Eye of the Storm (5 page)

Finally Natasha found her voice. “Rosa was killed. During the War. All of her
kumpania
as well.”

“Rosa’s family was betrayed. A Lowara told the Nazis about their campsite location in exchange for all their wagons and horses. Everyone knows the Lowara are thieves, only one step up from
gaje
.”

“I’m Lowara,” Natasha declared, her courage returning as she finally broke free of his lady’s grip. Or did Rosa’s granddaughter let her go? Vincent rather thought so, watching Natasha massage her sore wrists.

“I know.”

“Then you also know that Lowara are the best knife wielders alive. And we don’t take kindly to accusations from
marhime
!” Natasha spat at his lady.

Instead of distracting his lady and allowing Natasha to draw her knife, his lady ignored the spittle sliding down her cheek, and in a lightning move, twisted the knife free of Natasha’s hand as soon as it cleared her skirt pocket.

“The Rom turned their backs on my grandmother after she saved many of them from the Nazis. She was declared unclean,
marhime
. Many of the Lowara alive today owe their lives to my grandmother. Perhaps I will collect on the debt someday.”

“If you try, you’ll die,” Natasha hissed.

Vincent swelled with pride as his lady merely laughed and thrust her upturned palm into Natasha’s face. “Look again, old woman. Better than you have tried and failed.”

The lights from the museum glistened as they danced across a heaped-up scar shaped like a crescent moon that swirled around the base of her thumb. Her left arm, which held the knife in a deceptively casual fashion, also carried a scar, this one jagged like the tail of a serpent—or a dragon. A sudden gust of wind shivered through him.

Natasha looked down, drawn against her will, and Vincent heard her sharp intake of breath. Then she looked up into his lady’s eyes. Natasha dropped his lady’s hand as if it burnt her and clattered down the steps, running into the night.

His lady watched her go, idly twirling the knife in her hand. Then she turned her dark gaze on Vincent.

“Something I can do for you?” she asked. Her voice radiated through him like light spiraling through a crystal.

Vincent only nodded, taking her right hand and looking down into its depths himself. He saw nothing there but furrowed lines and the heaped skin of the scar. He knew he did not have the gift to read others like Natasha, but still, he was disappointed. He looked into his lady’s eyes and lifted her palm, caressing her scar with his lips.

She surprised him with a quick smile that lit the darkness around him, banishing all fear. He bowed over her hand. “I am Vincent,” he said, feeling much older than he was. “Please call upon me in your need, my lady.”

She nodded gravely, accepting his offer. “I’m Cassandra Hart. Do you know anything about what happened here tonight, Vincent? About the fire?”

He did. Just as he knew Natasha’s surprise at meeting Rosa Costello’s granddaughter had been an act. But he couldn’t betray his family—Nickolai would kill him if he said anything. Vincent bowed once more and then turned and ran, his legs pumping with nervous energy, skipping him down the steps two at a time. Cassandra Hart lifted her left hand in a small wave before turning and climbing the steps back to the marble halls of the
gaje
world.

That’s when Vincent realized her left hand was empty, but where was the knife? It wasn’t on the steps, he saw. He put his hands on his hips and felt the bone hilt. She’d slid it into his belt. Vincent drew it slowly, carefully. Natasha’s blade—now his. All that wonder, power—his.

His fingers closed over the hilt and he vowed to use the knife only to protect his lady from evil—like the revenge he was certain Natasha was already plotting.

WHEN CASSIE RETURNED
inside, she found Drake standing with Jimmy and a man dressed in a navy polo shirt, tan sports jacket, and khaki pants, his posture proclaiming his membership in the law enforcement fraternity. Drake had rolled up his shirtsleeves and his black tie dangled from his unbuttoned shirt collar. Jimmy still wore his tuxedo jacket but his hand kept going to tug at his collar and tie and Cassie knew he was searching for any excuse to pull it free. He caught her gaze and lowered his hand with a guilty smile. Denise must have given him strict instructions about tending to expensive rental suits.

Cassie moved to join the group, both Jimmy and Drake automatically making room for her in their circle as if she were an equal. The third man looked up at her with annoyance, stopping his speech at her arrival.

