by Holly Hart
The walk to Patty’s is a good fourteen blocks from my place, but I need the exercise to keep my head clear. The cadence of my heels clicking against the sidewalk sets a rhythm that lets my mind become passively aware, noticing but not thinking. Meditating, almost.
After several minutes of this, I turn off the avenue and onto an adjoining street, just to keep myself from falling into a pattern. As I do, my breath catches in my throat.
Walking right toward me is the man from the theater.
I can’t slow down or I’ll look suspicious. As I close the gap, he seems to notice me. Recognition dawns in his eyes. I wish I had my phone in my hand to pull the same trick, but I don’t.
Our eyes meet as we pass, and I surprise myself by stepping toward him and raising my arms in a menacing pose.
“D’ja get a good look, you fucking perv?” I holler. “You think I don’t remember you? Maybe I should call my husband to come talk to you, is that what it’s gonna take?”
His eyes nearly pop out of his round face as he speed-walks down the street away from me.
“Yeah, you better fucking run!” I call after him. “Creep!”
I head back toward my original route and let the adrenaline flow back out. I realize now that I was pushing things by using the same routine twice. I also realize that the Chase is still on, and that I need to be on my guard at all times.
My phone buzzes. Carson again. I ignore it again.
The blocks flow past me: trees, people, flowers, architecture, all the things that make New York City so unlike any other place in the world. Thomas Wolfe once said you belong to this city as much in five minutes as in five years, and I believe it. It’s hypnotic, especially on a beautiful day like today.
Which makes what happens next that much more jarring. As I turn the corner to head back onto Forty-Second Street, I run face-first into a tall wall of man heading the other way.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, trying to recover my bearings.
When I finally do, I look up to see Carson Drake’s gorgeous gray eyes looking down into mine. He’s out of breath.
“Don’t you ever answer your phone?” he pants.
Chapter Sixty-Three
32. CARSON
“Look, I just wanted to invite you to dinner again tonight,” I say, propping my hands on my thighs.
I’m more out of breath than I’d like to admit. Sprinting eight blocks will do that to you, even when you spend three hours a day in the gym. Then again, I’ve always been more into strength training than cardio.
Cassie’s fiery brows draw down over her eyes and she looks away. I don’t blame her.
“Carson, we’ve been over this,” she says. “I can’t. Not right now.”
That’s my cue to surrender. I hold up my hands, palms forward. You got me, sheriff.
“Just dinner,” I say. “At a restaurant. Nowhere near my apartment.”
She gives me a sidelong look.
“I really would like to discuss Tricialicious with you,” I say. “That’s where I was running from. I was just talking to Tricia about … a bunch of stuff.”
I was also using my smartphone to confirm that you did, in fact, graduate from the Citadel at the top of your class.
“I was hoping to catch you at your place, but here you are.”
“What’s so urgent all of a sudden?” she asks warily.
“I just think that there’s a situation that we need to discuss. It could have a drastic effect on your deal and how you move forward with it.”
She sizes me up. I’ve never really noticed it before but Cassie can look pretty intimidating when she wants to.
“This isn’t about you putting money in, is it?” she asks. “Because if it is, the answer is no.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Not right now, anyway.
“I just think there are some aspects to your situation that you might not have considered. I’ve sort of got … insider information that I think you’ll find very valuable.”
She shakes her head, tossing those blazing curls, and crosses her arms over her chest.
“I don’t want to get involved in anything that isn’t above board. Insider information is a slippery slope. And I’ve already told you, I want to do this on my own.”
“It’s definitely not illegal,” I say, although a lawyer and a prosecutor would probably argue all day over that. “Tell you what: I’ll give you the information, and you decide whether it’s ethical or not to use it. That way, the choice is entirely up to you.”
Her azure eyes soften.
“Welll….” she says.
I hold up my hand in a Boy Scout salute.
“I solemnly swear that I won’t try to get you back to my place.”
That does it: she finally cracks that radiant smile. Phew. I haven’t had to work that hard in a long time.
Then again, I’ve never cared about another woman the way I care about this one. For as long as I’ve known her, practically as long as I’ve been alive. And this is far and away the most important date of my life.
Cassie doesn’t know it yet, but it’s the most important date of her life, too.
“All right,” she says. “Is this going to be a fancy restaurant?”
“The fanciest.”
She rolls her eyes.
“I’d be just as happy at Burger King, you know.”
“Humor me. I have a lot of disposable income. And I have to dispose of it somehow, since you won’t let me give any of it to you.”
“All right. What’s it called?”
“Have you ever heard of Piccolo?”
She scrunches her face. “Hm… nope, strangely enough, I haven’t heard of your ridiculously fancy restaurant.” The she quickly adds: “It’s in Midtown, right?”
“Yup. I guarantee you’re going to love it.”
“It better not have a coatroom,” she says sternly.
“No,” I chuckle. “No coatroom.”
“So I need to wear a gown again?”
“You could wear exactly what you’re wearing right now and I’d be over the moon,” I say. “But you’d be the only woman in the restaurant dressed that way. Now, I personally think they’d all be jealous of you, but you might not agree.”
