Hustled To The Altar Read online

  He had kissed her on impulse, for their audience, to catch her off guard and see what would happen, to see if she could hold onto her role. He had kissed her for a hundred reasons, not expecting that his control would slip, his mind would fog and his thoughts would narrow to a single goal: hold onto her and never let her go.

  Before he lost it enough to make lewd use of the nearest flat surface, he pulled away, wondering only then if her response had been real or for show.

  Renny drew back. Her eyes fluttered open and her gaze fixed on her hands where they rested against his chest.

  Con touched his thumb to the corner of her mouth, erasing a smudge of coral pink. He allowed his fingertips to linger on her cheek, appreciating the softness of her skin, coaxing her to lift her chin and look at him.

  Slowly she backed away, but her gaze stayed on her left hand. On Jacob’s ring.

  He caught her wrist, gently worked the ring off and dropped it into his shirt pocket.

  She parted her lips to protest and he leaned forward to kiss her again, lightly, then touched her mouth with his fingertip, keeping her silent while he reached for the new ring on the counter.

  When he would have slipped it on to replace Jacob’s, she drew her left hand away and offered her right.

  If he wanted to make a serious effort to get her back, now was the moment to drop to his knee and do it properly. The ring was a staircase of emerald baguettes curved around a highly set opal. Not what anyone would regard as a typical engagement ring. Nevertheless, the symbolism would be there, if he placed it on her left hand now.

  Panic stung his veins.

  Purchasing this ridiculous pile of jewelry had been less about playing the rich man for Felix and more about making her laugh, but neither of them was laughing. His palms began to sweat and his chest felt constricted. He slid the ring down the third finger of her right hand.

  Her lips quivered and went flat. Disappointment? Maybe. A poorly played hand on his part? No question. But he had scored a point with that kiss.

  She reached for the necklace on the counter and it slithered through her fingers, taking the bracelet and brooch with it onto the floor.

  Sagging into a crouch, she reached for them.

  Con squatted in front of her, held out the brooch. It was a gold domino, the dots blue sapphires.

  “You should buy some decent shoes,” she said quietly.

  He had changed into clothing from the luggage in his trunk: a short-sleeved shirt, patterned like a blue and green checkerboard, and tailored dark green pants. He had shaved while he’d waited for Renny at Walmart, but hadn’t bothered replacing his disreputable sneakers.

  “I want you.” He was willing to make the admission because he was so close to getting her on his terms.

  “You had me. Now you don’t.”

  “I almost did, a minute ago.”

  She stayed crouched beside him, the necklace coiled in her lap while she fastened the bracelet. “We don’t have time for a post-mortem, Con. I’m going to find a phone and call Jacob. You should buy some shoes.”

  She was brushing aside their kiss, their history, the desire still between them. Everything. He used humor to deflect his hurt.

  “You’re sexy when you get bossy.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Now you’re just being a tease.”

  She opened her mouth but a bell pinged as someone entered the store, making them both turn their heads.

  Jacob walked in.

  10:45 a.m.

  Laila Washington had parked the Montana Minutes van in front of the Glacier View Hotel ten minutes ago, but sat in the driver’s seat, waiting for her phone to pick up its weak signal and download her emails. The windows were open, so she’d clearly heard a honk. It had drawn her eye to some nut in a convertible swerving all over the road. Typical arrogant rich guy, she had thought, as she had watched him disappear up Main Street.

  But the driver had almost looked like . . . .

  Nah. Whenever she felt stressed, she hallucinated Conroy Burke. Other people had flashbacks to their near-death experiences. She had flashbacks to the near death of her career.

  She snapped herself back to the present, climbed from the van and took in the town of Deception Springs. It had a mountain-village theme going on, with flower boxes and brightly painted window trim and wide sidewalks to encourage foot traffic along the storefronts. Lifting her gaze from street level, she admired the surrounding ridge-tops, where a glacier sparkled like a white filling in a gray tooth.

