His Sword

by Holly Hart

  “You know what,” she says. “I think you look like a Cassie. It suits you. Suits your personality, too. I like it. I’m going to call you Cassie from now on, too.”

  Cassie flushes. I shouldn’t be enjoying this, but I am. Sometimes I’m a real bastard.

  “You have good taste in friends,” I say.

  “Uh-huh,” she says.

  Tricia looks back and forth between the two of us, obviously waiting for us to talk to each other. When we don’t, she takes it on herself to continue, papering over the tension.

  “So,” she says. “How long has it been since you two saw each other?”

  “Twelve years,” we say in unison.

  Three months and five days, I don’t add.

  Tricia cocks an eyebrow. “Ooo-kay. Good to see neither of your memories is failing. So not since high school?”

  “Since prom night,” I say. It’s out of my mouth before I even realize it.

  I worry that Cassie will clam up now, but she seems to have recovered her composure.

  “What have you been up to since then?” she asks, propping her chin in her hand. Suddenly she’s as cool as an autumn breeze.

  I can’t believe this. Every time I have the dream, the one where I show up at her empty house on prom night and everyone laughs at me, I fantasize about this moment when I wake up. The moment when I get to tell Cassie Vincent that I went on to fulfill every dream I ever had.

  Well, all except one.

  “I went on a full ride to Harvard,” I say. “But I dropped out in sophomore year when my dad passed away.”

  Cassie’s eyes widen in shock. “Oh my God, Carson, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  “A training accident. He took a live round.” I keep my voice casual, but even now, a decade later, the memory hurts, an almost physical ache that fades but never fully disappears.

  “That’s terrible! I loved your dad; he was so easygoing.”

  I remember how well the two of them got along. Cassie’s dad was a bigwig colonel, always pushing her to use her intellect to its full capacity. He wouldn’t accept anything less than perfection from her.

  And I was definitely not part of his plan for his daughter.

  “My dad was too easygoing,” I say. “He spent his life being ordered around by other people. I decided then and there that I wasn’t going to let that happen to me. So I started a tech company and sold it a few years ago. Now I’m retired.”

  Tricia is goggling at me now. I can practically see the drool pooling in her mouth.

  Cassie gives me an earnest look and puts a hand on top of mine.

  “That’s incredible,” she says. “Retirement obviously agrees with you. I mean, look at you.”

  I manage to keep my grin polite instead of letting it spread from ear to ear. I’ve been waiting a decade to hear her say that. I realize now – maybe I always knew – that I would never, could never, have found satisfaction with any other woman.

  “You’re very kind,” I say. “There are definitely some advantages to being able to spend as much time as you want in the gym.”

  I lean in closer. The peppery fragrance of her perfume fills my nostrils and suddenly I can feel myself getting hard under my gym shorts. I lean back again; I don’t need that kind of embarrassment.

  “Whatever you’ve been up to agrees with you, too,” I say. “You look incredible.”

  “Well, thank you,” she says.

  “So what have you been up to for the past twelve years?”

  She fidgets in her seat, tugging at the hem of her sundress.

  “Well,” she says, “that’s a long story.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  16. CASSANDRA

  It’s taking all of my training right now to not bolt out the front door and lose myself in the streets of Manhattan. Every instinct in me is shouting “Abort! Abort!”

  Instead, I stare into Carson’s gray eyes and at the outline under his shirt. He must practically live in the gym to maintain a body like that. I’ve worked with elite soldiers who would look like Zach Galifianakis next to him.

  He raises his eyebrows and it suddenly occurs to me that he’s waiting for an answer to his question.

  Tricia takes that as her cue to go back behind the till, probably thinking she’s doing me a favor. I try to flash her a “come save me” look, but she’s studiously avoiding looking anywhere but at Carson.

  “I’d best leave you two to… catch up,” she says, grinning another Cheshire cat smile at him. “Wonderful to meet you, Carson. I hope I see you again.”

  “I’ll make sure of it,” he says with a grin of his own. I can’t help but notice how easily he says it. The last few years have certainly treated him well.

  She turns to head back behind the counter. As she does, she catches my eye and widens her own like an owl’s. Oh my GOD, that look says.

  Tell me about it.

  I smile weakly. And I thought keeping an eye out for billionaire perverts was going to be uncomfortable. This is far worse.

  “Well,” I say.

  “Yes?”

  “All right, then. Time for the Sandra Vincent – uh, I suppose it’s Cassie Vincent now – elevator speech.”

  Carson settles in. “I’m all ears.”

  You’re all something, but it’s not ears, I don’t say.

  “Okay, so obviously I graduated and went on to college.”

  “Where?”

  “Wharton,” I lie. I’m in their records, thanks to government intervention, but the only time I’ve spent in Philadelphia was to internalize the details of my cover story.

  “Got my MBA, specialized in supply chain management systems, and then went on to become a business consultant. Now I’m looking to sell out and partner with Tricia on expanding Patty’s into a national line of specialty ice cream.”

