Midnight Masquerade

by Nancy Gideon

  If they only knew.

  Was he making more problems for the woman he wanted so desperately to protect by placing her in the care of a man he knew he couldn't trust?

  Rae was a smart girl. She could take care of herself. He was just presenting her with an opportunity.

  How hollowly that conviction weighed upon his conscience as he went back to work.

  "Who was that, dear?"

  Rae tucked away her cell phone and smiled at Bette Grover. “Just a friend. We're going out this evening."

  "Friend as in male friend?"

  "Yes, if you must know.” She kept her tone light and teasing because Bette Grover needed a little lightness in her life. And if Bette wanted to imagine her involved in a romance, she wasn't about to burst that balloon.

  Even though she wasn't involved. Not with Nick Flynn.

  The news made Bette smile, and that made the lie okay in Rae's book.

  They were in the Grover's bedroom sorting through clothing, deciding what to save and what to donate to charity. It wasn't a job she'd let Bette do alone even if the task was nearly as hard on her. She found herself clutching at a ratty old cardigan sweater, unable to let go. She remembered Tom wearing it when he went to her softball games as tournament play lingered into the cooler temperatures of fall. He never missed one. Not one.

  But how she was going to miss him.

  She took a shuddering breath and set the sweater aside, turning her emotions to a more stable area.

  "And speaking of ‘going out,’ you've been seeing a lot of that lawyer, what's his name?"

  "You know what his name is, Rae, and don't make it sound as if I'm doing something improper."

  Rae quickly soothed the other's sensibilities. “I know you're not, Bette. There's just something about that man that I don't trust."

  "How can you say that? He's been wonderfully supportive since Tom died. I don't know how I would have managed to make the right decisions if not for his advice."

  "Advice?” Rae struggled not to betray her alarm. “Professionally?"

  "Just as a friend of Tom's."

  "I didn't know he was a friend of Tom's."

  "I didn't think so, either, but Kaz explained it all."

  Kaz. Rae's stomach clenched at the familiarity.

  Bette continued, unaware of Rae's dismay. “Apparently, Tom made some rather risky investments that didn't pay off, and Kaz was trying to help him recover from the loss. That's why Tom was also so upset when they met. He didn't want me to know he'd made some terrible mistakes in the market."

  Rae's teeth gritted together. Thomas Grover had never made a risky or ill-advised move in his life. Except for allowing Kaz Zanlos close to his family.

  "How kind of him to help Tom deceive you."

  "Now, Rae, that's not what happened. Thomas always kept me sheltered from the business. That's just the way he was. And I'd be drowning in all the decisions I have to make if not for Kaz's input."

  "He's advising you on the business? Bette, is that wise?” What else could she say? Is that wise to trust your husband and stepdaughter's killer? “Come to me if you need advice, Bette. I can help you. I know what Tom would have wanted."

  Bette leveled a surprisingly pointed stare. “But how could you, Rae? You've been out of his life for a long time. You know nothing about what he was involved in and made it quite clear that that's the way you preferred it."

  That truth speared through her heart. Rae blinked against the sudden, awful pain of it and looked away. Her voice roughened with hurt and regret. “And I know it's probably too late to step in now. But I'm worried about you, Bette. I want to make sure you're well taken care of. Tom would have wanted me to do that. No matter what you might think of my motives, I owe Tom Grover. He stepped in when I needed it, and now I mean to do the same."

  The sudden fierceness of Bette's embrace startled Rae. Not one for emotional displays, she sat stiffly for a moment before she was able to respond with a gentle pat to the now weeping woman's shoulder.

  "I didn't mean to shut you out, dear,” came the sniffling confession. “I know that's not what Tom would have wanted. He was always so proud of how smart and resourceful you were. As proud as if you were his daughter, too."

  Tears burned against Rae's closed lids and seared all the way down her throat, making it difficult to speak. She forced the words past the wadding of remorse. “Then let me help you now, Bette. Please. For Tom's sake and my own. Don't make any decisions, business or personal, without talking to me first. Can you promise me that?"

