Cassidy and the Princess

by Patricia Potter

  He was quiet for a long time.

  She wanted to tell him that she would give it all up in a moment if he asked her. Not immediately, of course. She would have to finish the year, hopefully through the Olympics and Worlds, but then regardless, she planned to tell Paul he would have to find a new partner.

  The idea had been on the fringe of her mind for weeks, perhaps even months, but it had never been quite so clear before.

  She wanted to tell Cassidy that, but then she would be forcing his hand. He’d said nothing about a future. About love.

  He seemed complete as he was. He had a home, friends, his dream to sail the seas. She had, in fact, never met anyone who seemed so…comfortable with who and what he was.

  He straightened. The phone again. She couldn’t hear it, but he must have felt it. He pressed it to his ear again.

  She heard his side of the conversation. “Keep an eye on it.”

  Then he stood, lifting her up with his hand. “I think we should go inside.”

  “Do you think he’s here?”

  “I don’t know. Lights went on in a house half a mile away. That indicates a resident. Our people will check the license number and keep watch.”

  They went inside. She felt the tension in his body.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Instinct.”

  They sat down on the sofa. He went over to the CD player and hunted for some music, then inserted a disc. Piano favorites. “Autumn Leaves.” Soft.

  He offered her his hand and she took it. They swayed for a moment with the music, then he started to move. He was a good dancer, light, but very easy to follow.

  He pulled her close to him, one hand going around to the small of her back as he moved easily over the floor. She wondered how much was for show, how much to reassure her. Even with the curtains drawn, she was sure their forms were probably visible.

  She didn’t care. She moved against him and heard the beating of his heart. It seemed loud. Fast.

  The sound of his breathing turned raspy, as if it were difficult. Her own was painful. She didn’t want this to be a show. She wanted it to be real.

  The song ended. Another started. And another. Despite the tension, she started to relax. “Unchained Melody.” She had skated to it once. But never had it affected her like this.

  He started to move again, his long body as graceful and sure as Paul’s. But the feelings were ever so different. She wanted to stay in this circle of his arms forever. She leaned against him.

  Then—an explosion.

  Down near the lake.

  He dropped his arm, whirled around and ran out on the porch. The boathouse was in flames.

  “There was someone watching the boathouse,” she said, hearing the fear in her voice.

  He grimaced and nodded. “He didn’t notify Matt, which means he’s…”

  “Dead or unconscious,” she finished, when he stopped. She felt sick with both fear for herself and terror for the unknown man below.

  She was also very, very angry. She was rigid with it. “So he knows at least one person is watching the house?” she asked.

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t know how many.”

  “He’ll expect you to go and see about the boathouse.”

  Cassidy hesitated, even though they had been over this a dozen times. He’d suspected the killer would do something to get him out of the way.

  Still, he hesitated.

  “Go,” she said.

  “This was a rotten idea,” he said.

  “Too late now,” she said with an attempt at a smile. “I’ll be all right. The others will be alerted now, too.”

  “Go inside. Don’t leave Matt’s side.”

  He leaned down and kissed her fiercely, then went out the door. She reached in her pocket for the gun. Still there.

  She started for the door, then turned to watch Cassidy run down the steps.

  Then she saw the form slide onto the screen porch. She started for her gun.

  “It’s okay,” the man said. “Detective MacKay caught me on the way down. He sent me to stay with you.”

  The voice was matter-of-fact. She’d not met all the men she knew had been stationed around the house. They’d been put in place before she arrived.

  “I’m going inside,” she said, turning back to the door.

  “I think it’s better if we stay here on the porch,” the man said in the same clipped voice. “And wait for him.”

  The porch was dark. The man’s eyes were hard to read. But there was something… Suddenly she knew what it was. When she’d talked to the killer before, his voice had been altered. But now she thought she recognized the cadence of his words. Maybe the assuredness in them. Still, she wasn’t sure. Not yet. “I need a sweater,” she said.

  There was another explosion down at the dock.

  “He must have stepped on the wrong board,” said her visitor, smiling at her. He reached out and grabbed her arm just as his words made an impact.

  Another explosion.

  Fear for Cassidy eclipsed fear for herself. She tried to keep from letting it show.

  “I think we should stay outside,” he said. “The house might be wired.”

  “My sweater.” She tried again, knowing that Matt and Quinn were probably frantically trying to reach the man who had been watching the boathouse, as well as rounding up the other men. There should be several right outside. Then, how did this man—if he wasn’t who he said he was—get inside the ring of protection?

  Had he killed some of the others? Even Cassidy in the explosion? Please God, no. And where were Matt and Quinn? Hadn’t they heard voices?

  But she and the killer were on the porch. Was it only the interior that had been bugged? Surely the detectives must have included the porch. Surely…

  He must have seen her glance. He frowned, then looked at the door. “Anyone in there, pretty lady? I know there’s someone…in radio contact.”

  She tried to keep her face expressionless as she stepped away. He wasn’t disguising who he was now. Pretty lady. He had used that on the phone.

