“Sounds like a plan to me."
“Well, it places your father and me in a difficult position. We barely speak."
“Oh, you do better than that, but maybe you just need to get out more...” Alexa paused before adding, “...together."
“Hmph. I think there's a little old matchmaker woman hiding inside that teenage body of yours."
Alexa placed her hands on her hips. “Well, it's pretty obvious to me. You need some help."
“Obvious to me that someone needs to mind her own business."
“Moi?” Alexa assumed an innocent expression, but the mischief danced in her clear green eyes.
“Yes, you. Just you wait. When you start bringing dates home, I'll be sure and return the favor."
“Oh, does that mean you plan on moving back to the townhouse with Daddy and me?"
Nikki's face grew warm. That was exactly how it sounded. “Well, you know what I mean, uh—"
“Uh-huh. Sure do."
“Time to change the subject, okay?"
“You're no fun."
Nikki let the comment pass and sat down to do her makeup. She really couldn't blame the girl. Alexa only spoke the truth, as she saw it.
After putting the final touches on her makeup, Nikki straightened up and surveyed the effect, then turned to assistant. “Help me with the dress?"
“Sure.” Alexa rushed over to where the dress was hanging.
“Careful,” Nikki warned. “We don't want to screw up my makeup job."
Alexa sighed. “You're always beautiful."
“Thanks, brat.” Nikki gave the teen a hug.
Together they maneuvered the blue satin ball gown over Nikki's head and settled it on her shoulders. Nikki shook out the ruffled skirt, turning and preening in the mirror. “Is it straight in the back?"
“It's fine. Wouldn't want you to moon anyone tonight"
Nikki giggled. “No, not tonight—or any other night."
She spent another two minutes making minuscule adjustments in the garment's fit. “Now for the wig.” Nikki walked over to the wig box, removed the lid and pulled out the wig. Two-feet tall and topped with a gilded bird cage and stuffed canary, the wig was a monstrous powdered affair, with curling tendrils about the face and long sausage curls down the back.
“Tell me you're not going to wear that thing ... please,” Alexa begged, her face wrinkled up as if she didn't know whether to cry or laugh.
“I am."
“No.” Alexa moaned in mock agony.
“Yes. I've already practiced, and I'll have you know I can balance it quite nicely."
Alexa grinned. “Cool, but ya know it'll make you a lot taller than Daddy."
“What's your point?” Nikki raised the wig and gingerly put it on over her head, pulling and tugging until it felt secure. Finally she was wearing the full costume. She studied the effect in the mirror. A chill slithered up and down her back.
Eerie. For a moment she'd almost stepped back in time. It was as if she'd seen herself before...
“Nik?” Alexa nudged Nikki's shoulder. “Are you all right?"
“What—"
“You just had a weird look on your face."
“I'm fine ... really. What were you saying?"
“I was just teasing you about being taller than daddy. I was just yanking your chain."
“Figures.” As aggravating as Alexa could be sometimes, Nikki loved the girl without reservation. “Weren't Bitsy and her mother supposed to pick you up already? I thought you were headed to the ski slopes of Vermont."
Alexa nodded. “Mrs. Elliott called earlier. They're running late, as usual. But the trip's been canceled—not enough powder to suit Bitsy's dad, so we're stuck in the city for the weekend."
“Your weekend's spoiled."
“It's okay. Bitsy and I can always find stuff to do."
“That's what I'm afraid—” From the other room, Nikki heard the doorman's buzz, cutting off any further comment.
“That'll be Bitsy and her mom. Gotta go. You and Daddy have fun tonight,” Alexa teased, then gave Nikki a swift hug and ran from the bedroom. Her quick footsteps echoed down the hall as she ran to meet her friend.
Nikki sighed, relieved Alexa was finally on her way. The teenager was a whirlwind, and keeping up with her was more and more difficult. I'm too young to feel this old.
If truth be told, she dreaded the upcoming evening. She had no great desire to be honored or feted, nor did she relish the idea of spending a night with Max at her elbow. No doubt, he felt the same. However, the Mardi Gras gala was a great opportunity to bring attention to St. Anne's shelter. That fact, alone, made all the aggravation worth it.
