In the Light of Day Page 2

  "I do not wish to marry," she said. She pushed the bottle toward him. "Would you care for a drink?"

  On any other occasion he would have said yes. "Miss Boothe. If you reject your fiance now, you may not have a second chance," he said as calmly as possible.

  "Do you refer to the fact that I am twenty-three and a half years old, sir?" She swigged again.

  He smiled, and it was forced. "I would hardly be so bold."

  "I am being sold off like a milk cow," she said.

  "You are hardly a milk cow, Miss Boo the. You are attractive, well-spoken, gracious, why, you are what every man dreams of." There, he thought, that should do it.

  "Are you well?" she asked. "I think you are delusional."

  Most women did not have such a word in their vocabulary, much less even know its meaning, and he could only stare.

  Pierce was actually contemplating commanding her to go to the ballroom when he heard a woman calling Annabel's name from outside the library. "Annabel?"

  He jerked around, alarmed.

  "It's my mother," Annabel muttered. "Oh, God, why does the entire world think I should marry him?"

  He whirled again. "Because you should, you can," he said, his hands on her shoulders, "and you will." His intention was to push her out of the room, by damn, before they were discovered—before he was discovered. But he felt something odd on his hip. Something hard. Something that should not be there. At first he thought it was the champagne bottle that she continued to grip by her skirts.

  "Annabel? Dear, please, where are you?" Lucinda Boothe cried from somewhere just outside of the library in the corridor.

  It was not the champagne bottle. Pierce felt the object slide down his thigh. He glanced down just in time to watch the magnificent triple-tiered pearl and diamond necklace slipping along his black pants leg to the floor.

  "What is that!" Annabel cried, her gaze on the glittering necklace as well.

  "Annabel?" Lucinda Boothe sounded as if she were in the doorway-—or very close to it.

  Pierce met Annabel's accusing blue gaze, smiled, and grabbed her. With one strong arm he clamped her to his torso. "Do not scream," he said calmly. "Or I will break your neck."

  She froze. For a brief instant, her disbelieving gaze held his. "You wouldn't!" she gasped.

  "Do not test me," he returned, bending to retrieve the necklace. And as he did so, she shifted, bent, and tried to jam her elbow right in his groin.

  Pierce realized what she was doing before she could succeed and he managed to elude her and prevent a very mi ions injury, indeed. He jerked her up hard against him again. And this time, he used his free hand to point a revolver at the base of her skull. "Miss Boothe. That was hardly ladylike. I suggest you cooperate. You are a very beautiful woman. I like beautiful women. I do not want to hurt you, but I have no desire to find myself in jail."

  "Then you should not be a thief," she spat, very flushed and struggling wildly now. "You won't shoot me. You are no cold-blooded killer, sir!"

  "Do not bet your life upon it," he said coolly.

  "Annabel!" Lucinda Boothe screamed.

  Pierce turned, hugging Annabel to his body, and he smiled at Lucinda Boothe, who stood just inside the library doorway. The plump blond lady was in the midst of losing all her coloring. "Madam, I suggest that you stand still. I will not hurt your daughter."

  "I am fine, Mama," Annabel said stoically. "He has stolen your jewels," she added, twisting to fling a grave look at him over her shoulder.

  Lucinda Boothe stared at them soundlessly, then slumped to the floor in a dead faint.

  "Mama!" Annabel cried. "She needs her salts. She is always fainting."

  "Thank God for small things," Pierce said, hustling his hostage past the unconscious woman, out of the library and down the hall. He did not falter, in spite of the fact that two servants were in the foyer and they halted in their tracks, their eyes widening, their mouths forming O's.

  "Help!" Annabel shrieked abruptly.

  "Do not move," Pierce countermanded the staff, jerking on her. The servants remained frozen like statues. Annabel refused to move her feet so he dragged her across the foyer. His glance could not help but take in the ballroom. Heads were turning/ Gasps were heard. Four hundred guests were becoming cognizant of the abduction of the bride.

  Pierce himself could hardly believe what was happening. He propelled the now-silent Annabel and himself to the threshold of the foyer.

