The Longest Night

“There are some eligibles here, by the way. A couple of men from the Herald, plus, all Beth’s waiters are here.”

Cassandra scoped out the hotties who were tending bar and laughed at the familiar faces. Thomas, Seth and Charles. Beth had opened a tearoom, highbrow and staid, except for the waiters in tuxes that made it smolder, Chicago-style.

“They’re just babes in the wood,” answered Cassandra, though she had actually considered it at one time.

“Beth told me who Noah was. Quite conveniently we noticed that he’s alone.”

Cassandra tapped a fingernail on the table as her sole concession to Noah Barclay. “Why don’t you go find your husband? I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t want company?”

“It’s nice to sit and think, remember all the good times we had.”

“It’s a wedding, not a funeral,” said Mickey, using her glasses for the full egghead effect.

Cassandra leaned back, watching the matrimonial circus in front of her. “It all depends on your perspective.”

2

IT SADDENED NOAH that his sister had been right. The James-Von Meeter wedding hosted a hotbed of Chicago politicos. So far he had discussed the finer points of a chocolate layer wedding cake with Alderman Frederick H. Brown from the Eighteenth Ward, not to be confused with Frederick T. Brown from the Fourth Ward. He’d asked Alderwoman Margaret Watson from the Twenty-second Ward to dance, only to discover that she was on crutches. And he’d rescued Judge Roscoe Warren from dunking his head in the punch bowl. Judge Warren was a two-fisted drinker, and not a steady one at that. It was a lot of work for Noah, who didn’t feel comfortable mingling among the artificial ingredients of society.

Having had quite enough of that, Noah escaped to the relative safety of the bar. He watched Cassandra as she sat by herself, drinking a vodka martini. Judging from the vibration at her throat, he thought she might be humming.

It didn’t seem normal to see her sitting there alone. In his mind, she was always surrounded by a pack of men as the goddess granting favors while the mortals genuflected at her feet.

Thoughts like that kept him firmly at the bar, nursing his whiskey.

At this rate he was going to end up with another three years of celibacy. God, six months had been bad enough. He sighed and deliberately turned away just as two men approached.

“I’m going to go see if she needs another drink,” one said in a cocksure voice, with lust deep in his mortal heart.

Two guesses whom they were talking about.

“You think she’d let me take her home?” asked the shorter one, younger and less worthy of a good beating.

“She’s drinking martinis, right? Load her down with a couple and you’ll be on your way to paradise. Did you read about the time after the Blackhawks post-season party? I heard she was there.”

Noah swallowed his drink, then swallowed the anger that rose in his throat. Stay out of it. It isn’t your place.

As he watched, the two men made their way across the room to flirt with her. She laughed at some stupid joke. Probably a dirty one. But it was none of his concern.

While he kept his distance, she tilted back her head, clearly having a great time. The next thing he knew, the tall man was handing her another martini.

Bastard.

He really didn’t want to interfere; he’d wait until she sent them on their way.

The minutes ticked by and she didn’t.

They were pricks on the prowl. Couldn’t she tell? Well, for tonight, there was a new sheriff in town.

With his mind made up, he walked over to the table. His fantasies and his more noble aspirations started to merge until, in his mind, she was swearing her undying gratitude, even as he was ripping off her dress.

“Hello, Cassandra,” he said, betting her golden-tanned skin was golden-tanned all over—it was in his dreams. While he was still contemplating the seductive vision, he realized he had nothing else prepared to say. He usually thought faster on his feet, instead, he was staring hot-eyed and openmouthed, just like the other two pricks on the prowl.

He wondered if she had forgotten that he’d once rejected her offer. He’d been polite, nice, but firm. And stupid.

Then she looked up, met his eyes square on, and he flinched at the ice he saw there. “Noah.”

Okay, so she remembered. So maybe things were going to be a little more difficult than he’d planned.

“Do I get to meet your friends?” he asked, willing to persevere because this was for her own good. Sorta.

Another cold smile. “Noah, meet Daniel and Bruce.”

Noah held out his hand, which everyone ignored. “Nice to meet you gentlemen.”

Bruce, the one with the flagrant hard-on in his eyes, just looked pissed. Too bad, buddy. Deal with it.

