Fairy Tale Weddings by Debbie Macomber Page A

forth, and her navy wool coat was wrapped securely around her.
    Thorne raced around two couples, cutting abruptly in front of them. He didn’t know what he’d do first—kiss her or shake her. Kiss her, he decided.
    â€œCindy.” He finally caught up with her and put his hand on her shoulder.
    â€œI beg your pardon.” The woman, maybe fifty, slapped his hand away. She didn’t even resemble Cindy. She was older, plain, and embarrassed by his attention.
    Thorne blinked back the disbelief. “I thought you were someone else.”
    â€œObviously. Mind your manners, young man, or I’ll report you to the police.”
    â€œI apologize.” He couldn’t move. His feet felt rooted tothe sidewalk and his arms hung lifelessly at his sides. Cindy was driving him mad; he was slowly but surely losing his sanity.
    â€œDecent women aren’t safe in this city anymore,” the woman grumbled and quickly stepped away.
    â€œThorne! Thorne!” Sheila joined him, her hands gripping his arm. “Who was she?”
    â€œNo one.” He couldn’t stop looking at the blonde as she made her way down the street. He would’ve sworn it was Cindy. He would’ve wagered a year’s salary that the woman who couldn’t escape him fast enough had been Cindy. His Cindy. His love.
    â€œThorne,” Sheila droned, patting his hand. “You’ve been working too hard. I’m worried about you.”
    â€œI’m fine,” he said absently.
    The pinched look returned to Sheila’s face, but she didn’t argue. “March gives you plenty of time to arrange a vacation. We’ll enjoy Paris. I’ll take you shopping with me and let you pick out my trousseau.”
    â€œI’m not going to Paris,” he snapped.
    Sheila continued to pat his hand. “I do wish you’d consider it. You haven’t been yourself, Thorne. Not at all.”
    He couldn’t agree more.
    Two hours later Thorne sat at his desk reading financial statements the accounting department had sent up for him to approve.
    â€œMr. Williams is here,” Ms. Hillard informed him.
    Thorne closed the folder. “Send him in.”
    â€œRight away,” Ms. Hillard returned crisply.
    Thorne stood to greet the balding man who wore a suit that looked as if it hadn’t been dry-cleaned since it came off the rack at Sears ten years before. His potbelly gavecredence to his reputation as the best private detective in the business; from the looks of it, he ate well enough.
    â€œMr. Williams,” Thorne said, extending his hand to the other man.
    â€œCall me Mike.”
    They exchanged brisk handshakes. The man’s grip was solid. Thorne approved.
    â€œWhat can I do for you?” Mike asked as he sat down.
    â€œI want you to find someone for me,” Thorne said, without preamble.
    Mike nodded. “It’s what I do. What’s the name?”
    Thorne reclaimed his chair and his hands clutched the armrest as he leaned back, giving an impression of indifference. This wasn’t going to be easy. “Cindy.”
    â€œLast name?” The detective reached for his pencil and pad.
    â€œI don’t know.” He paused. “I’m not actually sure Cindy’s her first name. It could’ve been made up.” Thorne was braced to accept anything where Cindy was concerned. Everything and anything.
    â€œWhere did you meet her?”
    â€œAt a party. The one put on by this company. She doesn’t work here. I’ve already checked.”
    Williams nodded.
    â€œShe did leave this behind.” Thorne leaned forward to hand the detective the comb. It was missing one pearl, he saw to his dismay. “I’ve had it appraised and the comb isn’t uncommon. She has two, and she claims they belonged to her mother. There are no markings that would distinguish this one from ten thousand other identical combs.”
    Again Williams nodded, but he