Face to Face

by CJ Lyons

  They immediately opened once more, revealing a man in a sleek black wheelchair. Richard.

  "We need to talk." He wheeled inside the small box, blocking her escape.

  Cassie whirled on her ex. "Did you come to gloat? To see me beg for mercy? Forget it, Richard. It isn't happening. I don't care what game you and Alan think you're playing, you're not going to win."

  She pounded the button for the parking garage and turned away from him. The elevator lurched to a halt. He'd hit the emergency stop. Trying to control her, like old times. She spun to face him, fists balled at her sides.

  "Tell me one thing, Richard. How many innocent people need to suffer before you get your revenge?" She faltered when she saw the look on his face. None of the smug satisfaction of his brother, none of the sadistic delight in her pain she expected to see.

  Instead he hung his head in shame. When he looked up to meet her gaze she was surprised to see tears sliding down his cheeks. "I don't want revenge."

  "What do you want?" she snapped, her patience with the King family long since spent.

  "Forgiveness."

  She backed away as far as she could. This wasn't Richard. Forgiveness? How could he possibly—

  "Cassandra–" His voice was low, pleading. "I can't remember the difference between the fibula and the humerus, not anymore, but I remember a beautiful woman who loved me with all her heart. I remember dancing on the deck of a ship in the moonlight. I dream of–" He broke off. "Do you really want to know what I dream of, Cassandra?"

  He was as lost in this as she was. She once loved this man. She was responsible for his life being stolen from him. Listening was the least she could do. She nodded, slowly, cautiously.

  "I dream," his voice grew wistful, his eyes never leaving hers as he spoke. "I dream of surgery. I see myself performing marvelous, technically complex operations–things I could have never done," his voice caught, "before. Things I don't even have the words to describe, but in my mind I watch as my fingers dissect and probe and reattach muscle and ligaments and vessels. It's a wonder of precision and boldness that gives me this rush of adrenalin, of power and confidence I never had before–not even in the real operating room. But the best part, the very best part," he reached across to take her hand in his, "is when I come out of the OR, exhausted but triumphant, you're there, Cassandra. You're waiting for me. You tell me how brilliant I was, how no one else could have saved the patient. And I'm the happiest man in the world."

  His voice trailed off and he looked away. "Pretty sappy isn't it?" he muttered.

  Cassie leaned back on her heels, surprised. Before his coma, Richard wanted only to own her, control her, warp her into his idea of the perfect love.

  Afterward he'd woken to his new life of disability, he'd been angry and bitter, wanting to take everything away from her, bring her down to his level. He'd been obsessed with her. Unable to accept the fact that they were no longer married, that she didn't belong to him.

  But this…she didn't know what to say. Maybe he truly was a different man now. The old Richard would have never confessed such vulnerability to her. He would have gnawed on it, twisted it into something painful he could use on her like a weapon.

  Instead of sharing it with her as a gift.

  "Thank you," she finally said.

  He cleared his throat. "I didn't–I never intended to tell you that." His words slurred a bit as he fought for control over his wayward muscles. "But we do need to talk." He straightened in his chair, looking at her once more, his hand tightening on hers. "Alan won't listen to me. He thinks I'm incompetent, weak, infatuated by you." He gave a small shrug. "I guess he's right. But I can't let him take everything away from you–your house, medicine, the clinic."

  "I won't let him. I'll fight him. I'll quit the clinic, sell the house, use my savings, whatever it takes."

  "You'll still lose," he said quietly. "Believe me, I know these people, I've fought them all my life. And lost. Even you can't win against them, Cassandra."

  "What do you propose?"

  He surprised her by smiling. "Just that. I'm proposing to you, Cassandra."

  She watched in amazement as he slid his fingers into his shirt pocket and pulled out a delicate diamond ring. Her old engagement ring. Left behind with her wedding band that last horrible night when she'd fled his house, their house, beaten and bloody, running for her life.

  "No, Richard–" Her voice shivered as memories pounded through her. Maybe his damaged brain had forgotten what happened during their marriage, but she didn't have that luxury. She remembered it all. Every humiliating, painful second of it.

