by Cassie Wild
The Escape
The Downing Family
Cassie Wild
Belmonte Publishing, LLC
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Belmonte Publishing LLC
Published by Belmonte Publishing LLC
Contents
Reading Order
Free Prequel
1. Daria
2. Brooks
3. Daria
4. Brooks
5. Daria
6. Brooks
7. Daria
8. Brooks
9. Daria
10. Brooks
11. Daria
12. Daria
13. Brooks
14. Daria
15. Daria
16. Brooks
17. Daria
18. Daria
19. Daria
20. Brooks
21. Daria
22. Brooks
23. Daria
24. Brooks
25. Daria
26. Brooks
27. Daria
28. Brooks
29. Daria
Preview Deceit and Desire
About the Author
Reading Order
Thank you so much for reading The Escape, the first book in Downing Family series. Don’t miss the other books in the series, coming soon.
1. The Escape
2. The Debt (August 31)
3. The Punishment (September 21)
Free Prequel
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One
Daria
“I can’t do it, not even for you, Isabel. It will kill me.”
My voice had shattered into a thousand, heartbroken pieces as I’d begged her to understand. Isabel, the only friend I’d made in America since I left Russia a little over two years ago to study at the ballet academy in New York.
“Daria, my beautiful Russian doll. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise. I can’t get married without you at my side. I’ve already picked out your bridesmaid dress. I’ll fly you down here first class. Please, Daria. I need someone here besides my family.”
My family. I’d let that phrase linger in my mind, imagining all the things I’d never had but longed for: Family. Security. Safety. Finally, against every ounce of better judgment, I’d murmured a timid … okay.
Isabel’s silken tones rang in my ears as I buckled myself into my roomy seat on the enormous jet that would fly me to Miami for the wedding, terrified all over again. My only friend in the entire world had finally broken down my reserve.
How could I refuse her after all she’d done for me?
And on her day of days, her wedding?
Isabel said she understood my fears. Of flying in the cramped space of an airplane. Claustrophobia they call it. But here, trapped in that cage, I could feel the panic rising, overwhelming me. How can she help me now?
I was all but suffocating. I couldn’t breathe. The thought of hanging above the clouds at the mercy of physics and a pilot I don’t even know. All I could imagine was disaster.
And if I made it through the flight without passing out, without my heart actually stopping with the weight of my fear, how would I cope with my other terror? The dread that had me running for the safety of my room at the very suggestion of meeting strangers. It was why Isabel was the only friend I had.
How silly it all sounded to my own ears. Grow up I wanted to tell myself. As a dancer I’d performed the most difficult roles – Giselle, Swan Lake – without the mere flutter of nerves. Yet the idea of having to make small talk with a man I didn’t know, with women who’ve been friends since kindergarten, who have all those secret codes – the crafty looks, the knowing smiles, the casual gestures that signal they are the chosen ones – make me want to flee and hide. And worse.
Those social events drove me even deeper into my isolation, cause me to seek out the safety of my art. The dance. Where I can express myself in movement and grace. Where I am in control of my body, my world. On stage, dancing to music, commanding an audience, that is where I feel my power.
The attendants bustled up and down the aisles, lights flashed and sounds pinged as the sign to fasten our seatbelt blinked above my head. The procedures to follow in case of an emergency began, which only deepened my anxiety. Imagining having to exit the plane during a crash heightened my terror. Then I heard the engines begin to roar and I felt myself pushed back against my seat as the plane took off.
I looked out the window and watched as the earth began to fall away. I was doing everything I could to keep calm.
Adrenalin shot through me as the clang of the landing gear beneath me ground into place, solidifying for me that we were indeed suspended in space.
Fearing my heart would stop beating, I closed my eyes, just begging the powers that be to please make the anxiety go away.
Then I felt a hand on my arm, startling me so that I jerked forward in my seat. I turned to my left and found myself looking into the kindest eyes I believe I’ve ever seen, followed by a voice as soothing as balm.
“Deep breaths. One after the other, dear,” she said. This sweet grandmother answering my prayer. An elegant grandmother, to be sure, but a woman in her later years, nonetheless.
This angel, whoever she was, just stroked my arm and said, “Don’t worry. I used to be a stew. You’d be surprised at the number of people who suffer from fear of flying.”
“Stew?” I said. “Isn’t that something you eat?”
She broke out laughing, a musical sound that she must try to bottle and sell at a premium for its calming effect.
