Eye of the Storm (3 page)

“CERTAINLY REMY SHOULD
be able to pay you more for your time,” Alicia continued, her gaze moving over Cassie’s dress. “What’s your doctorate in? Art History? It’s so difficult to get a job in academics these days.”

Cassie blushed with embarrassment as she realized Alicia must know exactly how much her dress cost: $229.98 on Macy’s clearance rack of prom and wedding rejects. A significant investment since she was no longer employed other than her full-time volunteer work with the Liberty Center.

“You will excuse us, won’t you?” Alicia went on, already pulling Drake away. “I’ve some people for you to meet, Remy. Important people who will be invaluable to advancing your career.”

Cassie watched them move away and finished Drake’s champagne in a single gulp. She knew it was all playacting on behalf of a good cause, but, dammit, Drake didn’t have to be enjoying it so much. She bit her lip as he laughed at one of Alicia’s jokes—probably something terribly witty and urbane—and then tensed as his hand reached up to stroke the other woman’s shoulder.

She hadn’t realized she’d taken a step forward until a meaty hand clamped onto her arm.

“Not so fast,” Jimmy Dolan told her. He nodded toward his partner and the small but growing crowd of society women, all fawning over Drake, their poses designed to be enticing, hands on hips, busts thrust out to reveal the best cosmetic surgery money could buy.

Drake laughed again, and Cassie almost snapped the stem of her glass in two. Jimmy pried the crystal from her and handed it to a passing waiter. “They’re auditioning to be his next model.”

“They can have the job,” she muttered.

“Just watch,” he ordered in his best ex-marine drill sergeant tone.

Drake continued to entertain, a peacock surrounded by a bevel of well-heeled peahen. He flicked a smile in Cassie’s direction and winked. She held her impulse to stick her tongue out at him, then covered her mouth with her hand to hide her grin as Drake’s hand sidled down Alicia’s back. His fingers deftly twisted the label of her designer gown so it hung garishly above the black velvet.

“You should know better,” Jimmy reproved her, but he was smiling as well. He saluted his fellow officer’s sleight of hand. “C’mon, let’s get some free food before all the rich people gobble it up.”

They left Drake to hold his own with the female barracudas and tackled the buffet. Jimmy guided her to a table in the rear where they joined Denise and Adeena.

“Thanks for the rescue,” Cassie told him before she settled into her dinner.

“No problem, I was ready for seconds anyway.”

Denise reached over to pat the expanse of stomach above his cummerbund. “You may want to rethink that. More calories to work off later.”

Jimmy lifted her hand and nibbled his way down her arm. Denise giggled. “I know the best fat-burning calisthenics around,” he said with a leer and then whispered in her ear.

“Stop.” She swatted him away. “I’m trying to eat here.”

Cassie watched the couple resume eating, their free hands intertwined. Jimmy and Denise were high school sweethearts, married before he joined the Marines, happy now for over twenty years. She glanced up as Drake entered the dining area, Alicia Fairstone draped over him like a mink stole. As he walked, he scanned the room, the candlelight transforming his blue eyes into twinkling sapphires. Then those eyes locked onto hers and it was as if they were standing together, face-to-face, instead of separated by thirty feet and a hundred strangers.

He smiled at her. She had to remind herself to breathe. They’d known each other for not quite a year and had been through a lot. Yet, she still got the same nervous flip-flop in her stomach she’d gotten the first time he’d looked at her that way. Her toes curled out of her pumps, too excited to remain confined by the tight leather.

She felt the color rise to her face and forgot her fork in midair, overwhelmed with the knowledge that this was the man she would be marrying in two days. Then Adeena said something to her and she caught herself just before the scallop slid off her fork.

“Sorry, what?” She tore her attention away from Drake with an effort.

<<<>>>

DRAKE WATCHED HART
from his place at the main table. He would have loved to seat her in the midst of all this store-bought beauty and dazzle these fatuous art lovers with the real thing. It would have been so damned satisfying. But he restrained himself and listened with half an ear as Alicia described her latest cruise to Corfu.

As his hands mechanically forked food and guided it to his mouth, he looked over at the tableau surrounding Hart. Denise sat on one side, her pale features reflecting her Scandinavian and European ancestry. Adeena with her intriguing African regal bearing sat on the other side. With Hart in the middle—a melting pot of many cultures. Her grandmother Rosa had been a gypsy of the Kalderasha clan and had given Hart her almond shaped dark eyes and high cheekbones—a delicious and delightful blend of ancient Persia, Eastern Europe, and the Mediterranean. Hart had a lot of Irish in her as well from her grandfather Padraic Hart, her Hibernian coloring reflecting every change of mood with subtle highlights Drake was learning to read and interpret it like an illuminated manuscript.

He glanced around at the best Pittsburgh society had to offer and felt they, despite their well-documented bloodlines, paled in comparison to the three women across the room.

His fingers twitched and suddenly he knew where his next composition would be drawn from. Hart looked up from something Adeena was saying and smiled, her head thrown back, rambunctious hair threatening revolt from its confines. She didn’t laugh; Hart very rarely did, but both Adeena and Denise were, probably at Jimmy’s expense, he thought, watching his partner blush and tuck into his food.

Just that—that very moment, the candlelight, the evening clothes, sparkling jewels adorning everyone except Hart, the way her eyes simultaneously conveyed both joy and a serious regard for the moment—that was what he would paint next.

“Is something wrong, Remy?” Alicia interrupted herself to ask.

