Safe Passage. Лорет Энн Уайт

opened the door a crack, peeked into the chapel. “He’s still not here.”

      “What’s keeping him?” Charly asked.

      “Damned if I know,” Skye snapped. She thought of Jozsef. Of his recent behavior. His hesitation when she asked questions. His unusual appearances at the lab. The increasing frequency of his trips abroad. His growing self-indulgence. Her own insecurities. Her incomprehensible, primal feelings for her new neighbor. And suddenly Skye couldn’t take any more. Anxiety, the likes of which she hadn’t felt in a decade, swooped down on her, clawed at her heart.

      The urge to run swamped her.

      She took a deep breath, stepped forward. With both hands, she threw open the antechamber doors, glared at the rows of pews filled with her close acquaintances. Not friends. Acquaintances. Colleagues. Dear people. But not family.

      Not friends.

      Everyone turned to stare at her.

      She read shock, pity, on their faces. Skye took one tentative step into the chapel. The organist broke into the strains of the wedding march.

      Here comes the bride.

      Skye took another step, then another and another. The organ music sped up to match her increasing pace.

      All dressed in white.

      Skye lifted her dress up about her knees, stormed down the aisle, heart pounding, vaguely aware of Charly running after her.

      A murmur rippled through the guests like storm wind through a forest of trees. Some jumped to their feet as Skye marched past them. The crazy organist madly beat at the wedding march tune, trying to match Skye’s pace. She finally gave up in a discordant thrash of keys as Skye reached Jozsef’s best man, who stood patiently near the altar.

      Silence now hung thick, anticipatory, under the dark curved beams, the stained glass.

      “Where is he?”

      “Skye, I’m sorry, I don’t know. We tried calling his home, his cell—”

      “For chrissake, you’re the best man, Peter. Isn’t your job to see that the groom gets to the damn church on time?”

      “I’m sorry, I—”

      “Forget it. I made a mistake. Give me the keys.” She held out her hand. It trembled violently.

      “They’re my bike keys.”

      She dropped her voice to a harsh whisper. “You gonna humiliate me further or are you going to give me those keys?”

      Peter fumbled in his pocket, extracted the keys. “Skye, I’m pleading with you. Let’s take the limo. You’re in no state—”

      “You expect me to leave in the bridal vehicle? You’re nuts. Just give them to me.”

      Peter reluctantly held them out. She snatched them.

      Charly tried to take her arm. “Skye, please—”

      She shrugged her off, hoisted her dress up with one hand and turned to face the small crowd. “That’s it, folks. Party’s over. Thanks for coming. Maybe next time.”

      But there’d never be a next time, another wedding, not as long as she lived.

      Skye stormed down the aisle, heading for the massive arched chapel doors, a chorus of shocked murmurs flowing in her wake.

      The chapel doors flung open. Scott jerked to attention.

      He realized with a shock that he’d dozed off.

      He squinted, trying to make sense of the vision in front of him.

      The Greek goddess stormed out of the church, down the stone stairs, dress hiked up about her knees. He rubbed his fist in his eyes. Maybe he was still asleep.

      He watched in numb fascination as the bride lifted her dress, straddled the motorbike and kicked it viciously to life.

      Tires screeched as she pulled out of the parking space and smoked down the road, hair, ribbons of white fabric fighting in the wind behind her.

      “Oh, sweet Mother Mary.” He snapped into action, fired the ignition.

      “Buckle up, Honey. Looks like we got us a runaway bride.”