  He tents his fingers under his chin, a habit he’s had since we were teens. He thinks it makes him look serious, like my dad. Pft. I used to make fun of him for it.

  “Supply chain management,” he says. But it’s not just what he says, it’s the way he says it.

  “Uh-huh.”

  I’m trying not to squirm under that gaze. Even though he knows nothing about the last twelve years, he probably knows me better than anyone else on Earth. If anyone can sniff out a lie from me, it’s him.

  He and I were two peas in a pod, constantly challenging each other. We’d sit around for hours after school, discussing everything from philosophy to physics. No one else could understand what the hell we were talking about, and I guarantee none of them would ever get how much it turned us on.

  I can’t help but think he’s disappointed in me for giving that up to get into such a plain lifestyle. If he only knew what I’ve actually spent the last eight years doing.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” he says. “You were always good at systems analysis. You could work a program better than anyone I’ve ever known, myself included.”

  High praise indeed. Carson always had a healthy dose of cockiness when it came to his intellect. It certainly didn’t help him win any popularity contests back in school. Although, if his interaction with Tricia is any indicator, he’s come a long way in the charm department.

  What matters is that he bought the story.

  “Anyway, I’ve picked up a loyal clientele over the years and I think I can parlay my goodwill into enough money to buy a factory. Take Tricia’s genius nationwide.”

  “That’s a brilliant idea, as long as you can keep the integrity of the products. I’m crazy about the goodies here. In fact, I rode my bike here from Park Avenue just to get some.”

  I can’t wait to tell Tricia that Carson is a fan of the shop. She’ll probably wet her panties.

  “So you can see where I’m coming from,” I say. “I’m tired of working for other people, too.”

  That’s the first time I’ve told the truth since Carson sat down.

  He nods. “Definitely. And with your experience, you should h
ave no problem expanding.”

  That’s true, too. I actually had to study supply chain management to be able to maintain my cover for so long. That’s the bit they don’t tell you about when you sign up. Of course, I’ll have to figure out marketing and other aspects, but I know we’ll be a success.

  “What’s your long-term goal?” he asks.

  “Same as you: take the company public, sell my shares for a small fortune and live a life of leisure.”

  Again, just enough truth to be plausible.

  “A small fortune.” He smiles. “Yep, that’s me, all right.”

  We sit in awkward silence for a few moments. I know what he wants to talk about, but I just can’t. Not here. Not now. Not while I have to focus all my attention on the Chase, which I totally haven’t done since Carson walked through the door.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, standing and picking up my purse. “I really am. I’ve got so much to do today. I’m working to get my capital together so we can get our leverage deal started.”

  He stands up. Mr. Gallant.

  “Who are you working with?”

  “Tate Capital. My liaison is Miranda Winthrop.”

  Carson lets out a whistle.

  “That’s impressive,” he says. “They only back winning horses.”

  I feel a wave of pride despite the awkwardness of the situation. The praise feels good coming from him.

  He holds out a hand and I take it in mine. The touch is electric, even after all these years. He folds his other hand over mine and suddenly the heat is almost too much to bear.

  “Have dinner with me,” he says. His eyes are pleading.

  “Okay,” I hear someone say.

  Oh shit, it’s me.

  “Great,” he says. “How about I meet you here at eight tonight?”

  “Sure,” says that same crazy person.

  “Awesome. I’ll see you then.”

  Carson holds onto my hand for a few more beats before finally letting it go. He gives me a look as though he can’t quite believe his luck, but then turns, clearly not wanting to push it.

  He grabs his things off the table and heads out the front door to his bike, locked to the lamppost outside.

  What the hell just happened?

  Chapter Seventeen

  17. INTERLUDE

  The huge man watches as Carson leaves the ice cream shop, hops onto his bicycle and rides off into Midtown traffic. A few minutes later, Cassandra walks out and hails a cab.

  His expression never changes.

  He slides a sausage-fingered hand into the breast pocket of his enormous suit jacket and removes a smart phone. Despite his size, and the heat of the day, there isn’t a hint of perspiration.

  He dials a number from memory. It wouldn’t do to have it in his contacts, just in case his phone ever ends up in someone else’s hands. The extension rings once and a click indicates that it’s been answered.

  “We need to meet,” the man says in Russian. “There are unusual circumstances.”

  The other end is silent. Finally, a woman’s voice says: “Two p.m.”

  The big man slides the pad of his huge thumb over the end-call button and places the phone back in his pocket.

  Chapter Eighteen

  18. CASSANDRA

  What the hell am I doing here?

  Rule number one: I’m not supposed to significantly alter my routine during the Chase.

  I’m not a hundred percent sure what that means, exactly, but I know I may be pushing it by going on a date.

  Still, here I am, sitting across from Carson Drake in The Modern, in the center of the Museum of Modern Art. Carson and I are still chatting about the pre-dinner tour we took, about the masterpieces and the artists themselves. About the state of modern art today, and the future of art in the multimedia world.

  And God, I haven’t felt this good in so long. Honestly, even though the last decade was nothing more than a long flirtation with adrenaline, none of it compares to this.

