When one of her freshly-manicured Tango-Mango buffed-and-gleaming fingernails snapped off as she pulled her new handcuffs from her Vuitton bag outside the San Diego airport, Macy Vandevier-March figured that should have been her first sign. Her plan was in trouble. Whatever cosmic energy ruled the kind of strategical maneuvers she had in mind, it wasn't on her side.

Already, she'd been forced to navigate around the obstacles of an un-southern-California-like cold April drizzle, a moonless night, and an ultra-control hair glosser that made annoying little wisps slide right out of her usual French twist. It was going to be a bumpy night.

Sometimes it just didn't pay to slip off your sleep mask and get out of bed, Macy decided as she paused at the steps leading into the Vandevier-March family's private jet. This definitely felt like one of those times. But her old friend Ryan's future was at stake, and she couldn't let him down.

Not this time.

With renewed resolve, Macy tightened her grasp on her bag—and the jangling handcuffs—and hurried up the steps. On board, everything seemed at the ready. She removed her sunglasses—a fitting accessory to her scheme despite the late hour, she'd thought when choosing an ensemble for tonight—and strode through the Learjet's cabin. This was her first real attempt at accomplishing something important. It wouldn't do to leave any details overlooked.

Ahead, one of the uniformed crewmembers struggled forward, laden with Macy's luggage but nonetheless wearing the hushed, excited demeanor of someone on a secret mission. A well-paying secret mission. It was only appropriate, Macy supposed as she entered the cabin's plush-carpeted seating area and dropped her bag atop the nearest black leather sofa. They were all on a secret mission. And it needed to go off without a hitch.

"A little late-night refreshment, as requested." Cara, the crewmember, had returned from stowing the luggage, and now stood expectantly in the subtle glow of the jet's recessed lighting. "Here you go."

Ice cubes clinked as she offered a frosted glass. Macy took it, blissfully inhaling the spicy brewed scent of the iced chai latte she'd ordered on the drive from her hotel to the airport. She saw no reason to forgo life's little luxuries, kidnapping or no.

"Do you really think you'll need those?" Cara asked.

"Hmmm?" Glancing up, Macy followed the crewmember's gaze to the shiny handcuffs arrayed with the rest of her things atop the sofa. She did her best to present a reassuring smile. "Nah. Ryan will come along peacefully. He's a peaceful kind of guy."

Ryan Forrester was also an overly-trusting kind of guy, which was what had gotten him into this fix in the first place. But she could hardly just blurt out something like that. Especially since Cara and the rest of the crew were under the impression that tonight's activities were simply an elaborate bachelor party prank, played at Macy's request on her soon-to-be married college pal.

If luck held, they would never learn the truth. At least not until it was too late to matter.

Cara raised her eyebrows. "I sure hope he's peaceful. Not everybody loves these crazy schemes of yours, you know."

Gently-said as it was, her remark still hurt. Cara and her family had been with the Vandevier-Marches since the day they got hyphenated. Quite likely, she knew Macy better than several of her mother's ex-husbands had. The fact that she thought it necessary to issue warnings about this latest endeavor only made Macy feel twice as worried.

Not everybody loves these crazy schemes of yours, you know. She might as well have said, Not everybody loves you. Learn to accept it.

Except she couldn't. Not without a fight. She could change, and she would, Macy promised herself. And she would save Ryan in the process.

She winked at Cara. "Sure, they do. What's not to love about being whisked away by a wealthy debutante with her own private jet and enough chai lattes to fill a swimming pool?" Hoping her reply would be enough to allay Cara's worries, she added, "It just takes some people longer than others to realize it, that's all."

With an assurance she was far from feeling, Macy handed over her drink, peeled off her black leather jacket, and tossed it onto the sofa. At Cara's surprised look, she gave her coordinating black-on-black kidnapper's outfit a critical once-over, then shrugged. Her cashmere turtleneck was probably too formal for a friendly little groom abduction, but when combined with matching pants and a pair of cute Ferragamo ankle boots, she thought it worked.

An outfit like this made her feel strong. Capable. Positively un-like herself. An outfit like this said, 'Don't mess with me.' It absolutely did not say, 'I'm an heiress on a secret mission to stop a wedding,' which, although true, was not something Macy wanted known far and wide.

With raised eyebrows, Cara handed back the latte. She waved in the direction of Macy's atypically dark conspirator's clothes. "Expecting a funeral?"

Only if I don't do this right. "Don't be ridiculous. I came to San Diego for a wedding. You know perfectly well I think weddings are terrifically glorious, unforgettable occasions."

"Uh-huh." Cara picked up the discarded leather jacket, folded it, and set about organizing the handcuffs, bag, and carry-on luggage in one corner of the sofa. "I could tell that much from your reaction to your mother's last wedding."

"I told you before." Macy tossed her head and scooped up her palm-sized PC from the sofa stack. "That man at the reception was my date."

"Your date who just happened to be a lawyer specializing in pre-nups and divorces."

"Nothing wrong with keeping a good lawyer handy."

"It's customary to wait until after the honeymoon," Cara pointed out.

"Says you. It wasn't your mother in the throes of—" She made quotation marks with her fingers. "—true love. Again."

Gulping a fortifying swig of chilled green tea, spice, and milk, Macy switched on her handheld with her thumb and resumed her tour of the cabin. Her stack of platinum bangles clinked softly as she touched the hand-knit throw, bottle of aspirin, and folded spare men's clothes that had been assembled for her unsuspecting guest. He ought to be here at any minute.

Anticipation settled in her middle like a stack of steel weight bars from the country club gym. Or maybe that was plain old non-country-club tension she felt, Macy amended. What if she couldn't do this?

Oh, God.

