On The Way To A Wedding Read online

  “Oh my God. Nick, you’re alive—”

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  Books by Ingrid Weaver

  INGRID WEAVER

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Copyright

  “Oh my God. Nick, you’re alive—”

  Before she could say any more, a large hand clamped over her mouth. Startled, she looked up into an extremely familiar and emphatically alive pair of steel blue eyes.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Nick asked, releasing her.

  “I could ask you the same thing. I thought you had drowned.”

  “You shouldn’t have come here, Lauren.”

  “I had to come when I saw the tape. Good God, Nick, your death was just broadcast on the morning news.”

  He had to think. The plan had been a long shot, conceived in a crazy instant, but it had worked. He’d done it. He was officially dead.

  And only one person knew otherwise.

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to a new year of reading here at Silhouette Intimate Moments. As always, we’ve got six top-notch books for you, starting with Sharon Sala’s Shades of a Desperado. This Intimate Moments Extra title is a compelling tale of a love that would not die, and the lovers—a desperado and his lady of the nigh—who are reincarnated in twentieth-century guise to complete the circle begun so many years ago. Theirs is a tale you won’t soon forget.

  In Angel’s Child, Kathryn Jensen creates a hero whose heavenly mission brings him face-to-face with the all-too-earthly feelings he harbors for the heroine. Suzanne Brockmann brings her TALL, DARK AND DANGEROUS miniseries to a close with Frisco’s Kid, the tale of a man who thinks he has no future, and the woman and child who transform his life. Welcome Kayla Daniels to the line with Wanted: Mom and Me, and join an on-the-run mother and child as they find safety—and a renewed sense of family—in the person of one very sexy sheriff. Ingrid Weaver is back with On the Way to a Wedding... You won’t want to miss a single pulse-pounding page as lawman Nick Strada fakes his own death—then has to take beautiful Lauren Abbot on the rum with him. Finally, welcome Cheryl Biggs, whose The Return of the Cowboy captures the feel of the West and all the passion you could want.

  Enjoy them all—then come back next month for even more of the most exciting romance reading around...only in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

  Happy New Year!

  Leslie Wainger

  Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator

  * * *

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  * * *

  ON THE WAY TO A WEDDING...

  INGRID WEAVER

  Books by Ingrid Weaver

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  True Blue #570

  True Lies #660

  On the Way to a Wedding... #761

  Silhouette Special Edition

  The Wolf and the Woman’s Touch #1056

  INGRID WEAVER

  admits to being a compulsive reader who loves a book that can make her cry. A former teacher, now a homemaker and mother, she delights in creating stories that reflect the wonder and adventure of falling in love. When she isn’t writing or reading, she enjoys old “Star Trek” reruns, going on sweater-knitting binges, taking long walks with her husband and waking up early to canoe after camera-shy loons.

  To Melissa Jeglinski, my intrepid editor—

  Air travel really is safe. Really.

  Prologue

  The jukebox was waging a losing battle against the escalating din from the patrons as the night wore on. Cigarette smoke hung in a stinging haze, mingling with the yeasty smell of spilled beer. Slouching against the bar, Nicholai Strada used his thumbnail to peel the label off a long-necked bottle as he scanned the room. It was July in New York, and the dripping air conditioner that wheezed over the barroom door was as hopelessly outmatched as the jukebox. But the sweat that gleamed from the forehead of the man who approached wasn’t due merely to the heat.

  “It’s been a long time, Strada.”

  Nick shifted his gaze from the mirror behind the bar to the short, weasel-thin man who took the stool beside him. “Keeping yourself out of trouble, Bernie?”

  “Sure, sure. You know me.”

  “That’s the trouble. I do know you.” Nick caught the bartender’s eye and ordered a shot of tequila.

  When the drink arrived, Bernie tapped his fingers against his glass for a moment before tipping it up and swallowing the liquor in one gulp. He coughed, then sucked in air through his teeth. A gold cap gleamed on his left incisor. “Yeah, we go back a ways, don’t we?”

  “Uh-huh,” Nick drawled, propping his foot against the brass rail so it would be easier to reach his knife. “We’re regular pals. How long have you been out, now?”

  “Eleven months, nine days.”

  “I see you got the tooth fixed.”

  He grinned, a quick, nervous flicker. “Yeah. It was decent of you to get a real dentist to come to the prison infirmary.”

  “Hey, it was the least I could do, seeing as how I broke it in the first place.”

  The grin dissolved into a sneer. “That’s what I like about you, Strada. You’re a real prince.”

  “Golly, gee whiz, I’m touched.”

  A table tipped over in the corner to the sound of breaking bottles and loud, loose laughter. Bernie jerked nervously, glancing over his shoulder like a man with a guilty conscience. He ordered a second drink, drained it faster than the first, then closed his fist over the empty glass. “Okay, let’s cut the crap. I have a message for you.”

  “Since when did you start working for Western Union?”

