She walked to her office, knowing her life was definitely back to normal. Not that she hadn’t expected as much.
But she’d no more than walked into her office when Arthur called her in for a meeting.
And gave her the real bombshell news.
“I’ve decided to give you that raise you asked for, Cassandra,” he said, moving around several items on his desk top as he spoke.
She’d never seen Arthur nervous before. That in itself was scary. Nor had she expected him to discuss her raise so quickly after her return. Getting money out of Arthur was a little like breaking into Fort Knox—difficult if not impossible.
She quickly measured the distance to the door. Was he about to suggest some sordid sex act as quid pro quo for her raise? But she replied in what she hoped was a normal tone. “Thank you, Arthur. I certainly appreciate it.”
“The new figure will be—” and he mentioned a sum that made her gasp “—beginning with the next pay period. And I was thinking, too, that you might like some additional guarantees in terms of your future, so I had our attorney draw up a simple contract that ensures your position beyond Isabelle Palmer’s trust stipulations.”
His smile was more a grimace than a smile, and everything suddenly became crystal clear. Bobby Serre had had a hand in this. For a moment she didn’t know if she should be grateful or offended. Was this payment for sex? Was she his high-priced call girl in Minneapolis? Because the sum Arthur had mentioned was colossal.
And then the old Arthur resurfaced. “I will naturally expect a superior performance in the future for your new compensation package.”
She felt herself relax. This was the Arthur she knew and disliked. This was a dysfunctional comfort level she understood. This was business as usual at the museum she loved. “I understand. Thank you, Arthur. Is there anything more?”
“You really should get a haircut.”
“When I need grooming tips, I’ll let you know, Arthur.”
“I just meant he might have stayed if—”
“Don’t go there, Arthur. Not if you value your life.”
“It was meant as—”
“Send my contract to my office,” she interrupted, rising to her feet. He knew and she knew that he was obliged to give her that contract or Bobby would have his balls. And he knew and she knew that contract meant she didn’t have to take any crap from him.
She walked out without a backward glance.
THIRTY-FIVE
LIV MET HER FOR DRINKS AFTER WORK because Cassie couldn’t bear walking into her house without an alcoholic buzz after dealing with the overwhelming rush of potent memories her first night back from Houston. Or actually not dealing with them, sort of half sitting up all night watching reruns of old John Hughes movies on cable.
The minute Liv saw Cassie’s doleful look and tall glass of Long Island Iced Tea with six shots of everything, she said, “He really is gone, isn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
Cassie shrugged. “Wherever high-priced bounty hunters go. Actually, in this case, maybe Bulgaria. One of his contacts wanted him to go with him to check out a Titian that’s been missing for a couple centuries.”
“Are you sad, heartbroken, going to live, or not going to live?” Liv asked as she slid into the booth and motioned for the waitress.
Cassie raised her lashes marginally. “It wasn’t as though I expected him to stay and set up housekeeping with me.”
“That’s the rational part. What about the rest?” Liv held up three fingers to the waitress. “Single malt scotch, three fingers over ice.”
“I’m here because I don’t want to go home. What do you think?”
“Oookay. Gotcha. So do you want to sleep over?” Liv asked with a grin. “We could have pizza delivered and watch six episodes of MI-5 and paint our nails.”
Cassie tried to smile and shook her head. “I have to go home eventually. A couple more of these, and I’ll fall into bed without knowing where I am. And Bobby got me a raise anyway. A huge raise and a contract so my position is secure until the end of time.”
Liv winked. “So he’s not all bad.”
Cassie snorted. “The only bad thing about him is he’s gone.”
“You know what they say. Get back on that horse.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t even want to look at another man. How bad is that? I must be jinxed. Do you think I’m jinxed?”
“Because the movie star didn’t stay? Reality check, sweetie. You knew from day one he wasn’t going to stay.”
“Don’t confuse me with the facts.” Cassie grimaced. “I’m doomed to spinsterhood, ‘cuz no one looks good anymore.”
