Page 64 of The Bride Wore White

When Jack walked through the door a short time later, he had glanced inside the kit markedHisand disappeared briefly into one of the bedrooms with it. When he had rejoined her, she had not been sure how to read his mood. She had handed him a glass of brandy that she had poured at the well-stocked drinks cart. He had taken it without comment and immediately swallowed a healthy dose. She had done the same with her own whiskey.

Until now Jack had been focused on each crisis as it arose—escape the burning house, rescue Clara Dover, explain the situation to the authorities. Then he had made the phone call to Luther Pell from the hospital lobby pay phone informing him that they needed a room for the night and why.

Now he was standing at the closed French doors, contemplating the darkened patio and deep shadows of the small private garden. The lights of the lobby and the wings of the main part of the sprawling hotel sparkled through the foliage. The muffled music of the dance orchestra, still going strong, could be heard in the distance.

This was, Prudence realized, the first time Jack had stopped moving forward since the firestorm at House of Shadows had started. He had to be exhausted.

He could have been killed tonight, she thought. Because of her.

She set her empty glass down on the coffee table next to the manuscript and walked across the terra-cotta tiles to join Jack at the window. They stood side by side, not touching, and looked out into the night.

“It really was a spectacular house,” she said, trying to find the right words. “Very striking décor.”

“It never felt right.”

“Because you bought it for a different future than the one you got.”

To her surprise his hard mouth quirked in a flash of bemused amusement. “Is that a psychic insight?”

“Nope. A conclusion based on the evidence.” She took a breath and concentrated on the shadows looming on the other side of the glass panes. “You almost got killed tonight. You lost your home. Your library. All your stuff. Because of me. That’s not right. I’m so sorry you got dragged into this.”

“You didn’t drag me into anything. Luther Pell hired me to consult on your case. I’m getting paid, remember? You are a client. Your case is a job.”

“That may be true, but it wasn’t supposed to include risking your life to save me from a burning house. If it hadn’t been for me, you would still have a roof over your head.”

He glanced up at the ceiling of the villa. “This one will do.”

“Damn it, Jack—”

He turned to confront her, his eyes still smoldering a little with the embers of the fierce energy that had been driving him for the past few hours.

“Would you mind very much if we saved this argument until morning?” he said. “I’ve got other things to concentrate on at the moment.”

She felt the heat rise in her face. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I was just trying to apologize for putting you in harm’s way.”

“Don’t.”

She took a breath. “Okay. Can I at least thank you for saving my life tonight?”

“You’re welcome. Now do me a favor and don’t raise the subject again.”

She sniffed, not sure why she was suddenly close to tears. Shock, she decided. She had been through a lot tonight. So had Jack. A person’s nerves could take only so much. She nodded once, very crisply took a step back, and turned to head toward the bedroom—theotherbedroom. Not the one Jack had chosen earlier. She did not want to make that mistake. That would be a very dumb thing to do. Also humiliating.

“I’ll leave you to your consulting,” she said.

“What is that?” he said, his voice sharpening.

She stopped and looked back to see what he was talking about. She realized he had turned away from the window and was staring at the typed pages ofThe Wingate Crime Treeon the coffee table.

“Oh, that’s your manuscript,” she said. “It was on my nightstand when you came to my room to tell me that the house was on fire, so I grabbed it.”

He looked at her with utter disbelief. “You saved my manuscript?”

“You did say it was your only copy. I realize you could reconstruct the book if necessary, but you’ve obviously put so much work into it already. It just seemed a shame to leave it behind.”

Jack walked toward the coffee table, reached down, and picked up the stack of pages. He looked at the title page and slowly shook his head.

“You were running for your life,” he said. “You could have grabbed something valuable. Your handbag. A few of your new clothes. But you saved my manuscript? What were you thinking?”

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