“Fine,” she sighs. “If I have to.”
I clap my hands and do an abysmal end-zone dance. “Yes!”
“You are such a geek,” she giggles.
“Takes one to know one.”
Suddenly a shadow crosses her face. I can only imagine what she must be thinking. But whatever it is, I can understand.
“Everything okay?” I ask, placing a hand on her creamy shoulder. The sensation is incredible. Just laying a hand on her bare skin is enough to make me shiver.
“It’s nothing,” she says with a quick smile. “I can’t wait for tonight.”
That sparks a thought. I don’t really want to let her out of my sight until we meet for dinner. Not that I expect any problems, but there’s no point in tempting fate.
“I’ve got an idea,” I say. “Why don’t you let me take you out right now and buy you a dress?”
The shadow is back again in an instant.
“Carson, how many times do I have to tell you…”
“Hear me out: we find you a dress, you wear it tonight, and then I donate it to a charity auction. You get an amazing gown, the Left-Handed Cellists Guild or some such group gets a donation, and I get a tax receipt.”
Giggles again. That’s what I wanted to hear. What I needed to hear. As though Cassie’s laughter, her very happiness, is a drug that has me hooked. Hell, who am I kidding? I am hooked. Always have been.
She seems to be mulling it over. I’m pretty sure she’ll think it’s a good idea, too.
“All right,” she says. “If it will make you happy, I’ll go shopping for an expensive evening gown. But you so owe me, buster.”
There’s no way I could keep the smile off my face right now if I tried. I feel like this is
our chance to finally go to the prom, and get it right this time. No jealousy, no bitterness, mulling over what could have been. Just Cassie and me, going on our very first date all over again,
I cock an elbow at her and she slides a perfect arm through it, clasping her hands and locking on to me. If I had my way, she’d never let go.
Please, whatever God there may be out there, let this night go as planned.
“Well then,” I say, looking up at the sky. “Which direction to Oscar de la Renta?”
She actually gasps. Not just an intake of air, an actual gasp, like in an old-tyme movie.
“You’re not serious,” she says, eyes like blue moons in her face.
“Sorry,” I say with a mock grimace. “It’s the only place that’s close.”
She slams her shoulder into mine but doesn’t let go of my arm. We head north on Forty-Second, walking slowly. We’re not in any hurry. As far as I’m concerned, we can keep on walking arm-in-arm like this until, oh, say the year 2099.
“I should see if I can find a belt,” she says after a half a block.
“Yeah? Need a new belt, do you?”
“Well, I need something I can strangle you with in case you decide to try anything tonight.”
I feign shock. “I would never.”
She giggles again. If she only knew.
Chapter Sixty-Four
33. CASSANDRA
“I can’t believe I’m wearing $14,000 worth of clothes. That’s obscene.”
I smile like a little kid and look at Carson. “Isn’t it?”
He settles back into his side of the limo’s bench seat and gives me an appreciative once-over.
“Someone once told me wealth is relative,” he says. “Me spending fourteen grand would be equivalent to your average New Yorker spending eight bucks for a coffee, which they do all the time.”
I do some quick math. Whoa.
“Are you serious?” I ask. “Just how rich are you?”
He flashes mock annoyance.
“Rich enough to be able to afford it when my date chooses the most expensive dress in the store,” he gripes.
I slap him. “You chose it, you jackass! I was happy with that dark green one.”
“Yeah, but that ugly old lady said plum compliments red hair, and I wasn’t going to argue with her. She’s the expert, after all.”
“That was a man and you know it!”
I tap the reverse camera on my phone and check out our digital reflection. The old lady – I mean man – was right, the purple totally works. Carson is in another tux, different from the one he wore to Modern. I guess that’s another way to answer my question: he’s rich enough to need more than one tuxedo. Until Carson, I’m not sure I knew anyone who even owned one.
Against my better judgment, I snap a selfie. Like, I don’t want to be one of those girls. But sometimes it’s unavoidable. Like starting a sentence with “like.” Oh, gosh, I’m doing it again. How can one man have me so flustered?
“Let me see!” Carson crows.
I suddenly remember that the previous photo in my library is of the woman in the red dress. A tiny stab of panic goes through my belly as I tuck the phone into my purse before he can get his hands on it.
“A girl’s phone is her castle,” I say. “Or something like that. You know what I mean.”
“You’re absolutely right,” he says with mock gravity.
“I like the sound of that.”
Carson pulls a bottle of Salon champagne from a perspiring silver ice bucket in the console and pours us each a flute. The matching silver tray next to it is covered in a pyramid of chocolate-dipped strawberries that doesn’t seem to be shrinking, even though each of us had at least half a dozen.
The interior of the limo is ringed by bands of polished cherry wood that gleam a deep auburn in the reflection of the bar lights. All in all, it’s the kind of place I just didn’t even think existed before I met Carson. For the second time, I mean.
He raises his flute. “To ugly old men who look like women,” he says.
“I’ll drink to that,” I giggle.
A voice comes over the intercom from the front seat.
“Boss, we’re about a block from Piccolo.”