Noah looked at the empty chair on the other side of Cassandra. “You mind?”

She shot him a hell-yes look, but shrugged one languid roll of the shoulder. “It’s a free country.”

“So, Danny, what do you do?” he asked.

“Daniel.”

“Daniel.” Dickhead. “What do you do?”

“I work for the Herald. Sales.”

“Are you in sales, too, Bruce?” asked Noah, who as a rule never liked salesmen anyway.

Bruce nodded, but didn’t say a word.

Noah turned to Cassandra, content to cut the other two out of the conversation. “What’s up in the lapidary business?”

“We cut, we grind, we polish, we sell. It’s all the same, day in, day out.”

Noah leaned on his palm. “I think that’s fascinating. Don’t you, guys? I mean, how do you know where to cut?”

She smiled at him, showing perfect white teeth. “I’m very good with a saw.”

So, she wanted to make rescuing difficult. However, Noah was of the firm belief that sometimes people didn’t know what was good for them. He pushed forward. “If I was in the market for a diamond, what advice would you give?”

“Go to South America.”

God, he was a masochist.

Finally, Bruce couldn’t take any more. “Listen, Noel—”

“It’s Noah.”

“Yeah, Noah, then. I’m not sure the lady’s really interested in your company, if you get my meaning? Maybe you could focus your charm on someone else.”

Noah coughed, indicating he was finished with polite games. “Isn’t that the second martini, dickhead? Looks like you’re no closer to paradise than you were when you started. In fact, I think you could give the lady thirty martinis and she still wouldn’t go home with you.”

Bruce got up, looking to intimidate. “It’s not polite to easedrop, friend.”

Noah stood and went chest-to-chest with the guy. Bruce was big, but Noah was bigger. “I’m being plenty polite, considering. And don’t call me friend.”

That finally brought a reaction from Cassandra. She straightened, the chin lifted and the cold, dark eyes fixed on Bruce and Danny-boy. “Get away. Now.”

The men realized paradise was not the place for mortals and slunk back to the more earthly planes of the bar.

Noah, pleased to have finally gotten this rescue thing right, smiled and sat down, waiting for her word of gratitude.

“And you, too,” she said, not sounding thankful at all.

“Excuse me? I thought you would at least thank me?”

“Thank you. Now please leave.” She looked pale. Her sinful red lips were tightly pursed.

He wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet. “You know, I could have just left things alone, let those two jerks ply you with alcohol and then damn the consequences, but I chose to interfere. Do you understand? I chose to interfere for you. I thought you might care.”

The dark gaze lifted in his direction, but now her expression showed only fire. “You worried for no reason. No man takes advantage of me unless I want him to. I appreciate your interference, but I don’t need it. Go practice your knight-errant shtick someplace else.”

Now was the time to escape. Go away, Noah, you’re not invited here. In fact, he started to get up, but then he sat back down because he was curious. “Don’t you care?”

“About what?”

“The way people talk.”

She looked up, her eyes empty and still. “The only person I hear talking is you.”

Her complete isolation tugged at him. She looked so tough, so above everyone else. The goddess alone. Noah had always been surrounded by family, friends or by co-workers and had never stopped to wonder if he would like being alone. He didn’t think he would.

“Can I keep you company?”

She raised a brow. “The word no seems to be a word you don’t understand, so I’ll save my breath.”

“So…you’re friends with Beth?” he asked. He already knew the answer to his question, and he knew that she knew he knew the answer to it, but the ice caps in her eyes were shrinking so he pressed ahead—Titanic-style.

She nodded and Noah continued.

“She seems nice. I don’t know why she’s marrying Spencer, but there’s no accounting for taste.”

Hesitatingly, her lips curved up. It wasn’t much, but he labeled it progress. Soon, he’d have her right where he wanted her. It was only a matter of time.

“They get along well,” she said quietly.

“I guess,” he said as he studied her.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a headache and I need to say good-bye to the bride before they go. Then I’m sneaking out, as well.”

She was leaving?

She obviously hadn’t read his plan for this relationship.

Hell, most women in the great state of Illinois would fight for his company. Noah didn’t consider himself vain, just a realist. The Barclay name and the legendary bank accounts gave him an extra advantage that an ordinary man didn’t have. And the fact that he had a full head of hair didn’t hurt.