  "Braxton!" Boothe cried from behind him in shock and disbelief.

  Pierce halted, facing Annabel's father. "I will not hurt her. Do not move."

  Boothe was incredulous, but anger quickly overcame him. "You son of a bitch! Release my daughter!" he shouted from the entrance to the ballroom.

  A young man had come up beside him, as blond and blue-eyed as Annabel, clad in a tailcoat with a red carnation pinned to his lapel. "Oh, God!" he cried. "He is stealing my bride! Someone do something!" A dozen guests crowded behind him and Boothe now.

  "As long as nobody moves, she will be returned to you no worse for wear," he said, briefly pointing the revolver at the crowd. Collectively they gasped.

  Pierce replaced the muzzle of the pistol to Annabel's skull and dragged her out of the house.

  "You will regret this," she cried, but now she was running with him of her own volition.

  "I am sure that I will," he said. But he was not thinking about the bride. He had never signaled Louie from the second floor as had been the plan, but the backup plan had called for Louie to have the Packard waiting for a getaway in thirty minutes should Pierce fail to signal. He was certain that thirty-five minutes or so had elapsed, but the Packard was nowhere to be seen. Had Pierce had the luxury, he would have been in a state of severe disbelief. Louie had never let him down before.

  "Damn it, Louie!" he said, hurrying with Annabel toward the drive.

  "Who is Louie?" she gasped, tripping now over her skirts as he increased their pace.

  Pierce had no intention of answering her, because the father of the bride, the groom, and at least a hundred guests were crowding the front door of the mansion, watching him as he fled with Annabel. And then, just past several parked coaches and waiting grooms, he saw the Packard. "Louie!" he roared.

  And Louie saw him. The Packard had been idling, now it came to life, rolling. forward. Pierce ran to it, Annabel clamped to his side. When he reached the motorcar, he released her, pushing her away. She fell onto her hands and knees in the drive as he vaulted into the passenger seat. "Go!" he said, as Louie shifted gears. And he turned to look at her. Sweat was trickling into his eyes.

  She was rising. Grass, dirt, and gravel now stained her wedding dress, and her blue eyes were wide. She faced him, and their gazes locked. The tiara she wore, which held her veil in place, was slipping.

  Pierce was sorry that he had ruined her wedding. But since she was so reluctant to wed, maybe he had done her a favor. He couldn't help feeling an odd regret. There was nothing unfortunate about Annabel Boothe and she deserved a real man, not that milksop he had seen in the foyer.

  And the Packard jerked, backfired, and stalled.

  "Damn it." Pierce turned to Louie, incredulous.

  Louie was leaping out, to crank up the engine again.

  Pierce jumped into the driver's seat and shifted. Half a dozen gentlemen were running from the house toward him, including Boothe and the groom. Murder was justifiably upon their minds. And Annabel just stood there, a few feet from the motorcar, as if she had turned into a statue herself, watching them running toward her in her spoiled and stained wedding dress.

  The engine roared to life.

  "Get in!" Pierce shouted at Louie.

  Louie was already racing for the passenger door, but Annabel had turned and seemed to be doing the exact same thing. Pierce could not believe his eyes as the two of them collided. "Christ. Get in, Louie!" he roared.

  They separated, Louie tripping on Annabel's voluminous skirts. Pierce watched the pack
of men coming closer—they were twenty yards away. And then a flurry of white landed in the seat beside him, followed by his driver, who leapt upon Annabel. As she shoved Louie to the floor, Pierce slammed down the gas pedal, gritting his teeth, filled with anger, the veil flying in his face. He brushed the transparent material out of his eyes as the Packard leapt forward, spitting out stones from beneath its tires.

  This was unbelievable.

  The Packard sped wildly around the circular drive. A horse reared, backing up in terror, pushing its coach into another carriage.

  Gripping the steering wheel with two hands, his gaze glued on the straightaway and Fifth Avenue

  , beyond that, Pierce saw, from the corner of his eye, Louie righting himself in the same seat as the bride. And then they were shooting through the wide-open front gates. Tires screeched as he turned the Packard so hard to the left that two wheels briefly lost contact with the ground.

