The Marcelli Bride

Darcy felt the corners of her mouth turn up slightly. Lauren began to giggle. Laughter escaped, and then they were hugging each other tight. Darcy hung on tighter than usual.

“When they told me what happened, I nearly died,” Lauren whispered in her ear. “I’m so sorry. I wish it had been me.”

Darcy straightened. “No, you don’t. Trust me on that.”

“But they wanted me instead of you.”

“Don’t they all. That’s the world in which we live. I’ve gotten used to it.”

“Darcy, don’t.” Lauren sighed. “I feel horrible.”

“Don’t. Do you know where they’re taking you?” she asked.

“No. You?”

“I want to be safe. Something I’m not sure the moron brigade can do.”

Lauren shot the agent in the room an apologetic glance then turned on her sister. “Darcy, no. You can’t be mad at your team.”

“Why not? If they’d been doing their job, I wouldn’t have been taken.” From the corner of her eye she saw the agent flinch. Well, too bad. If they’d been doing their job, she would never have realized that she was at risk.

She’d had Secret Service protection for years and had never considered it more than an annoyance. She’d always known that she and Lauren were technically possible targets, but she’d felt safe surrounded by the grim-faced agents. Not anymore.

“It’s not completely their fault,” Lauren said. “No one was expecting you to be kidnapped.”

Darcy snorted. “It’s their job to expect the unexpected. They’re professionals.”

“I know, but they didn’t mean for anything bad to happen to you.”

“Oh. They didn’t mean it. Then that makes it all right.”

Lauren might technically be the firstborn, but she had the personality of a middle child—always seeing the other person’s side of things. It was a trait Darcy found annoying on occasion, even as she admired it.

“Darcy…,” her sister began.

Darcy waved her off. “Don’t sweat it. They’ll be on their toes now. That’s what matters. So we’ll head off to our separate but equal locations and wait for the crazies to be caught.”

And then what? She’d tried to live a normal life, but it was impossible while her father was in office.

“There was so much to cancel,” Lauren said. “I had two benefits, and I was going to be at a state dinner.” She frowned. “Weren’t you flying to New York?”

“Yeah.” Darcy didn’t want to think about that either.

Lauren groaned. “Your interview. When is it?”

“Monday.”

Being the president’s daughter put her in the unique position of being unemployable in her chosen field. She was a graphic artist with a master’s in marketing. But, as the dozens of companies she’d applied to over the past couple of years had told her, no client wanted to turn down a presentation by someone so close to the president. It could be very bad for business. Rather than put their clients in such an awkward position, she’d been passed over time and again.

A small firm in New York had been willing to take a chance on her. Now she was unlikely to make her second interview, and telling them why wasn’t going to make them want to hire her.

“Maybe if you explained,” Lauren said, looking so earnest Darcy actually laughed.

“What? That I was recently kidnapped and have to lay low until the culprits are found? I don’t think that will win me employee of the month.”

Lauren sighed. “I know this life is hard for you.”

“And I know you love it,” Darcy said without rancor. It was true—public life suited her sister. Lauren was never happier than when she was cutting a ribbon at some hospital wing opening, or serving as their father’s hostess for a formal dinner for three hundred. Darcy would rather be staked naked in the desert on top of a nest of fire ants.

“I’ll be fine,” she said before tender-hearted Lauren started to cry again. “Don’t worry about it. Have you met your new security team?” she asked, to change the subject to something more neutral.

“No. Have you?”

“Just one of them. Alex Vanmeter. He’s downstairs. He looks competent, but I’ll be grilling him later to make sure he knows what he’s doing.”

Lauren stared at her. “The incredibly hunky guy who looks like a street fighter? I’m sure he’ll keep you safe.”

“I wish I was sure.” Darcy shook her head. “You know, I’m actually not interested in his looks right now. He could be a troll, as long as he’s a troll who knows what he’s doing.”

She crossed to her dresser and pulled out bras and panties, then tucked them into the suitcase. She’d already packed up her art supplies and her laptop.

Lauren walked to the window and stared down at the Secret Service team below. “What happened to the two guys assigned to you?” she asked.

“I don’t have a clue.” Darcy didn’t think they were in a good place for having lost her. “Don’t worry. I doubt they were taken out back and shot.” Although in her mind, they more than deserved a good beating. Or maybe a kidnapping. Let them feel what she’d experienced. Toss them in the back of a filthy van driven by demon-headed guys named Bill and force them to open a purse with their teeth.

“Don’t even joke about that,” Lauren said. “I feel bad for them. And you, of course.”

“Of course. Doesn’t seeing both sides ever make you tired?”

Lauren rolled her eyes. “Desperately. I mostly do it to make you crazy.”

Darcy grinned. “You usually succeed.”

“I’m glad.” Lauren turned serious. “You’ll be all right, won’t you?”

