Serial Bride

He demanded answers.

“Can I help you?” Sylvie’s voice carried in soft and low tones better suited to a seductress than a murderess. Of course there was no reason she couldn’t be both.

“Bryce Walker. I’m an attorney. I need to ask you some questions.” His voice sounded as businesslike and detached as he’d hoped. As if he was merely doing his job for a client.

The furthest thing from the truth.

He peered through the small crack, trying to get a better look at her. Blond hair, large blue eyes, a heart-shaped face any man would enjoy seeing on the pillow beside him. She held a hand to her chest, spreading pink-polished fingers across cleavage exposed by a formal green gown.

“You are Diana Gale.”

“She is my sister. She was supposed to be married today. But the wedding never took place.”

She sounded sincere. Fortunately he was well aware of his typical male weakness for beautiful women. And he knew how to compensate.

Serial Bride
Ann Voss Peterson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Michael Voss and Christopher Voss,

the best brothers a girl could have.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ever since she was a little girl making her own books out of construction paper, Ann Voss Peterson wanted to write. So when it came time to choose a major at the University of Wisconsin, creative writing was her only choice. Of course, writing wasn’t a practical choice—one needs to earn a living. So Ann found jobs ranging from proofreading legal transcripts, to working with quarter horses, to washing windows. But no matter how she earned her paycheck, she continued to write the type of stories that captured her heart and imagination—romantic suspense. Ann lives near Madison, Wisconsin, with her husband, her two young sons, her Border collie and her quarter horse mare. Ann loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at ann@annvosspeterson.com or visit her Web site at annvosspeterson.com.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Sylvie Hayes—A survivor of the foster care system, Sylvie had always dreamed of having a family of her own. But when her long-lost twin sister disappears from her own wedding, and Sylvie’s family turns out to be more nightmare than dream, who can she turn to? Who can she trust?

Bryce Walker—Convinced Sylvie’s sister is a handmaiden of the serial killer responsible for his brother’s death, Bryce works to win Sylvie’s trust, hoping she will lead him to the missing bride. But he doesn’t count on the need to protect Sylvie. Or the need to claim her for his own.

Diana Gale—Sylvie’s twin sister was supposed to be walking down the aisle to marry the man she loves. Instead the bride is missing and her groom is barely clinging to life. Is she the family Sylvie has always wanted or a dangerous killer?

Detective Stan Perreth—The secretive police detective has a bad attitude. Is he working to find Diana or working to blame her for his crimes?

Dryden Kane—The serial killer has been in prison for years. Now he’s anxious to settle the score.

Louis Ingersoll—Diana’s neighbor would do anything for her. But does that include murder?

Professor Vincent Bertram—The professor has spent much of his life studying the grisly crimes of Dryden Kane. How far will he go to make sure his research pays off?

Sami Yamal—The professor’s assistant, Sami believes he deserves credit for the professor’s research. But how far will he go to prove he is the real expert?

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Chapter One

Sylvie Hayes dug her polished nails into the tulle wrapping the stems of her maid-of-honor nosegay and stared down the church’s long aisle. A blend of alstroemeria and autumn chrysanthemums smothered the altar. Faces peered expectantly from pews, a sea of humanity tied back with white lacy bows. The organ soared into Bach, rattling stained glass like thunder from an approaching storm—the cue to start her measured march down the aisle.

Where was Diana?

Her sister had said she needed a moment to check her makeup, to make sure everything was perfect for her wedding. But that had been over fifteen minutes ago. She should be back by now.

And where was the groom?

Sylvie squinted at the shadows to the side of the altar. Although she spotted the minister and best man, she couldn’t see Reed McCaskey anywhere.

Sylvie and Diana might not know one another as well as twins who’d grown up in the same household, but since Diana had tracked her down six months ago, they had become close. Closer than Sylvie had dared to get to another person. And even though Diana’s marriage would probably change things, she felt the connection they shared, the sense of the other she’d heard about in twins, would never go away. She’d feel an unexplained twinge of joy before Diana even had a chance to call her about good news. An insistent hum in the back of her mind when Diana was in trouble. That hum had been building to a crescendo over the past three months. Now it threatened to drown out the organ.