One thing his father had taught him about the Barclays: they always got what they wanted. Sometimes it took patience, sometimes it took money, sometimes it was a well-placed rumor and sometimes it was hard-earned luck. But they always got what they wanted, and Noah was a Barclay through and through. An easygoing smile could hide a lot.

“Go out with me,” he heard himself say.

“You told me you weren’t interested.”

“I lied.”

She studied her nails. “Lying will not score you points here.”

“You know, I thought you might have trouble with that.”

“Mr. Barclay, on any one night I have my pick of men to go out with—” Just then her cell phone rang. “Excuse me.”

She pursed her lips, this time completely on purpose, and laughed into the phone. He listened while she cooed over “Christoph.”

“Oh, honey, I can’t tonight. Got this wedding thing. After? No. I don’t do weddings well, so I think I’m heading home to wash the scent of honeysuckle and amore right off of me.

“Yes, alone,” she said in a throaty whisper designed to send Christoph into fantasyland.

He took the phone away and hung up on Christoph.

She wasn’t pleased. “That was rude.”

“That was a marvelous performance.”

“What do you mean?”

He shook his head and picked up her hand. Lovely skin. It was soft, her scarlet nails shone like water.

She started to pull her hand away, but he raised an eyebrow and her movements stilled.

“You don’t do weddings, huh?”

“Too much sugar makes me nauseous.”

“Go out with me.”

“I’m sorry, but I believe your exact words were, ‘You’re a nice girl, but not tonight.’”

“I don’t like being used,” he said resolutely. Of course, half a year without sex could melt the strongest resolution, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Six months ago, how much of the tartlet performance at the gala was for my benefit and how much of it was to piss off your old boyfriend?” he asked.

“I don’t do tartlet performances,” she started. Though she didn’t deny the piss-off-your-old-boyfriend part at all, which irked him, because he liked to think that on that one night six months ago she had felt the slow burn between them.

“Too old?” he questioned, mainly because he was irked.

Her dark brows furrowed in anger. He held up the hand of peace. “Apologies. You bring out the worst in me.”

“An auspicious way to start a relationship, Mr. Barclay. I would think you’d be running hard and fast in the opposite direction. Some repressed need for self-punishment, perhaps?”

He balanced his chin on his hand, content to drink in her face. It was like pouring one-hundred-and-forty proof right onto his crotch. He’d never met a woman who was so completely aware of her own power.

“I’m not giving up,” he said.

“Cocky, aren’t we?” she asked with a cold look in her eyes that should have kept him away.

“Cocky? You’ve been stuck up here for the past six months,” he said, pointing to his head. “I can’t look at another woman, I can’t sleep because of the dreams, and I didn’t want to come tonight because I knew what would happen.”

“What?” she asked quietly.

“It’ll start all over again. You’ll ruin me for another six months, only now, well, it’s worse. So I’m thinking it’s now going to be at least a year. Yeah, I see that smile. You think this is funny, but I don’t. This is all about survival, sweetheart. Mine.”

There. He’d told her. It wasn’t the sophisticated approach he probably should’ve used, but he hadn’t had much sleep lately and it was all because of her.

Then she got up to leave. He’d blown it. His one shot. Gone. She glanced around the room and cast one anxious glance in his direction. “The store. Tuesday,” she whispered, and then quickly walked away.

ON SUNDAY MORNING, Cassandra was up early. She always squeezed in a workout before she started the day, but last night she’d had very little sleep, and it was all Noah Barclay’s fault.

Everything had been fine until she’d looked deep into his dark, tortured gaze. This was a man who looked to be in pain, and she’d put him there. There was the usual victory dance of power in her head, but this time the victory dance wasn’t nearly as much fun.

In fact, this time the victory dance was completely unfun.

It was that complete lack of fun that prompted her to give him a second chance. That, and the fact that the man had the most mesmerizing eyes. Honest and completely unsmarmy. She’d actually checked. But there was no telltale hand over the mouth or the shifty-eyed marker of dishonesty. He’d met her gaze square-on and she’d gotten a jolt that she hadn’t been expecting.