Marti Alden wandered into Nikki's bedroom. “Aren't you ready yet?"
“I still have some time. The driver's late."
“And your escort?"
“He's still at the office. He's taking a taxi to the gala."
“Bummer."
“Just as well. The less time we're together, the less chance we'll have a disagreement."
“Well, there is that. That's some regal costume you're wearing."
“It's fine, if you don't mind being squeezed to death by a corset."
Marti turned in a circle. “Well, I am a pilgrim and have no need for such fripperies."
Nikki snorted. “Lucky you."
The doorman buzzed, again, stalling further comment. "Miss Prentice's limo is here."
Nikki looked at her watch—ten minutes after eight. “That's Randy,” she said. “I'll see you in a bit."
“Yes, your majesty. This pilgrim shall attend you anon, along with her Indian Chief spouse."
Nikki giggled. “Right."
Marti adjusted her white headdress. “I must needs repair my appearance. My hat doth be askew."
Nikki gave one last tug on her wig and grabbed the antique mask. It made the perfect accessory to her costume, but she'd be damned if she'd risk wearing it again.
~ * ~
Walking out into the frigid February night, Nikki pulled her wrap tighter around her shoulders. A man of medium height stood beside Max's limo waiting for her, wearing the usual black wool uniform and cap, but it wasn't Randy.
“Where's Randy?"
“Sorry, ma'am, I'm Donald. Randy called in sick at the last minute. The agency arranged for me to take his place."
“Okay.” She shrugged, walking down the steps carefully. Tripping and falling weren't in her game plan for the night. Balancing the tall wig on her head was a difficult proposition. How did those Vegas showgirls manage it anyway?
The driver proffered his hand; she took it gladly. He opened the car door for her, and she slid carefully into the leather-covered seats. Just enough room for the wig. She arranged the satin folds of her gown, making sure it wouldn't be caught in the door and then lay the mask on the seat beside her.
Before closing the door, the driver leaned into the back seat. “Are you comfortable, Miss Prentice?"
“Yes, Donald,” she murmured, still occupied with arranging her costume. “Thank—"
Before she could finish, a smelly cloth was shoved over her face cutting off her breath.
She gasped and struggled. Clawed at her attacker's face. Kicked him with useless kid leather shoes. Can't anyone see what's happening?
“Bitch,” her attacker hissed and punched her hard in the stomach.
“Nuh—uh.” She struggled, more feebly. And the blackness took her.
Forty-one
The ballroom, aglitter with a myriad of tiny white lights, gave Marti Alden the impression of a starlit milky way. All of New York City's famous and near-famous, the rich, both nouveau and old, had attended in expensive costumes that would have fed and housed all the homeless in the city for a month. For the life of her, she couldn't think of a better opportunity to exhibit excess and frivolity than at a charity gala for the homeless.
A masked sultan swathed in silk waltzed with an anorexic faux-Madonna in a pointed brassiere, while a Scarle
t O'Hara, skirted in yards of crinoline, did the same with a whiskered Abe Lincoln.
The Mardi Gras Masque was in full swing, but the guest of honor had not yet arrived. Marti had chosen her Pilgrim attire as a not-so-subtle way of reminding all those around her that her forebears had come over on the Mayflower. She stood next to Max Devereaux, who if she weren't mistaken, was doing a slow burn. He had all the signs, the constant checking of his watch, looking toward the door, and last but not least, a muscle twitching in his sculpted jaw.
“Where is Nikki?” Max asked her through gritted teeth. “How can she be late for a gala in her honor?” He checked his watch again. “She's never late. I sent the limo for her. I thought I'd be the one who rushed in at the last moment."
Marti wondered too. “This charity means so much to her. I mean she's devoted most of the last year to the shelter."
Max finger-combed his hair in a nervous gesture.
