His Stolen Bride

“I don’t usually do this,” he said.

He didn’t usually kidnap women or unbutton their wedding gowns?

Crista knew she should ask. No, she shouldn’t ask. She should move now, back away, lock herself in the bathroom until her emotions were under control.

But he slowly lifted his hand. His fingertips grazed her shoulder. Then his palm cradled her neck, slipping up to her hairline. The touch was smooth and warm, his obvious strength couched by tenderness.

She couldn’t bring herself to pull away. In fact, it was a fight to keep from leaning into his caress.

Jackson dipped his head.

She knew what came next. Anybody would know what came next.

His lips touched hers, kissing her gently, testing her texture and then her taste. Arousal instantly flooded her body. He stepped forward, his free arm going around her waist, settling at the small of her back, strong and hot against her exposed skin.

She didn’t move away.

* * *

His Stolen Bride is part of the Chicago Sons series: Men who work hard, love harder and live with their fathers’ legacies…

His Stolen Bride
Barbara Dunlop

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BARBARA DUNLOP writes romantic stories while curled up in a log cabin in Canada’s far north, where bears outnumber people and it snows six months of the year. Fortunately she has a brawny husband and two teenage children to haul firewood and clear the driveway while she sips cocoa and muses about her upcoming chapters. Barbara loves to hear from readers. You can contact her through her website, www.barbaradunlop.com.

To Mom with love

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Extract

Copyright

One

A heavy metal door clanged shut behind Jackson Rush, echoing down the hallway of the Riverway State Correctional Institute in northeast Illinois. He paused to mentally brace himself as he took in the unfamiliar surroundings. Then he walked forward, his boot heels clacking against the worn linoleum. He couldn’t help thinking the prison would make a perfect movie set, with its cell bars, scarred gray cinder blocks, flickering fluorescent lights and the scattered shouts from connecting rooms and hallways.

His father, Colin Rush, had been locked up here for nearly seventeen years, ever since he was caught stealing thirty-five million dollars from the unsuspecting investors in his personal Ponzi scheme.

His dramatic arrest had taken place on Jackson’s thirteenth birthday. The police rushed the backyard pool party, sending guests shrieking and scattering. Jackson could still see the two-tiered blue-and-white layer cake sliding from the table, splattering on the grass, obliterating his name as it oozed into a pile of goo.

At first, his father had stridently proclaimed his innocence. Jackson’s mother had taken Jackson to the courtroom every day of the trial, where they’d sat stoically and supportively behind the defense. But it soon became clear that Colin was guilty. Far from being a brilliant investor, he was a common thief.

When one of his former clients committed suicide, he lost all public sympathy and was sentenced to twenty years in jail. Jackson hadn’t seen his father since.

Now he rounded the corner to the visiting area, prepared for stark wooden benches, Plexiglas partitions and hardwired black telephone receivers. Instead, he was surprised to find himself in a bright, open room that looked like a high school cafeteria. A dozen round red tables were positioned throughout, each with four stools connected by thick metal braces directly to the table base. The hall had high rectangular windows and checkerboard tile floors. A few guards milled around while the other visitors seemed to be mostly families.

A man stood up at one of the tables and made eye contact. It took Jackson a moment to recognize his father. Colin had aged considerably, showing deep wrinkles around his eyes and along his pale, hollow cheeks. His posture was stooped, and his hairline had receded. But there was no mistaking it was him, and he smiled.

Jackson didn’t smile back. He was here under protest. He didn’t know why his father had insisted he come, only that the emails and voice messages had become increasingly frequent and sounded more and more urgent. He’d eventually relented in order to make them stop.

Now he marched toward the table, determined to get the visit over and done with.

“Dad,” he greeted flatly, sticking out his hand, preempting what would surely be the most awkward hug in history.

“Hello, son,” said Colin, emotion shimmering in his eyes as he shook Jackson’s hand.

His grip was firmer than Jackson had expected.

Jackson’s attention shifted to a second man seated at the round table, half annoyed by his presence, but half curious as well.

“It’s good to see you,” said Colin.

Jackson didn’t respond, instead raising his brow inquiringly at the stranger.

Colin cleared his throat and released Jackson’s hand. “Jackson, this is Trent Corday. Trent and I have been cell mates for the past year.”