Sylvie turned away from the mouth of the nave and started down the long hall leading to the lounge where she and Diana had dressed for the wedding. She had to find her sister. She had to make sure Diana was okay.

Her heels clacked on the marble floor, matching the thump of her pulse. No doubt Diana was wrestling with her veil or some other detail. Or maybe she and Reed had argued. Whatever had happened, the alarm buzzing low in Sylvie’s ears was due to an overactive imagination. Nothing more.

She quickened her pace.

She pushed her way into the lounge. The room appeared just as they’d left it. Makeup cases and dress bags cluttered the tables and draped to the floor. Photos from an instant camera smiled from a pile on one of the sofas. The spice of perfume still hung in the air.

But no Diana.

Was she preening in front of the mirror in the adjoining restroom? Sylvie crossed the lounge and opened the door. The vanity was vacant, the wide mirror catching no reflection but her own—a slip of seafoam satin, a fall of blond hair, the gleam of worry in light-blue eyes.

She ripped her gaze from the image and peered down the row of bathroom stalls. “Diana?” Her voice echoed off the white tile.

She gathered her gown in a fist. Bending low, she looked under the stalls. A wisp of white touched the floor in the large stall at the end, a dark shadow behind it. “Diana? Are you okay?”

Only the organ answered, its bass tones trembling through walls and centering deep in Sylvie’s chest. She straightened and stepped down the row of bathroom stalls. Reaching the end, she grasped the handle and pulled.

A body lay face against the wall. Wetness glistened in black hair and trailed down the back of the tux. Motionless fingers clutched Diana’s veil, the antique lace red with blood.

“Reed. Oh, my God, Reed!” She knelt beside him. Slipping her hand along the side of his throat, she felt for a pulse.

A thready beat drummed against her fingertips.

He was alive. Thank God, he was alive. But he needed help. He needed an ambulance.

And Diana. Where was Diana?

The hum in her ears roared loud as a freight train bearing down.

Chapter Two

Sylvie watched the paramedics wheel the stretcher down the long church hall and out to the waiting ambulance. Reed was still unconscious. The white sheet cupped around him as if he was a child tucked into bed. Thick black straps hugged him to the gurney.

She wrapped her arms around her own middle, trying to warm herself, trying to feel strong. Stains marred the long seafoam silk of her gown, rust-colored smudges of Reed’s blood.

“You’re the one who found him?” a cigarette-roughened voice asked from behind her.

She turned around and faced a man with hard eyes and the jowls of a bulldog. “Excuse me?”

He let out an impatient sigh. “I need you to answer some questions for me. I’m in charge of this case. Detective Stan Perreth.”

Her stomach lurched. She’d never met Perreth, not in the flesh, but she’d heard enough stories about him to inspire a bout of nausea. On one of her first visits to Madison, the detective had hauled Reed in front of a review committee for a punch Reed had delivered when Perreth’s wife, a 911 dispatcher, had come to work with a battered face and a walking-into-a-doorknob explanation. Bad blood ran deep between the two men. And Perreth was now in charge of finding out who had attacked Reed and taken Diana?

“The first officer to the scene said you found Reed McCaskey.”

Sylvie forced a deep breath. Surely Perreth could see beyond the bad blood. Surely he would do his job despite his personal feelings. “Yes. I found him when I went to check on my sister.”

“Did you touch anything? Move anything?”

She thought back, trying to reconstruct what she’d done. “I checked his pulse. I ran out into the lounge. I went through Diana’s bag to find her cell phone.” And she’d grabbed her own purse. Had she touched anything else? She couldn’t remember.

He held out a hand. “Give me the phone.”

Sylvie looked down. Sure enough, the phone was still clenched in her fingers. She handed it to Perreth.

Perreth gripped it gingerly, his hands encased in clear plastic gloves. “Did your sister voice any doubts about this wedding?”

“No. I don’t think so, anyway. She’s been looking forward to marrying Reed as long as I’ve known her.”

“Did she and McCaskey have a fight?”

“A fight?”

“I’m trying to figure out what happened here this afternoon. Answer the question, please.”

“There was no fight. They were both excited about the wedding. Anxious to get married.”

