RICK SOKOL was sick of waiting. Waiting for his delayed flight from Hong Kong, waiting on the tarmac for mechanical difficulties, and finally waiting to clear customs at Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport. He assured the bored customs officer that he had nothing to declare and slung his battered carry-on over his shoulder.
Double-checking the terminal’s huge clock, he set his grandfather’s gold wristwatch to central daylight savings time. He’d already missed the six o’clock wedding ceremony, but he’d stop in for the reception. Fortunately, it was at the Palmer House Hilton, where he’d booked a room to crash in once he’d paid his respects to the bride and groom. He’d been awake for thirty-seven hours, thanks to a seatmate who snored loud enough to drown out the jet engines.
He finally fought his way free of the terminal and stepped into the balmy May air, scented with the exhaust of a thousand buses and taxis. The mild temperature was welcome after sweltering through two weeks in Hong Kong. Wearing wires and hidden video cameras under his clothing hadn’t helped with the heat, either. But it had been worth it to collect the evidence his client could use in a court case against a company that stole its patented technology.
Flagging a taxi, he collapsed in the backseat and stifled a yawn. “Get me to the Palmer House Hilton in half an hour and there’s an extra twenty in it for you.”
The driver zoomed away. Rick leaned back, welcoming even a catnap at this point. After he wished the happy couple well, he’d get more sleep at the hotel. Considering his summer to-do list, he’d need all his wits about him.
“CONGRATULATIONS, Marco!” Rick slapped his friend on the shoulder and received an affectionate Cuban bear hug in return. “And how about a kiss from the lovely bride?”
“Tread carefully, amigo.” Marco narrowed his eyes.
Rick grinned. He and Marco went way back to when Marco was a rookie DEA special agent in L.A. Before meeting Rey, Marco had successfully infiltrated a Caribbean drug cartel as a DEA agent. It had earned him the reputation of a professional badass. Rick didn’t often have to use physical force in his own investigations. Intellectual property and corporate espionage cases rarely required muscle, but it was always better to be prepared than wish you had been. Marco had promised to teach him a few fighting tricks at the gym after he got back from his honeymoon.
Ignoring his friend’s mock frown, Rick planted a brotherly kiss on Rey’s soft cheek. “I’m sorry I missed the wedding ceremony. I got stuck on the tarmac in Hong Kong and in customs at O’Hare.”
“We’re happy you made it.” Marco gestured to the open bar. “Come get a drink.”
“Maybe just one. I’ve been awake for—” he checked his watch “—thirty-eight hours, and if I have too much I’ll fall asleep at the table.”
Marco set his empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray. “How’s the PI biz, Rick? Anything interesting?”
“Some hi-tech companies in L.A. are looking for a new security provider.” Rick didn’t need to be any more specific. He and Marco both had fairly high clearances to work with defense contractors, especially those involved in weapons and encryption software.
“Excellent.” Marco gave him a wolfish grin. “Call me if you need anything. I’ve been riding a desk for the past couple months.”
“Because I didn’t want you breaking your leg right before the wedding. Enough shop talk. Rick, would you like to meet some of my single friends?” Rey linked her arm through his and scanned the room. “Meg’s here somewhere. Do you like brunettes?”
“Uhh…” The last thing he needed right now was to get involved with anyone.
Marco rolled his eyes. “Don’t answer that if you value your freedom. Ever since we got engaged, she’s hell-bent on playing matchmaker.”
Rey released him and wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck. “I want everyone as happy as we are, darling.”
“No one is that happy, querida.” Marco brushed a kiss across his bride’s lips. He gazed into her eyes, his expression unguarded and tender.
Rick looked away and rubbed his neck. Their loving glances made him restless. Before he could cover his mouth, he yawned.
“You poor man, dead on your feet and it’s only eight-thirty.” Rey patted his forearm. “Why don’t you go to your room and sleep? We’ll be home from our honeymoon in a couple of weeks and we’ll take you to dinner.”
A hot flush crept up his neck. “Sorry about that. Let me splash some water on my face and I’ll be fine.”
“Marco says you’re staying at your sister’s condo while you fix up your grandmother’s house for sale. How is your grandma doing?” Rey asked.
“Pretty good. She likes her new assisted living apartment.” At least it was still in her familiar neighborhood.
“I’ll come over with my tool belt and some beer when I’m back,” Marco assured him.
The DJ came over. “Would you like to have the baile de dinero now, Señora Flores?”
“Yes, Mrs. Flores, it’s time for the dollar dance.” Marco grinned like a loon at using his wife’s married name. “If I have to let my relatives dance with you, at least they can pay for it. And don’t let Uncle Armando stuff the money down the front of your dress. That old man needs to remember he’s not in a Key West strip club.”
“I think I can handle Uncle Armando.” Rey smiled demurely.
“I’m sure you can.” Marco took her hand and they walked to the center of the dance floor. A long line of eager Cuban men were already waiting for the bride. Marco’s line wasn’t much shorter, though, with women ranging in age from eighteen to eighty-one.
Rick shook his head and walked toward the men’s room.
MEG’S DUTIES as maid of honor were temporarily over. She’d straightened Rey’s dress, stood next to her as she’d exchanged her vows and made a witty, yet sentimental toast at the beginning of the sit-down dinner—beef, chicken or vegetarian—taking credit for bringing the happy couple together.
And now that the deed was done and her friend was officially married, Meg sipped at her Cuban sangria and smiled wistfully at the memory of how the bride’s and groom’s aunts had pinned a pure white lace shawl on the happy couple, a symbol of their eternal connection.
Her own scarlet brocade bridal kimono was no doubt packed carefully away in her mother’s lacquer chest. She hoped her mother had used acid-free, lignin-free wrapping paper, because at the rate Meg was going, that kimono would never see the light of day.
Meg slugged down the sangria and clinked the empty cup onto the bar. It must have had more booze than she thought, since she was getting positively maudlin.
And to top it all off, a mascara-hardened eyelash was poking her in the eye. She tried to rub it out but only succeeded in poking her eyeball with an acrylic nail tip. Tears immediately blurred the ballroom’s fantastic marbled walls and gold-leafed statuary. She widened her eyes and blinked at the elaborate ceiling mural, hoping gravity would boost her tear ducts’ efficiency. Instead, one tear broke free, and the rest followed.
She muttered a curse and headed for the powder room. Rey didn’t need to see her maid of honor sobbing into her sangria.
Meg ran down the marble steps and passed a small cocktail lounge. A beefy man in his fifties lurched into her path. She tried to dodge him, but he stomped on her dress anyway.
“Hey, watch it!” she called, but he was already weaving away. She made a noise of exasperation and marched into the powder room. The attendant looked at her strangely and Meg recoiled at her reflection. “Oh, my God, I look like the school slut after prom night.”
Huge black rings of supposedly