  "You two are working together," she accused him. It was the only way she could make sense of her macabre day. "First, Alan humiliates me, then you—"

  "No. Alan wants to punish you. I'm trying to save you." The look on Richard's face convinced her at least he was sincere, even if his brother was playing games with people's lives.

  "Cassandra, please, hear me out. It doesn't have to be a real marriage. Separate bedrooms, separate houses if you want. But if you marry me, the family will stop their vendetta against you. Much as they'll hate the idea. You can save the clinic, Drake's career, your future."

  Cassie looked down at the gleaming rock in his hand, stunned by his logic. He was right. But it was so very wrong.

  When she looked into his face and saw the puppy dog look of devotion there, she knew in her gut she couldn't accept even if she wanted to. If she went through with this, this time she'd be the one battering and torturing. Because she could never return the affection he so obviously had for her.

  She lowered herself so that she was at eye-level with him. "Richard, I can't–I don't–"

  "Shhh." He pressed the ring into her palm, stopping her. The jewel scorched with cold. "You don't have to say anything. Just think about it. I'm here for you, if you need me."

  He closed her fingers around the ring and released the elevator. They completed the short journey in silence. Cassie slowly regained her balance when they came to a stop. The doors opened and she started through them, then turned back to face the lost and lonely man in the wheelchair.

  "Richard," she started, intending to give him her final answer.

  "Just think on it, Cassandra. I promise it will be different this time."

  The doors slid shut before she could respond.

  CHAPTER 19

  Cassie clenched the diamond, the faceted stone biting into her flesh. How had everything gone so wrong, so fast? Once she had a promising career, the promise of a relationship with Drake, so much to look forward to. And now, everything was threatened.

  She stuck the ring onto her finger. Her dress had no pockets and she couldn't risk losing a King family heirloom. The ring felt cold and heavy on her hand. Foreign.

  She sat in her Subaru for a moment, trying to regain her equilibrium. Her hand brushed against the hem of her dress where the two buttons, forever lost somewhere in Drake's apartment, were missing. All she could think about was Drake. He would make it right. Help her find a way through this mess.

  She needed to know he was safe, warn him about Alan King's possible involvement with Pamela's family, let him know she was there for him on this awful anniversary.

  And to apologize. She should have never let him leave without explaining herself. God, he must think she was heartless. A total bitch.

  She started to call him on her cell phone but there was no reception in the underground parking garage. As soon as she got back to his place, she promised herself.

  Maybe he would be waiting for her, safe and sound, at the Liberty Center. The hope kept her from cursing the slow traffic as she sped back to Drake's building.

  But there was no sign of Drake's car as she pulled into the Liberty Center's parking lot. Tony's van was still there, parked on the far side of the construction dumpster at the back of the lot. She felt a twinge of guilt about all the work he was doing on his day off. Especially after staying up most of the night babysittin
g her.

  Of course she hadn't asked him to stay. He was as bad as Drake, not giving her any choice in the matter, not believing she could take care of herself. Suddenly she found herself irritated at the ex-cop. Then she realized it wasn't Tony who was making her angry.

  It was herself and these out of control emotions. She wasn’t one to wallow self-pity. Let other people run her life. Grow up, Hart, she chided herself. First she moped about Drake, feeling sorry for herself, and now she was upset the wrong man spent the night with her.

  Time to do something, anything.

  With fresh resolve, she got out of the car. Just in time to see Drake's Mustang make the turn onto Ravenna. He skidded into the parking lot, stopping at an angle, his car blocking hers as if worried she'd try to escape.

  "Drake!" she called, not caring that her voice exposed every single one of her jumbled emotions. Her heart sped as she turned towards him. He jumped out of his car, arms spread, ready for her. His face glowed with a smile richer than the July sunshine.

  <><><>

  Drake had promised himself he'd play it cool. Make sure Hart was safe then leave to track down his stalker. Then, and only then, would he tell Hart how he really felt. About her. About them. About their future.