  It was prettier here than she had expected, but maybe she hadn’t thought about how the scenery would look because she’d been concerned about other things. Like whether defying her producer and chasing a rumor had been a good idea.

  Was Murphy having second thoughts, she wondered? Rounding the van, she slid open the side door and found her cameraman sprawled on the floor, using a backpack for a pillow and a milk crate full of equipment as a footrest.

  “Cold out?” Murphy asked without opening his eyes.

  “It’s nice.” The sun was warm enough to make her skin tingle and the breeze had a fresh, crisp smell of Spring that cleared her brain. “How did you make out with the edit?”

  “You’ll hate it.” He sat up like it was an effort. It probably was, considering all the junk littering the floor of the van. Most of it was Murphy’s, giving weight to the rumor that he slept in the station’s van, between stints of being adopted by a series of young women who took him in like old ladies kept alley cats.

  If Montana Minutes had had a real van, Murphy wouldn’t have been able to sleep in this one. A real van had the kind of equipment that took up all the cargo space and could communicate with extraterrestrials. Montana Minutes’ van had a couple of shelves of bare racking, a covered tub of outdated equipment and a small monitor mounted behind the driver’s seat.

  “I thought you said Ike would be happy with the segment.” She liked to keep her producer happy, especially when she was doing something likely to make him unhappy.

  Murphy leaned forward to spark up the monitor and cue up what they’d filmed earlier. He sat back on his heels and shook his red dreadlocks behind his shoulders. “Ike’ll be fine with it. You won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Your pants disappear against the mud.” He pressed a button and her image appeared on the little screen.

  On the TV, she spoke silently, teeth flashing white in her dark face. Yup, her beige cargo pants disappeared against the neutral colors of the mudflats in Yellowstone. Her plain white T-shirt wasn’t much better. She’d contemplated wearing something more eye-catching, something that would play up rather than play down her Jamaican heritage, but her appearance—from her shorn Afro to her steel-toed boots—was a reflection of her true self. She wasn’t about frou-frou crap. She was a serious journalist.

  Serious enough to be disgusted with herself for not working harder to perfect this clip before leaving the location and coming here. But she had known from the get-go that the Yellowstone story wasn’t going to serve her purpose. The Yellowstone story wasn’t “network quality.”

  Apparently, it wasn’t back-up quality, either, if she failed to find the bigger story she was after here in Deception.

  “I can play with it back in Billings,” Murphy assured her.

  Laila liked working with Murphy. She’d never seen him work fast but he always worked well. If she nailed the position with Open Letter, she would try to take him with her. First things first, though. She needed a decent story.

  That was the real downfall of the Yellowstone segment. Network quality wasn’t just the polish, it was the substance. A conman in a small town wasn’t national news, but digging into something with a bit of meat and social value would prove she had the chops for investigative journalism.

  She shifted her weight from foot to foot, feeling jittery because it was a risk. The last time she had taken a risk, she had crashed and burned.

  “Let’s see what we find here,�
� she said. “If it doesn’t look like this con artist lead is going anywhere, we may have to go back to Yellowstone.”

  “’Kay.” Murphy yawned and scratched beneath the hem of his T-shirt, showing his skinny, hairless belly.

  Murphy was younger than she was, but he climbed the ambition ladder effortlessly, uncaring how far or how fast he rose. She, on the other hand, struggled with a permanent knot of anxiety in her gut. She questioned every choice she made and tortured herself for any decisions that delayed her dreams of glory. Why was it easy for Murphy and so damn hard for her? She refused to play the race card. There was more to it, something intrinsic in Murphy’s approach, that she needed to learn.

  As he turned to rearrange duffels and satchels and cardboard boxes, she read the back of his yellow T-shirt. “Eschew Obfuscation.”

  Yeah, she had things to learn, like how to operate the dictionary built into her laptop.

  “Pass me my bag, would you?” she asked.

  He did, wordlessly, and then turned in a circle the way a dog does before it finds the right place to settle down for a nap.