  Annabel was huffing and puffing and pushing her veil out of her face and eyes. She did not look at him. Her cheeks were very red.

  But Louie did, absolute amazement on his face, along with an obvious question.

  He was driving very fast, passing carriages, wagons, a hansom, and a cyclist. The Holland House, one of the city's most fashionable hotels, was on their right. A liveried doorman was standing in the street to wave down a cab, and a pair of gentlemen were attempting to cross on the same corner of Thirtieth Street

  . A dray was also trying to cross Fifth Avenue

  . Driving was taking almost all of his concentration. Casting one brief glance of steel at the very flushed bride, he said, "Throw her out."

  "Aye, aye, guvnor," Louie replied.

  Chapter Two

  Annabel gripped the smooth dark leather seat of the motorcar as the thief drove like a madman down Fifth Avenue

  , weaving in between coaches and carriages, wagons and drays. She was coming out of her champagne-induced daze. She could barely believe what was happening—that she had left her groom at the altar, with her family and friends and several hundred of New York's most prominent members of society. Oh, God.

  But a small smile formed on her lips.

  And then he commanded Louie to throw her out of the motorcar.

  His harsh words made her whip her head around to stare at him in a combination of amazement and dismay. Had she misheard?

  "Throw her out," he said again, as firmly.

  The expression on her father's face—and her fiance's— as they stared at her in the foyer while the thief dragged her out of the house seared itself upon her mind. She recalled the sight of the several hundred shocked and gaping guests. Her pulse raced with alarming speed. Her fingers dug more deeply into the leather seat. She was not going anywhere.

  She had made her choice. She could not marry Harold Talbot. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever. This was, must be, fate.

  Louie's hands closed upon her shoulders.

  Annabel realized what was happening and cried out as the motorcar veered wildly to the curb and came to an abrupt halt, throwing them all toward the dashboard. "Now!" the Brit shouted at his small, wizened partner.

  Annabel was jerked onto Louie's lap. Her chin hit the door. His intention, presumably, was to open the door and thrust her out onto the street.

  "No!" Annabel cried, jerking free of his grip immediately, pulling back and rearing up on her knees, one fist raised. She slammed it into his face, not thinking, just fighting for her freedom—for her life.

  Louie's head slapped backward, his eyes rolling shut, his body going limp.

  "Jesus!" the thief cried.

  Even Annabel was surprised, although she knew that she was stronger than most women, for she was constantly walking, riding, bicycling, swimming, and playing tennis. But her shock only lasted a moment, because the thief grabbed her, now undoubtedly harboring the exact same intention as Louie.

  Their gazes met. He gripped her by her shoulders, hesitating. His eyes were sky blue and determined. "No!" Annabel shouted, struggling against him, trying to push him away. But she knew that it was futile—for she had experienced his superior strength firsthand just moments ago, when he had taken her hostage at the house. "You need a hostage, don't you? How much luckier could you be?—For I am willing!"

  His eyes widened. "You are insane," he muttered. And then a whistle sounded behind them, loud and shrill and piercing.

  He cursed, releasing her, shifting into gear and gunning the motorcar forward. Annabel was slammed back against the seat and the unconscious Louie. She struggled to right herself as another shrill whistle sounded and she twisted around to gaze behind them. Still driving like someone insane—or like a crook determined to avoid capture—the thief turned the automobile hard onto Twenty-seventh Street

  heading west toward Broadway. Annabel watched two mounted policemen galloping after them, in hot pursuit.

  She stole a glance at her captor. His expression was set, at once grim, determined, and fierce. His eyes remained glued upon the road—he was about to shoot across the congested avenue of Broadway. He did not seem frightened by their pursuit in the least. She had to admire him, and not just because of his cool demeanor. He was, without a doubt, one of the most striking men she had ever laid eyes upon. Annabel twisted to watch the galloping policemen again. "They will catch us," she cried. "There's too much traffic on Broadway. You should have stayed on Fifth!" She could see herself standing at the altar with Harold.