  “Shut up and listen. Whatever you’re doing is really ticking someone off back in Chicago.”

  “That’s his problem, Bernie.”

  “Yeah, well, now it’s your problem, too. Word on the street is that you’re worth five thousand dead.”

  “Only five thousand? I’m insulted.”

  “I’m trying to do you a favor here—”

  “Bull. You don’t do anything for free. If you really want to do me a favor, give me something on the man who’s putting up the blood money.”

  “Can’t. Don’t know who it is. Honest.”

  Nick let his hand drop casually to his side. “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “I don’t want any trouble. I don’t work in your town anymore, remember?”

  “So you waited until you heard I was coming here and arranged this little meeting out of the goodness of your heart? I’m deeply, truly touched.”

  The door swung open, swirling a blast of thick, humid air into the crowded room. Bernie glanced over his shoulder again and hunched closer to Nick as if trying to make himself invisible. “It’s more, Strada. More than just you.”

  “What?”

  “It’s your mother. And your sisters. How many sisters you got? Three? Four?”

  Nick’s fingers brushed the side of his boot. “So?”

  “So the word is, anyone named Strada’s on the list. You better quit what you’re messing with or—” His words cut off on a startled squeak. Eyes bulging, he looked down at his lap.r />
  “Since you’re into passing along messages, take note of this one.” Nick moved the knife he held just enough for the tip to slice a fingernail-width tear in the denim between Bernie’s legs. “Anyone who touches my family is a dead man, Bernie. Are you listening?”

  “Dammit, Strada, get that blade away from me.”

  “Spread the word. They’re citizens. They’re not involved. If someone is stupid enough to lay a finger or anything else on them—” he twisted his wrist so that the dim light from behind the bar glinted off cold steel “—I’ll personally remove it.”

  Sweat trickled down Bernie’s forehead. Apart from blinking, he didn’t move a muscle. “Geez, I’m trying to do you a favor, you crazy cossack. I’m not your enemy.”

  “Then prove it. Give me something on Duxbury.”

  “Who?”

  “Adam Duxbury. Ring a bell?”

  Bernie swallowed hard. “I can’t help you. I swear to God, I can’t. I’m just a messenger.”

  As smoothly as he’d brought the weapon out, Nick clicked the blade shut and slipped it back into his boot. It wasn’t department issue, but at times it was more effective than the Smith & Wesson that nestled in his shoulder holster. Even in a place like this, a gunshot was bound to draw some attention.

  Nick put his elbow on the bar and took a mouthful of too warm, too flat beer. “How much did Duxbury pay you to pass along this warning?”

  “I got nothing more to say to you, Strada.” Bernie slid from the stool and took a wary step backward. “Now I remember why I needed a change of scene when I got out. You’re nuts, man.”

  Nick bared his teeth in an expression that no one would mistake for a smile. “Thank you. I do my best.”

  Swearing under his breath, Bernie twisted away and angled a path toward the door.

  For a moment Nick considered following him outside and persuading him to continue the conversation, but it wouldn’t be any use. Duxbury had succeeded in covering his tracks so far, and he was smart enough to choose a messenger boy who’d have no credibility in court... if Nick ever managed to get him there.

  “Damn,” he muttered, tightening his hands into fists. During his past twelve years with the Chicago police department, Nick had dealt with the occasional death threat. It had never deterred him from finishing an investigation before. If anything, the adrenaline usually gave his reflexes an extra edge. It was all part of the job.

  Yet nailing Duxbury went beyond the job. It was justice. The man was guilty of taking a life. Nick had seen him do it, had looked right into his flat, cold eyes through the windshield of the murder weapon. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that Duxbury had been driving that car.

  But it seemed as if money and influence could buy anything. It bought an alibi. It bought a one-way ticket to Buenos Aires for the witness Nick had tracked to New York.

  It bought a contract on five completely innocent women.

  Was it a bluff? If it had been his own life, Nick wouldn’t have hesitated to take the gamble. But what choice did he have now? Drop the case? That’s what his captain wanted. With no progress to date and dead ends everywhere he turned it was only a matter of time before Nick would be ordered to pursue something else.

  But he couldn’t give up. With the blood of cossacks and conquistadors mingling in his veins, Nick didn’t know how to give up.

  And when it came to the people he loved, Nicholai Strada was as primitively protective as any of his warrior ancestors.

  Tossing some crumpled bills onto the bar to cover Bernie’s drinks, Nick straightened to his full height. His lean muscles tightened with urgency and his pulse pounded a hard accompaniment to the music still blaring from the jukebox as he made his way to the phone in the back hallway. Gripping the receiver until his knuckles went white, Nick called the airport and arranged for a seat on the first flight back to Chicago.

