"Damn it, Louie!" he said, hurrying with Annabel toward the drive.

"Who is Louie?" she gasped, tripping now over her skirts as he increased their pace.

Pierce had no intention of answering her, because the father of the bride, the groom, and at least a hundred guests were crowding the front door of the mansion, watching him as he fled with Annabel. And then, just past several parked coaches and waiting grooms, he saw the Packard. "Louie!" he roared.

And Louie saw him. The Packard had been idling, now it came to life, rolling. forward. Pierce ran to it, Annabel clamped to his side. When he reached the motorcar, he released her, pushing her away. She fell onto her hands and knees in the drive as he vaulted into the passenger seat. "Go!" he said, as Louie shifted gears. And he turned to look at her. Sweat was trickling into his eyes.

She was rising. Grass, dirt, and gravel now stained her wedding dress, and her blue eyes were wide. She faced him, and their gazes locked. The tiara she wore, which held her veil in place, was slipping.

Pierce was sorry that he had ruined her wedding. But since she was so reluctant to wed, maybe he had done her a favor. He couldn't help feeling an odd regret. There was nothing unfortunate about Annabel Boothe and she deserved a real man, not that milksop he had seen in the foyer.

And the Packard jerked, backfired, and stalled.

"Damn it." Pierce turned to Louie, incredulous.

Louie was leaping out, to crank up the engine again.

Pierce jumped into the driver's seat and shifted. Half a dozen gentlemen were running from the house toward him, including Boothe and the groom. Murder was justifiably upon their minds. And Annabel just stood there, a few feet from the motorcar, as if she had turned into a statue herself, watching them running toward her in her spoiled and stained wedding dress.

The engine roared to life.

"Get in!" Pierce shouted at Louie.

Louie was already racing for the passenger door, but Annabel had turned and seemed to be doing the exact same thing. Pierce could not believe his eyes as the two of them collided. "Christ. Get in, Louie!" he roared.

They separated, Louie tripping on Annabel's voluminous skirts. Pierce watched the pack of men coming closer-they were twenty yards away. And then a flurry of white landed in the seat beside him, followed by his driver, who leapt upon Annabel. As she shoved Louie to the floor, Pierce slammed down the gas pedal, gritting his teeth, filled with anger, the veil flying in his face. He brushed the transparent material out of his eyes as the Packard leapt forward, spitting out stones from beneath its tires.

This was unbelievable.

The Packard sped wildly around the circular drive. A horse reared, backing up in terror, pushing its coach into another carriage.

Gripping the steering wheel with two hands, his gaze glued on the straightaway and Fifth Avenue, beyond that, Pierce saw, from the corner of his eye, Louie righting himself in the same seat as the bride. And then they were shooting through the wide-open front gates. Tires screeched as he turned the Packard so hard to the left that two wheels briefly lost contact with the ground.

Annabel was huffing and puffing and pushing her veil out of her face and eyes. She did not look at him. Her cheeks were very red.

But Louie did, absolute amazement on his face, along with an obvious question.

He was driving very fast, passing carriages, wagons, a hansom, and a cyclist. The Holland House, one of the city's most fashionable hotels, was on their right. A liveried doorman was standing in the street to wave down a cab, and a pair of gentlemen were attempting to cross on the same corner of Thirtieth Street. A dray was also trying to cross Fifth Avenue. Driving was taking almost all of his concentration. Casting one brief glance of steel at the very flushed bride, he said, "Throw her out."

"Aye, aye, guvnor," Louie replied.

Chapter Two

Annabel gripped the smooth dark leather seat of the motorcar as the thief drove like a madman down Fifth Avenue, weaving in between coaches and carriages, wagons and drays. She was coming out of her champagne-induced daze. She could barely believe what was happening-that she had left her groom at the altar, with her family and friends and several hundred of New York 's most prominent members of society. Oh, God.

But a small smile formed on her lips.

And then he commanded Louie to throw her out of the motorcar.

His harsh words made her whip her head around to stare at him in a combination of amazement and dismay. Had she misheard?

"Throw her out," he said again, as firmly.