  Her expression must have told him that she knew.

  A knife was suddenly in his hand, then pressing against her throat.

  She started to scream but it was cut off, as one arm went around her torso while the other hand pressed the sharp edge of the knife deeper. She felt the first trickle of blood.

  And Cassidy? He couldn’t have been caught in the explosion. He was too wary.

  “We are going to move off the porch,” he whispered into her ear. “No noise. Try that little stunt you did last time and the knife slits your throat. It’s very sharp.” The last words ended on a high note, almost childishly gleeful.

  She could, though, reach in her pocket. The pistol was there.

  Someone had to be nearby. She tried to listen, but there was only the crackling of flames from below. There should be officers all around. Where were they? Panic filled her.

  Then a light flooded the space about her. It would be shining in her assailant’s eyes.

  “Drop it,” came Matt’s voice.

  “So there were more,” said the voice by her ear. The knife cut deeper into her skin. “You shouldn’t have tried to trap me, pretty lady.”

  “I said, drop it.” Matt’s voice again.

  “I don’t think so,” her captor said. “Not unless you want a dead skater. Shoot me and she dies.”

  Blood was soaking her blouse now, but she didn’t feel the pain. Instead, her senses were acute. She heard the very faint sound of footsteps on pine needles behind her assailant, smelled the mild tangy fragrance of the aftershave Cassidy used. A wild joy filled her, even as she shuffled her own feet as if tripping, to muffle the telltale sound. He was alive!

  She also realized her own danger. The wrong move and she would die.

  “Why?” she asked, stalling for time. “Why me?”

  “You look like her. The bitch that left me. I tried s
o hard to please her. I sent bouquets of roses. I spent all my money. She liked roses. She told me so. But she still left me. Just like my mother did.”

  The pressure on her neck relaxed slightly. He thought he was in control. He had her. “Tell him to drop his gun.”

  She could do that. Quinn was still out there. So were others. And Cassidy. Most of all, Cassidy.

  “Matt,” she said. “Drop it, please.”

  He hesitated, then made a show of dropping his weapon.

  “Kick it over toward me.”

  When he leaned down to pick it up, she would…

  But he didn’t lean down.

  Instead, the knife tightened against her skin, and blood flowed freer.

  “Reach for it,” he said. “Very carefully.”

  She leaned down, feeling the blade against her neck. She didn’t dare make a move now. She had tricked him twice before. He was expecting it.

  She reached for the gun and straightened, letting it dangle from her fingers. He couldn’t take it, not without letting her go for a fraction of an instant.

  “Why?” she asked again.

  “She laughed at me,” he said. “No one laughs at me.”

  “I didn’t laugh at you.”

  “You’re just like her,” he accused.

  “I’m not like anyone.”

  She could almost hear him think about what he should do.

  “Shoot him,” he suddenly commanded. “Shoot the cop, or I’ll kill you.”

  “No.” She dropped the pistol.

  He swore. “Pick it up.”

  “No.”

  He swore again. He was obviously unused to women on the wrong side of the knife refusing him. He couldn’t get away without the gun. Did he want to kill her, or take a chance of reaching for the gun?

  Survival won out. Keeping the knife to her throat, he sank with her to the ground until they were both kneeling. The gun was just below his elbow. He let go of her neck with one arm while the other kept the knife to her throat. He reached—

  Without one arm holding her, she fell to the ground away from the knife, and Cassidy was on him like a tiger, knocking the knife from his hand. Pummeling him until Matt pulled him off, then they were surrounded by more men.

  One of them looked at her neck. Another ran inside for clean towels to staunch the blood, while others handcuffed the assailant. They found a pistol taped to his leg. Apparently, though, he’d believed the knife was more menacing to her.

  Cassidy stood, pulled her into his arms and held her as if he would never, ever let her go.

  Chapter 19

  Cassidy took her home. He would leave the questioning to the others.

  They’d stopped by the hospital first. The cuts on her neck were superficial. The nurse had cleaned them and the emergency room doctor had used Dermabond to reduce scarring. He asked if she wanted anything for pain, and she said no.

  Then Cassidy drove to his house. He’d checked to see whether she preferred a hotel, but she didn’t want to be alone.

  It was not yet dawn. A few hours’ sleep. At a house no longer populated by numerous detectives and police officers.

  The phone was ringing when they arrived. A search warrant, issued after Sanders’s capture, had turned up a wealth of evidence, including shoes of the slain women. There was no doubt that this time they had the right man.

  Haynes was a very happy police captain and was making plans for a press conference the next morning. He wanted Marise there.

  Cassidy asked her.

  She shook her head. “I’m flying to Seattle,” she said.

  With a feeling of emptiness, Cassidy relayed her answer to Haynes and declined to appear, either. “You should get all the credit,” he said, knowing that answer would soothe any lingering doubts Haynes had about the past week.

  After hanging up, he made hot chocolate, while she made arrangements for a flight later in the day. The only available seat was at six p.m. They would have the day to rest.