  “Aren’t you coming in?” she asked.

  “Where?”

  “The hotel. ‘People are being scammed at the Glacier View,’ remember?” She was quoting her mystery source, Blackwing. He—she assumed it was a he—had been contributing for sixteen months. She had turned two dozen of his leads into full-length segments, some of them crucial stitches in repairing the laceration her reputation had suffered a couple of years ago, when she had stumbled with the “Prince of Play” story. Blackwing had come through for her again with this lead on a con artist. Please, God, let this be her big break.

  Murphy made a put-upon noise and climbed from the van.

  She ignored him, knowing he’d make himself useful by scoping out a suitable backdrop or chatting up a source.

  Sure enough, while she waited at reception for the registration clerk to fetch the head of security, Murphy came up to her with a pamphlet that outlined a brief history of the town.

  Settlers seeking a pass to Idaho had dead-ended in this blind canyon, calling it Deception Pass. They had found gold, though, so they had stayed until the mine had played out. Then the town had all but died, known only to backcountry skiers and hot spring enthusiasts. It began drawing crowds again when an entrepreneur had re-opened the mineshaft as a “health mine.”

  “What’s a health mine?” Murphy asked.

  “I’ll look it up. See if this hotel will give us their wi-fi code. My phone wouldn’t pick up my email.”

  “You know checking email isn’t actual work, right?”

  “A friend of a friend is trying to get me an appointment with the producers of Open Letter. He’s supposed to email today to let me know.”

  “Open Letter. New magazine show out of Salt Lake City? They signed their reporters two months ago,” Murphy said.

  “And one just checked into rehab.”

  “Yeah?” His brows went up a fraction of an inch. Other people in the industry would be wetting their pants over gossip like that, but Murphy had the excitability of a sun-soaked iguana. “How’d you know that?”

  “What do I do for a living?”

  “Regurgitate tips from sources.”

  She would have given him a friendly one-fingered salute, but a guy in a suit finally appeared.

  The man was hotel security and he didn’t have much, just a complaint received this morning and the warning they had written up to circulate around town. Laila took a copy of the flyer and followed Murphy to a corner of the lobby where the hotel had set up a courtesy computer.

  “Here’s our story,” she said, showing him the sheet of paper entitled “Warning.”

  “Health mines are full of radon gas.” He offered another brochure. “Apparently, it has curative properties.”

  “News to me. Okay, the health mine has potential if this doesn’t work out.” She tapped the warning. “Here’s the guy we’re looking for: Late forties, blond, blue eyes, well dressed, wears a goatee. Uses the name Felix Newman. Approaches seniors and offers to sell health insurance without an exam.”

  She handed Murph the page and slid into the seat at the computer, navigating to her mailbox. Three new messages.

  She checked the one from Ike first. In response to the email she’d sent him explaining why she and Murphy were making a side trip to Deception Springs, Ike had responded with two words. “Call me.”

  “Better than the two words I expected,” she said to Murphy.

  The next one was her friend, advising tomorrow would be best as other people were being considered.

  “Saturday morning!” She had planned to take the entire weekend, longer maybe, to do her research and tape it. Looking to Murphy for guidance, she saw he’d wandered away to chat up a young woman in a housekeeping uniform.

  Frustrated, she opened the third message, a new email from Blackwing.

  Odd that he was sending another message. Usually she heard from him every two or three weeks, never twice in one day. For a moment she wondered whether she had forgotten to clear the original message, but when she opened it, it didn’t read, People are being scammed at the Glacier View in Deception Springs. It said, Stay away from Deception.

  “Well, hell,” she muttered.

  11:01 a.m.

  “Renny?” Jacob halted in the doorway of the jewelry store, causing a repetitive ping, ping, ping.

  Renny stood. Con did too, remaining close.

  Renny saw them from Jacob’s point of view: their body alignment, her altered appearance, the jewelry she wore. The guilt that must be on her face.

