They were just in time, before the traffic flow made its daily rush-hour shift to one-way northbound. Lacey rode shotgun. Layers and layers of creamy white wedding dress filled the backseat. Somewhere beneath it lay a pale pink corset, made by the hands of the late lamented corsetiere, Magda Rousseau. “I warned you there would be girly stuff,” Lacey said. “Duly noted.” His mouth turned up at the corners in amusement. “It got pretty girly there for a minute, but we made it out alive. You, me, and the bridal getup.” Her cell phone jingled. It was Brooke. Lacey was feeling bad about the way her last conversation with Brooke ended. She reluctantly picked up, wondering if they were still friends. “Lacey, I am so sorry! I had no idea someone tried to kill you! And with a black Lincoln Town Car, no less. And the chauffeur of the Lincoln is still on the run. It was a Lincoln, wasn’t it?”