“No,” he assured her. “Everything is fine. I must thank you—you’ve given me the inspiration for my next painting.”

Alicia smiled broadly and preened. “I can’t wait to see it.”

<<<>>>

THE DINNER WAS
interminably long, but finally they were released for the main event. Alicia led the way into the main gallery. Drake rejoined Cassie, his hand searching hers out, asking silently for forgiveness. She relented and gave his fingers a quick squeeze. Alicia made her way up to a small podium. A red velvet curtain shielded the wall behind the podium and the lights were turned up to full.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Alicia started, “I would like to introduce you all to a work of art recently acquired by the Fairstone Foundation. The artist is local, although he regrets that he could not be here with us tonight.” She smirked in Drake’s direction. “His name is Remy Michel and I’m sure you’ll agree he is destined to become a great talent. And now without further ado, I give you
Steadfast.”

There was a hushed silence. The curtains parted. Cassie tightened her grip on Drake’s hand and held her breath, waiting for the audience’s reaction. This meant so much to Drake—not just the money but also the approval, the validation that he had true talent. They just had to like it, she prayed, her eyes never leaving Drake’s face. His gaze was riveted straight ahead, looking on his work of art as it was unveiled.

Spotlights came up on the three large canvases. They were hung in a stepwise fashion. The lowest on the left depicted a female figure bowed on one knee, seemingly imprisoned in the earth. Her hair hung over her face, a curtain revealing only the determined set of her jaw. From behind shoulders hunched either by effort or defeat, wings furled tight, almost hidden by her body.

In the middle canvas, the angel began to rise, breaking free from invisible bonds. More of her face could be seen as her wings lifted, began to spread wide. The pigments swirled in a tantalizing mix of the mundane and the glorious, taking on a transparent, gossamer quality. This play of light and color burst forth in the final canvas as the angel stood tall, her face fully revealed in the radiance reflected from her open wings.

Cassie knew the hours Drake had labored on the paintings, the false starts and trials of different pigments and techniques. Through it all she’d begged him to use a better model, a professional, someone who could give him what his work deserved.

Now with his work unveiled, she saw a smile of satisfaction settle onto his face. He squeezed her hand, looked down at her, and she knew it didn’t matter what anyone else thought about
Steadfast
. Drake saw in it what he had wanted to convey.

Murmurs of appreciation and admiration began to run through the crowd. “Exquisite.” “Marvelous.” “Radiant.” The same people who’d been filling the air with tales of their latest Wall Street conquests now whispered in the humbled tones of churchgoers.

“Jeezit,” came a familiar voice from behind them and the tension was broken as everyone turned to stare at Jimmy Dolan’s slack jawed expression of delight.

A round of applause began, led by Alicia Fairstone, who was obviously relieved that her acquisition had been so well received.

The applause was gaining in momentum when the lights suddenly died, throwing the assembly into pitch darkness. The crowd gave a startled gasp. Cassie felt Drake’s arm circle around her, snugging her close to him. Before anyone could move, there was a loud pop followed by a whoosh then two more pops in quick succession.

Suddenly, all three canvases were lit by blue-tongued flames that raced across the oils, sending sooty tendrils of smoke over the crowd.

The crowd stood still for one hushed breath, waiting for the punch line to a joke they had missed.

Jimmy, Cassie, and Drake all rushed forward. The rest of the crowd broke and panicked. A shrill scream came from Alicia Fairstone’s direction and other women quickly joined in.

Cassie and Drake were separated in the surging crowd. The mob thronged toward the main exit. Cassie pushed past them, heading to the curtains at the side of the stage, intending to pull them down and use them to smother the flames. She’d just reached them when she was knocked to the ground by an elderly man who’d been shoved aside in the mass exodus.

She protected the man with her own body and then helped him to his feet, only to be knocked down once more. As she climbed to her knees, she saw Drake silhouetted by flames, trying to beat them out with his jacket.

“Drake!” She watched in horror as his jacket caught on fire. She reached for the curtains and gave a mighty tug, then one more, popping the drape from its rings.

Cassie bundled the fabric in her arms and rushed toward Drake. He seemed intent on saving his creation, heedless of the fire that now surrounded him. She threw her body at him, tackling him, smothering his arm under the heavy material. He dropped his jacket and tried to push her away.

The whoosh of a fire extinguisher came from beside them. Jimmy aimed the foam over Drake, smothering the remaining flames on his jacket and the curtains. Then he raised the nozzle toward the paintings.

Drake tried to get to his feet, to move forward once more, but Cassie hauled him back, using all her strength. “No,” she told him. “They’re gone. Give it up. They’re gone.”

Jimmy emptied the fire extinguisher, coughing in the thick, coiling smoke, and stepped back. Flames still licked the wooden frames, searching for fuel, but the canvases all hung in sickly, swollen, black tatters.

The sounds of a fire alarm shrieked through the air and the emergency lights finally came on. Cassie wished they hadn’t when she saw the look of anguish on Drake’s face. She’d never seen him in such pain before—not even when he’d been shot.

Jimmy took one arm and Cassie the other. Together, they led Drake in silence from the gallery. Behind them, the last of the flames died, leaving only soot and burnt canvas on the walls.

Steadfast
had died a grotesque death, its promise snuffed out just as it was being fulfilled. Drake looked back over his shoulder, still seeing Hart’s visage in the three canvases, not wanting to accept the murder of his creation. His eyes absorbed every detail because that was what he did best—better than painting, even.

Drake was a murder cop.

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.