“Anxious.” He scribbled the word in his notebook.

Sylvie had an uneasy feeling about where he was heading. “You’re taking this wrong. They were happy. They loved each other. They were eager to be together, to start their new life.”

He nodded, but she got the feeling he was still concentrating on the word anxious.

Had she chosen that word subconsciously? Maybe she had. Diana had been anxious the past few months. But not about her love for Reed. Not about her marriage. At least, not that Sylvie was aware of. “I don’t think you’re understanding me.”

He glanced up at her from under bushy brows. “Oh?”

“Diana and Reed were in love. They wanted to get married.”

“Did you notice any tension between them recently?”

Back to the same track. Like a bulldog worrying over a bone. “Between them? No.”

“But you noticed tension.”

What was she supposed to say? She couldn’t lie. “Diana seemed tense about something, yes. But not about her marriage.”

He nodded, but she wasn’t at all sure he had heard what she said. Not all of it, anyway.

“Where does your sister live?”

“She has an apartment on Pinckney Street. In the old Mueller building.”

“Apartment number?”

“Three B.”

He jotted it down. “Good, we’ll get a warrant and take a look.”

Unease niggled at the back of her neck with the force of a toothy bite. “If looking in Diana’s apartment will help find her, I can let you in.”

“Do you live with her?”

“No. I’m just visiting for the wedding.” She’d been considering moving to Madison. To live near her sister. She could just as easily wait tables up here. Or maybe get a more fulfilling job. But she hadn’t yet taken the plunge. “Diana gave me a key, though.”

“No good. You don’t have legal standing.”

“Legal standing?”

“We need permission from someone with legal standing.”

“Why?” The buzz in Sylvie’s ears grew, making it hard to think. The only time she’d heard the term legal standing was on an episode of Law & Order. And then it had been used to argue the admissibility of evidence—evidence used against someone charged with murder. “You think Diana did this? You think she hurt Reed?”

He held up a hand as if to shield himself from her hysteria. “I don’t draw conclusions until I finish looking at the evidence.”

“It sounds like you’re drawing a conclusion to me. A wrong conclusion.”

“I assure you that’s not the case.” He looked down at his notes. “But there was a history of abuse in your sister’s adopted family, isn’t that correct?”

“What are you getting at?”

“They say women who are abused as children often choose men who—”

“Hold on right there. You think Reed hit Diana?”

The detective stared at her, a smug look in his deep-set eyes. “Like I said, I’m still looking at the evidence. But there’s a good chance your sister isn’t to blame, no matter what happened. There’s a chance she was merely defending herself.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “That’s your story, not Reed’s and Diana’s.”

Bushy brows lowered over hard eyes.

She shouldn’t have said anything. And now that the words had left her lips, she couldn’t bite them back.

Footsteps approached from down the hall. A uniformed officer stopped behind Perreth. “Detective?”

“Can it wait?”

“I think you’re going to want to see this.”

Detective Perreth’s mouth twisted into something close to a snarl. “Stick around. I’ll want to talk to you further.” He spun away and followed the officer.

Sylvie groaned. She had really screwed up, throwing what she knew about Perreth into his face. But she couldn’t help it. His accusation was ridiculous. How could he possibly think Reed had abused Diana? That Diana had struck back? It would be laughable, even pitiful, if he wasn’t in charge of the case. If he wasn’t the one who was supposed to be figuring out what really happened. The one who was supposed to be finding Diana.

Hot tears stung Sylvie’s eyes. She obviously couldn’t rely on Perreth. Which meant she couldn’t rely on the police.

Down the hall, Perreth followed the officer into the lounge. As soon as he rounded the corner, Sylvie started for the church’s front door. She needed to find Diana herself. Starting with getting to Diana’s apartment before Perreth.

BRYCE WALKER had spent so much of the past week tracking down Diana Gale that when her apartment door opened and an ice-blue eye peered over the security chain, it took all he had to keep from kicking the door in, pinning her to the wall and demanding answers.

“Can I help you?” Her voice carried soft and low tones better suited to a seductress than a murderess. Of course there was no reason she couldn’t be both.