It seemed more than strange that Colin would bring a friend to this meeting. But Jackson wasn’t about to waste time dwelling on the question.

He looked back to his father. “What is it you want?”

He could only guess there must be a parole hearing coming up. If there was, Colin was on his own. Jackson wouldn’t help him get out of prison early. Colin had three years left on his sentence, and as far as Jackson was concerned, he deserved every minute.

His selfish actions had harmed dozens of victims, not the least of which was Jackson’s mother. She’d been inconsolable after the trial, drinking too much, abusing prescription painkillers, succumbing to cancer five years later just as Jackson graduated from high school.

Colin gestured to one of the stools. “Please, sit.”

Jackson perched himself on the small metal seat.

“Trent has a problem,” said Colin, sitting down himself.

What Trent’s problem could possibly have to do with Jackson was the first question that came to mind. But he didn’t ask—instead, he waited.

Trent filled the silence. “It’s my daughter. I’ve only been inside for three years. A misunderstanding, really, I—”

“Save it,” said Jackson.

Seventeen years ago, he’d listened to Colin protest endlessly about how he’d been framed, then railroaded, then misunderstood. Jackson wasn’t here to listen to the lies of a stranger.

“Yes, well...” Trent glanced away.

Jackson looked at his watch.

“She’s fallen victim,” said Trent. He fished into the pocket of his blue cotton shirt. “It’s the Gerhard family. I don’t know if you’ve heard of them.”

Jackson gave a curt nod.

Trent put a photograph on the table in front of Jackson. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

Jackson’s gaze flicked down.

The woman in the picture was indeed beautiful, likely in her midtwenties, with rich auburn hair, a bright, open smile, shining green eyes. But her looks were a moot point.

“She’s getting married,” said Trent. “To Vern Gerhard. They hide it well. But that family’s known to a lot of the guys in here. Vern is a con artist and a crook. So is his father, and his father before that.”

The woman obviously had questionable taste in men. Jackson found that less than noteworthy. In his line of work, he’d come across plenty of women who’d married the wrong guy, even more whose husbands didn’t meet with the approval of their fathers. Again, this had nothing to do with him.

He looked back to Colin. “What is it you want from me?”

“We want you to stop the wedding,” said Colin.

It took a second for the words to compute inside Jackson’s head. “Why would I do anything like that?”

“He’s after her money,” said Trent.

“She’s a grown woman.” Jackson’s glance strayed to the photo again.

She looked to be twenty-six or twenty-seven. He doubted she was thirty. With a face like that and any kind of money in the mix, she had to know she was going to attract a few losers. If she didn’t recognize them herself, there wasn’t anything Jackson could do about it.

Colin spoke up again. “She can’t possibly know she’s being conned. The girl places a huge value on honesty and integrity, has done her entire life. If she knew the truth, she wouldn’t have anything to do with him.”

“So tell her.”

“She won’t speak to me,” said Trent. “She sure won’t listen to me. She doesn’t trust me as far as she can throw me.”

“I’m sure you can relate to that particular viewpoint,” said Colin, an edge to his voice.

“That’s what you want to say to me?” Jackson rose to his feet. No way, no how was he buying into a guilt trip from his old man.

“Sit down,” said Colin.

“Please,” said Trent. “Year ago, I put something in her name, shares in a diamond mine.”

“Lucky for her.”

The woman might well be picking the wrong husband, but at least she’d have a comfortable lifestyle.

“She doesn’t know about it,” said Trent.

For the first time since he’d walked in, Jackson’s curiosity was piqued. “She doesn’t know she owns a diamond mine?”

Both men shook their heads.

Jackson looked at the picture again, picking it up from the table. She didn’t appear naive. In fact, if he had to guess, he’d say she looked intelligent. But she was drop-dead gorgeous. In his eight years as a private detective, he’d discovered features like that made women targets.

“Hear us out,” said Colin. “Please, son.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Okay. Fine. Whatever you want.” Colin was nodding again.

“You hear things in here. And the Gerhards are dangerous,” said Trent.

“More dangerous than you two felons?” Jackson didn’t like that he’d become intrigued by the circumstances, but he had.

“Yes,” said Trent.

Jackson hesitated for a beat, but then he sat back down. Another ten minutes wouldn’t kill him.

“They found out about the mine,” said Trent, his tone earnest.

“You know this for sure?” asked Jackson.

