Bree closed her eyes, suddenly looking excruciatingly young. “Yes, all the clothes for the wedding were burned up. Except for the dress.” A tear leaked out from under her lashes.
“What is it?” Mark asked gently, although he felt a wave of anticipation surge through him. He was finally getting somewhere with her.
She opened her eyes, giving him a long, steady look. “You don’t need to get any more involved than you are.”
“The dress wasn’t the whole story, was it?”
She sighed, giving in. “No. There was something else, another reason they might be tailing me besides Jonathan. My boss, Jessica Lark, was murdered before the fire was set.”
So that was the murder she’d witnessed. Mark felt a chill go through him. “There were rumors that Lark had an assistant, but the name on the payroll records was a fake. There was no way to find out who you really were.”
“I was hiding from the press. Jessica kept my real identity off the books as a favor, especially when it turned out that we were the ones working on the wedding designs. I wanted my work to be taken seriously and not regarded as fluff because I was a rich girl playing with fashion.”
Mark felt a knot of suspicion forming in his gut. “You realize that doesn’t look good. Everyone thinks you’re the prince’s ex. The wedding was sabotaged. Lark was murdered. You would have been the prime suspect.”
“Yeah,” she said, her voice growing hard. “I would be if you don’t know the whole story. But think about it. The police are good at their jobs. The whole thing with Jessica’s records slowed them down, sure, but the police should have been able to get past that.”
“So why didn’t they?”
She turned her face toward the window, speaking so softly he barely heard her, even with his excellent hearing. “The murderers don’t want me in police custody. For some reason, they want me and Jonathan for themselves. And to keep hunting all this time, I think they must have a lot of resources.”
Mark shifted his grip on the steering wheel. He had to get her to the safe house, and now it wasn’t just for her safety. Jessica Lark had been one of the Company’s agents. There would be questions. “Tell me the whole story.”
Bree’s mouth quavered and she bit her lip. “I was on the phone with Jessica when it happened. I heard the whole thing.”
Chapter 7
“What happened?” Mark demanded. Jessica Lark had been his friend long ago. Long before Bree would have joined Lark’s studio.
But Bree turned away, as if regretting her words. “Look, there’s the ferry. We must be in Gleeford already.”
“Tell me.” His voice was nearly a snarl.
Her eyes were shuttered. “I’ve said too much already.”
He wasn’t sure how to answer that. When he thought of Lark, it was as more than a coworker. Mark didn’t connect with people; he was too old, weary and wary both—but she had been different. “Jessica Lark loved animals, hated housework, didn’t trust banks and was allergic to any kind of jewelry that wasn’t pure gold or silver.”
Bree made a sound that might have been a laugh. “She loved pretty things.”
“She was a creative genius who everyone wanted to know but most found a little frightening. Anyone lucky enough to land in her bed quickly bored her but she was too soft-hearted to send them away. Does any of this sound familiar? Do you believe that I knew her and that she was important to me?”
Bree made a derisive noise. “All the men were in love with her. You, too, then.”
“Not in the way you mean. But yes, I loved her. We knew each other a long, long time.”
He caught her glance for a moment, and it was like seeing some small, frightened animal backing into its burrow. Bree was pulling away, giving in to her fear. Silence and running were the only survival tactics she knew.
Frustrated, Mark turned at the sign for the ferry. Ticket booths guarded a parking lot filled with cars waiting for the next boat to arrive. Puget Sound stretched before them, a broad silver swath of water rimmed in dark forest.
Mark pulled up to a ticket booth and lowered the window. “Two adults, one child.”
“The next sailing’s at ten twenty-five. You’ve got a forty-minute wait.” The man took Mark’s cash. He looked cold despite a Cowichan sweater under his coat. The wind off the water was brisk. “You may as well park and go for coffee.”
“Where’s a good place?”
“There’s a shop that does its own roasting right over there.” He pointed up at the road. “Good cinnamon rolls, too.”
Mark thanked him and pulled ahead. There were about a dozen cars ahead of them already.
“Breakfast,” Bree said, unbuckling her seat belt before the car had come to a full stop.
Mark caught her wrist. “I have questions.”
She shrugged him off. “I need to eat. So does Jonathan. We can talk after.”
Mark hesitated but gave in because she was right. Besides, he seemed to have her trust for the moment. Everything was going according to plan. There was no good reason to insist they stay with the car.
He waited for her to unbuckle Jonathan. The boy bounced out of the car like a joyous puppy, banging into Mark’s knees. He caught the child before he could zip in front of a moving SUV. Automatically, he hoisted Jonathan into the air, making him gurgle with laughter, the wind tossing the waves of his soft, fine hair.
Memories. He’d done the same thing long ago in Parma—picking up his own son in the stable yard, keeping him out from under the horses’ hooves. His son had laughed in just that way.
The image caught him off guard, a jab under the ribs that nearly made him stumble. He slammed into grief and anger he had long tried to forget. He set Jonathan back on his feet, but the boy clung to him as they walked toward the street, the feel of his tiny hand chaining him to the past. Mark wanted to pull his hand away, but stopped himself. The child was innocent. It was up to Mark to swallow down the pain.
Fear made another lap through his imagination, repeating what he already knew. The first Nicholas Ferrel had killed his wife and children over five hundred years ago. Now his descendant was prowling around, just when Mark had found this woman and child. Surely I’m smarter now. Surely I can stop him this time.
The threat could be anywhere. Mark tensed, opening his vampire senses to scan the quiet scene, tasting the wind for any hint of an enemy. A low growl thrummed deep in his chest. Jonathan gave him a curious look.
Fortunately, Bree didn’t hear him. “This is the cutest town ever. And there’s a quilt shop.”
“I thought you wanted breakfast.”
“Some women need pretty fabric the way others need air.” But she turned into the coffee shop.
It was a long, narrow space with a few wooden tables and chairs. Most of the space was taken up by the coffee bar and glass cases of buns and pastries. Jonathan pressed himself against the glass like a determined squid.
“Isn’t there anything with protein?” she muttered. “Too much sugar isn’t good.”
“There’s milk,” Mark suggested. “And I don’t think one pastry will hurt. Surely his grandparents have spoiled him once in a while?”
“No.” Her answer sounded cold and final.
No doting grandma and grandpa, then. Mark pondered that, and the frown that suddenly darkened her face. Bad memories?
Jonathan bounced on his toes and pointed to a tray of buns thick with