The Runaway Bride. Patricia Johns
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ONE
BERNADETTE “BUNNY” MORGAN could hear the murmur of voices from the Manhattan cathedral where her family and friends already waited. Ten minutes from now, she’d be walking down that aisle on her father’s arm to the traditional wedding march. She’d imagined this moment a thousand times since they’d booked the cathedral two years ago. Weddings of this caliber didn’t come together in a heartbeat. Everything from the choice of the groom to the color of the scented beads in the dressing rooms took careful planning.
Each element of this wedding was traditional. It had to be perfect, as her mother so kindly pointed out, since the media would be picking it apart. This wedding would be on all the society pages and blogs...but her mother, Kitty, had taken care of most of those details for her from the flowers adorning the church to the Rolls-Royce they would drive away in. Her father had been less inclined to hand over his antique Rolls, but what Kitty wanted, Kitty got. And Kitty demanded perfection for her daughter’s wedding.
Thankfully.
Bernadette loved that car, and she liked the idea of driving off with Calvin toward the Four Seasons Hotel, their security entourage flanking them. It would be the first glorious foray of Mr. and Mrs. Calvin McMann.
“We want them to think of the Kennedys when you drive off,” her mother had told her. “Regal. American royalty. We might not be there yet, but we can put a picture in their minds. I want them to think Jackie Kennedy. So remember, sweet, demure and classic. Always classic!”
Bernadette twisted her engagement ring on her finger—a princess-cut diamond in a cloud of smaller stones, all set in platinum. It was beautiful, eye-catching and fabric-catching, too. She tugged it free of her gauzy skirt, wincing as she noticed the tiny snag.
Calvin was just down the hall. They’d agreed to have a few moments of private contemplation before the wedding began to calm their nerves, but Bernadette was regretting that now. Her stomach flipped as she paused to look in the mirror one last time. The face that stared back at her, framed in glossy dark waves, looked ashen.
What would Calvin be doing with his “contemplation” time? Practicing his golf swing, no doubt. Calvin McMann was unflappable. Tall, chiseled, tanned—he was perfection in a suit, and whenever she felt doubts nagging, all she had to do was look at him, and she’d remember their carefully orchestrated plans for a successful life together. Calvin McMann was a senator, and the position had settled a certain comfortable confidence onto his shoulders. What she needed right now was to see her fiancé—have him give one of those trademark winks that made him so electable.
“Sweet, demure, classic,” she reminded herself aloud.
Kitty would kill her if she snuck into Calvin’s dressing room. Brides stayed put until they went down the aisle... And heaven help the bride who let her groom see the dress a second too early.
This was stupid! Who really cared if Calvin saw her dress? That was superstition, and this marriage wouldn’t be built on something so flimsy. They were a political team, a financial powerhouse. Love on these levels was 80 percent choice, and she’d made the right one in Calvin McMann...hadn’t she?
Her stomach twisted again. Logically, marrying Calvin made sense. She knew that, but...
Bernadette eased open the door and peeked into the hallway. No one. The bridesmaids were with the photographer out in the church foyer—she could hear the photographer’s instructions. Her mother’s voice could be heard over his, telling Courtney, Bernadette’s maid of honor, to stop “standing there like a common tart,” whatever that meant.
Bernadette’s dress rustled when she moved, so she gathered it in her arms and crept down the hallway toward the room Calvin was using. She’d have knocked if she weren’t afraid of drawing everyone’s attention, so she turned the handle as silently as possible and peeked inside.
It took a moment to make sense of what she saw. She’d been expecting to see Calvin standing alone, fiddling with cuff links or something. Instead, it was a mess of black suit and pink tulle. There was a flash of tanned skin, a swath of blond hair... There were some grunts, a sigh, then she made out Calvin’s tanned hand moving up a white thigh. And suddenly, the whole scene came into focus.
Vivid, ugly focus.
She didn’t feel rage, just numbing shock, and then the sickening sensation that she might vomit. And she saw the truth as clear as day: this was what her married life would look like—a handsome groom satisfying his carnal desires with another woman in the next room.
Bernadette recognized the woman in her fiancé’s arms—it was Calvin’s ex-girlfriend, who was supposed to be in the distant past, or so he claimed. Would Kimberly be a fixture in their marriage, or was this going to be a revolving door? One thing would be expected: she, the dutiful wife, would have to stand there with the grace and dignity of Jackie Kennedy, taking it.
No. That was the first word to pop into her mind as the shock began to fade. No!
She paused for a moment, waiting for hysterics to set in, but they didn’t. She didn’t feel frightened or panicked. She didn’t feel uncontrollable fury. A strange, eerie calm settled over her, and she eased the door shut once more, gathered up her skirts and crept down the back stairs.
“Bunny?” Lanie was one of the junior bridesmaids and one of her second cousins. She stood by the back door, a cigarette in one hand, apparently sneaking a quick smoke before the ceremony began. Bernadette hated that stupid nickname. Her parents had set her up for a lifetime of country clubs and golf courses with that name.
“Hi, sweetie,” Bernadette crooned. “I’m just going to get something from the car.” She put her fingers to her lips in an exaggerated display of secrecy, and her young cousin giggled.
“I’ll hold the door!” Lanie whispered after her.
The car was parked close to the church, ready for their big exit, and Bernadette fished around in her little satin bag for the car key, and pulled it out. Her father might have handpicked her groom, but he wouldn’t trust Calvin with the keys to his favorite car until the vows were final.
She popped the trunk, and looked down at the two suitcases. One was hers, packed with such attention to detail over the past few days, and the other Calvin’s.
“Miss Morgan?” It was the security guard, and he looked suddenly disconcerted. “Or should I say Mrs. McMann?”
He apparently didn’t know if the wedding had happened yet.
“Bunny is fine.” She shot him a reassuring smile, then she paused. “Actually, no. I hate that name. Call me Bernie.”
“Yes, ma’am. Can I help you with anything... Bernie?”
“Yes!” She smiled brilliantly and hauled Calvin’s suitcase out of the trunk. “Be a doll and hold this for me, would you?”
The young man stepped forward and took the proffered suitcase, then she slammed the trunk shut and beelined over to the driver’s side. She let herself in, piling her voluminous skirt into her lap, then slammed the door shut and started the car.
“Ma’am?” The security guard started around the car just as she stepped on the gas. “Wait! Miss Morgan! I mean—”
She didn’t hear the rest of what he said, because she was driving at full speed toward the security checkpoint. Uniformed guards scattered like bowling pins as she sailed through and took a squealing turn onto the Manhattan street, narrowly missing a yellow cab. The driver leaned out his window and let out a string of curses that faded away as she accelerated.
She had no idea where she was going—just away. Far away! She’d think this through later. She might have the classic, dark-haired beauty, and she might come from wealth, but she was no Jackie Kennedy.
* * *
LIAM WILSON WIPED his greasy hands on a cloth and tossed it onto his workbench next to the pickup he was working on. It needed another part, and he’d have to order it in. The front garage door was rolled