Once Upon a Marriage Read Free Page B

I’m a working girl now.
    Daddy had hired her to manage the production of a fashion magazine he’d inherited in a buyout the previous fall. According to him she’d found her niche, but Elliott figured there were probably highly experienced professionals doing a lot of the work.
    How many drinks have you had?
    He didn’t expect an accurate account. But he needed to know how bad the situation was going to be.
    None.
    It was going to be bad.
    I’m a working stiff who needs to get paid for this job. Please come out and get in the car.
    Even drunk she’d know he meant business.
    He felt for the revolver he was wearing under his black sweater. And another text came through.
    I understand what you think you’re dealing with here. I admit on other occasions I’ve given you reason to treat me like a recalcitrant child. But I’m different now, Elliott. I’ve found my own purpose in life, separate and apart from my father. I’ve also, just tonight, met a man who has somehow enticed me to spend the entire night sitting in a corner talking. We didn’t drink. Didn’t dance. Just talked. And now he’s invited me out for breakfast. I intend to go with him.
    Even someone who texted as a primary means of communication shouldn’t be able to string that many letters together, that quickly, on a QWERTY keyboard, without a single mistake. Most particularly if they’d been drinking.
    Could she be telling the truth? She’d met someone without trying to impress him with Daddy’s money? And hadn’t had a thing to drink?
    Before he formulated a response, she’d sent him another text.
    You can follow if you’d like. I’m an adult. Legally, you can’t force me into that car with you.
    She was right. He had several certifications and licenses, but not one of them allowed him to get away with kidnapping.
    So he’d follow. Glue himself to them. And make certain that he didn’t let the two of them get out of his sight.
    But first...
    I’ll make a deal with you. He typed fast. Not wanting her to think he’d given in. You sit tight long enough for me to check his credentials and then I’ll concede to following you on your breakfast date.
    He expected argument. Was prepared to enter the club, show his identification and get his charge out of there.
    Deal. His name is Terrence Metcalf. He says he’s a yacht designer,  Sailor replied.
    And Elliott didn’t like it one bit.
    * * *
    F IVE   MINUTES   LATER , after Elliott had sent the okay, Ms. Sailor Harcourt burst out the front door of the well-known, upscale club she’d been in since 10:00 p.m., her bare arm entwined with the suited arm of a man Elliott had never heard of before that night. Not in the dossier he’d been handed by the woman’s wealthy father—a respected client who’d been on Elliott’s roster for four years—nor in any research he’d done on his own in preparation for Miss Harcourt’s impending visit to Denver.
    But he’d run the man on his member-only people-finder database. And had seen plenty. From charity contributor, to the Better Business Bureau. The man was clean. And who he said he was.
    His vehicle was running and he was standing outside it, just in case Ms. Harcourt sent him any kind of signal that she’d changed her mind. His eye was on the man still attached to Sailor’s arm. He was of average height. Slender. Clean-cut. The spitting image of the man Elliott had just pulled up on his tablet. Elliott could take him with two fingers. Not that he wanted to hurt anyone. Ever.
    When Ms. Harcourt didn’t even so much as glance his way, Elliott slid quietly behind the wheel of his car. His clothes were dark. His hair was dark. As long as he stayed behind the wheel, he’d blend in. Remain anonymous. And see Ms. Harcourt safely to her plane a few hours hence.
    But he wouldn’t hesitate to put someone’s