The expression on her father's face-and her fiance's- as they stared at her in the foyer while the thief dragged her out of the house seared itself upon her mind. She recalled the sight of the several hundred shocked and gaping guests. Her pulse raced with alarming speed. Her fingers dug more deeply into the leather seat. She was not going anywhere.

She had made her choice. She could not marry Harold Talbot. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever. This was, must be, fate.

Louie's hands closed upon her shoulders.

Annabel realized what was happening and cried out as the motorcar veered wildly to the curb and came to an abrupt halt, throwing them all toward the dashboard. "Now!" the Brit shouted at his small, wizened partner.

Annabel was jerked onto Louie's lap. Her chin hit the door. His intention, presumably, was to open the door and thrust her out onto the street.

"No!" Annabel cried, jerking free of his grip immediately, pulling back and rearing up on her knees, one fist raised. She slammed it into his face, not thinking, just fighting for her freedom-for her life.

Louie's head slapped backward, his eyes rolling shut, his body going limp.

"Jesus!" the thief cried.

Even Annabel was surprised, although she knew that she was stronger than most women, for she was constantly walking, riding, bicycling, swimming, and playing tennis. But her shock only lasted a moment, because the thief grabbed her, now undoubtedly harboring the exact same intention as Louie.

Their gazes met. He gripped her by her shoulders, hesitating. His eyes were sky blue and determined. "No!" Annabel shouted, struggling against him, trying to push him away. But she knew that it was futile-for she had experienced his superior strength firsthand just moments ago, when he had taken her hostage at the house. "You need a hostage, don't you? How much luckier could you be?-For I am willing!"

His eyes widened. "You are insane," he muttered. And then a whistle sounded behind them, loud and shrill and piercing.

He cursed, releasing her, shifting into gear and gunning the motorcar forward. Annabel was slammed back against the seat and the unconscious Louie. She struggled to right herself as another shrill whistle sounded and she twisted around to gaze behind them. Still driving like someone insane-or like a crook determined to avoid capture-the thief turned the automobile hard onto Twenty-seventh Street heading west toward Broadway. Annabel watched two mounted policemen galloping after them, in hot pursuit.

She stole a glance at her captor. His expression was set, at once grim, determined, and fierce. His eyes remained glued upon the road-he was about to shoot across the congested avenue of Broadway. He did not seem frightened by their pursuit in the least. She had to admire him, and not just because of his cool demeanor. He was, without a doubt, one of the most striking men she had ever laid eyes upon. Annabel twisted to watch the galloping policemen again. "They will catch us," she cried. "There's too much traffic on Broadway. You should have stayed on Fifth!" She could see herself standing at the altar with Harold.

He shot her a look of disbelief.

"The traffic was lighter on Fifth," she said defensively.

"Hold on," he ordered, his eyes on the intersection ahead, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel.

She turned her gaze forward and all her admiration for the man driving the Packard vanished. Her heart slammed to a stop. Two cable cars were coming down Broadway, one after the other, on their electric tracks. If he did not halt and let the cars pass, it was obvious they would all crash into one another. Their motorcar could not possibly cross the path of the cable cars in time to avoid a collision. "Stop!" Annabel cried, seized with panic. "Stop or you will kill us all!"

It was as if he had not heard her. With one hand he banged hard on the horn, so it sounded as one long, incessant blare. And the motorcar shot into the intersection.

Annabel was clinging to the dashboard of the automobile. She could see the faces of the men and women m the approaching first trolley. It was but a few yards away. Expressions of incredulity gave way to panic and then terror. A blond woman screamed. A straphanger's eyes, behind horn-rimmed spectacles, met her own. Her own face, she thought, mesmerized, must be as white as his. She tasted fear. Saw twisted metal, blood, and death.

The Packard screamed over the electric rails as the first cable car continued forward, metal and brass missing brass and wood by mere inches. And then they were roaring up Twenty-seventh Street, leaving Broadway behind.

And Annabel, turned completely around in her seat now, her veil twisted around her neck, watched the second trolley continuing down the track, quite literally on the back fender of the first. It was effectively blocking the two mounted policemen from following them. She slumped against the seat back, her heart beating like a jungle drum, smiling. "You did it," she whispered. Then she was thrown against the driver as he turned the motorcar hard to the right, onto Sixth Avenue. Overhead, a train on the El thundered by.