Okay, sue her, she was attracted to the man. She would give him a shot, then he’d show his true colors and, yeah, she’d seen the end of this movie before.

Cassandra picked up her mop from the broom closet and jabbed at the floor with more anger than precision. Nothing like a little housework to ease frustration.

She lived in a little, two-bedroom, one-tiny-bath, no-garage in Hardwood Heights. It was her sanctuary and she loved it. The community had strict rules about noise and behavior, so it was always quiet. Peaceful.

So peaceful that it was unnervingly loud when she heard a scratching noise at the front of her house.

That was odd, she thought as she peered through the glass in her front door. No one was there. But then the scratching started again.

She flung open the door. Still nothing.

Then she looked down.

Some people might have called it a dog. Cassandra was horrified, and slammed the door on it.

She hated dogs.

The scratching started again.

Her fingers drummed against the wood door frame, knowing that if that stupid animal didn’t stop, her brand-new, seven-hundred-and-eighty-six-dollar door was going to be ruined. It was a honey, too. Golden oak with beveled glass that just dressed her place up so nicely.

No way was that dog going to ruin it.

She marched to the kitchen and filled a pitcher with water. Then she opened the door and doused him.

The mutt retreated to the lawn and sat on his haunches, fur bunched and smelly—now a wet smelly—and glared back.

“You’re a stupid dog, aren’t you?”

She slammed the door and waited. The scratching started again.

Darn it. He wasn’t leaving.

Where did the thing belong? Maybe a neighbor had lost it? Not that she thought anyone was going to claim it. Something that huge and that old and that ugly wasn’t going to be popular anywhere. Worst of all, it had big, mean teeth.

After gathering her courage, she threw on some shoes and went outside. She was prepared to confront the monster, using the back door of course.

She clapped her hands in what she thought was an anti-dog manner. “Go home.”

The dog growled at her.

Okay, let’s try something new. Kindness. “Here, buddy,” she sang, snapping her fingers.

The dog growled at her.

“You are a stupid, stupid animal,” she announced, and the dog promptly went and curled up on her porch. Not that her porch was large, mind you. In fact, the dog took up the entire space.

“No, no, no. You belong to someone else. This is not your home. Bad dog, bad dog.”

The dog opened one lazy eye and showed his teeth in a twisted-looking grin.

“Where’s Timmy, boy?”

The dog yawned.

Okay, this was getting her nowhere. She gave him the eye as she walked next door to Mrs. Mackenzie’s place. Mrs. Mackenzie was an elderly woman who, to Cassandra’s knowledge, had no pets, but maybe that had changed. After all, it was never too late to gain a pet.

When Mrs. Mackenzie answered her door, Cassandra smiled politely. “Did you lose a dog?” she asked with hope in her voice.

Mrs. Mackenzie squinted, her mind creaking. She was a dear old woman, but a little slow. “No. Can’t say that I did.”

“Do you know anyone in the neighborhood who’s lost a dog recently? Big, ugly, black and gray.”

Mrs. Mackenzie shook her head. “No, dear. The neighborhood board frowns on dogs. Don’t know anyone around here that has one. Sorry. Would you like some pie? I just made a fresh cherry. With ice cream.”

Cassandra shook her head, depressed at the fifty-pound spawn of Satan that had just been dumped in the lap of her lawn.

Still determined, she went door to door, covering thirty-seven houses in five blocks. And all she got for her trouble was seven chocolate-chip cookies and three lewd propositions. Damned perverts. Somebody out there was dog-less, probably crying and worrying.

She made her way home, munching the last cookie, thinking that maybe the animal had disappeared while she was gone. No such luck. As she rounded the corner, there he was, curled up in a big, ugly black ball on her porch. At least he had stopped the scratching. She stood at the end of her walkway, considering her approach. She really didn’t like dogs.

This one growled, showing really big teeth.

“Shoo. I’m going inside now.”

The dog ignored her.

“I’m walking to the door now,” she said, taking two slow steps.

The dog still ignored her.

“I’m coming closer. Don’t upset me, dog, or you’ll be sorry.”

The dog opened one sleepy eye.

Two more steps and he began to growl.

“Don’t mess with me.” And almost, almost, almost…

He jumped to his feet and started barking.

Not.

