CASSIE HAD DECLINED the offer of a ride from Adeena, who’d left to drive Denise home to relieve their babysitter. They’d all see each other tomorrow at the wedding rehearsal party Adeena was hosting along with her Great Aunt Tessa, who’d been Cassie’s grandmother’s best friend.
Cassie knew she could be of no help to Drake in sorting out the aftermath of the fire, but if someone had targeted Drake’s art, then he was also a target and she didn’t intend to stray very far from his side.
Besides, if she left him to his own devices, he’d spend all night here or down at the Zone Seven station house pursuing the case without rest. All without venting any of the anger that had to be building inside of him.
She should know, because although Drake could slam down his emotions behind an impenetrable vault door, Cassie didn’t have that ability. Confusion, fear, resentment, and fury churned through her, building to a crescendo. Why? Why target a piece of art, a thing of beauty? Who would perform such a wanton act of destruction that no one could possibly profit from?
There was no money motive—Drake had been paid, the paintings were insured, only the insurance company lost. Although tonight would undoubtedly propel Drake into the spotlight he detested, his art career would most likely improve. She frowned as she imagined rich benefactors trying to out do themselves as the next one “brave” enough to unveil a Remy Michel work.
Maybe Alicia Fairstone planned it that way? The heiress certainly craved the adoration of the public and her own social group. Would she go so far to stage a publicity coup?
Surely not. But she liked the prospect of seeing Alicia Fairstone jailed for arson and maybe insurance fraud. Cassie stood before a small, delicately brushed Renoir, considering. It was difficult to feel so angry when faced with such beauty.
What had the arsonist felt as he looked upon Steadfast? Why hadn’t he felt the beauty of Drake’s creation? What had fueled the rage that led to his act of destruction?
She gave her statement to one of the police officers ensconced in the gallery’s employee lounge. Detectives from Major Crimes and the Arson squads were using the more lavish executive offices upstairs to interview Pittsburgh’s rich and famous.
Drake wouldn’t leave the crime scene until he was certain every last detail had been extracted from it—even if officially this wasn’t his case. She ducked into the ladies’ room, thinking she’d find a little peace and quiet there.
Wrong. Women glittering with jewels thronged the mirrored counters, adjusting their makeup and hair as they recounted the excitement of tonight’s events. Cassie listened from the doorway as the tales of heroics and danger grew more and more preposterous. To hear them tell it, they or their brave husbands had each put out the fire with their bare hands.
“That Tony Marinelli from Channel Four is just so cute,” one taut-faced brunette crooned as she wiggled her cleavage into a more enticing position. “The police made all the reporters move across the street, but he promised an exclusive interview—said he’d wait for me.”
“Honey, that’s what he told us all,” one of her companions replied as she elbowed for mirror room. “They’ll film us then pick and choose the best sound bite.”
“Can you believe Alicia’s luck?” another voice pitched in. “First, finding those spectacular paintings and then—”
“Hosting an equally spectacular viewing,” a world-wise blonde finished for her. She licked her lips and checked her profile. “I heard the artist is the hunky piece of work in the dinner jacket. Talk about spectacular.” She slid her hands down, smoothing her dress over her hips.
“I heard he’s actually a cop.” The first woman giggled. “He can come investigate me anytime.”
“Only if he promises a strip search.”
Cassie listened to the banter as more women joined them, crowding the lavish facilities. Finally, she jostled to a space in front of a sink and washed her hands and face. The water soon ran black with soot. Silence settled over the room.
A dozen or so eyes stared at her, raking over her dirty appearance and the scorched patches that marred her dress. Abrasions covered her arms and shins from when she tackled Drake. And she’d lost her shoes—at least something good had come from the night.
“And what did you think of tonight’s unveiling?” the bitch blonde asked her, hands on her hips. “Don’t suppose you and your friend the artist set it up in order to generate commissions, rev up some word of mouth?” The crowd parted as if for a western style gunfight. The blonde stood by the toilet stalls, hands on her hips, ready to draw.
Cassie’s lips twisted into a half-smile as she regarded the blonde in the mirror. The towels were all gone, so she shook the water from her face and hands, marring the pristine surface of the mirror and marble topped vanity. And not caring.
Never start a fight, the voice of her grandfather Padraic Hart came to her. But if one comes your way, always, always finish it.
Cassie took a deep breath. It would be too damned easy—almost like picking on a senior citizen, she thought, noticing the wrinkles that even skilled cosmetic application and Botox couldn’t hide. And it might cost Drake in the long run.
That reined her in. Used to be she’d let her temper flare, getting the best of her before she’d think twice about it. But that was before she’d met Drake.