  He shot her a look of disbelief.

  "The traffic was lighter on Fifth," she said defensively.

  "Hold on," he ordered, his eyes on the intersection ahead, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel.

  She turned her gaze forward and all her admiration for the man driving the Packard vanished. Her heart slammed to a stop. Two cable cars were coming down Broadway, one after the other, on their electric tracks. If he did not halt and let the cars pass, it was obvious they would all crash into one another. Their motorcar could not possibly cross the path of the cable cars in time to avoid a collision. "Stop!" Annabel cried, seized with panic. "Stop or you will kill us all!"

  It was as if he had not heard her. With one hand he banged hard on the horn, so it sounded as one long, incessant blare. And the motorcar shot into the intersection.

  Annabel was clinging to the dashboard of the automobile. She could see the faces of the men and women m the approaching first trolley. It was but a few yards away. Expressions of incredulity gave way to panic and then terror. A blond woman screamed. A straphanger's eyes, behind horn-rimmed spectacles, met her own. Her own face, she thought, mesmerized, must be as white as his. She tasted fear. Saw twisted metal, blood, and death.

  The Packard screamed over the electric rails as the first cable car continued forward, metal and brass missing brass and wood by mere inches. And then they were roaring up Twenty-seventh Street

  , leaving Broadway behind.

  And Annabel, turned completely around in her seat now, her veil twisted around her neck, watched the second trolley continuing down the track, quite literally on the back fender of the first. It was effectively blocking the two mounted policemen from following them. She slumped against the seat back, her heart beating like a jungle drum, smiling. "You did it," she whispered. Then she was thrown against the driver as he turned the motorcar hard to the right, onto Sixth Avenue

  . Overhead, a train on the El thundered by.

  Annabel disengaged herself as the thief drove beneath the elevated tracks, chasing young boys in knickers playing stick ball into the shadows of the surrounding five-and six-story tenement buildings. Briefly, his gaze met hers. "Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked.

  Annabel settled down in her seat. "Actually, you are quite a good driver." She smiled at him. She was enjoying herself—now that they had eluded the police and a fatal cable-car crash.

  He glanced at her again while turning so sharply up another cross street that a man pulling a two-wheeled fruit cart was almost run over. As they sp
rayed a muddy puddle in their wake, Annabel glanced back and saw the vendor, perhaps a Jewish immigrant, shaking his fist at

  after the first introductions were made, because she could outride, outshoot, outtalk, and outthink them all, she was fairly certain that she was beautiful—she had been told so a thousand times. She was, in fact, considered the most beautiful of the Boothe sisters, and Melissa and Lizzie were both gorgeous. Of course, she was also considered the odd one, the mannish one, the bluestocking—the one who couldn't catch a husband even if her father gave away most of his fortune on her behalf. Annabel had never cared about her beauty before, it had never seemed important or even useful.

  But now she cared. She needed this man's help. Very self-conscious, she leaned toward him, her gaze on his, at once earnest and intent, praying that this once she could manage a man the way her sister Melissa could. "Please."

  For one more moment they stared at one another. The clanging of trolleys, the roaring of the elevated trains, the clopping of horses' hooves, even pigeons cooing on the nearby roof, all faded and disappeared. Annabel crossed her fingers. Instinct told her not to move, not to speak—not even to breathe.

  "Do not bat your lashes at me, it makes you look like a simpering fool."

  Annabel winced, afraid she had lost, not just that round, but everything she valued in her life.

  He grimaced. And then he shifted hard into gear and drove back into the heavy traffic of milk wagons and freight lorries, horse cars and trolleys. He turned his hard blue gaze to the road, as if concentrating on driving. His strong, clean jaw was set. Annabel was faint with relief. But she thought she could feel his thoughts—• and they were directed, not quite charitably, toward herself. She had won, but it was only the first round, and she did not fool herself. He intended to get rid of her, and eventually he would.

  But she could manage with eventually. As long as it them, his coarse wool jacket soaking wet. Pedestrians on the sidewalks, working women in ready-mades and young male clerks, were all turning to gape at them as they sped by.