Project: Runaway Bride Read online

  Because he suspected no amount of argument would sway her, and tearing it up in front of her would be a ruder gesture than even he was comfortable expressing in mixed company, he reached for the check with no intention of ever cashing the damn thing.

  That was when he noticed the bruises. Just a few small, light discolorations dotting the inside of her forearm.

  Anyone else would probably have dismissed them entirely. People bumped into things all the time, ended up with bruises of an unknown origin.

  But he’d seen too much in his thirty-nine years, was unfortunately all too familiar with the signs of someone putting his hands on another person. Domestic abuse, a down-and-dirty street fight, or simply self-defense practice, there was a difference between I bumped into the armoire and somebody grabbed me by the arm with enough force to leave five perfectly formed fingertip-shaped marks on my skin.

  His jaw clenched with fury at the thought of anyone—anyone—grabbing her in anger. He also hated the thought of anyone other than himself grabbing her in passion, but that was not how she’d gotten those bruises. Not there. Not in that pattern.

  His first instinct was to reach out and grab her arm for a closer look. Which was about the worst idea ever. The last thing a person who was already sporting bruises from an aggressor needed was to have some other jerk manhandle her soon after.

  So he settled for biting down on his rear molars so tightly they threatened to grind into dust and taking the check she was still holding out to him. Slowly, carefully, while contemplating his next best move.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, setting the check aside before bringing his hands back to clasp them in front of him. If he kept them together and didn’t let go, there was less of a chance he’d end up reaching for her after all.

  “Let me ask you something, Ms. Zaccaro,” he said, amazed at how calm and composed he sounded when he felt anything but.

  “Of course. And call me Juliet, please.”

  He didn’t, but went ahead with what he wanted to know most. “Who put his hands on you?”

  He was good at reading faces, body language, all those nearly imperceptible ticks and fidgets that people didn’t realize they were making, but that were remarkably telling. Juliet’s reaction flashed like a neon sign.

  She froze, her eyes widening a fraction as she held her breath. An action he identified by the lack of rise and fall to her chest.

  After a minute, the silence so thick he’d have needed a machete to cut through it, she licked her lips and offered a nervous laugh.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  His gaze didn’t waver. “Sure you do. Those are fingerprints.” He pointed to her arms, which were now pulled tight to her body. “Somebody grabbed you with enough force to leave bruises. Pretty big ones, which makes me think it was most likely a man. Your fiancé, perhaps?”

  Just saying the word made his stomach knot. The urge to throttle the bastard wasn’t far behind.

  “So unless you’re taking Krav Maga classes at the gym or got into a nasty spat with one of your sisters over the last bolt of vermillion charmeuse in your stockroom, I’d be willing to bet somebody’s pushing you around.”

  Juliet’s eyes filled with tears, and the need to punish whoever had done this to her turned into full-blown bloodlust. His fists clenched, knuckles going white. It took every ounce of restraint he possessed to remain perfectly still. To not stand up, round the desk and pull her into his arms. To not march down to the artillery room and suit up with as much weaponry as he could carry.

  He swallowed hard. Took a deep breath and held it to the count of ten, then twenty, before letting it out again.

  “Tell me what’s going on, Juliet,” he said, keeping his voice low, level, and reassuring. “Please.”

  It was the please that did it, he could tell. Despite the moisture gathering at her lashes, she’d been holding on, holding back, determined not to admit anything aloud, especially not to a near stranger.

  But on a ragged inhalation of breath, the dam broke. Twin trails of tears rolled down her cheeks and her bottom lip trembled as she started to brokenly confide in him.

  “It was Paul,” she admitted. “I don’t know why he’s acting like this. He’s always been so kind and considerate. But the closer it gets to the wedding, the more...”

  Volatile?

  “...impatient he seems to be. The tiniest thing can set him off. And whenever we discuss the future—our careers or where we’ll live—he gets so angry.”

  Still maintaining a Herculean grasp on his control, Reid asked, “Why?”