Marti heard the exasperation and concern in his voice. Maybe it was time for her to mention Nikki's stalker. “I'm a little worried myself. I don't understand it. Nikki left before I did,” she murmured.
“What—?"
Max was interrupted by the arrival of the flustered gala director, costumed in a low-cut black dress well known for its appearance in a certain John Singer Sargent painting. “Mr. Devereaux, it's time we proceed with the announcement and the award. Where is Nikki?” she asked, looking around and fanning her face.
“We are very concerned about her. She's missing. We must notify the police."
The gala organizer gasped, “Oh, of course, everyone will be so concerned, but are you sure it's a matter for the police? That will mean negative publicity."
Max's smile tightened. “I fear so,” he replied between gritted teeth.
Marti watched him take his place at the podium. Unlike most of the men attending the ball, Max had eschewed a costume and wore, instead, a black tuxedo. His wavy hair had been immaculately styled, except for the errant lock on the right temple. It gave him a rakish look. Marti thought the man looked damn marvelous, and it was no mystery why her friend was crazy in love with him. Nothing would have kept Nikki from a ceremony in her honor, especially since Max was supposed to be her escort for the evening—no matter how she pretended otherwise. No further interruptions—she had to tell Max about the stalker.
Max motioned and the music stopped. The rumble of the crowd hushed. He spoke, “Ladies and Gentlemen, Nikki's apologies to you, since I know how important and personal this charity is to her. Something untoward has prevented her arrival here tonight. I will end my remarks and say thank you again for Nikki. I know she is honored by this award.” He bowed to the stunned and silent audience and left the podium.
When Max rejoined Marti, she stammered, “I-I have to tell you something. Someone has been stalking Nikki ... since last year."
“What? And why didn't she tell me?"
Marti shook her head. “You know how she is. She refused to take it seriously. I tried. I begged her to tell you or the police, but she said he was harmless and she could take care of herself."
“Merde. Doesn't she watch the news or read the paper?” Max brushed his fingers through his hair. “I'm calling the police,” he declared, then hurried from the ballroom.
Marti picked up her long gray skirt and scurried behind him; she prayed it wasn't too late to find her friend.
Forty-two
Cold, so cold. Why was it so cold ... and dark ... something over her eyes? She tried to open her mouth. She couldn't. Where was she?
She shook her head in an attempt to clear the haze. Slowly, a few details returned. The charity gala ... Max had sent the limo for her. She'd stepped into the limo and...
No.
Full-blown panic reared up and threatened to overwhelm her. Take a deep breath. At least, she was still alive. She lay in an uncomfortable heap on a cold metallic surface. Rubbing her face against it, she attempted to dislodge the blindfold. If she could just free up a corner—
A metallic screech. Nikki froze, feigned sleep. Then the sound of furtive steps of someone approaching.
“I see you finally decided to awake up.” The voice, male and soft, possessed an underlying harshness.
She refused to move or acknowledge his presence.
“You are my guest now,” the stilted voice informed her. “You ignored me, and I don't like being ignored. You see the error of your ways? You'll never ignore again. No one will come to your rescue. I had hoped to make you comfortable, but you'll have to earn your privileges."
Earn her privileges? She shuddered, but listened to her captor's pacing about the room. Who was he? Was this the stalker who'd hounded her for the last year? Why hadn't she paid more attention to his threats? Or was he some other nutcase? Where was she? Oh, God, how would she ever get through this? A woman's worst nightmare—but her reality. Her body betrayed her by an uncontrollable shudder.
Focus. Her life depended on staying calm. She concentrated on absorbing every sound and smell, the cadence and affected formality of his speech while he lectured her.
“I leave you now to consider your fate. Never fear, for I shall return to favor you with my caresses."
He stroked her bare arm, his hand cold and damp. She couldn't help it; she jerked away from his touch. A wave of nausea struck. Why did this all seem so familiar?
“Are you cold, my dear, or do I arouse you?” He emitted a soft purring growl, then fondled her neck.
She trembled. He was mere inches from her and reeked of strong cologne. It failed miserably. The combination of his body odor and cologne ... Another wave of nausea, hit her. She swallowed dryly. The thought of his doing more...