  Bette nodded against her shoulder, and relief poured through her. For the moment.

  A sudden worry made her ask, “What has he asked about me?"

  "I told him you were one of Ginny's school friends."

  "Did you tell him what I do for a living?"

  "He didn't ask, dear, so I never said."

  "Don't say."

  "But I don't understand."

  "Bette, this is important. I don't want anyone here to know who I am.” She leaned back so she could impress the importance upon the other woman with the intensity of her stare. “The D.C. police may have closed their investigation, but I haven't. I'm doing a little poking around on my own, and I'd just as soon no one know about it. Okay? It could make trouble for me."

  The notion of her career in jeopardy sobered Bette's expression. “I won't say anything, Rae. But you be careful. Don't do anything rash or reckless."

  "I won't."

  She didn't underestimate Kaz Zanlos. Not for a second. They were now in a battle for Thomas Grover's assets, and one of them seemed to be his widow. She couldn't allow herself to get so wrapped up in her own personal pain and vendetta that she forgot to protect this woman whom Tom had loved. She had failed Ginny. She hadn't been here to keep her or her father safe. But she would shield Bette from the evil Zanlos brought into her life, and to do that, she would make whatever concessions necessary.

  Even if it meant betraying Nick Flynn.

  * * * *

  The address was a rundown shotgun house on a rundown street in a once respectable neighborhood. Stephen Flynn continued to live there, even though he boasted that his successful son was now sending checks regularly. Debts had to be paid before luxuries were afforded. That's what he'd tried to instill in his son, anyway.

  But with Nick, he was never quite sure if the boy had soaked up the right teachings. Maybe it was his fault for pushing so hard. Maybe he shouldn't have driven the goal of wealth as a daily mantra. But it was the only way he could think of to keep his Nicky safe if temptation came calling. That dark temptation from their past. He'd resisted but, as much as he loved his only son, he didn't think Nick had the strength of character to use his principles as a shield and walk away. Too much of his mother in him.

  She'd never understood his insistence upon making it without interference from her ... family. Perhaps if either one of them had been able to give just a little, they'd still be a family now instead of him living just above the poverty level and her touring Europe somewhere with a personal trainer named Sven.

  But she'd kept her side of the bargain. She'd stayed away, so he'd stayed quiet.

  It wasn't as though he wanted to make their son's life more difficult as she'd accused in one of those angry parting volleys. He'd loved Nick enough to sacrifice the only woman he'd ever loved enough to wed. And he still loved Nick, even though he wasn't sure he liked the man his son had become. Wealth was supposed to have been the goal, not an all-consuming passion. Nick had lost sight of that in his single-minded plunge ahead.

  But he was safe.

  At least he was safe.

  Or so Flynn assumed as he hoarded those checks sent from a bank in Virginia and altered his nightly prayers for his son slightly from “a success” to “a well-adjusted success."

  An unexpected knock at the door after dark never bode well. Flynn associated them with his son's wild years when the cops would come to tell him Nick had been in an accident driving
while drunk or was in jail for curfew violations. But it wasn't a policeman standing on the tiny porch decorated with peeling paint and a sad looking azalea.

  "Mr. Flynn?"

  "Who wants to know?"

  The speaker's voice was low but definitely female, something he never would have gathered from the way her form was swaddled in an oversized coat and shadows. She stood just outside the reach of the flickering light of his television set.

  "Your son is in danger, Mr. Flynn."

  The soft-spoken words sent a shaft of ice through his soul. “Nick? My Nicky? Who the hell are you?"

  "A friend of the family."

  Then she took a step forward, a step that nothing human could make because it involved no actual physical movement. She glided toward him, and he shrank back, understanding all too well.

  "You're one of them."

  "Don't be afraid, Mr. Flynn. I mean you no harm.” She said that even as the faint light caught in the jeweled brilliance of her eyes, creating an unnatural dazzle. She came right up to the threshold but didn't cross it. Didn't they have to be invited in? His frantic mind grasped at that old folk tale. And just as he was feeling a little more secure, she advanced into his shabby living room. By then, his chest was chugging with terror.

