A Bride For Saint Nick Read online

  It was madness to contemplate the possibility of seeking her out, of course. He recognized that. No good could come of exhuming the past and trying to explain it away.

  Still…

  Discovering Suzanne Whitney’s new name and current whereabouts would be child’s play for him, he reflected. A few seconds at his computer keyboard would grant him full access to the New England itinerary Gulliver’s Travels had arranged for the Greggs. And if that didn’t give him the information he needed, he could interrogate Lucy Falco. She would be so thrilled by his unprecedented show of interest that she would never think to ask why he was inquiring about a fiftiethanniversary trip taken by a septuagenarian couple he didn’t know.

  He simply wanted to make certain that Suzanne was all right, he told himself. To know that she’d survived her involvement with Nicholas Marchand reasonably intact, if not wholly unscathed. He had no intention of approaching her. None!

  Yes…he might watch over her from a distance. And yes, he might try to find some anonymous way of expiating the sins he’d committed against her. But he would never, ever attempt to reawaken her emotions or to renew their physical union.

  Unless…

  No!

  Never.

  Ever.

  How long John Gulliver sat studying the face of the woman who’d given herself to the man he’d once pretended to be, he was never able to calculate. Nor could he ever be sure at what minute of what hour he decided on a course of action. The length of time it took him to compose—and recompose, and compose yet again—a three-sentence computer message to Lucy Falco was similarly impossible to gauge.

  However, when he finally dispatched the E-mail request for information into cyberspace and happened to glance toward one of the windows in the room in which he was sitting, he realized that the sun was beginning to come up.

  Federal Prisoner No. 00394756—aka Anthony Stone—didn’t give a damn about day or night, light or dark. For him, the traditional tick-tock of seconds, minutes and hours had little meaning.

  To many of those incarcerated in the maximum-security facility that had been his home for nearly five years, the passage of time was an adversary. A twisted few regarded it as an ally. For him, it was simply something to be endured—ignored, when possible—until that inevitable moment when he chose to exert his power.

  How much power could a convicted felon facing life-plusten-years in a concrete cell have at his disposal? Federal Prisoner No. 00394756 laughed softly. That would be telling, he thought. Suffice to say, it was more than enough to set him free whenever and however he chose.

  An almost-voluptuous sense of anticipation stirred within him.

  “Soon,” he murmured. “Very, very soon.”

  The time of deliverance was coming. His time. His deliverance. He was willing to wait for it. To savor the implications of its inexorable approach. And while he did that…

  Let the so-called “authorities”—the fools who thought they’d brought him down, because he was allowing them to keep him behind bars—slip deeper into their bureaucratic complacency.

  Let those who owed him grow more acutely aware of their debts, more fearful of how he would demand repayment.

  Let his enemy, Nicholas “Saint Nick” Marchand—the man he’d hated above all others—go on rotting in an unwept-over grave, feeding worms and maggots.

  And let the woman he’d claimed for himself five and a half years ago continue as she was. Chastely faithful to his memory. Vigilantly protective of what they’d created together. Not within his grasp, exactly, but definitely under his thumb.

  Federal Prisoner 00394756 closed his eyes.

  “I’m coming, Suzanne,” he whispered hoarsely, his mind filling with the image of a fair-haired, sky-eyed woman. His body pulsed with the memory of the May night they’d finally joined as one. “For you…and for my son.”

  Chapter 1

  Andy McKay had Christmas on his mind and he obviously wanted his mother to know it.

  “Twenny-two,” he declared loudly, smacking his left index finger against the calendar that hung at kid’s-eye level on the door of the refrigerator in the McKays’ cream-and-yellow kitchen. “Twenny-three. Twenny-four.” His fingertip landed on a square decorated with a crayoned-in wreath. He glanced over his shoulder, apparently checking to be sure that his audience was paying sufficient attention to his recitation. After a moment he announced, “Just twenny-four days ‘til Christmas, Mommy.”

  “Uh-huh.” Leigh McKay swallowed the final mouthful of her breakfast tea, then deposited the daisy-decorated mug in the sink. “That’s one day less than it was yesterday.”

