Eve’s Wedding Knight

you don’t have to act like he’s some kind of evil villain. What have you got against him anyway?”

“I don’t know,” moaned Mirabella, so dejectedly that Summer half turned, stopping her there in the middle of the hallway.

“Bella?”

Mirabella couldn’t look at her sister’s face. How could she explain to a face so full of compassion, love and finally, finally happiness, that whenever she looked at Sonny Cisneros she felt a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach? That when he spoke to her she got the shivers? That all she wanted for their sister was the same kind of love and joy they had each already been blessed with, dammit, and she knew-somehow she just knew-that this wasn’t going to be it! That in some vague, formless way, she was frightened. She could not explain, because it made no sense even to her.

And because Mirabella’s temper had a tendency to rise in direct proportion to her levels of fear and frustration, she lashed back at her sister with a furious “I don’t know! I’m worried for Evie. Something’s not right. It’s just not right.”

To her great surprise and even greater unease, Summer didn’t say a word as they walked on together toward the elevator, holding hands as they had when they were very small children, and afraid of the monsters in the dark.

“How do I look?” Eve asked in a low voice.

“Like hell,” Jake replied in his federal agent’s monotone.

She was incomprehensibly annoyed that he didn’t bother to look at her when he said it, his edgy frown trained instead on the hustle and bustle in the corridor outside the treatment room curtain, and the uniformed police officer pacing nearby. But she muttered a dry “Thanks-I think” as she shifted her eyes and their silent question first to the doctor standing with folded arms at the foot of her bed, then to the intern at her elbow.

Their answering smiles seemed tentative, for which Eve could hardly blame them. Supposedly this was a routine mugging, but there were undercurrents… A bride in her wedding dress? And the guy who’d brought her in- who was he? Definitely not the groom, supposedly just a Good Samaritan, but she’d asked-begged-for them to let him stay… Obviously they weren’t being let in on the whole story.

“You’ll do fine.” The doctor, prematurely balding, impossibly young and trying hard to hide his baby face behind a wispy goatee, came around the bed and leaned close to inspect the bandage wrapped around her head. “Linda does good work. Shouldn’t be any scarring, but you might have a little bit of a black eye, here. Hard to say. And,” he added in a warning tone, “once the Novocain wears off, that lip is going to be a little uncomfortable. Now-that bump on the head… Since you were unconscious for a pretty considerable amount of time, we’re gonna want to admit you for a day or two, okay? Just to be on the safe side. And we’re gonna want to get some X rays, probably a CAT scan.” He started to say something to the intern, then said, “Oops,” in response to something he’d evidently heard over the loudspeaker, and instead nodded abruptly to her and went out Beyond the curtain Eve could hear running footsteps, the swish of opening doors, voices calling incomprehensible instructions in tensely efficient tones.

The intern, a stocky woman-also impossibly young-with wiry, cinnamon-colored hair, freckles and a wicked glint in her green eyes, winked at Eve as she rolled back her stool and stood up, taking her tray of instruments with her. “Don’t worry, hon, you’re gonna be fine. Right now you look like you just went a couple rounds with Mike Tyson, but that’ll pass. Your poor mama might have a heart attack when she sees you, though.”

Eve’s eyes flicked to Jake’s somber face. “Is she here?” And suddenly, for reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom, she was dangerously close to tears.

“She sure is,” the intern answered cheerfully. “Your whole family, it looks like. They’re out there in the waiting room.”

“Can I… see them?”

“Don’t see why not-looks like it’s gonna be a little while before we can get those X rays. Just had an MVA come in-multiple victims. I’ll go tell ‘em they can come in for a few minutes.”

“Thanks…” Eve felt unnervingly trembly. She caught a breath and held it, trying to steady her voice. “Is Sonny-”

The intern’s eyes were bright and curious. “Sonny-is that your husband? Uh…fiance? I don’t believe he’s here yet, but I’ll let you know the minute he gets here, okay?” Eve nodded; her throat had locked up tight. “I’ll send your family right on in,” the intern said, and was on her way out when Eve stopped her with a hoarse sound that was meant to be “Wait!” The intern paused and looked at her, eyebrows raised.

“Could I just have a few minutes?” Eve whispered. Her eyes slipped away, found Jake and then came back to the woman again. “I’d like to…you know, say goodbye to him. He’s been with me through all of this…” And inexplicably, now she was crying.

The intern’s freckled face held nothing but compassion. “Sure, hon,” she said gently. “He can just let the desk know when he leaves, and they can have somebody send your folks on in. How‘ll that be?”

Eve murmured, “Thank you,” and the woman went away.

Seconds ticked by. Then Jake came slowly toward her, hands in his pockets, brows lowered, darkening his somber gaze to a frown. “Helluva performance,” he said dryly. “And you were worried about being a good enough actor?”

Eve just looked at him. She felt as if something heavy had come and sat on her chest.

He gazed down at her, and she glared back at him, furious with herself for crying in front of him, indefinably hurt that he’d so cynically dismissed her tears, and completely bewildered by the contradiction.

“What about it? Ready to take a test drive?”

She made a swipe at her cheeks and looked away. He came closer, bracing his hands on the bed as he leaned down and looked into her eyes. His voice was soft and very near; she had to stop breathing in order to hear it. “You have to be ready for this. I know this is just your family, but it’s as important to convince them of what happened as it is Cisneros.”

“I know,” Eve muttered, “I know…”

“You’ve got to believe this. Live it.”

“I know.” One more tear surprised her by escaping over the barrier of her lower lashes and sneaking away like a thief down her unmarked cheek. She slapped at it furiously. “I know what I’m supposed to do. Don’t worry about me. I said I’m ready.”

Jake’s eyes had shifted dispassionately, first to watch the tear“s progress, then to travel over her face, touching briefly on each of her injuries. It struck Eve that there was something oddly intimate, almost proprietary about the scrutiny. As he straightened, he brushed the tear’s track with an index finger, and she felt a flash of something almost like disappointment. A sense of something glimpsed but not quite realized.

He paused to look down at her once more. “The tears-it’s a nice touch. You’ve been through a trauma. You’d be expected to show some emotion.”

And Eve, furious, surprised herself by thinking, What about you, Mr. Jake Something-Mr. Iceman? Do you ever show emotion?

Already turning to leave her, he paused as if she’d spoken the words aloud. He looked at her for a moment, then away, as if there was something more he ought to say to her if he could only remember what it was.

What about telling me it’s going to be all right? Eve thought. What about a big ol’ thumb’s-up? A “Break a leg” and a smile for luck? Hey, Mr. FBI-are you even genetically capable of smiling?

She touched the strips of butterfly bandage that crisscrossed the bridge of her nose. “Where’re you gonna be?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be watching you. Out of sight, but I’ll be watching.” His gaze was heavy-lidded, veiled.

It occurred to Eve that his lashes were unusually long and thick, that his eyes slanted down slightly at the corners, and she wondered if that was what gave him that melancholy look. Maybe, she grudgingly thought… but only partly.

“Hey, Jake-” It had also occurred to her that she knew almost nothing about him-not even his last name. How old he was. Whether he had a wife… children. The town house he lived in was definitely a bachelor’s quarters, and probably temporary at that, the only personal items anywhere in evidence being the old-fashioned turntable, the crate of LP’s and the cardboard box she’d spotted under the coffee table, containing an assortment of paperbacks. A lonely existence, she thought. But did he have a home somewhere? A wife and a dog, a lawn waiting to be mowed?