  And then she would be out of his life. He wanted to ask her to stay, but trying to keep her here would be like trying to catch a butterfly. What did you do with it when caught? When you took away its ability to fly. He now knew the meaning of loving something—or someone—so much that you let it go.

  They finished the hot chocolate in silence. There was so much to say, and so little. He wanted to offer his life, but that would mean limiting hers.

  “You should get some rest,” he finally said, after realizing he was staring at her, memorizing the lines and angles of her face, the way her hand impatiently brushed aside her hair when it fell across her cheek. The bandage around her neck reminded him of his own ineptitude. He should never have let Sanders get so close. It had been a flawed plan, and he should have found something better.

  Her pain was his pain.

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “You should be cursing me,” he said.

  “No. You let me do what had to be done,” she said. “It was the only way to get back my life.” She hesitated, then added, “You trusted me.”

  “I almost got you killed,” he replied roughly.

  “I would have been killed if you hadn’t helped me. It might have been tomorrow or the next day or the day after that. I never would have been able to sleep again, not without fear.”

  He saw the torture in her eyes and he wondered whether these past few days would live with her forever. Marise was strong, but she might still need counseling.

  He had been standing while drinking the chocolate. He put the cup down and held out his hand to her. She took it, stood and looked up at him.

  As if he were a god.

  Hell, he was anything but, and he felt like a complete failure. It had been his job to keep her safe, and he’d made a mess of it.

  She stood on tiptoes. “I’ll miss you, Detective Cassidy MacKay.”

  He would do more than miss her.

  “There’s no one here,” she said.

  “No,” he agreed. It was an invitation. One he couldn’t refuse.

  “Marise.” He said the name with awe.

  Her mouth twisted wryly. “I’ve never really liked the name before,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “My parents wanted a figure skater. My mother thought it sounded…professional. I never really felt as if it fit.”

  My parents wanted a figure skater. Not a child. In that one sentence, she’d said a great deal about herself. He suddenly realized why he hadn’t liked her mother.

  Other things she’d said nagged at him. He’d never really understood the hold her mother had on her. Nor the hold Paul had on her. When she’d talked about joining them in Seattle, it had not been as if it was something she wanted to do. It had sounded more like a responsibility.

  He understood responsibility. He’d always known it, expected it of himself—but he also had known what he wanted to do.

  He cared enough for her—hell, he loved her enough—to want her to be happy, to want to see joy in her face at the thought of returning to skating. Instead, there was an uncertainty, even a sense of forlornness as she looked at him.

  It shattered his defenses. He held out his hand and she took it. Together, they walked into the bedroom. The room was dark. It would not be long before dawn broke.

  His hand touched her cheek. She looked so incredibly vulnerable. And yet he knew she was made of steel, too. The combination was irresistible.

  Tenderness budded inside, then grew until it threatened to overwhelm every other emotion. It felt warm and good, filling the emptiness in him, squeezing out the darkness that had gradually overtaken him. He hadn’t realized that until now. He hadn’t known the extent of the void.

  She reached up on tiptoes and her lips met his. Unable to resist the offer she was making, he kissed her with barely leashed passion.

  A sound came from deep within her, a purring, welcoming sound that aroused him more than any spoken words. His mouth pillaged hers with a ravenous yearning.
He felt her hand entwining with his hair, and they clung together.

  He was grateful, so grateful. His hand touched the bandage around her neck, and he realized how close she had come to death. He started to back away, but her hand caught his, her blue eyes intense and seeking.

  He wanted to be noble. He told himself not to take advantage of her. She was vulnerable at the moment. He’d couldn’t ask her to give up her life any more than he could give up all that he was. He didn’t know what he could offer her if he gave up the only thing he did well. And he couldn’t bear causing her the same pain he’d caused Laine.

  But her fingers were playing enticing games with his hair, the back of his neck.

  His blood was like currents of liquid fire, searing and sensitizing every nerve, every muscle. She leaned against him, and pleasure coursed through him as she responded so completely to every touch, her hands doing their own exploration, intensifying every sensation.

  He undressed her. Slowly. Carefully. Tenderly.

  He knew he should go. He knew he should tuck her in bed and say good-night.

  But her hand clasped his. “Don’t go,” she whispered.

  He should. He knew he should. For both their sakes.

  But he couldn’t. Tonight was still with both of them. The waiting, the tension, the fear, the danger. The relief. Emotions that had to be vented.

  Part of him knew he was rationalizing. He shoved that side apart and succumbed to the pure need and desire that sparked and snapped between them like a live electric wire. He sat on the bed next to her, one hand holding hers, the other running over her face. He wanted to memorize every feature. Record every expression.

  Then let her go. Let her be the princess she was meant to be.

  He leaned down and kissed her forehead, then moved down and kissed her throat with restrained passion. A sound came from deep within her, a sleepy, contented, welcoming sound that aroused him more than any words. His lips moved upward until they met hers, touching them gently at first, then with growing hunger.