Lori Wilde - There Goes The Bride by Unknown Page B

Honey’s platinum blond hair, high cheekbones, flawless complexion, well-toned body, and rigorous self-discipline, she was like Princess Grace in boot camp. These days, he no longer commented on her looks, just grunted and asked her how much her spa treatments had set him back. As if he didn’t clear twenty million a year. What was it about the ultrarich that made them such tightwads?
    Resolutely pushing thoughts of her husband aside, Honey snugged the clasp of a three-carat diamond and emerald necklace around her neck, added matching earrings, and then bestowed her mirror image with her most brilliant, practiced smile.
    There. Everything was perfect.
    No one, especially not her husband of thirty-four years, would ever guess the real truth.
    With a regal toss of her head, she walked like a runway model down the stairs of the sweeping Colonial-style mansion that had been in James Robert’s family for three generations. Her four-inch heels clicked smartly against the granite tile. She might be over fifty, but she wasn’t over the hill. Honey refused to trade in her Manolo Blahniks for Birkenstocks. She would rather break a hip first.
    She grabbed a bottle of Evian on her way out the door. Honey carried bottled water wherever she went. She was convinced that was one of the reasons she had such a youthful complexion. Sauntering out to the garage, she paused a moment to smooth down her skirt before sliding across the Cadillac’s plush leather seats. Once outside the security gate, she stopped to pick up the mail. Leaving the engine running with the air-conditioning blasting, she minced to the mailbox, collected the day’s correspondence, and got back inside.
    Quickly she leafed through the pile. Bills, a sales circular, a party invitation, a couple of catalogs, a fitness magazine.
    And then she found it.
    A plain white envelope with no return address or postmark. Her name was printed in block letters with a primitive hand.
    It hadn’t been mailed. Someone had placed it in their mailbox.
    Honey sucked in her breath, flipped the letter over, and tentatively slipped a fingernail underneath the envelope flap. She opened it up and pulled out the sheet of notepaper.
    I KNOW YOUR SECRET. IF YOU DON’T WANT YOUR HUSBAND TO FIND OUT THE TRUTH, COME TO THE ENTRANCE TO THE GALVESTON ISLAND AMUSEMENT PARK ON SEAWALL BOULEVARD. NOON TOMORROW. BRING TWENTY THOUSAND DOLLARS IN CASH.
    That was it. No signature. Nothing else.
    Feeling fragile as a dried-up autumn leaf, Honey stared at the note, not wanting to understand what she was reading. Someone had learned her terrible truth.
    The past had caught up with her at last.
    Air left her lungs. She gasped, felt the color drain from her face.
    The deception had started out as nothing more than a little white lie, but it had become Honey’s entire life. Day by day, for thirty-four years, she’d steeped in her secret until it eventually permeated every corner of her soul.
    Hand over her mouth, Honey flung open the car door and, contrary to the ladylike delicacy she’d perfected over the years, vomited in the gravel.
    When she was finished, she rinsed her mouth with the Evian and in a great inhalation of breath calmly drove to her luncheon date with Lenore. The blackmail note she crumpled and stuffed in the glove compartment.
    She didn’t want to go, but if she didn’t show up, Lenore would wonder why. And Honey had spent a lifetime doing her best to keep people from wondering about her. As she searched for a parking place, dark questions plagued.
    Who had sent the letter? Why had this person only asked for twenty thousand? And after all these years, how had he or she managed to track her down?
    She could guess the answer to the last question. The blackmailer must have seen her picture with Delaney in the recent
Society Bride
article on society weddings. Why, oh, why had she allowed herself to be photographed for a national magazine?
    Her stomach roiled again and she closed her eyes,