“One of the uniformed officers can take your statement, ma’am,” he told her in a frosty tone, his gaze following the arc of the black leather pumps that Drake dangled on the tips of two fingers and passed to her. “This room is off limits.”

Cassie reluctantly accepted the shoes. She ignored the detective to peer at a diagram Drake was holding. It appeared to be a device consisting of a small electronic apparatus connected to an elongated vial shaped like a large light bulb.

“Cassie, this is Detective Romero, arson squad,” Jimmy made introductions, suppressing his grin at Romero’s discomfort over the presence of a civilian.

“Remote control?” Cassie asked. She looked up at Romero. “Something that produced a spark or electrical current?”

The arson detective nodded grudgingly. “Remote car starter. The trigger would look like a car alarm key fob.”

“What kind of flammable liquid was it? I couldn’t smell anything but it burned fast.”

Romero pursed his lips, obviously determined not to allow a civilian further into his confidence. Drake answered for her.

“Lamp oil mixed with paraffin. The heat of the current burst the light bulbs and simultaneously ignited it as it poured down over the canvas.”

“The pops we heard.” He nodded. “Who knew far enough ahead of time to set them up? It had to be someone who knew you were the artist.”

Romero shoved his hands into his pants pockets, his jacket opening to display his gun and badge—reminders of who was in charge here. “What makes you think Ms. Fairstone wasn’t the intended victim? She’s the one out a million dollars worth of art.”

“Not after the insurance pays. And while this might not be the most successful fund raiser of the season, it will certainly by the most memorable and talked about.” Cassie shook her head. “The only losers here were Drake and the clinic. The bastard could have at least waited until after the auction.”

<<<>>>

DRAKE CUT HER
a look accompanied by a half smile. Leave it to Hart to get her priorities straight, he thought. He could always depend on her to slice through the bullshit.

Romero made a small noise and Drake realized the detective had just put two and two together and figured out who Hart was.

“How can you be so certain you weren’t the target, Dr. Hart?” Romero asked, his tone indicating he was tired of playing games. “I understand your ex-husband’s brother was here tonight?”

Drake glanced up at that. Alan King would definitely top his list of anyone with a grudge against Hart—and Drake. “King was here?”

“I didn’t see him,” Hart said. “If Alan King wanted revenge over his brother’s death, he’d make sure I saw him enjoying the spectacle.” Drake had to agree with her assessment; King was a supreme narcissist.

Romero seemed disappointed by her answer.

“Maybe someone who attended Fairstone’s private viewing?” Jimmy put in. “They had access before the rest of us.”

“Private viewing?” Romero asked. “When did this private showing occur?”

Drake answered. “This afternoon, once the installation was completed. Just an intimate group of about twenty, any of them could have had time to plan this.”

“The devices were strictly amateur—easy to download instructions from the web and the components could be found at any Kmart.” Romero shrugged. “I’m gonna hit the computer anyway, see if any of this fits a signature we’ve got on file.”

“ATF as well?” Drake asked.

Romero shot him a look that said he didn’t need to tell him how to do his job.

IT WAS ALMOST
three in the morning before Cassie, with Jimmy’s help, was able to coax Drake away from the museum and back home to the apartment they shared on the top floor of his building in East Liberty. During that time, they’d reviewed recordings from dozens of security cameras, only to find that the crucial one had been blacked out during the time the incendiary devices were planted. Like the devices themselves, the camera had been circumvented by low-tech means: a dolly containing a large, draped sculpture had been parked in front of the camera for twelve minutes earlier that afternoon. Of course, there was now no trace of the sculpture or its paperwork.

The arson investigator, Romero, had also dissected Drake’s case history, searching for someone who might have a grudge against Drake. There were a few names he and Jimmy came up with, disgruntled customers Jimmy called them, but a quick check confirmed they were all still incarcerated.

Jimmy still insisted on placing a protective detail outside Drake’s building—something Drake usually would have balked at, but agreed to readily. Because of Cassie, she knew. Fine by her; the officers would be protecting him as much as her.

Drake’s frustration and anger was broadcast via the rigid set of his shoulders as they climbed the stairs to their apartment. “You should get some rest.” Cassie resorted to making small talk. “Your mom, and Nellie and Jacob, are stopping here for brunch before the rehearsal tomorrow.”

