“Drake’s not Richard,” Adeena went on, pulling Cassie’s hair back from her face so Cassie couldn’t hide behind it. “And you’re not the same person either. You’ve been given a second chance. You can’t just turn your back on what you and Drake have.”
Adeena combed her fingers through Cassie’s hair, separating the strands and weaving them into intricate braids just as she used to do when they were twelve. “I wish I could find someone like him.” She sighed wistfully and paraphrased their catch phrase from senior high. “But a good man is hard to find.”
Cassie smiled, her fears receding as childhood memories returned. “And a hard man—”
“Is good to find,” they finished together.
“It was so unfair,” Cassie went on as Adeena completed her braiding. “In high school, I was the one always getting into trouble, who everyone assumed was the ‘bad’ girl, while you were doing half the basketball team!”
“Hey a girl’s got to go with her talents. Mine just happen to be communication and personal relationship skills,” Adeena replied archly.
“That’s not what the graffiti in the girls’ room said.”
“Girls can be so petty when they’re jealous.” She sat back and admired her work. “Let’s see how that dress looks.”
Cassie left the bed and carefully opened the box. Folds of white silk spilled over the tissue paper they were wrapped in. She wiped her hands on her jeans and gingerly pulled the dress out.
“It’s gorgeous.” Adeena slid a finger over the freshwater pearls sewn to the bodice. “Did Muriel really make this herself?”
“Drake said her mother helped her. Muriel always wanted to be a fashion designer but left school and took a job at the ad agency after she got married.” Cassie held the dress against her body, swirling around and feeling faintly like Cinderella.
“Go ahead, put it on.”
Cassie hesitated. The dress was the most beautiful thing she’d ever been given. But what was even more valuable was the thought and generosity that had come with the gift. Muriel’s acceptance and approval was as dear to Cassie as the wedding gown.
Finally, she slid out of her shoes and clothes and Adeena helped her to lift the gown down over her head. The bodice was formfitting with tiny triangles over the shoulders that dropped down over her upper arms. Otherwise, the gown was sleeveless, the skirt billowing out from under a yoked waist, full but not puffy, with no need for crinolines or flounces, just a simple underskirt for modesty. Tear drops of pearls hung from the shoulders, the edge of the bodice and along the tea-length hem, creating movement that caught the eye, drawing it down the length of the dress. Cassie pirouetted in front of Adeena’s full-length mirror, one hand caught to the bare skin above the neckline, unable to believe the woman in the mirror could be her.
Adeena clapped her hands as she circled around, admiring the dress from every angle. “It’s perfect.”
“Hey, you girls!” Tessa’s voice rang like a church bell. “What’s taking so long?”
Cassie and Adeena turned to each other, giggling like girls caught playing with forbidden make up and nail polish. “Coming!” they called out in unison.
Adeena turned to Cassie and wrapped her arms around her friend. “I’m so happy for you,” she whispered.
Adeena went down the steps first, leaving Cassie to make an entrance. Cassie could hear voices, happy, laughing voices, drifting up from the living room. She picked out Andy Greally’s guffaw mixing with Ed Castro’s more nasal laugh; Nellie’s precise, cultured voice mingled with Tammy Washington’s and Denise Dolan’s Pittsburghese. Denise’s twins, Bridget and Colton, were concocting a story about rescue heroes and spacemen with Antwan, Tammy’s little boy. Father Serrano’s low murmur echoed up the stairwell as he and Jacob debated religious tenets.
All these people here for her. Cassie shook her head as she gripped the banister. She’d always thought of herself as a loner. When Rosa died, she’d lost the last of her family. Then Richard had isolated her from anyone who could have saved her. So she had saved herself and avoided future emotional entanglements. Or so she thought. The truth of the number of people she’d accidentally allowed into her life, her heart, was frightening.
As Cassie walked barefoot down the stairs into Tessa’s living room, the conversation stopped and all heads turned to her. Even the children’s squeals quieted. She reached the bottom step and three-year-old Antwan Washington ran up to her, his mouth open wide in surprise.
“Dr. Cass, you’re a fairy princess!” he exclaimed, breaking the silence that had settled over the room.