“Oh, dear. I’m dating myself,” she said with an adorable sheepish grin. “That was before you were even born. Back when flight attendants were called stewardesses. All of us were twenty-somethings of a certain height and weight and God help you if you gained an ounce or tried to change into flats during a transcontinental flight.” And then she added with a knowing arch of her brow, “And men need not apply.”
That laugh again before she confessed, “That makes me older than dirt, I know, but I learned a few things during my ten-year career.”
By now the flight attendant, male, had come on the intercom and announced they would be serving refreshments shortly. My companion’s cue to give me one of her words of wisdom.
“For instance,” she said. “I’d stay away from alcohol if you think you’re going to have a panic attack. Stay hydrated, though. Lots of water.”
“Thank you,” I said, before she launched into the rest of her monologue.
“And by the way, it may help you to know that when the plane levels off,” she looked past me out my window, “as it seems to have done now, and reaches its cruising altitude, we are in the safest part of the flight. So you really can relax.”
“So I should save all my panic for the landing?” I said in all seriousness.
That marvelous laugh again. “Absolutely, if I haven’t talked you out of your fears by then. I’ve flown over a thousand flights with not a scratch. Does that make you feel better?”
“Yes,” I countered. “But if you quit your job before retirement age, something must have talked you out of flying.”
“Remember, my dear, we’re talking about the old days. They didn’t let you work after thirty or thirty-five back then. Besides, I caught the brass ri
ng. I met my husband on a flight to San Francisco after a couple of years and they didn’t allow married women. I was happy to trade in my wings for a wedding ring and I started a second career after I raised my family. But enough about me. I love your accent. Where are you from?”
“New York,” I said, requesting a bottled water as the flight attendant arrived to take our beverage orders.
She waved her hand to erase my answer. “No, no, no. Where were you born? Those lovely vowels didn’t originate in any of the five boroughs.”
I’m sure I blushed, as I do whenever I received any type of praise. “I was born in Russia.”
“Ah, Russian. I thought so. A beautiful and charming girl like yourself traveling alone, you must be one of those strong, independent women with a story to tell. Miami is two hours away; we have lots of time. I’d love to hear it.”
I was pouring my water into my glass of ice when she said I was strong. I almost spilled my drink all over my lap. If she only knew how I’d been feeling in that moment. “Oh, I don’t really have much to say about myself.”
“Oh, nonsense,” she said, her smile accenting her eyes, a blue the color of the sky that highlighted the silver in her hair. “Of course you do. Start with what brought you to New York.”
What a question. “It might take me the rest of the trip to explain that,” I said.
“I’m not going anyplace,” she answered, stirring a packet of sugar into her coffee. “And if you don’t tell me your story, I’ll be forced to pull out my phone and show you pictures of all my grandchildren and photos of our vacations. And trust me, you don’t want to go there.”
Now we were laughing together. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll tell you my story but you have to promise me I get to see photos of your grandchildren.”
“Deal,” she answered. “Now what brought you to New York?”
I began at the beginning, or as much of it as I could remember. I told her I didn’t know my father but my mother doted on me. At least that’s what I had been told. At the age of four, a local dance instructor recognized my dancing ability and I got enrolled in one of the best ballet schools in Russia. It was a boarding school, so I didn’t see my mother much. When she died five years later I was adopted by Kiska, a retired ballerina. She became the only mother I’d ever really known.
She was also the reason I was able to come to New York and study at the Burov Ballet Academy. Her influence and connection in the ballet world had made it happen. But soon after arriving in New York, I returned, heartbroken, back to Moscow to attend Kiska’s funeral. I was told she’d been sick with cancer for years, something she’d been hiding from me. Maybe she realized that I would never have left Moscow had I known she was dying.
The ballet became my salvation. Yes, Madame Nadia was difficult, demanding in the extreme, though somehow Isabel had talked her into giving me the time off for the wedding. But I had dreams. I wanted to dance on the world stage. That demanded perfection and she pulled it out of me.
However, the grueling life would have broken me if I had not met Isabel. We happened to have practice sessions together and after one look at each other, we realized we were soul mates.
She rescued me from my cockroach-ridden, cramped closet with a bed in a scary part of lower Manhattan and invited me to share her large, sunny two-bedroom apartment near the school. She’s introduced me to her friends and made my life so much happier.
“So you see,” I said, finishing up the story of my life as the captain came on to report we were about to land in Miami. “That is why I would do anything for Isabel.”
We unloaded our carry-on luggage from the overhead compartments, the aisle crowding now with passengers eager to be the first off the plane.
“Well I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time,” she said. “Miami is a beautiful place for a wedding.”