  “You got here fast. Excellent.” Not.

  “What have you done to your hair?” Jacob asked.

  “You’ll never believe—”

  “Is Gran all right?” Con placed his hand on her shoulder, splicing her concentration, making her feel even more awkward.

  “Yes, of course.” Jacob frowned.

  Renny immediately saw how Con was deflecting Jacob’s attention from them and at the same time reminding her why she had agreed to come here: to help Mona.

  “Good.” Con turned to sign the credit card slip and accept his card and a bag of empty boxes while Jacob seemed to search her expression for answers.

  Renny tried to look reassuring. She wanted desperately to explain, but she wanted to do so in private in case Jacob reacted badly. Very badly. Call-off-the-wedding badly. This was exactly the sort of situation she had hoped to avoid.

  “So, Jake,” Con said as they all strolled aimlessly out of the store. “How did you get here so fa—Hey, that’s my Jag!” Con glared through the plate-glass windows that formed the front wall of the Juniper Hotel. His vintage silver Jaguar was drawing as much attention as the Spitfire the valet had yet to move. Con gave Jacob an accusing scowl.

  “When I called Mona to ask for the name of a mechanic, she suggested I borrow one of your cars,” Jacob explained. “I was headed to the Glacier View, but I missed the turn. I spotted the Spitfire here, so I pulled in. The doorman told me you’d gone to the jewelry store.”

  What else had the doorman said? Renny wondered in a breathless panic.

  “I suppose you moved my mirrors? Adjusted the seat?” Con groused.

  “And had an ice cream. A little dripped on the upholstery. Listen, Renny.” Jacob turned her to face him. “About your hair. I didn’t mean to give the impression I didn’t like it. I’m just surprised.”

  People were looking at them. It had been fun earlier, when she had been in control, but now she risked humiliation.

  She cleared her throat. “Well, you’ll never believe—”

  “May I help you? I’m the hotel manager, Victor Laramie.”

  There was a God. Renny turned to see a man in a tailored brown suit. He had a long, thin moustache, a pointy face and an obsequious smile.

  “My staff informs me you have a particular interest in our hotel?” he said.

  That doorman was all kind
s of help today. Contrite, Renny admitted, “I may have given your staff the wrong impression.”

  “I understand, Madam.” Mr. Laramie tipped forward on his polished wingtips. “It’s easier to judge how employees work when they don’t know they’re being watched.”

  “Exactly. We planned on this remaining completely confidential,” Con said, offering his outstretched hand. “Conroy Burke, founder of Performance Games.”

  “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Burke. I’m pleased to have the opportunity to show you our finest service. The hotel is booked with a convention, but I have a suite available, if you would like to freshen up.”

  Renny closed her eyes, grateful for the prospect of privacy to explain things to Jacob but not looking forward to the embarrassment of explaining to poor Mr. Laramie why she had misled him.

  “That would be lovely, Mr. Laramie—” she began.

  “But Renny wanted to stretch her legs after traveling,” Con interrupted, squeezing her elbow.

  “And I will, right after I speak with Jacob,” she said, brushing his hand away.

  “You’re anxious to get back to Greenbowl, Jake?” Con asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “So Renny shouldn’t waste time with chit-chat now when she could save it for the ride home, right?”

  “Oh. Um—”

  “Con,” Renny said through her teeth. “I want five minutes, that’s all, to explain to my fian—”

  “Financier,” he said, speaking over her, turning to Mr. Laramie. “You wouldn’t know it to look at her, but she’s very savvy, money-wise. Or maybe you would,” he added, flicking one of her earrings. “Would you mind giving our money-man a tour while we take a turn around the block?”

  “It would be my pleasure.” Mr. Laramie gave Jacob an expectant smile.

  “That’s not necessary,” Renny said.

  “Did you lose an earring?” Con asked her.

  She shot her hands to her ears in panic, found both of them still dangling, and realized she’d fallen for a misdirection from the master as Con kept talking. Fast.