  She sniffed, straightened a little in her chair, a hint of color returning to her cheeks.

  “He wants me to move back to Connecticut once we’re married,” she answered. “But he knows my life is here now, in New York. To be close to my sisters and the business without having to commute. From the very beginning, he was fine with that—or I thought he was, anyway. He didn’t even ask me to marry him until after I’d moved down here to work, and Zaccaro Fashions was up and running. He said he was proud of me, wanted my handbag designs to be successful. And that he could work anywhere. He’s a lawyer,” she said as an aside. “I assumed that meant he would take a job at a New York law firm and move to the city, too.”

  She took a deep breath, the moisture starting to dry on her face, but leaving faint streaks through the foundation of her makeup.

  “Then he was offered a partnership at the firm he’s with now, and everything changed. He still wants me to be his wife, but he wants me to be a proper attorney’s wife. A trophy wife, I think—moving back to Connecticut to be with him, at his beck and call, giving up my work with Zaccaro Fashions to host dinner parties and attend charity events that will help further his career...”

  Typical. Reid had never even met this guy, but he knew a selfish bastard when he heard about one.

  “So why don’t you break things off?” he suggested, hoping he didn’t sound as hopeful as he felt.

  Her shoulders slumped slightly and her gaze dropped to her lap. “I keep thinking...it’s just a phase. That he’s stressed because of his promotion. Or that maybe he’s more nervous about the wedding than he lets on.”

  Lifting her blue eyes to meet his, she said, “He’s never been like this before. I’ve known him for years, even before we started dating, and he’s always been extremely considerate. What if he’s just going through a rough patch, or dealing with something I don’t understand?”

  Reid clamped his teeth together so hard, he was afraid they might chip. “That’s no excuse for putting your hands on a person,” he bit out. “I don’t care how angry you get or what the hell else is going on in your miserable, messed-up life.”

  She shook her head just like every other woman he’d ever met who put up with more from her significant other than she deserved.

  “He didn’t mean to hurt me. Not really. We were fighting and things got a little out of hand. But the minute he realized what he was doing, he stopped. I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

  Speech number three from the Battered Woman’s Handbook. And it led directly to a life of misery and abuse, and often death—either the male’s or the female’s, sometimes both. But try telling that to a woman in love, one who wanted to believe the best of her future husband.

  So just like every third party who’d ever tried to steer an abused woman in the right direction, he said, “You don’t know that. If it happened once, chances are it will happen again.” After a short pause, he added, “Would you like me to talk to him?”

  Kick his ass. Break his hand so he could never touch Juliet or any other person again.

  “No,” she responded quickly, shaking her head and sitting back in her seat. “No, no. I don’t want you to do that. It was a mistake, that’s all. With the wedding right around the corner, and the added pressure from our families to make it all work, everyone’s nervous and emotions are running high. Everything will be fine.”

&nbs
p; She nodded, as though determined to believe her own words, even if she had to talk herself into it. Reid knew better, but also knew there was little point in arguing with her.

  Pursing his lips, he waited until the red-tinged haze of anger faded from his vision. If he couldn’t convince her to kick the bastard to the curb or let him track the man down and beat him to a bloody pulp, then the best he could do was offer his support. Let her know he was there for her, without judgment—none that he wouldn’t tamp down and keep to himself, at any rate—in case she needed him.

  Whether as someone to talk to or as personal protection once she realized her fiancé was more Mr. Hyde than Dr. Jekyll, he figured he was well qualified. She’d already confided in him, breaking down enough that he suspected she hadn’t mentioned Paul’s violent behavior to anyone else, including her sisters.

  But he’d be even better at the personal-protection part. He was well trained and had access to a multitude of weaponry. Glancing again at the purplish bruises on her soft, pale flesh, Reid knew he would have no problem utilizing all of them. And calling in reinforcements, if he needed to.

  “Where are you going from here?” he asked, catching her off guard with the sudden change of subject.