  Seeing her, in that dress, worry weighing her down, he'd practically rammed her car in his haste to get to her. So much for playing it cool.

  "Drake," she called, her voice filled with anxiety and joy, breaking the single syllable into two.

  Air shimmered from the scorching blacktop, casting rainbow shadows around her. God, she was beautiful. What kind of fool was he, leaving her?

  A shot cracked through the air, slamming through the side of her Subaru.

  Drake leapt across the space between them and tackled Hart. He covered her body with his, and he had his answer. The kind of fool who'd put the woman he loved in even greater danger by returning.

  Gunfire peppered the air above them. The Subaru rocked as it took hit after hit. Glass rained down over them. Metal pinged and groaned. He'd slammed Hart face down and knew the blacktop was scorching her—hell, it burned him and only his palms pressed against it—but he kept her pinned.

  When it was safe to look, he scoured the horizon, searching the vacant buildings for the shooter. Somewhere in the few seconds that fractured his initial joy into panic, he'd drawn his gun, but it was useless. There was no one to aim at.

  He heard a car in the distance. After that, silence.

  "Are you okay?" Hart asked, her voice muffled by her hair.

  He rolled off her, his gaze searching for danger. "Stay low, we're moving."

  She drew her legs up into a crouch, ready to run at his command. He held his gun high, but there was no movement from across the street. "Edge past your car, hug the ground until you're behind the dumpster. I'll cover you. Go."

  For once, she didn't argue. When they were both behind the dumpster's cover and no one tried any potshots, he allowed himself to relax long enough to check on her. Glass sparkled in her hair and tarry bits of blacktop speckled her skin along with a few scrapes, but otherwise she was fine.

  "Got your cell?" he asked while gauging if the scene was safe enough for them to try for the door. Too exposed. Better to wait.

  She shook her head. "In the car."

  Of course it was. Hart never carried the damn thing when she needed it. He grabbed his and called Jimmy.

  "I'm two minutes out, hold tight," Jimmy said.

  Drake hunkered down, wishing he could hold Hart but needing his hands free. She seemed to understand. She said nothing, but slipped one hand behind his back, touching him without limiting his movement or field of vision. He kept vigil on the parking lot and the street, making note of the graffiti that wasn't there yesterday. Ugly red and black paint dripping with vile defaced Tagger's art. Death threats from both the Rippers and Gangstas.

  "What the hell happened?" Tony Spanos appeared at the clinic's back door, ear buds dangling from his neck. "I look outside and—"

  "Stay inside," Drake shouted. Useless bastard. Probably watching porn on his phone when Hart was out here getting shot at. No movement on the street. The shooter was long gone. Still, he didn't take any chances as he shepherded Hart inside.

  "Did you call it in?" Spanos asked.

  "Yes." As if Drake was an idiot.

  "Who was it?"

  Before Drake could tell the ex-cop what he really thought, Jimmy Dolan arrived in a departmental sedan.

  "Jeezit, anyone hurt?" he asked as he emerged from the car and joined them.

  "No," Hart said.

  "Hart was almost killed," Drake corrected.

  Two patrol cars, sirens blasting, raced up. Jimmy went to mobilize the troops, getting them started searching for the shooter's perch.

  "Third floor, fourth window in," Drake directed them to the empty warehouse across the street. Once the patrolmen radioed no sign of a shooter, he joined Jimmy outside. Hart followed, leaving Spanos inside.

  Jimmy circled around his and Hart's cars—only Hart's had been hit. Two tires blown, it listed to one side and had bullet holes peppering its frame. The only glass that remained intact was in the passenger side mirror.

  "Spanos?" Jimmy asked Drake in a low voice.

  "It wasn't him," Hart answered before Drake could say anything. "Why are you two so against Tony? He's been getting threats, too." She looked from one man to the other. "You thought he was Drake's stalker, didn't you?"

  "He fit the profile," Jimmy said.

  "Everything pointed to him." Drake's gut told him Spanos was still number one on his suspect list.