“I do.”

“How?”

“A friend of a friend. The Borezone Mine made a promising new discovery a year ago. Only days later, Vern Gerhard made contact with my daughter. Final assaying is about to be announced, and the value will go through the roof.”

“Is it publicly traded?” asked Jackson.

“Privately held.”

“Then how did Gerhard know about the discovery?”

“Friends, industry contacts, rumors. It’s not that hard if you know where to ask.”

“It could be a coincidence.”

“It’s not.” There was cold anger in Trent’s voice. “The Gerhards are bottom-feeders. They heard about the discovery. They targeted her. And as soon as the ink is dry on the marriage certificate, they’ll rob her blind and dump her like last week’s trash.”

Jackson traced his index finger around the woman’s face. “You have proof of that? You have evidence that he’s not in love with her?”

With that fresh-faced smile and those intelligent eyes, Jackson could imagine any number of men could simply fall in love, money or no money.

“That’s what we need you for,” said Colin.

“Expose their con,” said Trent. “Look into their secret, slimy business dealings and tell my Crista what you find. Convince her she’s being played and stop that wedding.”

Crista. Her name was Crista. It suited her.

Despite himself, Jackson was beginning to think his way through the problem, calculate the time he’d need for a cursory look into the Gerhard family’s business. At the moment, things weren’t too busy in the Chicago office of Rush Investigations. He’d planned to use the lull to visit the Boston office and discuss a possible expansion. But if push came to shove, he could make some time for this.

She was pretty. He’d give her that. Nobody in the Boston office was anywhere near this pretty.

“Will you do it?” asked Colin.

“I’ll scratch the surface,” said Jackson, pocketing the photo.

Trent opened his mouth, looking like he might protest Jackson taking the picture. But he obviously thought better of it and closed his mouth again.

“Keep us posted?” asked Colin.

For a split second, Jackson wondered if this was all a ruse to keep him in contact with his father. Did Colin plan to string him along for a while for some hidden reason of his own? He was, after all, a gifted con artist.

“The wedding’s Saturday,” said Trent.

That diverted Jackson’s attention. “This Saturday?”

“Yes.”

That was three days away.

“Why didn’t you start this sooner?” Jackson demanded. What did they expect him to accomplish in only three days?

“We did,” Colin said quietly.

Jackson clamped his jaw. Yeah, his father had been trying to get hold of him for a month. He’d been studiously ignoring the requests, just like he’d been doing for years. He owed Colin nothing.

He stood. “It’s not much time, but I’ll see what I can find.”

“She cannot marry him.” Trent’s undertone was rock hard with vehemence.

“She’s a grown woman,” Jackson repeated.

He’d look into the Gerhards. But if Crista Corday had fallen for a bad boy, there might be nothing her daddy or anyone else could do to change her mind.

* * *

Crista Corday swayed back and forth in front of the full-length mirror, her strapless lace and tulle wedding gown rustling softly against her legs. Her hair was swept up in a profusion of curls and braids. Her makeup had been meticulously applied. Even her underwear was white silk perfection.

She stifled a laugh at the absurdity of it all. She was a struggling jewelry designer, living in a basement suite off Winter Street. She didn’t wear antique diamonds. She didn’t get married in the magnificent Saint Luke’s Cathedral with a reception at the Brookbend Country Club. And she didn’t get swept off her feet by the most eligible prince charming in all of greater Chicago.

Except for the part where she did, and she had.

Cinderella had nothing on her.

There was a knock on the Gerhard mansion’s bedroom door.

“Crista?” the male voice called out. It was Vern’s cousin Hadley, one of the groomsmen.

“Come in,” she called in return.

She liked Hadley. He was a few years younger than Vern, laid-back by Gerhard standards, fun-loving and friendly. Taller than most of the men in the family, he was athletic and good-looking, with a jaunty swath of dark blond hair that swooped across his forehead.

He lived in Boston rather than Chicago, but he visited often, sometimes staying at the mansion, sometimes using a hotel. Crista assumed he preferred a hotel when he had a date. Vern’s mother, Delores, was staunchly religious and would not have allowed Hadley to have an overnight guest.