  Chapter 1

  He was a difficult man to ignore. From the long, denimclad legs that were braced too close to her silk skirt, to the broad shoulders that didn’t fit against the back of the seat, his lean body exuded masculinity. There was a restlessness about him, a sense of leashed energy, an impression of predatory strength. He had the primitive, indisputable confidence of an alpha male. He would easily dominate any environment, whether it was a boardroom or a barroom. Here in the tight, forced intimacy of the airplane cabin, the very air around him seemed charged. Yes, he was difficult to ignore, but Lauren Abbot was doing her best.

  Crossing her legs to give him more room, Lauren carefully smoothed her skirt to her knees and turned toward the window. The soap star she had met last year had been handsomer, and the linebacker had been larger, and the congressman she had just interviewed had been a heck of a lot better dressed, yet none of those men had come close to affecting her like... him. One glance and her breath had caught. One whiff of his cologne and her pulse had thudded. And she wasn’t sure he was wearing cologne, not unless some lucky company somewhere had discovered how to bottle pure masculinity.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw him shift to claim the extra space she had given him. He stretched his left arm in front of him, twisting his wrist to check his watch, then dropped his hand to his thigh. Long, strong fingers tapped out an impatient rhythm against his knee.

  Evidently, alpha male types didn’t like to be kept waiting.

  As if on cue, the pilot’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker, announcing yet another ten-minute delay before takeoff.

  Now the man’s right foot took up the rhythm of his fingers as the toe of his scuffed cowboy boot whacked the metal supports of the seat in front of him. He twitched his shoulders, and the worn tan leather of his jacket creaked, whispering of energy that was no longer completely leashed.

  Lauren bit down on the inside of her lip and focused on the lights at the edge of the runway. Unlike the man in the seat next to hers, she was in no hurry to reach Chicago. She had delayed her return as long as possible, and for a fleeting, guilty instant, she wished that the flight could be canceled altogether.

  Her sister’s wedding wouldn’t take place for another two weeks, yet already Lauren could feel her stomach knotting at the prospect. She’d agreed to be Angela’s maid of honor, and she’d been helping to organize all the peripheral details for months. She knew that she’d attend the ceremony no matter what, but she usually avoided weddings as determinedly as she avoided men like the one sitting beside her.

  Then again, she’d never encountered a man quite like the one sitting beside her.

  With a rumbling growl, the pitch of the engines changed. The plane eased forward to take its place among the others that waited for clearance. Somewhere toward the back of the cabin, a baby cried fitfully before lapsing into silence. A flight attendant hurried down the aisle, snapping closed the overhead compartments. She paused when she reached their row.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  Lauren glanced toward her silent companion.

  “Sir?” the young woman repeated. “Please fasten your seat belt. We’re about to take off.”

  The man looked up quickly, flashing the flight attendant a tight, preoccupied smile. “Sure,” he said. His voice was deep and rich, resonating with hints of the same suppressed power that surrounded the rest of him. “Thanks.”

  The smile the woman returned was much wider than the one she had received and no doubt a few degrees warmer than professionalism required. “You’re very welcome. Do you need any assistance?”

  He shook his head and reached for the ends of the belt. “No, thanks.”

  The sound of his voice brushed Lauren’s skin like the charged breeze before a storm. Her gaze lingered on his profile. His forehead was broad, his nose long and narrow. His steel blue eyes, along with the dramatic angles of his high cheekbones and square jaw, evoked images of windswept steppes and endless horizons. His features were chiseled, honed and uncompromisingly male. And yet...

  And yet there were lines at the corners of his firmly compress
ed lips that would probably deepen adorably if he ever indulged in a genuine smile. His hair was a gleaming, depthless brown, so dark it verged on black. Combed carelessly back from his face, it reached past his collar in soft waves that would slip sensuously through a woman’s fingers. The steel blue of his eyes was tempered by long, sinfully lush lashes that made her wonder what would happen if his barely controlled energy turned to passion.

  Lauren faced front and pressed her head against the back of the seat. This was ridiculous. Where was her customary objectivity? What had happened to her sense of detachment? Why should she speculate about this stranger’s potential for passion?

  She didn’t want passion.

  She didn’t want to go to the wedding, either.

  The plane quivered as the noise of the engines increased. The lights beside the runway became a blur, then a streak, then dropped away altogether. The pressure that had pushed Lauren into the seat eased and the plane leveled off. She unbuckled her seat belt, released the button on the front of her tailored jacket and leaned over to retrieve her briefcase. If she kept busy with her work, she wouldn’t have time to think about this steely-eyed stranger. And if she concentrated very, very hard, she might be able to avoid thinking about what she would have to face when she got home.

  For forty minutes it almost worked. With her briefcase open on her lap and her pen in her hand, she felt more at ease, drawing her professionalism around her like comfortable, well-worn armor. Lauren owed her career as a television journalist to her ability to distance herself from her subjects, to suppress her own emotions and her opinions and view each story with objectivity and logic. There were advantages to going through life as an observer rather than a participant. It was safer, smoother.