Bad Wedding (Billionaire's Club Book 9) Read online

“You don’t have much of a poker face, do you?”

  Molly sighed. “I’m guessing you don’t need me to answer that.”

  Laila reached over and squeezed her hand. “I’m not going to tell you to stop worrying,” she said. “But I’ll just tell you that it’ll get better.”

  “I’m guessing you’re speaking from experience?”

  A nod. “My line of work is not an easy one at times.”

  “I could see that,” Molly said then asked softly, “And the nightmares? Do they ever really go away?”

  Jackson shifted slightly in the bed, drawing her gaze before Laila could answer, her shoulders tensing as she waited to see if he would finally wake. When his eyelids fluttered and slid open, Laila stood, grabbing her food and drink. “Looks like that one is going to give you some peace of mind.” She nodded at the untouched sandwich on the table. “Just make sure you finally eat something.”

  “Molly?” Jackson’s voice was groggy.

  Laila smiled, headed for the door. “For the record, the nightmares do go away. Over time they tend to fade on their own,” she said. “Though, I have found that having someone to hold you while you sleep makes that process go by a little faster.” A beat, a smile curving the corners of her mouth. “Lucky you, I think you have a volunteer.” Another pause. “It also helps to actually eat something.”

  Then she was gone, and Molly focused back on Jackson.

  His chocolate eyes were molten and hot.

  “Nightmares?” he asked.

  “Um—”

  He cut her off before she could answer, asking, “Actually eat something?”

  “Uh—”

  Jackson’s gaze flicked to the nightstand and he leaned up enough to grab the sandwich Laila had brought then shoved it into Molly’s hands. “Food,” he growled. “Then sleep.”

  “Jack—”

  “Food.”

  “Are you trying to be a caveman?” she snapped. “Because it’s not attractive.”

  His expression went thunderous. “Your skin is pale, those circles under your eyes are darker than that black coffee you like to drink, and your hands are shaking,” he said. “You need to eat and rest.”

  Molly’s eyes flicked down, saw that her hands were indeed trembling.

  “You’re telling me to rest.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Eat the fucking sandwich before you pass out, Molly.”

  Her temper flared, but also . . . she found she couldn’t argue further with the man who’d taken a bullet for her, who’d been rushed into emergency surgery, who’d slept the last eighteen hours, and had done it hard, after declaring his love for her because his body needed healing.

  She picked up the damn breakfast sandwich and started choking it down.

  Yes, she was being dramatic and a fancy bitch about the fact it was from a fast food restaurant. It wasn’t that bad—so the bread and egg and cheese wasn’t her chocolate croissants or apple turnovers, but it was warm and food and filled her belly.

  Add in some much-needed coffee, and she was feeling much better by the time she finished it.

  “Happy?” she asked, setting the cup down on the table. “I ate—oof!”

  One minute she was straightening from putting the coffee down, the next she was yanked forward, sprawling on the bed, instantly trying to get up, to move away from Jackson, lest she hurt him.

  “Stop squirming,” he ordered then huffed out a pained breath.

  Molly immediately froze. “What the hell are you doing?” she whispered.

  “Getting you to rest,” he whispered back.

  “I can’t rest here,” she said, still whispering.

  “Nightmares,” he replied softly, as though that were an explanation that made any sense. “Also, why are we whispering?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered then forced her voice back to normal. “Jackson, you had surgery yesterday, and you have a wound that’s just barely begun to heal. You need space to do that.”

  “How am I supposed to rest if the woman I love isn’t eating or sleeping?” he asked. “If the situation were reversed, would you be able to just go back to sleep?”

  Well, put it that way.

  He touched her cheek, his expression telling her that he knew he’d won this round.

  “Glad you’re going to see reason.” He tapped her lightly on the nose.

  She narrowed her eyes at him.

  Jackson grinned. “Why is it I find it incredibly sexy when you glare at me?”

  “That’s not supposed to be the result of my glare,” she muttered. “I still think I should move back to the chair. It reclines enough for me to lay down and—”

  A finger to her lips. “Let me do this for you, love,” he murmured. “I can’t do much else, can’t make this problem go away, can’t suddenly manifest superhero powers and whisk you off to somewhere safe. But I can hold you if the nightmares come.”

  And how could she disagree with that?

  “I’m not hurting you?”

  “Having you in my arms feels nothing short of right.”

  Carefully, she shifted to her side, making sure to not put any part of her body near his wound, near the IV that was still pumping him full of saline and antibiotics. After a moment, he ignored her minute, tentative movements and just closed his arms around her, tugged her against his chest, and ordered, “Sleep.”

  Because it felt right to be held by him, because he sounded drowsy himself, Molly didn’t fight the order or bother to comment on his caveman-like tactics.

  Instead, she closed her eyes and for the first time in days, fell asleep without a deluge of worry downpouring through her dreams.

  Twenty

  Jackson

  Being shot sucked.

  Just in case anyone was wondering.

  He’d spent the last week hunkered down in the hospital trying to pretend that his injury was no big deal, all while feeling pathetically weak when his legs shook as they carried him to the toilet.