She blew out a breath and stared the dog down.

He glared back, showing more teeth. God, she hated those teeth.

As she made her way to the back door, she cursed all dogs, cursed all dog puppies, and decided that immediately when she made it to safety, she was calling Animal Control.

When she walked into the living room, she glanced outside. Spawn was still there.

“Fine. It’s your doggie hide.” She looked up the number for Animal Control, dialed, and got a recording. Due to budget constraints, they were closed on Sundays. So she left her name and number and hung up.

Then she opened the front door and yelled at the animal. “I’ll say this for you, you’re one lucky dog. You’ve got twenty-four hours and then the police are coming for you, Spawn.”

The dog lifted his big head and growled.

“If you think I’m going to feed you, you’re nuts.”

Later, after the sun had gone down, she peeked outside, just to see if he was still there. There he was, sleeping the deep sleep of the innocent—while trespassing on her property. He looked kind of thin, though, so she crept outside to look closer. She should feed him. Bad nutrition could cause all sorts of problems, like poor skin and weak bones. And Animal Control would be here in the morning and they’d take him away, so what harm was there in giving the mutt some food.

He didn’t stir when she approached and she noticed his ribs clearly showing through. Anorexic dog. Then she bent and put the rice cakes and chips on the ground. Not that close, cause she still didn’t trust him. Just as soon as she was done, she ran back inside.

After she left, the dog opened one eye and stared. Then he wolfed down the food and just as quickly went back to sleep.

ON MONDAY MORNING, Animal Control appeared before Cassandra had even done her makeup, so she shoved a baseball cap on and pulled it low. Spawn was still happily curled on her porch, oblivious to his impending doom.

The Animal Control guy, Gus, was very nice. Cassandra asked him all sorts of questions about what would happen with the dog, merely because she was ignorant about how these things worked. Spawn had a thirty-day shot at adoption and, if he was voted off the island, then they’d put him to sleep.

It seemed harsh, but the city was cutting back. She considered the big monster, realized that if there was an island castoff, he was it. Nobody would adopt this dog. Finally she shook her head. He didn’t deserve this, not with those teeth, and his owner could still be out there, searching.

“Let him stay here for now.”

Gus frowned. Obviously he didn’t like having his power of life and death usurped. “You’ll have to get him shots and tags. It’s illegal for him to be without them. And watch the noise. Too much barking and I’ll be back.”

She smiled and easily summoned a thousand watts of sexuality—guaranteed to weaken the strongest man’s will, even without her makeup. “I’ll take care of it today, assuming that I can get in to see a vet.”

“There’s a new place on Cedar Avenue. They’ll do him. And Tuesday night he stays open until nine. If you decide to keep him, get him neutered. Pet population—it’s all our responsibility.”

She tugged at the brim of her cap. “Of course. Thank you for your help, Gus. Sorry to have dragged you out here for nothing.”

“You brightened my day, ma’am. That’s enough.”

After the Animal Control truck pulled away, Spawn lifted his massive head and eyed her.

She narrowed her gaze. “Don’t think I was being nice, you understand? You’ve got twenty-four hours to find your owner. Twenty-four hours, that’s it. After that, you’re on your own.”

FOR THE FIRST TIME in her thirteen years in the diamond biz, Cassandra was the sole proprietor of Diamonds by Ward & Ward. Jozef Ward, her father, had left for the summer. His destination: the lake cabin in Minnesota. Thereby leaving Cassandra solely in charge. His last words before he left were, “Don’t let the power go to your head. I’ll be back.”

Before he’d gone, Jozef hired Kimberly for the summer help. Heavy accent on the word “summer” and light on the word “help.” The girl had brains, her father wouldn’t have hired her otherwise; however, Kimberly also had attitude in spades. And if Cassandra hadn’t felt minor sympathy for her—the girl was a fashion train wreck—she would have fired her after two weeks.

Cassandra dug under the papers on the counter, searching through the notepads that had been so nicely organized before she’d taken her day off. Her one day off, thank you very much. Then she came back and everything was a mess.

“Kimberly, did you see the notes I took for Mr. Amesworth? He’s got an appointment on Thursday and I wanted to pick out a few stones for him.”

“Did you check on the counter?”