dingy bus depot, her rebellion running out of steam. He had to get to her. She’d expect it. Her family expected it. After all, when had Rhys Allen Paxton ever let her down?

      Ah, Lucie, he thought in desperation. Where the hell are you?

      “Rhys, you okay? I got here as fast as I could.”

      He turned to find his younger brother behind him, Jack’s gold-blond hair and easy good looks so different from his own. “I’m fine,” Rhys said more brusquely than he’d intended. To counteract this, he added a smile, but for once his brother didn’t return it.

      “Who am I kidding? This is useless,” Rhys muttered, wanting to fling Trae’s phone against the wall. “I’m wasting time. I don’t suppose Lucie gave you any idea where she might be headed?”

      “Me?” Jack shook his head. “I haven’t a clue. Though, if you remember, I did try to warn you that you were making a mistake in pushing her into marriage.”

      Rhys bristled. “I didn’t push her. And I don’t make mistakes. I can’t afford to.”

      “Whoa. Down, fella.” Grinning, Jack held up his hands as if to ward off a charge. “You know how much you just sounded like the old man?”

      An unfair comparison, Rhys thought irritably. If anything, he’d been the bridge between his father and brother. Jack had always called the man TA, as in Tight Ass, while their father maintained that Jack wouldn’t know his head from a hole in the ground.

      Which could be why Rhys, long accustomed to dismissing his brother’s view of things, ignored Jack’s vague warnings about Lucie.

      Too, Rhys had been distracted by his latest acquisition, a company his father had tried for years to acquire. A major coup, but even were his father still alive to witness it, Rhys wouldn’t get any pat on the back for his efforts. Not after the fiasco at the church. Unacceptable, was how the man would describe today’s events. In the world according to Rhys II, once a goal was set, there was no excuse for not achieving it. In this situation, the goal had been marriage.

      “So how do you plan to get her back?” Jack asked, as if Rhys needed the reminder that he didn’t have a bride. “Not call the cops, I hope.”

      “No. This is something I need to deal with myself.”

      “Okay, then I’ll hold down the fort while you’re gone.”

      In truth, the thought of leaving his none-too-reliable brother in charge of the business filled Rhys with dread, which was why he’d asked Sam Beardsley, his father’s right-hand man, to come out of retirement and oversee things while he was away on his honeymoon. Now it would be time away to win back his fiancée.

      But the last thing Rhys wanted was for his brother to see his lack of faith in him, so, forcing a smile, he held out his hand. “Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”

      Jack beamed as they shook hands, until a sudden trill of female laughter from down the hall had him glancing over his shoulder. “I—I’d better go,” he said, his attention obviously diverted. “Someone needs to calm down the Beckwiths—and anyone else who might have arrived.”

      Rhys knew Jack wasn’t checking on the Beckwiths. His brother’s ability to get distracted by the opposite sex was both legendary and inevitable, and a good reason why Rhys couldn’t leave Paxton Corporation too long in his hands.

      Shaking his head, he made his way to Lucie’s bedroom. He wanted to change out of the tuxedo and his suitcases were there, since they’d planned to leave from the house for the airport. Then, too, he thought as he frowned down at the useless cell, Lucie had her own private phone line in her bedroom.

      He went through the door, leaving it open, feeling claustrophobic amid all the pink. Thanks to Mitsy’s decorating the room was a confection of chintz pillows, poofy curtains and fussy white lace, complete with an oversized, overdressed teddy bear perched on the canopied bed. All that was missing was the placard, Rich Young Girl Sleeps Here.

      No wonder Lucie sometimes had a skewed grasp on reality. Even the phone was absurd, a plastic rendition of Cinderella’s glass slipper. Who in their right mind talked into a shoe?

      He did, apparently. Tossing Trae’s dead cell phone on the bed, he reached for the slipper. He had calls to make, starting with his housekeeper in the Bahamas. Knowing how Rosa loved to pamper Lucie, he could picture the poor woman combing the grounds to find the gardenias Lucie adored. He could spare Rosa the extra work, if not the disappointment that Lucie wouldn’t be coming.

      “But Miss Lucie is on her way here,” Rosa informed him. “She just called from the airport, telling us to expect her shortly.”

      He felt a surge of relief, knowing she was safe. Of course Lucie would go to the woman who acted more like a mother to her than her own mother did. Why rattle around on a bus when she could be spoiled rotten at his house in the islands?

      At least now he knew she was within reach. With any luck, he might catch up with her at JFK and bring her back home before nightfall. At worst, even if she did fly off without him, he’d meet up with her on the island, where he could easily arrange a quiet ceremony in the local seaside chapel.

      It didn’t matter to Rhys where they got married, as long as they were wed by the end of the week. By then, of course, he’d need to be back in the office.

      He smiled, happy to have a definite course of action. Within the next twenty-four hours, he would find his runaway bride and bring her back home as his wife.

      Aware of the seconds ticking away, Trae raced down the hall, imagining Lucie’s growing desperation. In Trae’s mind, the fact that she hadn’t come home, hadn’t even called home, spoke volumes. Whatever might happen, Trae couldn’t let Rhys get to her friend first.

      Desperate to check her messages, she’d left Alana and Quinn with Mitsy to learn what they could while she went to retrieve her cell phone. Unable to find Rhys anywhere, she’d decided to use the private line in Lucie’s bedroom, which meant no one else would pick up while she checked messages. Let Luce have called, she prayed silently as she approached the bedroom. And make sure she says where she’s going.

      Rounding the door, she came up short. To her shock, the room was already occupied.

      His back to her, much too big, male and overpowering for his surroundings, Rhys began to bark into the phone. The receiver—the silly glass slipper Mitsy insisted went