“It’s too dangerous,” he whispered. “The timing of this party, everything.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Markey said. “He’ll be here. I thought you should know.”
Lowell cursed silently, his hands clenching into fists. “That son of a bitch is going to destroy us all.”
As the party got into full swing, the group of men surrounding Cassandra fought for center stage like vain actors. But Cassandra, used to such scenes, couldn’t have cared less. She merely smiled brightly, seductively, nodding now and again but never really listening. Yes, they were all important men. Randall Crane owned a large chunk of several conglomerates. He had been featured on the cover of
The crowd of well-dressed patrons buzzed about Sara’s debut on
Randall Crane interrupted her thoughts. “Do you know how I arrived here tonight, Cassandra?”
She barely glanced in his direction. “No, Randall. Why don’t you tell me?”
“By private helicopter,” he said proudly. “I just bought the bird. Seats eight. I have my own full-time pilot, copilot, and stewardess.”
“Stewardess?” Cassandra repeated. “On a helicopter?”
Randall Crane nodded. “We traveled from the roof of my high-rise on Forty-seventh Street to here in under an hour.”
“I’m very impressed, Randall.”
The older man beamed. “Do you want to take a ride in it? You won’t believe how fast it goes.”
She had bedded Randall Crane more than three years ago, and he had lasted about as long as a fifteen- year-old boy on his first time out. The man had barely gotten his pants off.
“You should learn to slow down, Randall,” she said with a wicked smile. “Speed is not always a good thing, you know.”
Watching Randall’s face turn red, Cassandra spotted Michael in the back corner, standing in a corner with that nothing doctor friend of his.
Michael looked so damn handsome in his tux, the only man at the party who would dare to wear a purple flowered bowtie and matching cumberbund rather than the standard black. But that was Michael. He was always a little off center. Cassandra had not seen him for nearly six months, but he still looked fantastic.
It was strange, really. Over the years Cassandra had stolen all of Sara’s boyfriends, starting with her first high school beau, Eddie Myles. Cassandra had orchestrated the seduction so that Sara would be sure to walk in on them.
Which she did.
Sara’s eyes widened when she saw her boyfriend’s pants lowered to his ankles, Cassandra kneeling in front of him. Her face had crumbled into anguish. But Eddie was only the first. It became a game to Cassandra. A new challenge. Every time Sara risked trusting someone, her sister would pounce on him. With each seduction Sara’s wounds bled anew. Insecurity began to nestle into her psyche. Sara became more self-conscious about her health problems. Her confidence withered away. Sarcasm became her defense. Cassandra watched her sister distance herself from the outside world. She dedicated herself to her studies, staying alone in her room, blasting that awful heavy metal music. Eventually, there were no boys left for Cassandra to chase away.
But Sara had been playing possum. Somehow the sly bitch had landed the best of men.
Michael, the bastard. The gorgeous, wonderful bastard.
Cassandra stepped forward. “Excuse me a moment, gentlemen.”
The men parted to allow her to pass. Cassandra could not take her eyes off Michael. Six months had passed since they had last seen each other. And a lot of things might have changed in six months.
Cassandra moved toward Michael.
Sitting in the back of a studio limousine, Sara could not keep still. She tried to unwind from the excitement of the show, but the constant flow of adrenaline would not allow it. She rocked back and forth in the plush leather seat, her mind whirling with anticipation. She had moved from Blue Oyster Cult into the more contemporary sounds of Depeche Mode, but she still wasn’t slowing down. Midway through “Blasphemous Rumors,” the limousine driver raised the soundproof window between them.
Good.
Soon she would see Michael. Corny to say, but the best part of days like these was reliving each detail with her husband. Wincing, Sara snapped off her brace and rubbed her foot. Leg braces had improved dramatically over the years, from the days when she wore a heavy metal one that gripped like a power-vise to the modern fiberglass kind that felt more snug than compressing. Still, the brace was cumbersome and her leg throbbed painfully when she wore it a long time. She massaged her foot and lower leg with knowing hands. The blood began to circulate again.
Born two months premature, Sara had been a sickly child from the start. Infections settled into her lungs, causing pneumonia and a childhood of health complications. The difficult birth had also permanently damaged a nerve in Sara’s left foot. As a child Sara had needed a brace and metal crutches to walk. Now the crutches were gone, but the brace and occasionally a cane were still in evidence.
Her youth was filled with constant hospital visits and trips to medical specialists and therapists. During endless sunny summer days Sara was forced to stay shut up in her bedroom rather than play outside with other children. Tutors visited the house or the hospital because of all the school she missed. She had few friends. Schoolmates never teased or taunted her, but they shunned the strange child and treated her like some sort of outsider. Sara was not allowed to take gym class. She had to sit on the steps during recess. Other children eyed her warily, almost frightened by the fragile, pale girl as though she represented death in a place that only understood immortality.
No matter how hard she tried not to be, Sara was always different, always coddled, always behind. She hated it. As she got older, Sara learned that the limp and brace were not as difficult to overcome as people’s perceptions. Whenever she suffered a setback, teachers were quick to offer her health as an excuse.
“It’s not your fault, Sara. If you were in perfect health…”
But Sara wanted to scream every time they said that. She did not want to hear excuses or use them to justify her shortcomings — she wanted to overcome them. Check that. She wanted to blow them away.
The chauffeur turned off the road and headed up the driveway. There were cars parked everywhere — Rolls Royces, Mercedes, stretch limos of all varieties, cars with special government license plates. Some chauffeurs stood around the driveway, smoking cigarettes and chatting with one another. Others stayed in the car and read newspapers.
When the limo reached the house, Sara snapped her brace back on, grabbed her cane, and proceeded as gracefully as she could toward the front door.
Michael took another sip of Perrier. There was a steady ripping pain in his abdomen, but he did not mention it to Harvey. He had planned to say something, but Harvey was so distracted tonight that Michael decided to wait. He watched Harvey’s eyes shift nervously over the guests in the large ballroom. His overall appearance, always a touch disheveled, was a complete mess.
“Are you all right, Harv?”
“Fine,” he replied quickly.
“Something on your mind?”
“I… What time is Sara supposed to show up?”
It was the third time he had asked. “Any minute now,” Michael said. “What the hell is the big deal?”
“Nothing,” Harvey answered with a tight smile. “Your wife and I are having a torrid affair behind your back, that’s all.”