He gave a grunt. “I don’t understand this whole having the rehearsal party at Tessa’s house when the wedding’s going to be here. And why do you have to leave early just to try on your dress? It’s my mom’s—not like I haven’t seen pictures of it.”

With Christmas Eve on a Saturday and all their friends and Drake’s relatives having the twenty-third off, Adeena, Cassie’s best friend and maid of honor, had planned their rehearsal party for Friday afternoon at the house she shared with her Great Aunt Tessa.

“Because that’s the way your mother wanted it. You’re her only child and your family is also the only family I have left, and she’s excited about me wearing her dress, so I expect you to indulge her and smile. A lot.”

They reached the apartment door but he didn’t unlock it, instead turned to scowl at her. “I’m not a child and this isn’t self-pity.”

“I know that. You’re worried. That what happened tonight is only the beginning. That maybe we should cancel the wedding, tell everyone to stay home. That maybe we shouldn’t stay here tonight and should just head out of town and hold up in a cheap motel in a town we don’t even know the name of.”

That cracked his facade. Not by much, the worry still leaked into his smile, but it was a start. “Am I that predictable?”

She stood on her tiptoes to kiss his nose. “Yes. Which is why I’ll wait here while you clear the apartment and secure it.”

“And everyone thinks I’m marrying you for your money.” A joke since she had none. In fact, between the two of them pouring everything they had into the Liberty Center, if they did run away, they’d probably be sleeping in the back of his car.

He unlocked the door, cracked it open far enough to check the alarm panel and enter his code, then, leaving the lights off, entered with his gun drawn. She waited impatiently as Hennessey, her overweight tortoiseshell cat, meandered through the open door to whine about being left alone. Finally, Drake returned, snapping on the foyer light, and they all entered.

He took her coat and hung up his own as well, his movements taut, still not relaxed despite being in the safety of their home. He’d never get any rest at this rate. Good thing Cassie knew a surefire way to relax them both.

He turned back to her, his expression revealing as much emotion as a blank slate. But she didn’t need to see emotion on his face to know what was churning just beneath the surface. The storm-tossed indigo of his eyes did that for her, as did his knotted shoulder muscles. She led him to the bedroom, turning on only the shaded bedside lamp.

“I’m in no mood,” he said, hands dug deep into his pocket, shoulders hunched. She ignored him, kicked off her shoes and lifted her skirt to slide out of her panties, letting them drop to the floor. She was now naked beneath the velvet folds of the dress and Drake knew it.

Still, he tried to turn away. “Cassie.” He almost growled her name in protest as she moved to him. It was funny how he only used her first name when he was irritated with her.

She’d know she’d broken through to him when he reverted to his more familiar, intimate use of her surname. The way he said it, that one syllable, could send thrills roiling through her body. Sometimes she hated the way he could affect her—a single word or glance or touch could leave her helpless.

She raised her hands to his shoulders, playfully flicking the straps of his suspenders. Her smile was wicked as he moved his hands to cover hers, to try to stop her from proceeding.

Wrong move, she thought, leaning forward to nip his hand, letting her teeth sink into his flesh with enough force to distract any man.

“Damn it, Hart!”

Victory, she thought, sliding the suspenders from his shoulders even as he drew her to her tiptoes, his mouth devouring hers.

<<<>>>

DRAKE SQUEEZED HART’S
shoulders, crushing the velvet of her gown in his sweaty palms. He yanked the cloth away, letting it slide down to hang in the crook of her arms, leaving her chest bare to him. As he bent to kiss her, he felt her intake of breath stealing his. Her hands slid between their bodies, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. She made a small noise of frustration and yanked hard on the fabric, popping buttons in all directions.

He fisted one hand in her hair, unraveling the intricate braid, and tugged on it, pulling her head back so his mouth was free to roam her body. A sheen of sweat was all that separated them as she slid his shirt away from him. Then her fingers began to dance a tortuous tango down his spine until they found the sensitive spot at the small of his back, beneath his waistband. His hips arched in anticipation; he knew what would happen once she touched that spot just so. He was already aroused. He didn’t believe she could coax any more from his body.