“You haven’t exactly been running a dating marathon since Jay. No one looked good before Bobby came, either.”
“Well, if nothing else, I’m absolutely sure I have no judgment when it comes to men. First Jay and now, when I should have known better, of course, I didn’t. I let myself fall into some sticky infatuation trap. You have to agree I don’t have a clue when it comes to men. I can’t recognize good from bad or liars from nonliars, stayers from goers, or, more pertinently, when the goers will go.”
“But you can tell big dicks from small dicks, I’ll bet.”
Cassie groaned. “Don’t remind me. He should be in the Guinness Book of Records.”
“Look at it this way. You scored for a couple weeks. How bad is that?”
“I don’t feel like being reasonable right now. Okay? I want to wallow in my misery and moan about love and loss until I’m sick of sniffling and hearing my own whiny voice.” Cassie half smiled. “It’s the normal way to deal with problems, isn’t it?”
“Don’t ask me. I usually scream at whoever’s in range. But then, I come from a long line of screamers and you don’t. I remember going to your house when we were kids and figuring someone must be sick ‘cuz the house was so quiet. In my house, the din was deafening. But hey, did you say love a while back?”
“No.”
“I think you did.”
“Think again. That word and Bobby Serre aren’t in the same galaxy, believe me.”
“Maybe you forgot for a second and let the word slip out.”
“You’re hallucinating. I still have a few brain cells operating even though I’m way ahead of you with these iced teas. I’d never say anything so stupid.”
“Fine. Whatever.” But Liv had heard it, and she had perfect recall, which always came in handy during cross-examination. “So what do you think of that guy over there at the bar? The one who looks like that young Nordic stud Samantha is having her way with on Sex and the City.”
Cassie gave a quick look and shook her head. “I’m not interested in blonds.”
“Since when?”
“Since forever.”
“What about Sonny White and Max Martell and your ex?”
“Okay—I’ve lost my taste for them. He’s all yours.”
“Later . . . maybe. If his girlfriend or wife doesn’t show up. So tell me, what did you do in Houston?”
“I checked out eighty paintings—really great ones—and gave them my seal of approval. I cried myself to sleep at night and in general worked long days so I didn’t have to stay there any longer than necessary and whined to you, as you well know. Sorry about calling so late at night.”
“What are friends for if they’re not available twenty-four seven? And you weren’t whining so much as weeping on the phone. Which is why I bought you this.” Pawing through her very large shoulder bag, Liv came up with an official-looking paper and handed it across the table to Cassie. “You might as well profit from your misery.”
Unfolding the crisp sheet, Cassie smiled. Five shares of Edna Mae’s Ice Cream Company Ltd. “Thanks, Liv, you’re a sweetheart. I’ll treasure this always.” Her brows lifted. “And probably add considerably to Edna Mae’s bottom line. Now that I’m a stock holder, I’ll have to remember that ice cream isn’t just for breakfast.”
&nb
sp; “It’s good for hot sex, too, don’t forget. Like in you eat it off me and I’ll eat it off you and we’ll get our calcium with a whole lot of lovin’.” Liv grinned and signaled for another drink. “Speaking of eating things, that blond is looking better all the time . . .” Her gaze narrowed.
“Go and talk to him,” Cassie offered. “My iced tea and I will be fine.”
“Maybe later. You need company, and I could use another drink. It’s a work day tomorrow, too.” She shrugged. “And I have a seven o’clock meeting, so maybe I’ll have to leave thoughts of ice cream and pleasure for another day.”
The word pleasure ironically offered up a sharp contrast in Cassie’s mind. “Meg called,” she muttered.
“Oh, oh. She’s going to be lining you up again. Right?”
“I swear, she’d no more asked if Bobby was still around—she’d heard the Rubens had been found—when she’s telling me about a friend of Oz’s who’s divorced and would be just perfect now that I have time on my hands again.”
“So when are you going for dinner?”
Cassie’s eyes widened, her surprise perhaps the result of almost two Long Island iced teas rather than Liv’s conjecture. “How did you know?”