  She startled slightly, giving a little sniff and swiping a knuckle delicately under each eye before licking her lips and answering, “Home.”

  Reid’s eyes narrowed to snakelike slits. “Will the fiancé be there?”

  Juliet looked even more surprised by that question. Or maybe it was simply a reaction to the barely banked fury Reid knew was still clear on his face.

  “No,” she replied softly. “He’s on his way back to Connecticut.”

  “Tell you what. Just to be safe, let me take you home.” Without waiting for a response, he pushed back his chair and stood.

  “Oh, no, that’s not necessary,” she insisted, hopping to her own feet.

  Rounding the desk, he took her elbow—gently, but firmly. “Please. I’ll feel better knowing you got home safely.”

  She seemed to consider that for a moment, then on a gentle exhalation of breath, she nodded.

  Opening the door, he let her pass before pulling it closed behind them. As a safety precaution, he kept his office locked whenever he was away. He trusted his staff, but there was a lot of sensitive material inside, and it was better to be safe than sorry.

  “Hey, Paula,” he addressed his personal secretary as they passed her desk. “Cover for me for a few hours, would you, please? I’m going to see Ms. Zaccaro home.”

  If Paula found that at all odd, she didn’t show it. Her expression remained friendly but neutral as she gave a sharp nod. “Yes, sir.”

  With a hand resting lightly at the small of her back, Reid led Juliet down the hall to the elevator. Neither of them spoke a word as the car carried them silently down to the ground level.

  “Did you bring a car?” he asked as they crossed the lobby, their footsteps—especially the click-click-click of her sharp heels—echoed in the cathedral-like space.

  She shook her head briskly. “Cab.”

  Applying gentle pressure to her spine, he steered her slightly to the left, toward the entrance to the underground garage. “We’ll take mine.”

  Then he looked at his watch and realized it was nearly lunchtime. Maybe he could kill two birds with one stone while he was out...and finagle a bit more time with Juliet while he was at it.

  “How would you feel about grabbing a bite to eat?” he asked as they reached a sleek, onyx-black Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren. He opened the passenger’s-side door for her and added, “My treat.”

  * * *

  Juliet couldn’t remember the last time she’d had Chinese carryout. There had been a time when she and her sisters had ordered in more often than anything else. Back when they’d been thick as thieves, working 24/7 to get Zaccaro Fashions off the ground. And that was after Lily had already done more than her fair share of the legwork on her own.

  Once the three of them had come together, though—Lily doing the clothing line, Zoe shoes and Juliet handbags—they’d been like a bunch of sorority girls. Staying up late, walking around in pajamas all day and eating little better than rats in a restaurant Dumpster.

  It was the most fun she’d ever had.

  Zaccaro Fashions was much more successful now. Still not world renowned or a household name, but they were getting there. More business meant more responsibility, though, and less time for the three sisters to spend being the Three Musketeers. Or the Three Stoogettes, as they’d often joked.

  Now they all tended to drift along on their own, working privately until one of their design meetings, when they compared notes and concocted future plans. Not to mention the personal lives that seemed to separate them rather than bringing them closer.

  Lily had Nigel, and split her time between New York and Los Angeles, where the American branch of his family’s company was located. She was even planning a trip to England to meet Nigel’s parents.

  Juliet had been planning her own wedding for what seemed like forever. So long, in fact, that she now understood why so many couples chose to elope. With trips back and forth to Connecticut, her mother’s and soon-to-be mother-in-law’s constant input and the constant feeling that she needed to have her nose buried in copies of Modern Bride magazine, she was surprised her sisters hadn’t disowned her already.

  And Zoe was off just...being Zoe. She loved working for Zaccaro Fashions. Came up with some of the sexiest shoe designs anyone had ever seen. They weren’t always practical, but they sold well to people who weren’t always practical, either. But she spent just as much time out on the town, hitting clubs, maintaining her reputation as the wild child that she’d become.