The door opened, and he stepped into the spacious, sumptuously decorated guest room. Crista had spent the night here, while Vern had stayed in his apartment downtown. Maybe it was Dolores’s influence, but Crista had been feeling old-fashioned the past few weeks, insisting she and Vern sleep apart until the honeymoon. Vern had reluctantly agreed.

Hadley halted. Then he pushed the door shut behind him and seemed to take in her ensemble.

“What?” she asked, checking herself out, wondering if she’d missed some glaring flaw.

“You look amazing,” he said.

Crista scoffed. “I sure hope I do.” She spread her arms. “Do you have any idea how much this all cost?”

Hadley grinned. “Aunt Delores wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I feel like an impostor.” Crista’s stomach fluttered with a resurgence of apprehension.

“Why?” he asked. His tone was gentle, and he moved closer.

“Because I grew up on the lower west side.”

“You don’t think we’re your people?”

She turned back to the mirror and gazed at her reflection. The woman staring back was her, but not her. It was a surreal sensation.

“Do you think you’re my people?” she asked him.

“If you want us to be,” he said.

Their gazes met in the mirror.

“But it’s not too late,” he added.

“Too late for what?”

“To back out.” He looked serious, but he had to be joking.

“You’re wrong about that.” Not that she wanted to back out. Not that she’d even consider backing out. In fact, she couldn’t imagine how their conversation had come to this.

“You look scared,” he said.

“Of the wedding, sure. I’m probably going to trip on my way down the aisle. But I’m not afraid of the marriage.”

It was Vern. She was marrying smart, respectful, polite Vern. The man who’d stepped up to invest in her jewelry design company, who’d introduced her to the finer things, who’d swept her away for a fantasy weekend in New York City and another in Paris. There wasn’t much about Vern that wasn’t fantastic.

“The future in-laws?” Hadley asked.

Crista quirked a smile. “Intimidated, not afraid.”

The intensity left his expression, and he smiled in return. “Who wouldn’t be intimidated by them?”

“Nobody I know, that’s for sure.”

Manfred Gerhard was a humorless workaholic. He was exacting and demanding, with a cutting voice and an abrupt manner. His wife, Delores, was prim and uptight, excruciatingly conscious of the social hierarchy, but skittish whenever Manfred was in the room, constantly catering to his whims.

If Vern ever acted like his father, Crista would kick him to the curb. No way, no how would she put up with that. Then the thought brought her up short. Vern wasn’t at all like his father. She’d never seen anything to even suggest he might behave like Manfred.

“He’s very close to them,” said Hadley.

He was watching her intently again, and for a split second Crista wondered if he could read her thoughts.

“He’s talking about buying an apartment in New York City.” She liked the idea of putting some distance between Vern and his family. He loved them dearly, but she couldn’t see spending every Sunday evening at the mansion the way Vern seemed to like.

“I’ll believe that when it happens,” said Hadley.

But Crista knew it was already decided. “It’s so I can expand the business,” she elaborated.

“Are you having second thoughts?” asked Hadley.

“No.” She turned to face him. She wasn’t. “What makes you say that? What makes you ask that?”

“Maybe I want you for myself.”

“Very funny.”

He hesitated for a moment then gave an unconcerned shrug. “I’m not sure I’d marry into this family.”

“Too bad you’re already in this family.”

He looked her straight in the eyes. “So, you’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I love him, Hadley. And he loves me. Everything else will work itself out around that.”

He gave a nod of acquiescence. “Okay. If I can’t get you to call off the wedding, then I’m here to tell you the limos have arrived.”

“It’s time?” The flutter in her stomach turned into a spasm.

It was perfectly normal, she told herself. She was about to walk down the aisle in front of hundreds of people, including her future in-laws and a who’s who list of notable Chicagoans. She’d be a fool to be calm under these circumstances.

“You just turned pale,” said Hadley.

“I told you, I’m afraid of tripping halfway down the aisle.”

“You want me to walk you?”

“That’s not how we rehearsed it.”

Crista’s father was in prison, and she didn’t have a close male relative to escort her down the aisle. And in this day and age, it seemed ridiculous to scramble for a figurehead to “give her away” to Vern. She was walking down the aisle alone, and she was perfectly fine with that.

“I could still do it,” said Hadley.

“No, you can’t. You need to stand up front with Vern. Otherwise the numbers will be off, more bridesmaids than groomsmen. Dolores would faint dead away.”

Hadley straightened the sleeves of his tux. “You got that right.”

