29. CASSANDRA

I hurry along the waterfront, trying to put as much distance between me and Carson as I can, as quickly as possible. I feel like such an ass. I wish I could just tell Carson anything, like in the old days. But of course, I can’t. Rule number one in the Chase – you don’t talk about the Chase,

To anyone. No matter how much you care for them.

The afternoon sun is hot against my exposed skin, baking me the way only a redhead can experience. Sweaty people flow past me in both directions, snapping photos of the water, laughing, arguing, chatting. Doing all the things normal people do.

I don’t cry. I never cry. It’s not what CIA agents do.

We analyze, we pretend, we think, we act. We endure. Sometimes we kill.

But we don’t cry.

When I’m sure I’m out of Carson’s line of sight, I turn left and head down Forty-Ninth Street to Hell’s Kitchen. Despite the name, it’s actually a beautiful neighborhood. For the most part.

There are still a few areas that aren’t gentrified yet, but at least I know there won’t be any old billionaires following me in here. And if there are, they’ll stick out like a sore thumb.

It gives me a chance to let my guard down and gather my thoughts.

As if I could possibly get the storm swirling inside me right now under control.

Why couldn’t I take Carson up on his invitation to dinner? I’m not a proud woman, and in all honesty, his experience could really help me with the deal.

His negotiating skill alone would be an asset worth millions. I don’t know all the details – it felt somehow strange to look them up, as though I was working an asset – but from what little I’ve been able to find out, he sold Black Sword for a serious amount of money.

I need to stop trying to fool myself.

I know why I couldn’t have dinner with him. First is that my story about selling my business to raise capital is paper-thin. Carson is sharper than anyone else I’ve ever known. He’d see through it in five minutes.

Second is that I know damn well I’d end up in bed with him. No question about it.

But would that really be so bad?

For what seems like the millionth time, I imagine going with Carson, giving in to what we both clearly feel.

Just letting it all go: no more Chase, no more lies. Surrendering to him, letting his body come together with mine and finally reaching the heights that I’ve heard so much about.

And Carson’s rich; I could get him to invest my share to build Tricialicious, and pay him back over time with the profits.

There are only two problems with that scenario: first, I’d be relying on him to make my dreams come true for me. And I might not be a proud woman, but I’m definitely too proud for that. Second, I’d be breaking the rules of the Chase.

Somehow, I don’t think I’d be able to walk away from that scenario unscathed. I don’t know what the woman in the red dress’s “associates” are capable of, but I get the feeling they’re not above making someone disappear.

I might be able to survive in that situation, but not without everyone I know and love finding out that I was in a competition to sell my virginity. I can’t imagine what Carson would think of that. I mean, what would he think of me when he found out I was that kind of girl?

And, of, course, it would come out that I’m a former CIA operative. I watched what that did to my family once. I won’t watch it happen again.

I stop for a moment and look up at the buildings; I don’t even know where I am anymore. The street is lined with brownstones on the west side and tenements on the east. The trees are throwing welcome shade down on my blistering shoulders.

At this point in the chase, I’m amazed anything can startle me anymore, but a voice does.

“Need help, honey?”

I look down at a woman in her sixties, sitting on a folding chair beside a flower stand. I assume she’s Betty from the “Betty’s Bouquets” clapboard sign propped on the sidewalk in front of the stand.

“I’m fine,” I say with a smile. “Just realized I’ve never been down this street before. It’s very pretty.”

“Not as pretty as the lady who’s callin’ it pretty,” she says. Her own grin highlights a set of slightly oversized dentures, and sends up dual fans of laugh lines at the corners of her eyes.

I scan the riot of colors in her inventory: white and orange lilies, roses in red, yellow, pink, even blue, and, of course, a rainbow of daisies and carnations. All look as if they just came off the bush.

“I bet you say that to all your customers,” I laugh.

“Honey, most of my customers is husbands who f’got they anniversaries. Not often I get one of you uptown models wanderin’ down my street. What brings you down here, honey?”

She’s so sweet I don’t try to correct her. Model is about the last career choice I’d ever have gone in for.

“I’m trying to get away from a boy,” I admit.

Her grin widens, if that’s possible.

“Oh, the troubles we gotta endure,” she chuckles. “Lemme guess: he’s chasin’ you with a big ol’ diamond ring and you don’t wanna be tied down.”

She’s got me on the ropes now. I have to buy something.

“Not exactly,” I say. “But – well, he is rich.”

“Course he is.”

“But there’s … something that I have to do before we can be together.”

Whoa, when did I start telling strangers my life story?

“So you do want him?”

“Yes.” God, so much it aches.

“Honey, I know you din’t ask my advice, but it’s been my experience that waitin’ to do things is a bad idea. That’s how life passes you by.”

Wise words from a flower lady, I guess. But then it’s not like I’m finding it anywhere else. Sometimes you need to talk to a stranger to find the truth you need to hear. The truth that’s staring you right in the face.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a portly older gentleman walking toward us from the north. His skin is so deeply tanned it borders on leathery, but his bald scalp appears pink under his Dallas Cowboys ball cap. Must have had too much sun this afternoon.

“Afternoon, ladies,” he drawls in a thick Texan accent, lifting his cap in salute. “Wonderful day.”

“It is indeed,” says Betty. “Even finer with a pretty lady and a handsome gentleman.”

She really is the perfect saleswoman. The Texan looks over her wares and points to a bouquet of blindingly white roses. Their marked price is $50, which, for a forgetful husband, isn’t terribly high, I suppose.

“I’ll take those, my dear,” he says.

Betty stands up from her folding chair and wraps the roses in green paper.

“Breathtaking,” she says as she hands them to him. “Whoever’s gettin’ em is a lucky girl.”

The Texan turns and hands them to me.

“I don’t know about lucky, but she certainly is breathtaking.”

What?

“No sir, I couldn’t possibly – ” I stammer.

“Miss, I’m a single man on vacation in the big city, and you’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen in a coon’s age,” he says with a grin. “How ‘bout you indulge me?”

He lowers his sunglasses to look me in the eye.

“Not gonna take no for an answer.”

Betty looks from him to me and back to him.

He flips a wave at us with one meaty hand and whistles off down the street.

“See y’all later!” he calls back. “Have a wonderful day.”

Betty starts to giggle uncontrollably.

“Oh, the troubles some girls has,” she says as she sits back down in her folding chair.

I look down at the roses, than at the Texans backside as it recedes down the street.

How did an old Texan and a streetside flower lady manage to get the best of a CIA operative?

I can’t help it. I join in Betty’s laughter until we both have tears streaming down our cheeks.