She stared blankly at the tiny lighted screen of the Palm Pilot she'd been using to double-check the address of her and Ryan's first destination, then gave up and turned off the unit. She'd memorized that all-important address on the day she'd uncovered it. Double-checking it now was a waste of time.

Macy unclenched her fists and tried a couple of breathing exercises she'd learned in yoga class, then paced to the rear of the cabin and checked the contents of the galley kitchen's cupboards. Artesian wheat bread, imported cheese, gourmet smoked meats, organic vegetables, fresh fruit, and Godiva chocolates all stood at the ready, in quantities more than plentiful enough to feed both her and Ryan during the four days remaining until the wedding.

Four days.

The realization of how little time she had left was enough to make Macy's hair curl, despite the moisturizing rinse, mousse, hair spray, pomade, and glosser her stylist had used on it this afternoon. Unfortunately, there had been no preventing the delay—not if she'd wanted to track down the leads she needed—but still the time crunch concerned her. This plan was asking a lot. Especially for a person who had never made it to a movie theater in time to watch the opening credits.

She stuck her head out of the galley. "Any sign of Max and Joe?" The two personal trainers were an instrumental part of her plan to smuggle Ryan from the bachelor party to the plane. "I don't know how long we can hold off getting in the air, if we want to make it on time. I gave the pilot strict instructions to take off at midnight, so if they're late—"

"They're not late," Cara interrupted. "I thought you knew. They got here not ten minutes before you did, lugging a big old sleeping bag between them."

"They did? Why didn't you tell me?" Macy shrieked.

"Like I said, I thought you knew. You're the one who planned this whole thing."

For an instant, all she could do was stare at Cara, temporarily dumbfounded by her casual acceptance of their unlikely situation. You're the one who planned this whole thing. The way she'd said it implied a kind of confidence in Macy's leadership qualities that she'd never expected to encounter.

At least not from anyone who'd known her longer than twenty minutes.

"You're right," Macy murmured. "I am."

She was. Ohmigod. Adrenaline swooshed through her in a rush, obliterating the calming effects of both the yoga breathing and the latte. Macy shoved her drink in Cara's direction, tossed her handheld onto the cluttered galley countertop, then whirled toward the rear doorway that connected the seating area and galley with the storage space in back of the Learjet.

Halfway there, she stopped. Took another look around at the preparations she'd made. Sucked in a deep breath. Then tucked a few tendrils of blonde hair into her French twist.

It wouldn't do to look disheveled when she told Ryan what she'd learned about his fiancée.

Head high, firm in her belief that she was doing the right thing, Macy went to the door. She opened it.

Inside, she saw two grown men wrestling with a lumpy red nylon sleeping bag.

Close the door, the cowardly part of her demanded. Max and Joe will take care of it. But that was exactly what the old Macy would have done. And, starting today, she'd vowed to become a new Macy. Someone responsible and generous and—most importantly—lovable. So instead of giving in to her cowardly impulses, she steadied herself and stepped inside.

With shaky fingers, Macy pushed the door closed. At the sound of it latching into place, both Max and Joe looked up.

"I thought you said he'd come along peacefully," Joe complained, grunting as he moved to suppress an especially vigorous wriggle from the sleeping bag's zippered end. "This doesn't look very peaceful to me."

"Yeah, me neither." Max ran his hand through his bleached blond buzz cut, and the movement made his sweaty brow gleam in the overhead lighting.

Oh, no. If Ryan's thrashing about was enough to make super-buffed Max sweat, then she really did have trouble on her hands.

"That's what the sedatives were for." Forcing her fear-gridlocked feet to move, Macy stepped closer. "Didn't you use them?"

She'd certainly gone to enough trouble to get them. It hadn't been easy convincing her old family doctor—the same sweet man who'd seen her through sniffles, chicken pox, and a twisted ankle from her prom-night stilettos—that she'd suddenly developed a raging case of insomnia for the first time in twenty-nine years. In the end, she'd only narrowly escaped treatments ranging from acupuncture to hypnotherapy.

"Sure, we did," Joe said. "We put three of 'em right in his bachelor party beer, just like you told us to. But—"

He broke off as the sleeping bag surged upward. It bulged from side to side, distended by Ryan's efforts to release the zipper from within. No doubt her poor captured bridegroom felt like Thanksgiving stuffing, packed inside the bird and headed for the oven. Macy started forward to release him, then thought better of it. She couldn't afford to give in to soft-heartedness now. This was for Ryan's own good.

She folded her arms across her cashmere-clad middle and made herself stand still. As soon as they were in the air-and safely en route to the site of her first proof-gathering meeting—then she would release Ryan. Not before. There was every chance in the world he wouldn't believe a word of what she had to say about his fiancée. Leaving him an escape route this early in her plan was a risk Macy couldn't afford to take.

The men struggled to control their captive, but the sudden whine of engines drowned out the sounds of their efforts. The Learjet's body trembled. A quick glance at her watch confirmed what Macy already suspected. Two minutes 'til midnight. The pilot was taxiing down the runway right on schedule, preparing for takeoff.

The sleeping bag twisted sideways. More than five feet of tight-packed nylon whacked into Max and sent him sprawling against the bulkhead. He sat up, looking dazed.

"Awww, hell," Joe muttered. "This will never work."

The sleeping bag's zipper parted. The fingers of a masculine hand emerged, groping for the heavy-duty outside pull tab.

"Get more sleeping pills," Macy cried, watching in horror. If Ryan escaped now, she might never get a chance to stop the wedding. His fiancée kept him on a tighter leash than a prize-winning poodle with a Tiffany's collar. "Do something!"

Joe cocked his head, sized up the situation, and applied his usual remedy. He punched the sleeping bag.

Red nylon crumpled to the floor with a thud.