Crista pictured her six bridesmaids at the front of the cathedral in their one-shoulder crisscross aqua dresses. Their bouquets would be plum and white, smaller versions of the dramatic rose-and-peony creation Delores had ordered for Crista. It was going to be heavy, but Delores had said with a congregation that large, people needed to see it from a distance. They could probably see it from Mars.

“The flowers are here?” asked Crista, half hoping they hadn’t arrived so she wouldn’t have to lug the monstrosity around.

“Yes. They’re looking for you downstairs to get some pictures before you leave.”

“It’s time,” said Crista, bracing herself.

“It’s not too late,” said Hadley. “We can make a break for it through the rose garden.”

“You need to shut up.”

He grinned. “Shutting up now.”

Crista was getting married today. It might have happened fast. The ceremony might be huge. And her new family might be overwhelming. But all she had to do was put one foot in front of the other, say, “I do,” and smile in all the right places.

By tonight, she’d be Mrs. Vern Gerhard. By this time tomorrow, she’d be off on a Mediterranean honeymoon. A posh private jet would take them to a sleek private yacht for a vacation in keeping with the stature of the Gerhard family.

Hadley offered her his arm, and she took it, feeling a sudden need to hang on tight.

“I’ll see you at the church,” he said.

She could do this. She would do this. There was no downside. Any woman would be thrilled by such a complete and total change in her lifestyle.

* * *

Dressed in a crisp tuxedo, freshly shaved, his short hair neatly trimmed, Jackson stood outside Saint Luke’s Cathedral north of Chicago in the Saturday afternoon sunshine pretending he belonged. It was a picture-perfect June wedding day. The last of the well-heeled guests had just been escorted inside, and the groomsmen now stood in a cluster on the outside stairs. Vern Gerhard was nowhere to be seen, likely locked up in an anteroom with the best man waiting for Crista Corday to arrive.

Jackson had learned a lot about Crista over the past three days. He’d learned she was beautiful, creative and reputedly hardworking.

As a girl, she’d grown up in a modest neighborhood, living with her single mother, her father, Trent, having visitation rights and apparently providing some small amount of financial support. She’d attended community college, taking a diploma in fine arts. It was during that time that she’d lost her mother in a car accident.

After graduation she’d found a job in women’s clothing in a local department store. He assumed she must have worked on her jewelry designs in her off hours.

So far, she seemed exactly as she appeared, an ordinary, working-class Chicago native who’d been living a perfectly ordinary life until she’d met her fiancé. The most remarkable thing about her seemed to be her father’s conviction on fraud charges. Then again, maybe it wasn’t so remarkable. This was Chicago, and Jackson was definitely familiar with having a convicted criminal in the family.

Vern and the Gerhards had proven harder for him to gauge. Their public and social media presence was slick and heavily controlled. Their family company, Gerhard Incorporated, was privately held, having been started as a hardware store by Vern’s great-grandfather during the Depression. It now centered on commercial real estate ownership and development.

Their estimated net worth was high, but Jackson hadn’t found anything illegal or shady in their business dealings. They did seem to have incredible timing, often buying up properties at fire sale prices in the months before corporate mergers, gentrification or zoning changes boosted their value. It was enough to make Jackson curious, but the individual instances weren’t overly suspicious, and what he had so far didn’t come close to proving they were conning Crista.

Despite Trent’s suspicions, Vern Gerhard and Crista’s romance seemed to be just that, a romance.

“I say more power to him.” One of the groomsmen’s voices carried from the cathedral staircase, catching Jackson’s attention.

“I almost told her at the house,” said another groomsman. This one looked younger. He had the trademark Gerhard brown eyes, but he was taller than most, younger than Vern. His flashy hairstyle made him look like he belonged in a boy band.

“Why would you do that?” asked a third. This man was shorter, balding, and his bow tie was already askew. Jackson recognized him as a brother-in-law to Vern.

“You don’t think she deserves to know?” asked the younger one.

“Who cares? She’s hot,” said the bald one. “That body, hoo boy.”

“Such a sweet ass,” said the first groomsman, grinning.

“Nice,” Jackson muttered under his breath. The Gerhards might be rich, but they didn’t seem to have much in the way of class.

“So, why does he need Gracie?” asked the younger groomsman, glancing around the circle for support. “He should break it off already.”