“Hello. It’s Meg. The girl who’s been telling you who to go out with since the tenth grade. The same one, by the way, who doesn’t take no for an answer and keeps calling and calling and—”
“Tomorrow, although I tried to refuse. I really did. But she caught me about a minute after I’d come into work and hadn’t had enough caffeine yet. My brain wasn’t fully functioning.”
“She’s sneaky. She knows.”
“I’m going to cancel.”
Liv laughed. “In your dreams.”
“I suppose I could go and not talk, just drink and leave right after dessert.”
“You’re too nice. You won’t.”
Cassie groaned. “So you see why I’m drinking. It’s not just Bobby. It’s the potential blind date who’s not going to be my type because no one ever is except well-hung bounty hunters, I suppose.”
“But then Bobby Serre’s everyone’s type. I don’t want to be too harsh, sweetie, but you know he is.”
“I know. Give me another week or so, and I’ll get over this infatuation with hotter-than-hot sex. It’s probably not him I’m missing so much as the thirty orgasms a day . . . and night . . . and everything in between.” She smiled. “He was definitely high octane.”
“To good memories,” Liv proposed, lifting her glass.
Cassie clinked glasses with Liv and smiled faintly. “Which are better than no memories.”
“Amen to that.”
THIRTY-SIX
BOBBY HAD BURNED THROUGH THE BULGARIAN venture like a man with a hit squad on his trail. He’d authenticated the Titian for Jorge, backed him up in a falling-down palace in Sofia where the money changed hands, then escorted him and the painting as far as Marseille. In that port city, Jorge found a captain and oceangoing craft for hire, lined up some bodyguards he trusted from friends in Europe, and made ready to sail to Miami with his rare find that would add nicely to his retirement fund.
“Are you gonna be okay?” Jorge asked as they took leave of each other.
“Sure. I’ll be in Budapest tonight.”
“You’ve got something on your mind. I’d say women troubles, but not with you. If there’s some job you need help with, just say the word. My sailing schedule is flexible.”
“I’m good. Tired, that’s all. I’ve had a few too many sleepless nights.” Bobby shouldn’t have said that, his statements bringing disastrous memories to the fore—the ones with Cassie during their all-nighters. The ones he couldn’t shake, no matter how hard he tried.
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. Have a good trip, Jorge. You have my numbers if you need anything.”
Then Bobby caught the first flight out to Budapest, but he’d no more than landed in the city than he changed his mind. Booking a flight to London, he had a brief layover at Heathrow before boarding a nonstop to Denver. It was the closest major city to his home in Montana, and in the mood he was in, he wanted nothing more than to sit on his porch and watch the grass grow. He didn’t want to think; he didn’t want to feel—although that wasn’t too likely, with misery clinging to him like a shroud. But at least he’d be home—his best home.
And if there was peace to be found, he would find it there.
THIRTY-SEVEN
AS IF A BLIND DATE DINNER AT HER SISTER’S wasn’t about as gruesome an evening as she could imagine, Cassie almost had a heart attack when she arrived at Meg’s and saw her parents’ car parked in the drive. Weren’t they supposed to still be in Florida? Didn’t they always wait until Memorial Day to return to Minnesota?
If Meg hadn’t been waving at her from the front porch, she would have turned the car around and called with some excuse like the heart attack that might actually be imminent. With a groan, she braked.
She was screwed.
Knowing Cassie’s strong inclination to avoid family dinners, Meg stayed on the porch as a deterrent to that impulse until Cassie parked and walked up. “We’ve already started eating. You’re late. I’ve been calling and calling. Why don’t you answer your phone?”
Cassie hadn’t answered her phone at home because she had caller ID and was still trying to think of some excuse to back out of Meg’s dinner. She was late for the same reason—the backing out one. She’d been driving around aimlessly, trying to think of some excuse that would fly. And she hadn’t answered her cell phone that had caller ID, too—thank you, God—because her excuse machine seemed to be out of commission. She decided she should have spent a lot more time lying in her life and she’d be a whole lot better at it. “I can’t stay long,” she said, desperately tossing out her last lifeline. “I have to get up early tomorrow to go shopping with Liv.”