“Thanks, Leonard,” Carson answers. “Let’s do a few laps before we go in. There’s still champagne to finish.”
“You got it, boss.”
“I can’t believe you pay a driver to be on standby all day,” I say, clucking my tongue.
“He doesn’t cost me near what your dress did.”
That’s it. I pummel him with both fists. He grabs my wrists and we play wrestle for a little bit. I’m having déjà vu so hard it’s almost a physical feeling. Still, there’s one thing I know for sure. There is no way he was this strong when we were in high school.
“Besides,” he laughs. “It makes me feel good. Call it job creation.”
After we settle for a moment, I take a deep breath and let it out in a sigh.
“Do you remember when our study dates would devolve into stuff like this?” I ask.
He gives me a wistful smile. “Of course. It’s not like we had to study, so why not?”
“I always knew you had it in you, y’know.”
“Had what in me?”
“This,” I say, waving a hand through the interior of the car. “The dress, the car, the driver on standby.”
“Really?”
“Okay, maybe not this level, but I knew you’d be a success.”
He smiles. “You will be, too, Cassie. I’m positive of it.”
“How do you know?”
He leans forward and plucks a couple more strawberries from the tray. I open my mouth and he slides one in. My lips close over his withdrawing fingertip for a moment until it pops out with a wet smacking sound.
The look in his eyes is priceless.
“Ask me again sometime,” he says. “Right now I want to focus on the moment.”
So do I. God, those eyes: the color of the morning fog in San Francisco bay. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they could see right into my soul.
I wonder what he would think if he actually could.
“I want to talk about your career soon, too,” he says. “I bet it’s been fascinating.”
No, thanks – we’re not going down that road.
I swig back the dregs of my champagne and drop the glass into the little rack on the inside of the door.
“Ask me again sometime,” I say, searching desperately for a humorous way out. “Right now, I’m starving and I want to see if I can spend as much of your money on food as I did on this dress.”
“Challenge accepted,” he grins. His finger finds a panel on the door frame. “Leonard, we’re ready now.”
“Just pulling up front as we speak, boss.”
Seriously?
We come to a stop and the door opens a couple of seconds later. Leonard reaches in a gloved hand and helps me out onto the curb.
“Ma’am,” he says, tipping his cap.
Carson claps him on the shoulder and says thanks. Leonard slips behind the wheel again and is back in traffic almost immediately.
“That’s why I keep Leonard on standby,” he says. “He’s worth every penny.”
I take Carson’s arm again and he leads me toward the carved mahogany doors of Piccolo. I glance around, trying to get my bearings.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been in this particular block before,” I say.
“This is a pretty exclusive little area,” says Carson. “A lot of people pay a lot of money to be out of the public eye here. There’s a world-class boutique hotel next door.”
“Really? I’d love to see it sometime.”
Carson’s smile is dazzling as he leads me into the restaurant.
“I can definitely make that happen,” he says.
Chapter Sixty-Five
34. CARSON
The exterior of Piccolo is bland enough that you might walk on by and not even notice i
t’s there. Except for the rich wooden doors and the deep red canopy leading to them, it’s basically just another of the featureless granite buildings that line the streets of Manhattan like Lego blocks.
But then you step inside.
The low-ceilinged foyer is quite understated, done in darkly veined marble, with a brass-and-wood reception desk that’s only a few feet wide. The maître d is a very serious-looking bald man named Avery – I’ve never been able to figure out whether it’s his first or last name – who always calls you by name, even if it’s your first time here. I have no idea how he pulls it off, but he does. Maybe a careful study of the Forbes list.
He looks up at us over his glasses as we enter.
“Mr. Drake,” he says. “Ms. Vincent. It’s a great pleasure to have you join us this evening.”
I admit it: I love to be served by people who are cultured and discreet. It’s one of the best perks of being rich.
All right, all right, if I’m being totally honest, it makes me feel like I’m James Bond. But I also tip extremely well.
I shake my head at some other nouveau riche guys, who drop thousands of dollars in high-end strip clubs with an entourage of losers. They surround themselves with noise and booze and people who are only along for the ride.
Give me a quiet, elegant room any day, with gourmet food and a beautiful, intelligent woman who gives as good as she gets.
Especially when that woman is the one by my side right now.
And Maksim, of course. But he’s different.
I see Cassie’s jaw drop a full inch as Avery leads us out of the foyer and into the dining room. Her head tilts up to follow the walls that go all the way up to the second-floor ceiling. Piccolo is so expensive, it can actually take up two whole floors of the building for a single-floor seating area.
As big as it is, the place still manages to feel cozy and intimate. It uses sound baffles built right into the architecture and artistic features of the dining area to turn each table and booth into its own perfectly private conversation area. Short of stripping completely naked and waggling your you-know-what you know where, you could do pretty much anything without getting noticed.
Avery leads us to a curved booth in an intimate corner next to a huge granite fireplace, dormant now that the temperatures are soaring into the 90s. As we slide in, he bows deeply from the waist, his narrow frame looking a bit like a coat rack that’s hinged in the middle.