  Like that of most youngsters his age, Andy’s grasp of the concept of time was still a bit iffy, so it took him a few seconds to absorb the meaning of this last statement. Leigh watched as he thought through the implications of her words. The intensity of his concentration furrowed his smooth, fair-skinned forehead and narrowed his usually wide and sparkling blue-gray eyes. For an instant, he looked much older than his four years and nine months. For an instant, she thought she caught a hint of the darkly compelling man she prayed was his—

  No!

  Stop it, Leigh ordered herself, fighting to keep her expression neutral. You’ll drive yourself crazy looking for similarities, trying to match what you think you see today with memories that are nearly six years old. Andy is Andy and he’s your son. It doesn’t matter who his father is. Or isn’t. The past is over and done with. You have to leave it alone.

  “One day less—” Andy echoed, looking back at the calendar. Then, suddenly, he gave a triumphant yelp and whirled around to face his mother.

  “Yes!” he exulted, all little-boy innocence once again. His eyes danced. His dimples flashed as he turned on a grin. “And tomorrow it will be another day less, right, Mommy?”

  Leigh nodded, summoning up a quick—and what felt like a rather crooked—smile. “That’s right, Andy,” she affirmed in as light a tone as she could manage. “Tomorrow there will be twenty-three days ‘til Christmas.”

  Her son gave a gleeful giggle, apparently oblivious to her momentary upset. For this she was profoundly grateful. Deep in her heart, she knew that the issue of Andy’s paternity was something she and her son would have to confront and come to terms with sometime in the future. She just prayed that the inevitable moment of reckoning would not arrive too soon…nor impact too destructively.

  “Tomorrow after tomorrow will be twenny-two days ‘til Christmas,” Andy proclaimed, seizing the opportunity to expand upon his chosen subject. “And tomorrow after tomorrow after tomorrow will be twenny-one days ‘til Christmas. And tomorrow after tomorrow after tomorrow after tomorrow—”

  “It will be the tomorrow after New Year’s before we get out of here if you don’t get a move on, young man,” Leigh interrupted. She glanced at her wristwatch, commanding herself to focus on the here and now. Obsessing about what had been-and what might be because of it—was dangerous. The people who’d helped her build her present life had stressed that, over and over again. “Which could be a problem. Didn’t I hear you say something the other day about planning to tell Santa that you’d been especially good about not dawdling in the mornings this past year?”

  “I wasn’t dawdling!” The protest was huffy, but there was a hint of anxiety lurking just beneath the indignation. Being able to claim the distinction of having been “especially good” was very important at this time of year. Little boys who couldn’t do so ran a serious risk of being disappointed on Christmas morning.

  Or so Leigh knew one very special little boy wholeheartedly believed.

  “No?” She lifted an eyebrow, trying to quell a pang of guilt over having resorted to using an implied threat to get her son going. A working mom had to do what a working mom had to do to keep things on schedule, she reminded herself. And heaven knew, her calendar was especially crammed today.

  Still…stooping to using seasonal blackmail on a preschooler wasn’t a very nice thing to do.
And even if she accepted the premise that there were times when doing a “not nice” thing was absolutely necessary, she couldn’t help but feel that it was a wee bit early in the holiday period for her to start utilizing Santa Claus as a behavior-modification tool. The jolly old elf was a very heavy weapon in a parent’s disciplinary arsenal. He deserved to be held in reserve for those moments when nothing short of his mediating influence would do.

  “I was just tryin’ to tell you how long ‘til Christmas.” Andy gazed up at her limpidly, appealing for absolution. “Like…on the TV news. So, like, you could know how many days you have for shoppin’ and stuff.”

  A sudden impulse toward laughter tickled the back of Leigh’s throat—part nerves, part genuine amusement. She swallowed it, knowing her status as the adult-in-charge would be compromised if she didn’t. Still, she had to give her son credit for concocting a very ingenious rationalization for what he’d been up to.

  “I certainly appreciate that, Andy,” she assured him gravely. “But I’d appreciate it even more if you got your teeth brushed and put on your jacket and mittens.”

