50. CASSANDRA

“So let me get this straight,” Tricia says, cocking an eyebrow. “We just spent three days watching a private matinee, flying a private jet to Grand Cayman, and staying in five-star hotels, right?”

“Right.” I feel like a kid in the principal’s office instead of a grown woman in an ice cream shop.

“And now you’re telling me we have to wait a while for our start-up capital to come in.”

“Yeah.”

She manages to glare at me for a full five seconds before she bursts out laughing.

“I know,” I groan. “It sounds ridiculous. But it’s just business. We’re still on track, I promise.”

Tricia wraps a sugar-sticky arm around my neck and hugs me tight.

“I’ll tell you what, honey,” she sighs. “Life is never boring when you’re around. I know you’re good for it, Cassie. Besides, you were always the one with the deadline, not me.”

She’s got me there. I guess I just assumed she’d be as disappointed as I am in not being able to move ahead on schedule. I should have known better. I’ve always been a Type A. Doesn’t mean everyone else is.

“Now if only Miranda Winthrop can be as forgiving,” I say.

Of course, Miranda definitely is.

“Look, hon, I get that you want to make it on your own, and I’m totally with you on that,” says Tricia. “And I’m sure Miranda won’t have any problem extending the deadline. But if she doesn’t, you know you can just drop Carson’s name, right?”

I do know she’s right, but just the thought of it makes me stiffen. I didn’t go through everything I’ve been through to just roll over and ask Carson to save me. I know he’d do it in a heartbeat, but that’s not how I do things. For good or bad, that’s not how my father raised me.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” I say, leaning in to give her a peck on the cheek. “And I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Chin up,” she says as I head for the door. “Your life is still pretty fucking good, you know.”

I realize she’s right as I leave the air-conditioned safety of Patty’s and step into the midday Midtown oven. It’s just hot enough that I decide to cab it to Tate Capital instead of walking.

I head for the taxi stand about a half a block up the street when someone pulls alongside me. I glance out of the corner of my eye to see a familiar face: it’s the Texan gentleman who bought me the white roses in Hell’s Kitchen.

He stops to face me, and his jowls lift in an easy grin. He’s dressed in a manner more suited to his home state today: short-sleeved cowboy shirt, jeans and boots.

“Looky who it is!” he hoots. “I told you I’d see you later!”

“Well, hi!” I smile back. “Now, what are the odds that we’d run into each other again?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I bet you do. I’m sure you’re as smart as you are pretty.”

Sweet old guy. I notice he’s not wearing his ball cap today; the pink skin on his scalp is gleaming in the sun.

“You should probably wear a hat on a day like this,” I scold. “At least get some sixty SPF on there.”

It’s then that I notice the tan line. His face is brown, but the pink begins right at what would be his hairline if he had hair. That’s odd.

“Did you shave your head when you came to New York?” I ask.

Why would he do that?

His grin widens and he slaps his knee. “I knew you were smart!”

Something weird is going on here. My instincts are starting to crawl around in in my belly like a little spider.

“Have you and I met before?” I ask.

“Not exactly,” he says, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans. He produces a leather wallet and pulls a small square of paper from it. He shows it to me.

“Maybe you’ve seen my photo somewhere before.”

It’s a folded piece of glossy magazine paper. On it is a mugshot of a portly man with flowing silver hair and jowls that hang like pouches from his cheekbones.

It’s him. But it’s also someone else.

I look up to see him smiling at me, black humor gleaming in his beady eyes.

Eyes that were hidden behind sunglasses that day in Hell’s Kitchen.

Oh, my God.

“You’re Randall Buckner,” I breathe.

No. 17 on Forbes’ list of richest people in America.

“Right the first time,” he says.

His hand reaches into the pocket of his jeans. When it emerges, it’s holding something familiar. Something I saw five nights ago in Carson’s hand.

A brass skeleton key.

I look up to see three burly men closing in on me.

“Pleased to officially meet you, Cassandra,” says Buckner. “I hope you’re ready for our date.”