  Because his first conscious action after making sure that Molly had gotten some food into her, as well as some rest, had been to get the fucking catheter out.

  Going to the bathroom on his own seemed a necessary skill.

  First, peeing on his own.

  Second, making sure they were safe.

  Also second, building on what he and Molly had started.

  And third, world domination . . . bahaha!

  He rolled his eyes at himself, knowing he couldn’t blame the pain medication any longer for the horrible joke. Nope. That was all him and his stir-crazy brain.

  Seven days confined to a bed, with only a few short breaks and halting traipses down the private hospital’s hallways to continue building his strength. Seven days where Molly had taken care of everything from managing to get into his laptop to get in touch with his assistant—he’d discovered that on the second day in bed, after sleeping for the majority of those two days, that he’d apparently developed appendicitis and was recovering. So, aside from a few calls to his CFO and COO, handing over the big projects, and an inbox that could never quite get to zero, Jackson didn’t have much to do.

  No meetings.

  Nothing needing his approval.

  Lots of sitting around, twiddling his thumbs, and watching some bad reality television show Laila, leader of the second team Dan had called in, had put on TV, and although he’d never admit it, Jackson was starting to see the appeal.

  Molly, meanwhile, had not.

  She wasn’t used to time away from the bakery, wasn’t used to not being on her feet all day, creating delicious masterpieces from flour and eggs and butter.

  She had taken stir crazy and raised it one delivery of supplies to the hospital’s kitchen, seven batches of different muffins, two of croissants, and one of apple turnovers.

  Dan and Laila and their respective team members taking a turn at the hospital had been thrilled.

  Jackson had kept his mouth shut.

  Because the IV had come out shor
tly after the catheter and because that day he’d finally managed the strength to hobble down to the kitchen and check on her . . . and had gotten some treats for his trouble.

  Plus, between the baking and the managing of her business, she didn’t fight him on sleeping in his arms every night.

  Slow and steady, rebuilding that trust, getting to hold her close, to smell her, to feel her against him. To admit that, he too, had nightmares and when she was next to him, he slept better because he knew she was safe.

  But by tomorrow, he’d at least be allowed to return to the condo—now retrofitted with more security and additional bodyguards. Dan’s team was apparently tracking down a final few leads before they took action. “If we cast the net wide enough,” he’d said, “we might finally be able to put this thing to an end once and for all.”

  An end once and for all sounded good.

  Jackson was done with looking over his shoulder. He was finally ready to live his life.

  With Molly.

  Who breathed out a long-suffering sigh when the older female on screen lamented about the man she was supposed to be marrying—all without having ever seen him—and their seven-year age difference.

  Again.

  “I can’t take this any longer.”

  She pushed up from her chair, nodding at Laila who was currently on watch and was somehow giving the impression of both devouring the train wreck on the television while also being aware of everything around her.

  Case in point, she was on her feet, positioning herself between them and the door several seconds before the knock came at the door.

  “Identify,” she called.

  This didn’t worry Jackson because it was something that had happened the entire time he’d been awake to witness it. This time, like all the others, they heard a familiar voice rattle off a string of numbers and letters, which had Laila relaxing and the door opening after she said, “Cleared.”

  Dan poked his head in. “Hey,” he announced. “I’m here to rescue you from reality TV.”

  Molly sighed in relief, Laila made a noise of protest, and Jackson stifled his response that it wasn’t really saving if he wanted to know where the TV show was going.

  Regardless, Mol saved him from blurting that out by announcing, “I’m going to bake.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” Laila said. “Suddenly too much testosterone in this room.” She grabbed her stuff as Molly bent and brushed her lips across his, murmuring, “I’ll be back in a little bit. Going to finish making those pumpkin muffins.”

  He watched them leave, mind prickling.

  Maybe it was the testosterone comment from Laila, having learned over the week that the woman had spent most of her life surrounded by males and was certainly no stranger to rooms filled with testosterone—and that those rooms most definitely didn’t have trashy reality TV shows blaring in their backgrounds.

  Or maybe it was the pumpkin muffins.

  Because Molly had told him she’d finished the batch that morning.

  Unfortunately, by the time those two oddities punctuated his brain, by the time he mentioned them to Dan, and by the time they both tried to reach Molly and Laila, respectively, it was too late.

  They were gone.

  Twenty-One

  Molly

  “What is it?” she asked the moment they were out of earshot of the room, heading down the hall toward the stairwell that led to the kitchens.

  “Wait.” Laila tugged open the door, started heading down the stairs, with Molly following. They stopped about halfway down, Laila’s gaze going above and below them, silently searching for long seconds until her eyes returned back to Molly’s.

  “It’s tomorrow,” she said. “They’re going to make their move in the morning when we head to the condo.”

  Molly’s breath caught. Shit. That sounded ominous. “So, we’re not going to go? And why aren’t we discussing this with Dan and Jackson?” she asked. “Shouldn’t they know that—”

  Laila reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “I’m worried that Dan might be in on it.”

  “What?” Molly’s mouth fell open. “No.” She shook her head. “That can’t be right. He’s been trying to solve this for four years. He’s—”

  “There’s someone on the inside,” Laila interrupted.