Darcy figured that in time she would be able to sleep and the flashes of terror would recede. Until then, she would simply fake her way through it. That had always worked for her before. “I promise.”

“I guess we’ll be able to talk by phone on secure lines. I want to hear about everything.”

“Me, too.”

Lauren moved close, and they hugged again. “I love you,” her sister whispered.

“I love you, too. Be good.”

“That’s my line,” Lauren said as she stepped back and waved.

Darcy watched her go then turned back to her packing. For the moment, the fear was gone, but in its place was a dark and lonely space.

Joe arrived at the Marcelli winery shortly after four in the afternoon. He’d put off leaving as long as he could, which had meant all of the morning, but he’d known better than to linger much past noon. He might be entering hell on earth, but he was still a naval officer. His job was to follow orders.

As he turned onto the road that led to the three-story hacienda, he studied the pale yellow stucco structure as he might an enemy target, or a place he would have to defend.

Too many windows and exits, he thought grimly as he took in the French doors leading to balconies and the decorative wrought iron that would allow someone in reasonable shape to climb from flower beds to the tile roof. Trees that others would think provided comfortable shade in the August heat showed him places snipers could hide.

Beyond the house was a multicar garage that could conceal at least fifty armed men, and less than a quarter mile beyond that were the various buildings of the winery.

Perfect, he thought grimly as he pulled his truck up behind the house and turned off the engine. Maybe someone could call in one of those entertainment networks to announce Darcy Jensen’s location to add to the challenge.

The rear door of the house opened, and a man stepped onto the porch. Joe recognized Marco Marcelli, his biological father.

“Joe! You’re here.”

Marco hurried to the truck and met Joe as he closed the driver’s door behind him.

Marco studied him for a second before wrapping both arms around Joe in a welcoming hug. Joe accepted the embrace—to do otherwise would invite conversations he didn’t want to have, then when he was free, he stepped back and glanced around.

“A lot of grapes,” he said, motioning to the vines heavy with fruit.

“A good year,” Marco said. “Brenna and Grandpa Lorenzo are excited about the harvest. More wine means more excuses for Colleen and me to travel as we sell the wine. I’m not complaining.”

Joe nodded, as if the information had meaning. The Marcellis were wine. Marco’s children were the fourth generation to grow grapes on this stretch of land. He and his wife, Colleen, were responsible for sales.

Marco patted the side of the truck. “You usually travel light.”

“I don’t know how long I’m going to be here,” Joe said, wishing that wasn’t the case. “I couldn’t fit everything on my motorcycle, so I rented the truck.”

“They haven’t told us much,” Marco told him. “But several people from the government have been all over the property and have spoken with everyone in the family. They picked you to help.”

Joe heard the pride in Marco’s voice and thought about telling him that the only reason any of this was happening was because Joe’s men had screwed up.

“I thought I’d brief everyone at once,” Joe said. “I guess we should do that first, before I unpack.”

Marco patted his shoulder. “It’s good that you’re staying here for a while, Joe. We want…” The older man hesitated. “We’re helping because of you.”

Joe knew what he was trying to do—show that the family would be there for him. Marco, like every other Marcelli, had spent the past three years doing his best to convince Joe he was one of them.

Joe knew different. He might share bloodlines, but they had nothing else in common, and they would never be his family.

“Tessa made up your room,” Marco said.

“I appreciate that.” He looked at the man who thought of himself as Joe’s father. “You know this is temporary. I’m only staying until the job is done.”

Marco nodded. “Of course. You’re still a navy man.”

The back door opened again. A small, elderly woman with gray hair piled on her head walked onto the porch. “Joseph? Is that you? So that’s what they’re teaching officers these days? That it’s polite to keep an old woman waiting?”

Despite his dislike of the assignment and the pressure he felt being back at the winery, Joe couldn’t help smiling as he crossed to the house and climbed the three back stairs.

“No, Tessa, that’s not what they teach me,” he said as he bent down to gather her close. Too late he remembered her need to pinch every cheek in range. Her forefinger and thumb closed over his skin with enough strength to snap steel. He might have survived a gunshot wound and a couple of knife fights, but man, could she make him wince.

“Let me look at you,” she said, grabbing him by the hand and dragging him into the kitchen. “The government has sent people here. They talk to us and ask questions. They say we need clearance, but they won’t say for what.” She humphed. “As if we would be a danger to anyone. Now.”

She stopped in the center of the kitchen and studied him from head to toe. Her dark eyes missed nothing as she frowned and poked him in the stomach. “You’re not eating enough. You look skinny.”

“I weigh exactly the same as I did the last time I was here,” he told her.

“You were too skinny then, too. All that exercise. It’s not good for you. I’m going to feed you while you’re here. You’ll eat good food. What do you have at the place you live? Junk food? A man your age on his own. It’s not a good thing.” Her expression softened as she took his hand in hers and rubbed his fingers. “Joseph, you need to be married, eh? A wife would know how to take care of you.”