The Getaway Bride

“What is it?” she asked huskily.

He sat beside her on the edge of the bed and touched her shoulder reassuringly. “Blake called,” he said. “You said you wanted me to tell you if he had news.”

He could feel her relax slightly beneath his palm. She cleared the remnants of sleep from her voice. “What did he find?”

Gabe quickly recapped his conversation with the competent P.I.

Page looked dazed when he finished. “Professor Wingate’s son is alive,” she murmured, as though to convince herself. “And you and Blake really believe he’s the one who’s been tormenting me all this time? Who murdered Jim Pratt?”

“Obviously, we can’t know that for certain with what little information Blake’s gathered so far. But you have to admit the clues point in Wingate’s direction. He was left alone by his father’s actions. He could blame you—unjustifiably, of course—for setting off the chain of events that led to the tragedy. He was a whiz with computers and electronics. No one has seen or heard from him in almost three years. No one, perhaps, except you.”

She shivered. “Oh, Gabe. If it is Phillip Wingate...”

“What if it is?” he asked gently.

She turned her face away. “Then maybe he does have reason to hate me.”

Gabe’s fingers tightened convulsively on her shoulder. “That’s crazy,” he said sharply. “You did nothing wrong, Page. You weren’t to blame for his father’s insanity.”

“I ruined his life. Instead of dealing with the situation myself, I turned him in, had him fired. And when his wife called to beg for my help, I hung up on her.”

“You were not wrong to ask for help,” Gabe argued. “You had a right to the university’s protection from its own staff.”

“I should have just left,” she murmured, lost in her old regrets. “I could have transferred to another school. Another state.”

“You think the right choice would have been to run away?” Gabe exerted pressure on her shoulder to roll her onto her back so that she had to look up at him.

“Why can’t you realize that running isn’t the answer, Page? Whatever his problems, Wingate had already gone over the edge when he started harassing you. There’s no way to know that he wouldn’t have killed his wife and himself regardless of whether you reported him or not. Running away wouldn’t have changed anything then—just as running hasn’t solved anything this time.”

“You’re still alive,” she said, her face flushed in response to his criticism.

“James Pratt is dead,” Gabe responded. “And his murderer, whether Phillip Wingate or someone we haven’t identified, is still out there, a threat to anyone who comes near him.”

Her flush receded to leave her skin deathly pale. “I know Jim’s dead. If I hadn’t asked for his help...”

Gabe cursed viciously beneath his breath, exasperated by his inability to make her see reason.

She was so convinced that everything was her fault. That she, alone, bore responsibility for every crime the crazy Wingates had committed. That she’d been fully justified in running away to protect Gabe.

“You are not alone in this, Page,” he said between teeth clenched in frustration. “You haven’t been since the day I put my ring on your finger. You are my wife. Whatever happens in the next few days, we’ll face it together. The way we should have from the beginning.”

“If anything happens to you—”

“Then it happens,” he cut in. “But it will be because I chose to get involved, not because of anything you’ve done. Can you understand that?”

He knew it wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear. She wanted him to promise her that nothing would happen to him. That there was something she could do to guarantee his safety.

He didn’t give her that reassurance. Truth was, he couldn’t. No one could predict how this situation would end. But he wanted her to know that he was an active participant, not a helpless victim. An ally, not an opponent. An equal partner, not another responsibility for her to assume.

That stubborn old-fashioned streak in him wanted her to see him as her protector. Her champion. Her husband, damn it.

He wanted her to need him as much as he’d needed her these long, lonely months.

She lifted a hand to his cheek. Her fingers were cold against his skin, and he could feel the fine tremors that ran through them. Her blue eyes were huge in her pale face, the pupils dilated with emotion. “I don’t want you to be hurt,” she whispered.

He caught her hand and planted a kiss in the palm. “Then don’t run away from me again,” he muttered.

“Oh, Gabe—”