  And this food is unbelievable. I worry that the dress I bought this afternoon is going to be busting at the seams by the time we finish the fourth course. Of twelve. Or something equally ridiculous.

  “How’s your quail?” he asks.

  “Heavenly. The morels add so much flavor.” Seriously, what’s happening? The life of leisure was supposed to start after Tricia and I sold the company for tens of millions.

  Carson smiles. He went with the yellowfin tuna. Something about Matthias kicking his ass.

  “Did I mention how gorgeous you look in that dress?” he asks.

  “Several times,” I say. Part of me wants to jump him right on the table for saying so, but part of me knows he’s just avoiding what he really wants to say.

  The conversation has been so easy up to this point. It’s been glorious going back to the days when we could share our thoughts like this, almost as if all the years and everything that’s happened since just melted away.

  But I’d have to be insane to think it’ll stay like that for the rest of the night. Carson’s already running out of subjects to bring up. I can see he’s starting to avoid my gaze. I know he won’t be able to say goodnight without knowing the answer to what I’m sure has been a burning question for the last decade.

  Namely, why did I disappear on prom night – and then never contact him again?

  So if it’s a foregone conclusion, I might as well rip the Band-Aid off and get it over with. My training tells me to always press your advantage, however small. My advantage here is to control the message before he asks.

  “Carson,” I say. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  It’s the first time I’ve told the full truth since we met up at the shop. Hell, it might be the first completely honest thing I’ve said in years.

  I can’t read the look in his eyes. Is he angry? Hurt? This is a moment I’ve been dreading since that night in high school. I couldn’t have looked him in the eye back then. I can barely do it now.

  He clears his throat. It’s as close as he’s come so far to showing anything other than pure charm. He takes a breath and looks me in the eye.

  “What happened, Cassie?”

  Part of me wants to tell him the whole truth, but the part of me that’s under a lifetime non-disclosure agreement knows I have to walk through a minefield.

  “Dad got transferred to San Francisco out of the blue,” I say. “We barely had any notice. We had to pack up and move out of base housing that afternoon.”

  That’s somewhat true: my father was actually outed as a CIA operative during a Senate committee hearing on the intelligence community. It was politically motivated – Dad was a climber and someone in the agency didn’t like that, so they leaked his name – and it was hushed up immediately. But the damage was already done.

  Dad made plenty of enemies in his time with the Agency, and for our own safety we had to disappear immediately. The government shipped us off to a military base in Honduras because, technically, it was considered a “temporary” base and wasn’t on anyone’s radar. We lived there for a year until the Agency cleared me for return to the US. Dad and Mom moved to Southeast Asia, where Dad became a section chief.

  He always hated the fact that his new post kept him away from “the action.” I think that’s why he pushed me so hard to go into the service myself.

  Of course, I can’t tell Carson any of that.

  And the look on his face is telling me he’s not buying the story I’m currently selling him.

  “You had my phone number,” he says.

  Be careful how you answer, Cassie. Geez, now he’s even got me calling myself Cassie again.

  “I felt so bad about standing you up that I just couldn’t call,” I say. God, that sounds so weak.

  But the pained expression on my face is genuine enough that he should buy it.

  I hope.

  “What about after?”

  I cried myself to sleep for a year, I want to tell him. I watched that stupid video of us at the scie
nce fair over and over and over.

  “I just got so busy with school,” I plead. “You know how it is.”

  That’s a total lie: I didn’t start at the Citadel until they let me back in the US when I was nineteen. Luckily I managed to finish in three years.

  Carson finishes his fish and wipes his mouth with the napkin. He looks like James Bond in his tuxedo, and again I’m awash in amazement over how much he’s changed. Sure, we reconnected in the museum, but it’s impossible to avoid the fact that he’s completely transformed himself since I last saw him.

  Is he still the same boy I fell in love with?

  Am I still the same girl he fell in love with?

  I honestly don’t know.

  Chapter Nineteen

  19. CARSON

  She’s holding something back, but I’ll be damned if I know what it is.

  And really, who am I to be demanding anything from her? It’s been twelve years. We’re both different people now. Am I such a child that I need an apology after all this time?

  That kind of attitude was partly responsible for Cassie being the only girl in school who would look at me. The fact I was all gangly angles didn’t help matters, either.

  Well, things have changed. Dramatically.

  “Sure,” I say. “I know how school is. I guess it was my turning point.”

  Cassie smiles. It’s dazzling, especially combined with the stunning sleeveless wraparound she’s wearing. The aquamarine color really brings out the blue in her eyes, and it lifts her cleavage to the point where I can barely keep my eyes off of it.

  Where was I? Oh, yeah.

  “My time at Harvard really showed me that I wasn’t learning much that I didn’t already know,” I say. “And it drove home the fact that I didn’t want to have my nose buried in books for the rest of my life. I wanted to live, not just learn.”

  “You were totally bored in classrooms,” she says. “That was why you decided to build that nuclear reactor model for the science fair. You wanted to actually engineer something.”

  I smile. “You remember that?”