  “I was right?” she asked carefully.

  Laila nodded, releasing her arm. “I intercepted a coded message, encrypted on our server in a language that is supposed to be strictly for us—” A door opened above them, footsteps coming down. Laila tensed, her body between the person’s and Molly’s but when Laila saw who it was, she relaxed and stepped to the side.

  It was a male agent Molly hadn’t seen around before.

  “Daniel,” Laila said when he hesitated before moving by them. “Have you met Molly yet?”

  “No.” He stuck out his hand, and Molly shook it, intimidated by the sheer size of him. This was a man who could crush her like a toothpick. “Hi, I’m Daniel. Also known as the bigger, smarter Dan.”

  Laila grinned. “Who goes by Daniel because two Dans in the group is two too many.”

  “Rude.” He winked. “Actually, I go by Daniel because it’s more sophisticated.”

  “Also, he lost the game of rock-paper-scissors.”

  “A tournament of rock-paper-scissors.”

  “To-may-to, to-mah-to,” Laila said. “Daniel and I go way back. Stitches come out?”

  He nodded. “All recovered.”

  “Glad to hear it. I missed your dumb ass,” Laila said, grinning to soften the insult, though Daniel didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by it. “You heading out back?” she asked.

  Another nod. “Yup. I’m on watch while Ryker gets some shuteye.” He glanced at Molly, smiled. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too.” She inwardly frowned, trying to understand why her brain was pinging, but then Laila turned and pushed through the door into the kitchen, studying the space for several long moments before waving Molly in then closing and leaning back against the door.

  “I need you to be careful,” Laila said. “The reason we’re not up in that hospital room telling this to Dan and Jackson is because the message I intercepted was in Dan’s code.”

  Molly gasped.

  “I don’t know if the person on the inside is really him, or if it’s someone else who’s trying frame him,” Laila told her. “All I know is that this whole situation smells like high heaven, so I need you to stick close to Jackson, to me, and most of all to be careful.”

  She nodded. “I can do that.”

  Laila squeezed her arm.

  “Good.”

  “You’re not with the FBI or the CIA, are you?”

  “If I told you that then I’d have to kill you.”

  Molly laughed.

  Laila didn’t.

  In fact, her face might as well have been made of granite. Her blue eyes cold and unfathomable, her jaw tight, her shoulders rigid. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone.

  Oh shit.

  “Never mind,” Molly said. “So . . . um . . . I’ll just start mixing batter?”

  Yes, the last was a question. No, she hadn’t necessarily underestimated Laila, the other woman was clearly capable and strong. It was just that with all the reality TV and joking around, she’d sort of forgotten that the other woman was dangerous.

  Okay, so she had underestimated Laila.

  She wouldn’t be making that mistake again.

  Her eyes darted to the door, mentally calculating her chances of getting by Laila if she turned out to be the mole.

  Maybe she could put her sheet pan skills to the test?

  But just as she’d started to inch toward the stack of them near the oven, Laila grinned and bent over laughing. “I’m just fucking with you.”

  Molly didn’t find that nearly as amusing. “That’s not funny.”

  Laila was still laughing as she straightened. “It is to me.” She threw an arm around Molly’s
shoulders. “But seriously, all I can tell you is that I work for an entity that has a particular interest in making the world a better place.”

  “Does this entity fund this hospital?”

  “Sometimes the work is dangerous and certain accommodations need to be made.”

  “How wonderfully vague,” Molly deadpanned.

  A flash of white teeth. “We’re good at vague. But we’re also good at keeping people safe.” She rolled her eyes. “Or usually, anyway,” she muttered. “When we don’t have someone on the inside working against us.” She dropped her arm, reached for the door. “Okay, so let’s skip making the pumpkin muffins and get you glued to Jackson’s side, so I can kick some ass and figure out—”

  Laila didn’t get to finish the sentence.

  A puff of air blew past Molly’s ear, and as she whipped around to see it, she heard Laila grunt, heard the soft, “Fuck. Run, Molly.”

  Then it was too late.

  Another puff of air.

  A sharp pain in her stomach.

  She glanced down, and there was a bright red dart sticking out of her abdomen. Then she looked up, saw the hulking Maksim, who’d been waiting outside the elevator at Jackson’s condo.

  He didn’t wait this time.

  He came toward her.

  And the last thing she saw before her brain went fuzzy and her legs weak, were his huge, beefy hands reaching for her.

  Then the world went black.

  Twenty-Two

  Jackson

  The call came after Dan and his team members had torn the hospital apart, not finding a single sign of Molly and Laila, aside from Laila’s cell phone, unlocked, an emergency code on the keypad, but not sent.

  One agent, Daniel, said he’d seen them as they’d headed for the kitchen, when he’d been on his way to the back of the hospital for a guard change. But by the time the agent he’d been relieving had made his way back inside, they been gone. The phone the only clue that something was wrong.

  Jackson had long given up the hospital gown, had forced his ass out of bed to help search as much as Dan would let him.

  But he hadn’t turned down the chair Dan had offered after he’d helped.