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Bait and Switch

By Erin Stevenson

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THURSDAY NIGHT, MAY 7
MIAMI, FLORIDA
DANE
Dane Corsica put the car in park, turned the engine off, and stuck the key in the pocket of his leather jacket. Then he tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and got into character.
Thirty seconds later, he exited the vehicle and strode confidently into the waterfront seafood restaurant. He knew exactly where he was going, and passed the check-in station where about a dozen people were waiting to be seated. No one gave him a second look. Dane walked through the restaurant to a door in the back that led to a private dining room.
He slipped through it and took in the scene. Ten people, all of whom he expected. Except for one.
Oh no, what is she doing here? Dane’s eyes bored into hers, and she stared back, never blinking.
“All right, now that pretty boy is here, we can get started,” grumbled the man at the head of the table.
I’ll deal with you later, Dane telegraphed to the woman.
Bring it, Corsica, she telegraphed back.


SUNDAY, MAY 10
WEST OF CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
REAGAN
Reagan St. Clair slipped into a chair on the back row and adjusted her designer sunglasses on the bridge of her nose. Good. No one noticed her late arrival.
She smoothed the full skirt of her flowered halter sundress over her knees. The dress, high wedge sandals, and the luxurious blond curls flowing from under her oversized couture summer hat were so far from her usual look that surely, no one would recognize her.
Reagan’s right leg began to tremble. She clasped her hands tightly together and pressed them against her knee, willing the shaking to stop.
I hate weddings.
The image of Paul in bed with her best friend still had the power to sear Reagan’s memory, even ten years later. His and Reagan’s wedding was just a month away, and everything had to be canceled, despite his pleading and begging for exoneration.
Reagan could forgive, but not for infidelity.
Her gaze drifted over the small bridal party gathered in front of a rose-covered arch and rested on her brother Landon, standing as best man for their younger brother, Brandon. The St. Clair men cut fine figures in their tuxedos. Standing at six foot four, they could pass for twins even though they were almost a year apart in age. Their features were nearly identical, the only difference being that Landon was blond and Brandon’s hair was dark brown.
There looked to be less than a hundred people gathered for the small, intimate Sunday afternoon wedding. From the back, Reagan recognized a few older relatives that she hadn’t seen in years. She supposed the others in attendance were from the bride’s family, or some of her and Brandon’s colleagues.
“Join hands, please,” the minister said. Brandon turned to face his bride, Morgan, and the look of pure love and joy on her brother’s face nearly broke through Reagan’s façade. If anyone deserved happiness, it was Brandon. His first wife of over a decade, Darla, had been tragically killed in an automobile accident two years ago. Reagan hadn’t met Brandon’s bride yet, and hoped she didn’t have to today.
Two little blond girls in pink and lavender flowered dresses stood with them. They had to be Brandon’s daughters, April and Shelbie. Reagan had seen them only once, at their mother’s funeral. She recalled the maelstrom of emotions she felt when meeting them for the first time: incredible sadness for their loss, an unexpected overwhelming connection with them upon the realization that they were her flesh and blood, and a complete lack of knowledge of how to interact with such small children.
The early afternoon sun beat down on the garden wedding, and Reagan was happy for her ridiculous hat. She craned her neck to get a better view. Morgan was similar in coloring to Darla, but tall and slender. Morgan and Brandon had met exactly a year ago on Mother’s Day at a family event, yet another one Reagan had missed.
She would have missed this family event, too, if she didn’t need a place to hide. After this current mess with her job was over, Reagan was going to do some serious soul searching and figure out how to reconnect with her family.
Her leg began to tremble again, and before she could reach for it, a man slipped into the seat next to her. He wrapped his hand around hers and squeezed.
Dane. Her unlikely comrade-in-arms, given their respective careers. Always there for her. Reagan let out a breath and squeezed back.
“Breathe, Reagan,” he whispered in her ear. “We’ll get through this.”

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