  For a moment, her son seemed to consider renewing his Christmas-is-coming pitch. Then something—perhaps the realization that he had “twenny-three” more days to press home the importance of the approaching holiday—made him change his mind.

  “Okay, Mommy!” he cheerfully concurred and dashed away to do as he’d been bidden. His small, boot-clad feet thudded against the floor, making it possible to track his path away from the kitchen, up the stairs and into his second-floor bedroom.

  It was remarkable how much noise one little boy could generate, Leigh reflected as she marshaled her thoughts toward the workday ahead.

  Even more remarkable—miraculous, some might say—was how great a difference that same small child had made to his mother’s violence-shattered life.

  “Here we are,” Leigh said about twenty-five minutes later as she pulled up in front of the small preschool Andy attended. Bringing her aging station wagon to a halt, she shifted into Park and turned to her son. “Now, remember. I’m driving to Brattleboro today for business, so Nonna P. will pick you up this afternoon instead of me.”

  Nonna P. was Andy’s nickname for Donatella Pietra. A softspoken widow in her late fifties, Nonna was the answer to a single parent’s child-care prayers. She’d moved to Vermont from Newark, New Jersey, a little more than two years ago and begun baby-sitting for Andy shortly after her arrival. He adored her unconditionally and she reciprocated his affection without reserve. “I love him like my own,” she’d declared on more than one occasion.

  “I’ll remember,” Andy promised, tugging clumsily at his safety harness with mittened fingers. Leigh knew better than to offer a helping hand. Unsolicited assistance, she’d learned, would offend her son’s burgeoning male ego. After a brief struggle between boy and seat-belt buckle, the fastener released with a metallic snick.

  “Kiss?” she asked, initiating what had become something of a morning ritual for them. She tried not to wonder how long this ritual would endure. Her son was growing up so quickly! All too soon, there would come a day when he would decide he was too old for public displays of maternal affection. When he would groan “Ah, jeez, Ma” if she attempted any physical contact more intimate than a handshake.

  But until that day arrived…

  “Hug,” Andy countered decisively, scooting toward her.

  She encircled his small but solid body with her arms, holding him close for a few precious seconds. “Love you, sweetie,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his silky, toffee-brown hair.

  His response was a squeeze, followed by a brief but unmistakable snuggle; then, very softly, “Love you, too, Mommy.”

  A moment later, Andy started to wriggle-free of her embrace, obviously eager to reassert himself as an independent, almost-five-year-old. Leigh McKay did what she knew she must.

  After breathing a swift, silent prayer for her son’s continued well-being, she let him go.

  A postcard, John Gulliver thought with a strange surge of emotion as he drove slowly along the snow-lined main street of what could only be called a “picturesque” New England village. The guys from the Witness Security Program stuck Suzanne in the middle of a postcard!

  He wasn’t certain why his reaction to the setting was so acute. Having been to this part of Vermont a couple of times during his youth, he’d had a pretty good idea what to expect. But even had he not had memories of previous visits to draw upon, he’d gotten a detailed description of the place from Marcy-Anne Gregg when he’d spoken to her by phone yesterday evening.

  “Mah husband and Ah positively fell in love with that little town, Mr. Gulliver,” she’d confided in a molasses-andmagnolia drawl during the course of what had turned out to be a protracted conversation. “Maxwell is particularly fond of the Federal style of architecture and the village green is surrounded by some perfectly preserved buildin’s from that period. Ah, personally, was quite taken with the covered bridges.. There’s three of them right there in the area, you know. Much prettier than the one in that Clint Eastwood movie about Madison County, if you ask me. And then, to find out Ah was in a place that’s home to no fewer than four church bells that may have been made by Mr. Paul Revere himself—why, Ah was thrilled beyond words. Which is exactly what Ah told dear Tiffany Toulouse when Ah spoke to her after our return. By the way, did Ah mention what a wonderful job Tiffany did in arrangin’ our anniversary trip? Well, even if Ah did, let me mention it again. And that darlin’ Lucy Falco was just the soul of consideration toward us, too. Why a sweet girl like that isn’t married is beyond me. Although, Ah do believe Ah recall her sayin’ somethin’ about havin’ had a husband at one time. Be fore she came to work for you at Gulliver’s Travels, Ah gather. Ah hope he didn’t die on her or somethin’ heartbreakin’ like that. Which isn’t to say that havin’ a husband pass on to his reward might not be easier to endure than havin’ a live one walk out the door because he’d fallen in love with another woman. Or with another man. Ah saw a talk show about that very subject just the other day, you know. Ah was shocked. Just shocked. Ah had to watch the whole thing to make sure Ah truly was seein’ and hearin’ what Ah thought Ah was seein’ and hearin’. In any case—Oh. Oh, dear. Ah seem to have gotten mahself off the track. What was Ah sayin’—?”