  "What the hell do you want?"

  "I want you to save your son."

  "What kind of trouble is Nicky in now?” His voice quavered with upset and a new, selfish anger to think that his son's irresponsible actions could bring this horror to his doorstep.

  "The trouble isn't of his making. It stems from a vendetta long past. Long past."

  He understood. His wife's relatives ... the ones that should have but didn't die a normal death. The ones that hunted the night and precipitated his evening prayers.

  "What is it that you want me to do? Call him? Go to D.C. and fetch him home? He doesn't know anything about that side of the family. He'd never believe me."

  "I'm not asking you to go. There's nothing you could do against the evil he faces. He needs you to set aside your pride and ask for help from the only source who can give it."

  "I won't go to them! Never! They're—"

  She smiled, a small, serenely beautiful smile. “They're what? Demons, like me? Who better to ask to march into hell? Time grows short. Do what you must to save his soul. Do it quickly."

  And she was gone.

  No dramatic puff of smoke or flash of light in the best of filmmaking tradition. Just gone.

  Stephen Flynn stood trembling and alone in his living room. Hell was here to claim his son.

  What the hell was he going to do about it?

  These same frenetic thoughts had plagued him once before, when Nick was a toddler and they were living well off his wife's supposed inheritance in the Garden District of New Orleans. He hadn't believed the letter, hadn't believed in the things it told him. Until he showed it to his wife—thinking she'd get a good laugh out of it—and she'd turned pale as Cararra marble.

  His whole life had gone to hell that day, but at least he'd had the satisfaction of knowing he'd done what he could to rescue Nick.

  But he hadn't, had he? His noble parental sacrifice had been for nothing. They'd gone after him anyway. He dialed the phone with shaking hands.

  "Nicky?"

  "Dad? Is something wrong? Are you okay?"

  He couldn't respond immediately to his son's expression of concern. And that delay lent a sharper edge to the insistent voice.

  "Daddy, talk to me. Are you all right?"

  "Fine, Nick. I'm fine. Can't a father call his son for something less than a heart attack?"

  He could hear the gust of relief on the other end.

  "Jeez, Dad. Don't do that to me. You know only bad news comes in phone calls at this time of night."

  "A call from your father is bad news?"

  "That's not what I meant. What can I do for you, Dad?"

  Impatience. His son had so little time for him now. But that was okay as long as he was okay.

  "How are you doing, Nick?"

  "I'm doing fine, Dad. Didn't you get your check?"

  Trust Nick to think it was about money.

  "Yeah, I got it. How are you doing? Is everything okay with you?"

  "It's good, Dad. I was just going out. Is there anything specific you wanted to talk about?"

  Flynn smiled wryly. Cut to the chase, so I can get back to what I was doing. “Just wanted to check in, that's all. Are you sure everything's fine?"

  "Yeah, Dad, terrific. The job's good. I'm good. Life is good. Can I give you a call this weekend? Then I can fill you in on all the details."

  "I'd like that, son.” His voice trembled. Dampness filled his gaze as it fixed upon the graduation picture framed upon his faded wallpaper. A grinning, cocky Nick out to capture the world. Everything was fine and as it should be. Why was he so worried?

  "Dad, I'm running late. I gotta go. Talk to you soon."

  Then a click and the impersonal dial tone.

  Stephen Flynn carefully replaced the receiver. There. Now he knew. Nick was fine. He took a jerky breath, then lowered his head to weep into his hands.

  Chapter

  Ten

  Nick's gaze cut through the thick screen of secondhand smoke, searching for one figure in particular amongst those gathered in the informal piano bar area.

  "'Evening, Mr. Nick. Something I can do for you?"

  "'Evening, James. I'm meeting a lady friend. You've probably seen me with her before. Is she here yet?” Considering how much the young concierge noticed, his request wasn't all that impossible.

  "Ah, the leggy redhead. Yes, sir. She's right over there."