“You want to stick to just one ice cream flavor?” asked the balding man.

“For the rest of your life?” asked the first groomsman.

“Some days I feel like praline pecan. Some days I feel like rocky road,” said the heavyset one with a chortle.

“And that’s why you’re sleeping with Lacey Hanniberry.”

“Lumpy Lacey.”

The other men laughed.

“Vern hit the jackpot.” The first groomsman made a rude gesture with his hips.

“On both fronts,” said the bald one. “Crista’s the lady, Gracie’s the tramp.”

“She’s going to find out,” said the younger man with the flashy hair.

“Not if you don’t tell her she won’t,” said the first man, a warning in his tone.

Jackson had half a mind to tell her himself. Vern sounded like a pig. And most of his friends didn’t seem any better.

“Gracie won’t last, anyway,” said the heavyset man.

“Vern will trade up,” said the balding one.

“Uncle Manfred’s girlfriends have been twenty-five for the past thirty years.”

“Wives age, girlfriends don’t.”

They all laughed, except for the young guy. He frowned instead. “Crista’s different.”

“No, she’s not.” The first groomsman slapped him on the back. “You’re young, naive. All your girlfriends are twenty-five.”

“I don’t cheat on them.”

“Then you’re not trying hard enough.”

“Get with the program.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jackson saw two white limos pull up to the curb. The groomsmen spotted them, too, and they turned to head up the wide staircase to the cathedral entrance, their voices and laughter fading with the distance.

So, Vern was cheating on Crista. It was a coldhearted and idiotic move, but it was none of Jackson’s business. Maybe she knew and accepted it. Or maybe she wasn’t as smart as everyone seemed to think, and she was oblivious. Or maybe—and this was a real possibility—she was only marrying the guy for his money and didn’t care about his fidelity one way or the other.

The limo doors opened and a group of pretty bridesmaids spilled out of one. The driver of the other vehicle quickly hopped to the back door, helping the bride step onto the sidewalk.

Crista straightened and rose in the bright sunshine, looking absolutely stunning. Her auburn hair was swept up in braids, thick at the nape of her neck, wispy and delicate around her beautiful face. Her shoulders were bare and looked creamy smooth. The white dress was tight across her breasts and her waist, showing off an amazing figure. The lace and beading on the full skirt glittered with every little movement.

Jackson didn’t normally fantasize about brides. But if he had, they’d look exactly like her. His annoyance at Vern redoubled. What was the man’s problem? If Jackson had someone like Crista in his bed, he’d never so much as look at another woman.

The bridesmaids giggled and clustered around her while the drivers returned to their cars to move them from the busy street.

“This is it,” said one bridesmaid, fussing with Crista’s bouquet and taking a critical look at her face and hairdo.

“I’m okay?” Crista asked.

“You’re perfect.”

Crista drew in a deep breath.

The women started for the staircase that led to the cathedral’s big front doors. Jackson’s first instinct was to step forward and offer his arm, but he held back.

Crista spotted him. She looked puzzled at first, as if she was struggling to recognize him. Their gazes locked, and he felt a shot to his solar plexus.

Her eyes were green as a South Pacific sea and just as deep, flickering in the sunshine. She looked honest. She looked honorable. In that split second, he knew her father’s words had been true. She wouldn’t put up with a cheating husband, which meant she didn’t know about Vern and Gracie.

Jackson wanted to shout at her to stop, to get out of here. She might not know it, but she was making a mistake. Deep down in his gut, he knew she was making a terrible mistake.

Maybe he should tell her the truth about Vern, just call out, right here, right now. Then at least she’d know what she was getting herself into. He told himself to do it. He owed Vern absolutely nothing. He formed the words inside his head, opened his mouth and was ready to blurt it out.

But then a bridesmaid whispered to Crista. She laughed, and her gaze broke from Jackson’s, releasing him from the spell.

The women moved up the staircase, and the moment was lost.

He shook himself. It was time for him to leave. There was nothing more he could do here, nothing he could do for Trent except hope the man was wrong. The Gerhards seemed like a singularly distasteful family, and if they really were after her diamond mine, she had herself some trouble. But it wasn’t Jackson’s trouble to borrow. He’d done as he’d promised, and he’d found nothing concrete, nothing that said the Gerhards were nefarious criminals.