  “That you were thrilled beyond words at finding yourself in a place that boasts four church bells supposedly made by Paul Revere,” he’d responded dryly. Listening patiently to little old ladies babbling on about seemingly irrelevant subjects was not his forte. Still, the interrogator’s instincts he’d honed during his years as a federal agent had warned him that Marcy-Anne Gregg would yield up the information he was seeking in her own discursively chatty fashion or not at all. And since obtaining that information was crucial to the success of his quest to find Suzanne….

  Learning her current location through the computer—to say nothing of uncovering the details of her new identity—had proved impossible. Yes, he’d been able to access the itinerary Gulliver’s Travels had arranged for the Greggs. The problem was, said itinerary stretched over a period of three weeks and included ten stops in four states. There was no way for him to determine when during those three weeks or in which of those four states the photograph of Suzanne had been taken.

  Which wasn’t to say he hadn’t tried. He’d spent much of Thanksgiving Day staring at the fateful snapshot, searching in vain for visual clues. He’d digitalized it, loaded it onto his computer, enhanced it electronically and gone over the image, pixel by pixel.

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  Questioning Lucy Falco via phone the day after Thanksgiving had been equally frustrating. It had been more than a little unsettling, as well.

  As he’d expected, his travel-agency office manager had been delighted by his show of interest in the Greggs’ trip. She’d plainly thought that her long-running effort to increase his personal involvement in the business was finally
starting to pay off. But after her first rush of surprised pleasure had dissipated, she’d begun to sound curious about why he was so curious about Marcy-Anne and Maxwell’s golden-anniversary expedition.

  Finding himself oddly reluctant to lie, yet utterly unwilling to offer any hint of the truth, he’d shifted conversational gears. While Lucy had followed his cue without missing a beat, he’d had the feeling that she’d gone on speculating about the reason for his previous inquiries. He hadn’t liked that feeling. He hadn’t liked the sense of potential vulnerability that had accompanied it, either.

  Following his fruitless call to the all-too-perceptive Ms. Falco, he’d seriously considered reestablishing contact with some of his former colleagues in the Justice Department and pressuring them for information. But after assessing the pros and cons, he’d decided to hold this option in reserve. If all else failed…

  For much of the final weekend of November, he’d thought that this might be the case. That all else would fail and he would be forced to turn to the very people who’d made the decision to leave Suzanne Whitney ignorant of the truth about Nicholas Marchand. Using the telephone number he’d gotten from Gulliver’s Travels’ files, he’d called the Greggs’ home in Marietta, Georgia, over and over again. Over and over again, he’d gotten no answer.

  Finally, at 6:45 p.m. on Sunday, Marcy-Anne had picked up.

  At 7:02 p.m., he’d hit pay dirt.

  “Why, of course Ah remember that photograph,” the older woman had cheerfully assured him. She’d then proceeded to prove her assertion—at length. Eventually she’d concluded, “Such a lovely girl, don’t you think? One of mah best friends has an unmarried grandson who’d just eat her up with a spoon if he ever met her. And she’s so clever, too. Ah just adored that little bookshop of hers….”

  A scant ten hours later, John Gulliver had been winging his way toward the Burlington International Airport. Once there, he’d picked up a rental car and headed southeast along 1-89.