  Hart considered for a minute. "Someone broke in last night and he almost caught them. Maybe someone is framing him?"

  Drake shrugged, unwilling to relinquish his prime suspect. He narrowed his eyes at Hart, wondering what else transpired during his brief absence. "Someone was here last night? In my building?"

  "Inside your apartment. Tony scared them off." Hart looked sheepish.

  "Before or after this graffiti went up?" Jimmy asked, using his phone to take pictures of the spray-painted tombstone with Hart's name scrawled in black, the letters dripping red teardrops of blood.

  "Jesus, Hart, only you could get the two deadliest gangs in the city coming after you." Drake pulled her close. Any gangbanger could have done the shooting. Might not be Drake's stalker after all. But he wasn't taking Spanos off the suspect list.

  "Not to mention Brickner." Hart said, hugging herself. Now that the danger was gone, she turned pale. The aftershock of adrenalin, Drake knew from firsthand experience. Every time he looked at her, he felt queasy himself. All he could see was Hart on the pavement, bleeding out.

  Then her words made it past the images. "Ronald Brickner? What's he got to do with this?"

  Hart shrugged free of Drake's arm and spun to face him. "That's what I was trying to tell you last night, why I couldn't leave. He's out on bail."

  "No way. What judge—?"

  "They didn't have a choice. He's got a new lawyer who got most of the evidence thrown out. I spent most of last night going over my testimony with Lisa Dimeo."

  Jimmy gave a low whistle. "So our list of suspects includes the members of not one, but two gangs, a self-confessed child killer, and a crazy stalker obsessed with Pamela Reynolds' death?"

  "Tony thinks maybe her sister is the stalker."

  "Yeah, I've been looking into her myself, haven't tagged her yet."

  "Alan King said his firm was in contact with her, if that helps." Hart looked down, scuffing her foot against the blacktop. "I had my deposition with him this morning."

  Christ, Drake thought with chagrin. "I should have been here."

  She wove her fingers in his. That was encouraging, after the heel he'd been. "You didn't know."

  Jimmy finished taking pictures. "Let me call the gang guys and see what word on the street is about the shooting. I'll get CSU over here as well."

  "And find Brickner," Drake put in,
wondering if Hart would be safer with him guarding her or with him on the other side of the planet. Seemed like she was doing a good job of putting a target on herself without any help from him.

  "Right. Then we'll start from the top."

  <><><>

  Drake went through the building checking to see if anything was missing while Cassie told Jimmy everything she knew. Then she returned to Drake's apartment to change her clothes. Her dress was ripped and tar had seared black blotches into the fabric. It was ruined.

  Once she was alone, she finally felt able to breathe. First the deposition, then Richard. Could Richard have orchestrated all this? Sent someone to threaten her, hoping she would run to him?

  She twisted the large diamond, watched the cold stone sparkle despite the late afternoon shadows gathering in Drake's bedroom. No. She didn't believe Richard capable of such subterfuge. Before his coma, definitely. He was a consummate actor—had fooled her for almost three years. But he wasn't the same man since the overdose. The tears he shed in the elevator over his lost dreams, those had been genuine, she was certain of it.

  Maybe Alan?

  No. Even Alan would never condone someone trying to kill her. It would take away his pleasure watching her pay for Richard’s trauma.

  How was she going to explain Richard's proposal to Drake? He was already upset. Not just the shooting, but the fact someone invaded his privacy, his home, and now Tony knew his secret, his art. It also didn't help that she'd allowed Tony to spend the night. Not much choice at the time, but the look in Drake's eyes when she had tried to explain...

  And now Richard wanted her to marry him again. Worse, it seemed like it might be the best way to protect Drake.

  If the Kings were in contact with Pamela's sister, they could make her stop tormenting Drake. Richard would end the malpractice suit, stop the threats against the Liberty Center. Maybe convince Alan to see that Harold Brickner got what he deserved.

  She shook her head. Never. She couldn't bear the thought of even a sham marriage to Richard King—no matter how much his stroke had changed him. It was as ludicrous as Alan's insane proposition.