His Stolen Bride. Barbara Dunlop

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      “Then how did Gerhard know about the discovery?”

      “Friends, industry contacts, rumors. It’s not that hard if you know where to ask.”

      “It could be a coincidence.”

      “It’s not.” There was cold anger in Trent’s voice. “The Gerhards are bottom-feeders. They heard about the discovery. They targeted her. And as soon as the ink is dry on the marriage certificate, they’ll rob her blind and dump her like last week’s trash.”

      Jackson traced his index finger around the woman’s face. “You have proof of that? You have evidence that he’s not in love with her?”

      With that fresh-faced smile and those intelligent eyes, Jackson could imagine any number of men could simply fall in love, money or no money.

      “That’s what we need you for,” said Colin.

      “Expose their con,” said Trent. “Look into their secret, slimy business dealings and tell my Crista what you find. Convince her she’s being played and stop that wedding.”

      Crista. Her name was Crista. It suited her.

      Despite himself, Jackson was beginning to think his way through the problem, calculate the time he’d need for a cursory look into the Gerhard family’s business. At the moment, things weren’t too busy in the Chicago office of Rush Investigations. He’d planned to use the lull to visit the Boston office and discuss a possible expansion. But if push came to shove, he could make some time for this.

      She was pretty. He’d give her that. Nobody in the Boston office was anywhere near this pretty.

      “Will you do it?” asked Colin.

      “I’ll scratch the surface,” said Jackson, pocketing the photo.

      Trent opened his mouth, looking like he might protest Jackson taking the picture. But he obviously thought better of it and closed his mouth again.

      “Keep us posted?” asked Colin.

      For a split second, Jackson wondered if this was all a ruse to keep him in contact with his father. Did Colin plan to string him along for a while for some hidden reason of his own? He was, after all, a gifted con artist.

      “The wedding’s Saturday,” said Trent.

      That diverted Jackson’s attention. “This Saturday?”

      “Yes.”

      That was three days away.

      “Why didn’t you start this sooner?” Jackson demanded. What did they expect him to accomplish in only three days?

      “We did,” Colin said quietly.

      Jackson clamped his jaw. Yeah, his father had been trying to get hold of him for a month. He’d been studiously ignoring the requests, just like he’d been doing for years. He owed Colin nothing.

      He stood. “It’s not much time, but I’ll see what I can find.”

      “She cannot marry him.” Trent’s undertone was rock hard with vehemence.

      “She’s a grown woman,” Jackson repeated.

      He’d look into the Gerhards. But if Crista Corday had fallen for a bad boy, there might be nothing her daddy or anyone else could do to change her mind.

      * * *

      Crista Corday swayed back and forth in front of the full-length mirror, her strapless lace and tulle wedding gown rustling softly against her legs. Her hair was swept up in a profusion of curls and braids. Her makeup had been meticulously applied. Even her underwear was white silk perfection.

      She stifled a laugh at the absurdity of it all. She was a struggling jewelry designer, living in a basement suite off Winter Street. She didn’t wear antique diamonds. She didn’t get married in the magnificent Saint Luke’s Cathedral with a reception at the Brookbend Country Club. And she didn’t get swept off her feet by the most eligible prince charming in all of greater Chicago.

      Except for the part where she did, and she had.

      Cinderella had nothing on her.

      There was a knock on the Gerhard mansion’s bedroom door.

      “Crista?” the male voice called out. It was Vern’s cousin Hadley, one of the groomsmen.

      “Come in,” she called in return.

      She liked Hadley. He was a few years younger than Vern, laid-back by Gerhard standards, fun-loving and friendly. Taller than most of the men in the family, he was athletic and good-looking, with a jaunty swath of dark blond hair that swooped across his forehead.

      He lived in Boston rather than Chicago, but he visited often, sometimes staying at the mansion, sometimes using a hotel. Crista assumed he preferred a hotel when he had a date. Vern’s mother, Delores, was staunchly religious and would not have allowed Hadley to have an overnight guest.

      The door opened, and he stepped into the spacious, sumptuously decorated guest room. Crista had spent the night here, while Vern had stayed in his apartment downtown. Maybe it was Dolores’s influence, but Crista had been feeling old-fashioned the past few weeks, insisting she and Vern sleep apart until the honeymoon. Vern had reluctantly agreed.

      Hadley halted. Then he pushed the door shut behind him and seemed to take in her ensemble.

      “What?” she asked, checking herself out, wondering if she’d missed some glaring flaw.

      “You look amazing,” he said.

      Crista scoffed. “I sure hope I do.” She spread her arms. “Do you have any idea how much this all cost?”

      Hadley grinned. “Aunt Delores wouldn’t have it any other way.”

      “I feel like an impostor.” Crista’s stomach fluttered with a resurgence of apprehension.

      “Why?” he asked. His tone was gentle, and he moved closer.

      “Because I grew up on the lower west side.”

      “You don’t think we’re your people?”

      She turned back to the mirror and gazed at her reflection. The woman staring back was her, but not her. It was a surreal sensation.

      “Do you think you’re my people?” she asked him.

      “If you want us to be,” he said.

      Their gazes met in the mirror.

      “But it’s not too late,” he added.

      “Too late for what?”

      “To back out.” He looked serious, but he had to be joking.

      “You’re wrong about that.” Not that she wanted to back out. Not СКАЧАТЬ