“Bryce Walker. I’m an attorney. I need to ask you some questions regarding a case I’m working on.” His voice sounded as businesslike and detached as he’d hoped. As if this really was any case. As if he was merely doing his job for a client.

The furthest thing from the truth.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card and slipped it through the narrow opening.

She accepted the card with manicured fingers. “I don’t think you want me.”

“You are Diana Gale.”

“Diana is my sister.”

He peered through the small crack, trying to get a better look at her. Blond hair, large blue eyes, a heart-shaped face any man would enjoy seeing on the pillow beside him. A silver eyebrow ring pierced through the elegant arch of one brow, bringing a touch of rebellion to the picture. She held a hand to her chest, spreading pink-polished fingers across cleavage exposed by a formal green gown.

It was Diana Gale, all right. “I’ve seen your picture. And I know you’re an only child.”

“I’m Diana’s twin. We were separated as toddlers.”

She sounded sincere. But then, whatever she said in that musical voice would probably sound sincere. Fortunately he was well aware of his typical male weakness for beautiful women. And he knew how to compensate. “What is your name?”

“Sylvie Hayes.”

“And you live in this area?”

“I live in Chicago.”

“Where in Chicago?”

“Why do you want to see Diana?”

Normally he might think her abrupt duck of his question evasive. But there was something in her voice. Worry, fear, he didn’t know what—but he got the distinct impression she was concerned. About what? His questions? Her sister? Was she really who she claimed? “Are you worried about Diana for some reason?”

“I want to know why you want to see her, that’s all. So I can pass along the message.”

A lie if he’d ever heard one. And in all the years he’d spent in the courtroom, he’d heard plenty. Not only was he sure she was worried, the prospect that she was telling the truth earlier seemed likely, as well. Maybe she was Diana Gale’s twin.

Just the kind of woman his brother Ty would have insisted on helping.

A hollow twinge vibrated in his gut like a plucked guitar string. Bryce cultivated an immunity to beautiful women, but his brother had been another story. Ty would commit the resources of their law firm the moment a tear welled in a feminine litigant’s eye.

But then, Ty had been the better man.

“I have a case to discuss with your sister.” He peered over Sylvie Hayes’s blond head, trying to see into the apartment through the small space in the door. “Will you tell her I’m here?”

“What kind of case?”

“The confidential kind.”

“Well, Diana isn’t here.”

Was she telling the truth? Probably. She didn’t seem to be a very accomplished liar. Unlike her sister. “Where can I find Diana?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“When will she be back?”

“I don’t know that, either. But maybe if you tell me a little more about why you want to talk to her, I can help.”

“If you don’t know where she is or when she’ll be back, I can’t see how.”

Her lips pressed into a thoughtful line. “You asked if I was worried about her?”

Maybe now they were getting somewhere. “Yes.”

“I am. If you tell me what this is about, maybe I can make some sense out of things. For both of us.”

Okay. He’d roll the dice. Since the client in this matter was actually himself, the case’s confidentiality was as flexible as he needed. “I came across your sister’s name yesterday. It was on the sign-in sheet at the Banesbridge prison. She visited an inmate there several times in the past year. I want to know why.”

Pale-blue eyes rounded in surprise. Or fear. Or maybe both. “Diana?”

“Yes, Diana.”

Her eyebrows pinched together, causing a tiny crease at the top of her slender nose. “I don’t understand.”

“She signed in as part of a university research project under the supervision of a Vincent Bertram.”

“Bertram?”

He did his best to tamp down his frustration. He wanted answers, not to listen to her parrot his every word. “He’s a professor in the psychology department.”

She shook her head. “Diana is earning her Ph.D. in English. I can’t see her finding a lot of twelfth-century poetry in prison. Are you sure it was her?”

“I’m sure.” Her signatures on the sign-in sheets were burned on the inside of his eyelids like a brand. “Your sister is the only Diana Gale at the university. The guards recognized her picture. The only other person it could have been is you.”

The tiny crease deepened. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

None of it made sense. Especially not his kid brother’s death. “Of course, your sister might have used her affiliation at the university to gain access, and the visit was personal.”

“Personal? How?”

“I was hoping you might have some idea.”

Once again she shook her head. “I don’t.” She sounded certain, but her eyes blinked and shifted.