Bridget raced to take Cassie’s hand. “Me too, I’m a princess too!” She and Antwan, followed by her brother, tugged Cassie off the steps and into the crowd of people. Soon Cassie found herself smothered in hugs and kisses and well wishes as the living room swirled with activity. There were presents piled on the coffee table, most of the ones from the men bearing the distinctive wrapping paper of a well-known lingerie chain. Even the kids had gotten into the act, Cassie saw as she noted two presents wrapped with paper lovingly colored with crayon, her name printed in painstaking letters.
“You kids come get into your seats,” Tessa commanded, the blind woman effortlessly herding the perpetual motion of the three children to the dining room table. “No fingers on that wedding dress, but you can have some apple pie while we wait for Drake.”
The doorbell rang as Cassie was starting up the stairs to change out of the dress. She was still blinking back tears of joy and needed a few moments privacy.
“I’ve got it,” Cassie said, moving to open the door. She glanced through the leaded glass of the sidelight. It was a man. The man from last night at the gallery, the one who’d frightened her. He’d mentioned Drake, spoke as if they knew each other—had Drake invited him?
She opened the door. Then she saw the two men with him. The two men with guns.
NICKOLAI KASANOV MOTIONED
to the men on either side of him to hold their positions out of sight. The door opened, and to his delight, Rosa Costello’s granddaughter answered it herself. He smiled his most charming smile, showing gleaming teeth polished to perfection. It was a smile that those who knew him best dreaded, with good reason.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her face flushing as his gaze moved down the formfitting wedding dress and then back up to rest on her face. She was the image of Rosa Costello. Exactly as his father had described the witch. Eyes dark as coal, promising as much heat, hair a riot of thick curls to tempt and torment a man, ivory skin as transparent as alabaster, exotic cheekbones of a houri.
“I am Nickolai Kasanov,” he said, injecting a note of pleasant formality into his voice. “I have come to congratulate the bride-to-be.”
Her face filled with confusion as his men stepped into the doorway, filling it with their bulk, Hart trapped between them. No, not confusion, he noted. Indecision. Was she really considering fighting? How precious.
Nickolai nodded to his men and each of them took one of Hart’s arms, propelling her with them inside the house before she could protest. Nickolai followed, closing the door behind him.
“Everyone will please remain calm,” he said. His companions raised their guns. One aimed his at Hart, dodging a kick from her bare foot. But what stopped her from resisting further was when the second aimed at the two men who rushed forward. Nickolai recognized them from his reconnaissance: Andrew Greally, Drake’s former partner, and Edward Castro, a doctor who worked with Hart. They would be the only two who would pose any risk; Jacob Steadman was too old and too smart to rush into a fight with such overwhelming odds and the priest would of course be useless.
“What do you want?” Hart ignored the men with the guns and turned to face Nickolai.
God, she had spirit, gall. Questioning him, challenging him? Nickolai took a step forward, his eyes locked on Hart’s, his face never changing, not telegraphing the blow he was about to strike.
His hand flew out and the sound of the slap rang through the silent room. Hart’s head flew back, her eyes widened in surprise, and she staggered, dropping to her knees. His smile widened as women’s voices hushed a child’s cry in the next room. He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back to meet his gaze. Blood trickled from her nose, splashing in bright red petals on the white silk gown.
“You, Dr. Hart. I want you.”
Her eyes flared with rebellion. She had no idea who she was dealing with or she would have never allowed him to see that. Many of his comrades shied away from dealing with women as hostages—they were too strong, too difficult to breakdown and control. Too unpredictable.
Which made them a delightful challenge in Nickolai’s view. Because once he found their weak spot, their final destruction was all the more spectacular.
The sounds of running feet distracted him and tiny hands pummeled him from behind. “Don’t do that!” a boy’s voice cried out. Nickolai turned and grabbed both of the boy’s hands in one of his. “Don’t you hurt her! She’s my friend.” The boy was sobbing, still struggling to protect Hart.
A tall blonde crossed into the room. Nickolai saw her glance dart from a girl the same age as the boy and back to the boy. Ah, the Dolan twins and their mother—such fascinating possibilities. One of the men, Greally, the barkeep with the florid complexion, shook his head at her and she froze.