The waiting grew more unbearable with each passing second. But instead of groping her further, he removed his hand from her neck. His footsteps retreated. Then the door—it opened and closed.
Her relief at his departure was brief. He could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.
She twisted and pulled against the cords binding her until her wrists were raw and burned like hell. Whoever he was, he'd bound her with expertise; her efforts were useless. Like a fool, she'd considered her stalker a pain in the butt and nothing more. If only she'd told Max.
Yet there was something eerily familiar about everything.
And his voice? Something in his affected manner of speech tugged at her memory. She replayed his words again and again in her mind, but couldn't pinpoint the familiarity. Hell, it didn't make any difference who he was. He had her.
She wanted to kick and scream and dissolve in great shaking sobs, but resisted. Crying would solve nothing. She had to stay focused, if she were going to survive. And she would survive.
~ * ~
Nikki awakened with a jump, at first confused and unable to move. But reality rushed back. She must've slept a little. Still exhausted by her ordeal, her fear had eased. Had anyone missed her? Was anyone looking for her? Of course, someone would be. She was supposed to be given an award that night. What time was it?
Had her captor made ransom demands? Somehow, she doubted it. He wasn't after money. He was after her and always had been. Now he'd won his game of persistence and intimidation with one grand gesture. Whoever he was, he'd planned it all quite well. She was his to command, until she could find a way to escape.
Everyone has a weakness. I'm his. I have to play on that.
She shivered. She couldn't ever remember being so cold, not even on the streets. As far as she could tell she was still wearing her costume. She must have lost the wig in the struggle. She doubted she would be able to return it to the costumers in the morning as she had promised. Maybe they made allowances for being kidnapped. Perhaps, they would even give her a discount. The overwhelming need to cry and scream and laugh flooded through her. Instead she kicked the wall behind her.
Concrete. Was she in a basement?
A hot flash of warmth swept over her. First she'd been freezing, now she was burning up. Was she sick? Too da
mn early for menopause. How much time had passed?
After what seemed like hours, she heard the harsh metal scrape of the door opening. Soft footsteps approached her. The familiar voice asked, “Now what is it, my dear? Oh, I see you can't speak can you. Well, let's see if I can guess what you need. Potty break?” he asked with an insinuating whine.
Nikki shook her head furiously.
“How about a change of clothes then?” Her captor broke into a wheezing laugh. “Your lovely costume has seen better days."
Again she shook her head. She wasn't about to give him an excuse to touch her, but unable to control her reaction to the idea, she shivered again.
“Oh, we're cold, are we? I suppose,” he paused, “I could do something about that.” He ran his hand down her cheek. She recoiled.
“Touchy, aren't we?” he said with an evil chuckle.
His footsteps faded again, and she almost wept in relief. Once again he had not harmed her.
The metal door scraped again.
Not again, please go away, she begged silently. Why does he keep tormenting me? Who is he?
“There, there my pretty,” he said in what she thought was an excellent imitation of the Wicked Witch of the West. He covered her with something heavy and scratchy. “Wouldn't want my little one to catch her death now, would I?"
Forty-three
“Detective Halloran, How long is this going to take?” Max asked, pacing back and forth in his study.
The detective from the twenty-eighth precinct looked up from his note pad and shrugged. “Hard to say. We don't know much, except your usual driver, uh—” Halloran glanced down at his notes. “Randy Jackson was about to pick up Nikki when he was stopped and accosted by a man asking for directions. The perpetrator knocked your driver unconscious.
“Is Randy going to be all right?"
Halloran nodded, “Good thing too. He was able to give us a description of the perp, so we're one step ahead of the game.” He checked his note pad again. “Middle-aged man of medium height and build, wearing a billed cap pulled down, covering most of his face."
Exasperated, Max threw up his hands. “A middle-aged man of medium height? There must be a million men fitting that description in this city alone.” He shook his head. “I can't believe this. There has to be something else I can do."
See You In My Dreams Page 35