Instead, Cassie merely smiled and borrowed a line she’d been dying to use for years. “You talking to me?” she drawled, arching an eyebrow and speaking to the woman’s reflection in the mirror.
Before the blonde could answer, Cassie turned and walked away, her bare feet leaving small footprints on the Italian marble.
The door closed behind her and she leaned against the wall, giddy with triumph. She never knew that walking away from a fight could feel almost as good as winning one outright. She’d have to remember that. Hell, maybe she was finally outgrowing her temper. It was about time.
She looked up and was surprised to see she wasn’t alone in the corridor. A trim, medium-height, gray-haired man lounged against the opposite wall, regarding her with a knowing gleam in his eyes. He appeared to be in his late-sixties, but his eyes were much, much older. His gaze moved slowly from her head to toes, dark hazel eyes drinking in everything with a voracity that brought a flush to Cassie’s face.
She turned to leave, but he moved faster than she guessed he could, reaching a hand to take her left arm. The touch of his skin on hers jolted through the sensitive flesh of her scar and she whirled, yanking her arm from his grasp.
“I’m sorry,” he purred in a vaguely European accent. He gestured with his other hand, holding a thick and expensive-looking cigar. “I wondered if smoking was permitted?” His inflection emphasized the question but his gaze held hers with an intensity that made Cassie certain the query wasn’t foremost on his mind.
“No, I don’t think it is.” She took a step away but a shiver on the back of her neck warned her against turning her back on him or running. He grinned like a wolf and pocketed the cigar with regret.
“Ah, dear.” He sighed dramatically. She continued to edge away, but he moved toward her with a predator’s grace. “You were the angel, no?” he asked, his accent thickening, making Cassie certain he was dramatizing it. “In the beautiful paintings.”
She nodded, acknowledging the clench of fear his presence brought to her gut, but refusing to yield to it. Or him.
“And you are?” she asked, trying for the offensive.
He waved off her question as irrelevant. “An admirer. My what a beautiful ring.” His fingers lifted her left hand, his thumb stroking her sapphire engagement ring. Cassie felt thick callouses across his palm and noticed he had a strange-shaped scar on the back of his right hand. Smaller, straighter than any of her scars, dagger shaped—too regular for an accidental laceration, she thought as she stared with a clinician’s eye. Not surgical either.
A brand? She glanced up and saw he had noted her reaction. She tugged her hand away from his.
“Thank you,” she murmured, listening for any other people. All those giddy society matrons in the restroom and not one of them done yet? But the corridor remained stubbornly empty.
Except for Cassie and the wolf-man in front of her. His eyes narrowed and his grin widened as if he read her thoughts. Cassie’s weight shifted automatically into a fighting stance and it was all she could do to keep from balling her hands into fists.
“Give Drake my congratulations on your upcoming wedding,” the man drawled, his accent mysteriously vanished. He allowed Cassie to back away, remaining in the shadows while she moved toward the lights near the entrance to the restroom. “And my condolences.”
With that, he was gone. How did he know Drake? she wondered, but the knot of fear and prickling on the back of her neck convinced her that following him into the shadows would be a mistake.
A big mistake.
She shook her head as the door to the ladies’ room opened, disgorging a bevy of jewel-studded women who swarmed around Cassie as she stared at the spot where the man had disappeared.
She allowed the tide of women to carry her to the main entrance. They collected their various spouses and companions and chattered their way through the door and across the street to the restaurant where the TV crews and fifteen minutes of fame awaited.
The coat check staff had already been sent home, leaving all the outerwear on racks, but it was easy to find Cassie’s wool coat Drake had bought her after she’d fallen in love with the rich, scarlet color. She grabbed it and rushed out into the night air, hanging the coat over her shoulders like a cape, leaving her arms free. She stopped—where was she going? Nowhere without Drake, but she couldn’t stand going back inside, breathing any more of the perfumed air that couldn’t mask the stench of ashes.
Other patrons streamed past, a few with sidelong glances in her direction. Ignoring them, she sat down on the steps to the museum, hoping to clear her thoughts.
Should she tell Drake about the man’s threat? Except they weren’t really threats, were they? Not even insinuations. No. He’d be certain to overreact, want to do something like send her to Antarctica to keep her safe, argue that they were better off separated until any threat was past. Maybe even want to postpone their wedding.
Who was that man? She’d seen that mark on his wrist before—no, no, she’d heard about it. From Gram Rosa. A dagger branded onto the inside of the wrist, the mark of the Lowara. The gypsy clan who had betrayed Rosa and her family to the Nazis back in 1936.
The man wasn’t old enough to be a part of that. But on a night like this, artwork targeted, burned for no reason, lives placed at risk, she wondered if somehow the past had pierced the veil of time to target the present.