  "Thanks, my friend."

  James quickly pocketed the folded bill and grinned wide. “Have a nice night, Mr. Nick."

  "That's the plan."

  But he'd already forgotten about James as he squinted through the day's accumulation of haze hanging upon the dim lighting. Her back was to him. All he could see was the long length of her crossed legs adorned in sheer stockings and wispy heels. There was no chance he'd confuse her with anyone else. He approached with the now familiar breathlessness.

  "Hey."

  She glanced up, her expression immediately softening from wariness to welcome. Through the miracle of makeup, the bruise on her cheek was invisible in the low light, leaving a flawless surface. “Hi, Nick. What's this all about?"

  He lingered at the side of her chair, his fingers buried deep in his pockets to stay their need to touch her. Every curve, every stray strand of her hair encouraged that sensory starvation.

  And he was handing her over to Kaz Zanlos who would hand her over to an endless parade of other men.

  "It's not exactly a typing job."

  He tried to smile, but the gesture twisted tightly upon his lips, as stiff and unnatural as the sound of his voice. Rae lowered her brows, picking up on his tension.

  "What exactly is it?"

  "It is very good money for the right kind of lady,” came another voice. “Good evening, Nick. I hope you don't mind that I'm early."

  Careful to keep his true answer from his eyes, Nick turned to Zanlos with a casual shrug. “Not at all. Rae, this is my boss, Kazmir Zanlos. Kaz, Rae Borden."

  The second he said her last name, Nick realized his mistake. Her gaze flashed up to his in surprise and, more damningly, accusation. But she unwound her long legs to stand and extended her hand.

  "Mr. Zanlos, perhaps you can explain more about this mysterious job Nick's been hinting about."

  Kaz carried her hand to his lips in courtly fashion, but his probing gaze never left hers. “I will leave the job description to my partner. She is the one who will make the final decision, after all. But you needn't worry. She will love you. How right you were, Nick. She is exquisite."

  It took all Rae's control to keep her hand malleable within Zanlos's cool grasp. She wanted to crush his fingers, to slap the smugness off his face. Her jaw ached with the effort of holding
her smile.

  And then, over Zanlos's shoulder, where she hadn't noticed him before, she saw Gabriel McGraw leaning against the bar, one hand wrapped around a beer, the other around the thigh of a slender brunette. And though he was talking and laughing with the woman, his focus was on her.

  Watching her back. She felt relief instead of the expected annoyance. This close to Zanlos, she needed all the stabilizing support she could get and, unfortunately, Nick stood beside her, withdrawn and wooden, no help at all. Disappointment in him cut clear to the bone. But that was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? This introduction. This invitation to the inner circle, to the beginning of Zanlos's end? Nick wasn't necessary to her success any more.

  The sooner he was safely away from the whole mess, the better.

  She touched his arm, and his rather vague attention snapped to her. She smiled up at him. “Thank you, Nick. You've been a true friend. I'm sure you have more important matters requiring your time this evening."

  He blinked at her blunt dismissal. His expressive dark eyes filled with confusion and protest.

  Don't make a scene, Nick. Please just go away.

  His eyes narrowed slightly as he read her meaning. But contrarily, he scooped her arm through his and said almost fiercely, “What kind of friend would I be if I didn't see to your best interests? We're ready, Kaz. Where are we meeting your partner?"

  "At the Noir. My car is outside."

  He led the way, she and Nick following. A parting glance toward the bar showed an empty stool where Gabriel had been and the pretty brunette accepting a drink from a businessman.

  Zanlos's long, sleek limo sat at the curb, its door open. Again, Rae felt the tug of Nick's reluctance, pulling her back, slowing her down to give her time to consider the step she was about to take. The step he was letting her take.

  "Ms. Borden, after you."

  She hated that Kaz Zanlos knew her name. It made her feel more vulnerable than she cared to be. She'd just have to work faster before her cover was blown. She slid into the vehicle, Nick edging in beside her, a little too close for personal comfort. It would have been so much easier to do what she needed to do without him here as witness.