I couldn’t believe I had landed without a shred of fear. Our arms were full of purses, magazines and hand luggage so the opportunity to ask to see her grandchildren had passed. However, as we headed off the plane I said, “You never told me what you did for your second career.”
“Oh,” she said, before she disappeared forever into the throng, “I’m a journalist. I interview people for a local TV show.”
My heart dropped when I saw that Isabel wasn’t waiting at the baggage claim for me. Would I have to face strangers alone? I wasn’t surprised she was running late—that was typical of my friend, but didn’t she remember how shy I was? And then I saw a tall, bulky man with muscles that looked like baseballs shoved under his skin carrying a placard with my name on it.
I introduced myself and he gave me a short nod. “Isabel’s family sent me to pick you up, Ms. Gorev. I’ll take your bags.”
I nodded with relief as I fell into step next to him.
All around us, people rushed to greet friends and loved ones. I saw some people fall into embraces and despite the former “stew” using her excellent journalist skills to distract me from my fears on the plane, the lonely girl inside me felt a twinge of envy.
I didn’t have family who would greet me when I came home from a long trip.
Not anymore.
Kiska, my adopted mother, was gone. Other than my friendship with Isabel and a few other casual relationships with fellow students at the school, I didn’t have anybody.
Don’t feel sorry for yourself, I chided mentally. I did, after all, have Isabel. And my dancing.
That was more than some people had.
Besides, Kiska had raised me to be strong and capable, and that was what I would be.
Squaring my shoulders, I paced along behind the big, burly escort who had been sent for me.
I’d never been in a wedding before. It didn’t help that the only people I’d know would be Isabel, her father Basilio, and her fiancé, Sean. Basilio often came to New York to visit the ballet school, so I’d known him for almost two years. But I’d only met Sean a couple times and I wasn’t sure if that really counted for much.
We were to have a rehearsal later in the evening and I wished I could have arrived sooner. But the attendance policy at the academy was strict. Thanks to Isabel’s intercession, I’d gotten the weekend off as well as the first few days of the following week, but I’d have to be careful not to miss any more school.
The academy had allowed Isabel a bit more time off because she was getting married. Isabel seemed to have a bit more leeway when it came to missing days. The head of the academy was a hard woman to please, but although Isabel didn’t always seem to enjoy being at the school, she didn’t get her butt chewed out over small mistakes, not the way the other students did.
We reached the line of cars out front and I gasped when my escort stopped in front of an enormous black limousine.
I knew expensive cars were common in New York City. But I’d only ever seen them.
I’d never ridden in one.
My driver opened the door and gestured for me to climb inside. My mouth went dry as the scent of expensive leather filled my nostrils. Curling myself into the sleek, comfortable seats, I realized I didn’t know Isabel as well as I thought.
I knew her family had money. I just hadn’t known it was this kind of money. Of course, maybe I should have. Our place in Manhattan was definitely one of the nicer apartments, more than I could have afforded on my own. When Isabel asked me to move in with her, I’d been delighted, desperate to get out of the miserable box that I’d found soon after arriving in New York..
But when I saw her apartment, I almost died of shock. I couldn’t have afforded a place like that if I’d sold my kidneys. When I told her it was too much for my budget, she’d waved it off. My father pays for it. Please don’t say no … I hate being here alone.
She’d been so sincere, I’d given in and we’d been roommates for more than two years now.
Now she was getting married.
I’d have to find a new place to live because I couldn’t possibly continue to stay there when her new husband moved in. It
would be so awkward.
Silence wrapped around us as we drove and I took in what I could see of the city.
Miami was nothing like New York and not just because of the looming palm trees that towered over the streets.
It had a less frenzied pace, although I might be a bad judge since I’d only seen a small slice from the airport as we drove through the streets lined with pastel buildings and colorful shops.
But I hadn’t heard the mad honk of horns and sirens that threatened to shatter my eardrums at home. The light traffic on the drive was nothing compared to the frenzy on the streets of New York.
Soon, we left the highway behind.
I had to snap my jaw shut when I caught sight of the houses that we passed.
Each one seemed a little bigger, a little more opulent than the last.
When the car finally turned off the road, I inched forward a little. A wall surrounded the property and beyond that wall I could see tall, stately old trees, their branches dripping with Spanish moss.
“Are we there?” I asked.
The driver met my eyes in the mirror. “Yes. We’ll be at the house in just a few moments. Isabel is excited to see you.”
I was excited to see her, too.
But nerves began to rattle inside me as we continued up the long drive. I caught glimpses of the house through the trees long before we actually reached it. I could tell it was enormous—and expensive.