“I just talked to Liv when I was trying to find you. She’s playing tennis tomorrow, not shopping. But you just wait and see,” Meg said, rolling over Cassie’s excuse like a bulldozer while pulling her into the house. “You’re going to just love Drew.”
If Meg hadn’t said that to her about ten thousand times in her life—okay, maybe she was exaggerating . . . but a thousand for sure—Cassie would have been more apt to look forward to this meeting with the man she was going to love. But once burnt, etcetera, etcetera, and she was working on a thousand burns, so she wasn’t likely to fall into that trap. “I’m not staying long, Meg. I mean it.” She tried to sound really, really firm.
“You look great tonight, Cassie. Drew is going to adore you.”
Why was she getting the idea her words were falling on deaf ears?
Why did she feel like running even though she was wearing strappy heels that would make her fall and break her ankle if she ran five yards?
Why was she getting that familiar sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach?
“Cassie, honey!” It was her mother’s voice. “I hear you out there. Come and meet this sweet young man Oz knows!”
That’s why, she thought, mortified.
She was going to have two take-no-prisoners marriage brokers working on her case tonight.
As she entered the dining room, she felt as though she’d walked on stage—everyone was staring at her. “Sorry I’m late,” she murmured. “Traffic.” That was lame, but she couldn’t help it. She was coming up blank for excuses tonight.
“You know everyone except Drew,” Meg said in her most charming voice. “Drew, this is my sister, Cassandra Hill. Cassie, meet Drew Nyberg. Sit there, Cassie, right next to Drew,” she said in her totally unsubtle way.
My God, he could have been a twin to Samantha’s stud, the blond guy from the bar.
He came to his feet as Cassie approached and smiled. “Hi. I think I have most of your grade school teachers memorized.”
“Jeez, Mom, thanks.” She shot her mother a look as she sat down. “When did you and Dad get back in town?”
&n
bsp; “Just a few hours ago. Isn’t it perfect? We can all have dinner together.”
Cassie wouldn’t have used the word perfect. A disaster waiting to happen, maybe; sure-fire embarrassment, for certain.
“Meg said you’ve just returned from Houston where you were helping with some collection there,” her mother said. “Cassie’s very well respected in her field,” her mother added, smiling at Drew. “Everyone comes to her if they want to know about—what is it you study, dear? I always forget.”
“Nineteenth-century English narrative painting.” Her mother could remember the temperature on her birthday in 1980, but she couldn’t remember Cassie’s field of study. Was art history really that boring?
“Isn’t she amazing?” her mother exclaimed. “I’m always amazed. Your father is, too, dear. Why, he just said to me the other day—‘Isn’t Cassie so clever about’—your narrative painting thing. Didn’t you, dear?”
The look her father was getting required only one answer. “I certainly did. Hi, pumpkin,” her father said with a grin. “Long time no see.”
“The fishing was just terrible in Florida this year. Your father was distraught.”
“It didn’t matter,” Jim Hill said. “I had more time for golf.”
“But he likes his fishing more. Do you fish, Drew? Everyone in Minnesota fishes.”
“I’m from southern Minnesota. There aren’t too many lakes where I was raised. We hunted pheasants in the fall.”
“Girls, your grandfather Peyton used to hunt pheasants.” Her mother’s voice implied that Drew had gained the Mothers of America’s very largest seal of approval. “The girls just loved their grandfather Peyton, didn’t you, girls?”
“Yes, Mom,” they both replied, understanding there was no point in arguing with their mother or mentioning that they were three when their grandfather had died.
Mitzi Hill was the dynamo who drove the family. A diminutive redhead who had long since resorted to a chemical version of her original hair color, she kept her husband’s social schedule busy and tried whenever she could to do the same for her daughters.
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