“I would bet a lot of money you do have ideas. Plenty of them.”

“I’m sorry.” Through the sliver of the opening, he could see her throat move under tender skin. “What prisoner was she visiting?”

He hesitated. The idea of saying the man’s name to those delicate eyes already filled with fear felt cruel. And although Ty had accused Bryce of being heartless more than a few times when he’d hesitated to take his brother’s charity cases, he was not an abusive man. “My cell phone number is on that card. Have your sister call when she gets home. I’ll be up late.” He turned away from the door.

Behind him, the door slammed shut followed by the rattle of the security chain. A second later the door flew open and Sylvie Hayes jolted into the hall. “Wait.”

He turned to face her.

He could tell she was attractive through the small space in the door, but he still wasn’t prepared for the full stunning view. The green dress flowed over smooth curves like water. Cheeks flushed pink under translucent skin. Wide eyes flashed with light-blue fire and more than a little desperation. “You have to tell me who she visited.”

“It’s confidential.”

“Confidential? I can probably pick up the phone and find out tomorrow.”

“Good luck with that.” At least he wouldn’t be the one to break it to her, to see fear swamp her beautiful eyes. He could keep his focus right where it belonged. On the vow he’d made at Ty’s grave. On justice.

“Who did she visit? Please.”

He should walk the hell away. He should keep things easy, clear. Yet Sylvie Hayes obviously knew more about her sister than she was letting on. Far more.

Down the hall, a neighbor’s door creaked open. A young man’s spiked red hair poked out. Narrowing his eyes, he watched them with interest.

Bryce spared him a quick glance, then stepped toward Sylvie. “Invite me in.”

“Tell me his name.”

Bryce shook his head. He didn’t need the whole building to hear the inmate’s name. Not this inmate. “Invite me in. We’ll talk.”

She backed into the apartment, pushing the door wide.

He followed her inside and closed the door behind him.

Sylvie stood her ground between the living room and a small dining area. “Okay. Tell me.”

“As long as you tell me everything you know about your sister.”

She nodded.

“Diana has been visiting Dryden Kane.”

He’d thought it impossible for her eyes to grow larger. He’d been wrong.

“The serial killer? The one who hunted women down and gutted them like deer?”

“That’s the one.”

She covered her lips with trembling fingers. “Are you sure?”

He didn’t want to tell her more, but now that she knew, it was only fair. “Your sister visited him once a month, starting seven months ago.”

“Seven months? That’s a month before I knew her.” Her eyebrow ring dipped in a frown. “She never said anything about it. About him.”

“You were worried about her. Before I came to the door tonight.”

She nodded.

“Why?”

“She was supposed to be married today. But the wedding never took place.”

That explained the fancy green dress—a dress, he now realized, marred with brown smudges. “Is that blood?”

She nodded. “Right before the ceremony, I found Reed—the groom—unconscious and bleeding. Diana was gone.”

“You called the police?”

She dropped her hand from her mouth and curled her fingers to fists at her sides. “The police think she did it.”

In light of what Bryce suspected about Diana Gale, the police were on the right trail. “Do you know for a fact that she didn’t?”

She glared at the suggestion as if considering leaving Bryce unconscious and bleeding if he didn’t zip it. “Reed is a cop. The detective in charge is out to get him. And now he’s out to get Diana, too.”

Interesting, though he doubted it was the case. But Sylvie believed it. It had been easy to see through her previous lie. She wasn’t lying now. “So why aren’t the police here? If they really suspect her, I would think they would be searching her apartment.”

“I imagine they’re on their way.” She glanced down the hall.

“And that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To search her apartment before they arrive.”

She looked down. Her fingers tangled together. Busted. “If there’s something that might tell me what happened to Diana, I have to find it.”

And he’d like to find it, too. More than she knew. “Then why are we standing around wasting time?”

She stared at him a long moment, as if trying to decide whether she should trust him or not. Finally the press of time seemed to win out. “I thought I’d start in her office.”

“Lead the way.”

Sylvie marched down the hall, pushed a door open and led him inside.

The office was a neat but obviously well-used workspace. White walls and desk gave the room a clean, fresh feeling. Papers rose in orderly stacked piles. But it was the splashes of color, the artwork and figurines dedicated to female superheroes, that made Bryce’s lips twist in an ironic smile.