“Let him go,” Hart said.
Nickolai squatted, twisting the squirming child onto his knee, his free hand tousling his hair. He ignored the fury in Hart’s eyes and bent his head close to the boy’s.
“She’s your friend?” he said softly. The boy stopped and sniffed hard.
“Please.” Hart was pleading now. Nickolai liked that. “I’ll do anything you want—”
Still he ignored her. “What’s your name?”
The boy sniffed again then answered. “Colton Dolan.”
Nickolai released the boy’s hands and turned him to face him. “You’re a very brave boy, Colton Dolan,” he said in a grave voice. He held out his hand. “I’m Nickolai Kasanov.”
The boy took the hand and shook it in a parody of adult comradeship. “Now, Colton,” Nickolai continued, his gaze never leaving the boy’s, his voice low and hypnotic, “would you rather come with Dr. Hart and me, ride in a big car and go on an adventure? Or do you want to go back to your sister and mother and finish your pie?”
Nickolai heard the mother’s stifled sob behind him. Colton shifted his weight in indecision.
“Go back to your mother and Bridget,” Hart told Colton. “You have to take care of them until your father gets here.”
Colton yanked his gaze from Nickolai and turned to Hart. “But who’s gonna take care of you, Cassie?” he asked, his voice filled with concern.
Nickolai looked on in admiration as Hart smiled at the boy. “I can take care of myself. You know that.”
Colton nodded gravely. He smiled, showing a missing front tooth. “Dad says you’re not afraid of anything.”
“That’s right. So I want you to walk back to your chair and stay close to your mom and sister until your father comes. Can you do that?” He nodded. “Promise?”
“Cross my heart and hope to—” She pulled him close, muffling his words in her embrace, kissing the top of his head. Her eyes locked with Nickolai’s and she released the boy, pushing him away from Nickolai and back toward the dining room.
“Nicely done,” Nickolai said. He stood and turned to the crowd, ignoring Hart, showing her that she held no threat to him. “But I still need a hostage,” he announced.
The adults all looked up at that, the two mothers drawing close to their children, the blind woman reaching a hand out for her great niece. She was a possibility; Nickolai hated old, blind women. Everyone automatically gave them respect for doing nothing more than surviving on the charity and benevolence of others. Worthless waste of resources. If he had his way, every blind woman, every old beggar, everyone who survived by leeching off another’s goodwill, would be shot.
His eyes moved to the stooped man in the cassock. That went doubly for priests and nuns—not only did they make their living from the people’s generosity, they encouraged false hope and a promise of paradise that was a delusion.
But this was not the time or place to indulge in philosophy. No, he needed the person who would allow him to control both Hart and Drake. His eyes lit on a dark-haired woman who stared at him with almost as much revulsion as Hart had. Except her eyes also held more than a trace of fear. Nickolai smiled. He knew this woman.
“Which one of you is Muriel Drake?” he asked.
The tall, dark-haired woman moved forward immediately, taking a step in front of a smaller woman with blue eyes and the same dark hair. “I am,” she said in a level voice, ignoring the hand of the gray-haired man who reached out to restrain her.
“No, that won’t do, Mrs. Steadman,” Nickolai chided. “Please don’t mistake me for a fool—you should know me better than that. But it is nice to finally meet you.” He moved forward to take her cold hand in his and lift it to his lips. “Did you get the present I sent you?” he murmured, enjoying the look of terror that filled her eyes.
He felt her hand tremble in his as she tried to jerk free. He held her in place for a moment then released her. She stumbled backward and he reached beside her to draw out the woman she’d tried to shield. Muriel Drake shared her son’s eyes and dark hair but she was small boned, even shorter than Hart.
“Mrs. Drake, I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance. I know your family is anticipating a wedding tomorrow night. If you and Dr. Hart would accompany me, I’ll do everything I can to have you back in time.” He drew her forward, away from the crowd as if inviting her onto the dance floor.
As they neared the door, he turned around, making eye contact with each of the adults in turn. “I’m certain you all understand the consequences to everyone involved if we are followed or detained in anyway. Tell Detective Drake that he may want to stay close to his phone. I’ll be calling soon.”