  So now, even though the Zaccaro sisters still technically shared the loft and the attached studio space, the takeout menus that had once gotten so much use were now tucked away in a drawer in the kitchen, all but forgotten.

  Yet when Reid had invited her to lunch, offering her the choice of whatever restaurant she liked between his office and the loft, she’d found herself craving Chinese instead and suggesting they pick up something to take back to the loft with them before she even realized what she was saying.

  He’d looked as startled as she felt, but then shrugged and asked if she knew a good place along the way. She’d been relieved at his easy acquiescence, and more so when he’d told her to stay in the car while he ran inside to get their order.

  She knew darn well he’d double-parked as an excuse to ask her to stay with the car, since there was a legitimate space only a few vehicles ahead of them. But she was in no shape to get out and deal with the world. Her makeup was smeared from her earlier crying jag, she was sure, and frankly she felt as though she might burst into tears again at any second.

  She was mortified that she’d broken down in front of Reid. Broken down only in front of Reid, when she hadn’t even confided in her sisters about Paul’s recent erratic behavior.

  It had been an emotional roller coaster of a day. And not the fun kind—the kind that was rusted and rickety and threatened to fly off the rails.

  But she’d felt oddly safe with him. Maybe because he was a professional who’d likely heard a million stories just like hers—and worse, she was sure—over the years. Or maybe because he’d taken on Lily’s case, and then hers, and had proved to be extremely honest and reliable. He might not think so, given the strange set of circumstances surrounding his association with the Zaccaro sisters, but she certainly did. Probably because she could tell how much it had chafed that he’d been forced to juggle both of them as clients, as well as the details of their respective cases.

  Or maybe because there had been something about Reid McCormack from the very beginning that told her she could trust him. There was a core of integrity to him that even a blind person could see. He wore it like a suit of armor, surrounding him every minute, everywhere he went.

  On the other hand, Paul’s integrity was growing more question
able by the minute.

  Having time to herself while Reid was inside the Chinese restaurant waiting for their food to be prepared gave her the chance to compose herself. She was no longer crying, but she noticed that her chest was still tight with apprehension, and it took a few deep, even breaths for her to truly relax.

  Then there was the matter of repairing her makeup so it didn’t look like she’d just come in from a rainstorm on a perfectly sunny day. Pulling down the visor and using the mirror on the back, she was relieved to see that while things were a little mussed up, they hadn’t gone into Baby Jane territory.

  Her mascara and eyeliner had smeared a bit, probably made worse when she’d dabbed her eyes with a tissue and the backs of her fingers. And the light dusting of powder and blush on her cheeks needed to be reapplied to look less blotchy and uneven.

  She took care of all that, plus added a fresh layer of lipstick, and finally felt better by the time Reid stepped out of the restaurant carrying a large paper sack. He got in on the driver’s side, then dropped the bag on her lap, where it taunted her with a mix of savory, tantalizing aromas all the way home.

  A few twinges of misgiving about inviting Reid in to share a meal gnawed at her during the quiet drive. Something like this, she supposed, could be construed as intimate or improper while she was engaged to another man. Then again, it was only Chinese, not a clandestine, candlelit dinner in the shadowed alcove of an expensive restaurant. And Paul wasn’t exactly at the top of her Prince Charming list at the moment, either.

  Reid had been kind enough to see her home after her upset; the least she could do was let him combine his lunch hour with the good deed.

  She unlocked the door and let them in, heading for the kitchen while he took a seat on the sofa and unpacked their lunch on the coffee table.

  “What would you like to drink?” she asked as she moved around, collecting plates and utensils. “I’d offer you a glass of wine, but you probably don’t want to drink on the job.”

  Reid offered her a crooked smile, popping the top on a square white carton and taking an appreciative sniff. “I think I can handle one glass of wine. Besides, it’s not like I’m a cop on duty. The rest of my day is pretty light, and if I drink too much, I can always take a cab back to the office.”