Too bad Diana herself was no champion of justice.

Sylvie stepped to the desk, sank into the chair and wheeled in front of the file cabinet. She scanned the stack of student papers on top before gripping the handle of the top drawer and yanking it open.

Bryce stepped close behind her, reading the files over her shoulder. Together they skimmed the contents. Student evaluations and files dedicated to her dissertation jammed the first two drawers. Sylvie had thumbed through most of the contents of the third drawer when Bryce noticed an unmarked manila folder peeking from the back. “What about that one?”

Sylvie plucked the unlabeled file folder from the drawer and flipped it open. A photo stared up at them—ice-blue eyes in a face that looked much younger than its years.

The back of Bryce’s neck prickled at the sight of his former client’s cold, hard eyes.

“Who is this?” Sylvie asked.

“Dryden Kane.”

Her shoulders tensed. “I thought he looked familiar. Except that in this picture he looks so normal. Like the boy next door.”

Bryce couldn’t argue. Dryden Kane did look more like an average suburban neighbor than the brutal killer he was. Some might even say he was good-looking. And that was exactly what made him so dangerous to the women he’d charmed into trusting him. God knew Kane’s civilized appearance had fooled him. He tried to swallow the bitter taste in his mouth. “What else is in the folder?”

She turned the photo face down. Piled behind it were copies of old newspaper articles. Sylvie flipped through the first few, twenty-year-old articles detailing Kane’s brutal murders of blond college coeds and his circus of a trial. Behind those were articles half that old telling the story of his prison marriage to the misguided Dixie Madsen and their notorious escape and recapture. More recent articles poked out from underneath in the original newsprint.

Bryce pointed to the photocopies on the top of the stack. “These look like they were made from microfilm.”

“Microfilm? Like from a library?”

“Yeah. See how a few of them are in negative? That happens with some machines. And the library is one of the few places she could get her hands on articles this old.”

“Why would she copy all these articles?”

Bryce didn’t know, but he had his suspicions. Of course, he wasn’t about to share them with Sylvie Hayes. “Whatever the reason, she had to be pretty dedicated. It takes a lot of time to go through microfilm.”

A piece of paper stuck out from behind the stack of articles: an envelope addressed to Diana Gale, complete with canceled stamp and postmarked last month.

Bryce’s heart pounded so hard he could feel each beat in his throat. “Is that a letter?”

Sylvie let the copied article she was reading fall back into the folder and reached for the envelope.

A loud thump sounded from the other room. “Police,” a muffled voice shouted from the hall. “Open the door. We have a warrant to search the premises.”

Bryce met Sylvie’s desperate eyes. They’d barely scratched the surface. He needed to study the folder, to find out exactly what Diana Gale saw fit to collect, what she knew about Kane, and when she knew it. And most of all, he needed to read that letter. If it was from Kane and he had sent it last month, it might give him everything he needed to prove that for whatever reason, Diana Gale had acted as Dryden Kane’s conduit to the outside world. And that at Kane’s bequest, she had arranged Ty’s murder.

Sylvie stuffed the letter back into the folder, snapped the cover shut and thrust up from the chair. “I’m not giving them this folder.”

His feelings exactly. But there wasn’t much they could do to keep it. Not with the police right outside. “What are you planning to do?”

“I don’t know. But I can’t just hand this over to Detective Perreth. He’ll only use it to twist things, to blame everything on Diana, not to find out what happened to her.”

“If the police believe as you say, taking this folder amounts to removing evidence. It’s a criminal action.”

“I don’t care. It might be my only chance to find Diana. To find the truth.”

And Bryce’s only chance to find out who helped Dryden Kane murder his brother. A chill wound down Bryce’s throat and lodged in his gut.

Sylvie ran her hands over her gown. “I was going to change clothes. Why didn’t I change clothes?”

There was no room in that dress to smuggle a folder, that was for damn sure. The chill inside him grew until the walls of his stomach ached from it.

Sylvie dropped her hands to her sides and started for the door. “I’ll throw it in my suitcase. I’ll say I came to pack my clothes.”