Chains of Fire

  Isabelle pushed Charisma’s hand away. “I need to practice.”

  “If you’ve lived with and loved Samuel twice and haven’t learned, it’s never going to happen.”

  Isabelle sighed. She supposed Charisma was right.

  “We’ve known Samuel was an asshole for years. But what you told me he said . . . it was kind of sweet.”

  Isabelle stopped midstride. “I beg your pardon?”

  People walked around them, grumbling.

  “No, really. Think about it. He says everything wrong all the time, so you have to put this through a Samuel filter, which is clogged with heaven knows what kind of disgusting gunk, but when you clean it up a little bit, he was declaring he wants to take care of you no matter what the circumstances.”

  “You are absolutely insane.”

  “Really.” Charisma seemed very certain. “Think about it.”

  “No. I want to think about something else.” They stopped on the street corner and waited for the light. “Like the party tonight. Do you know what I’m going to get? I’m going to get the tightest, reddest, sluttiest dress you’ve ever seen, and I will make Samuel sorry he didn’t ask me out.”

  “If he’s not taking you, how will he know?”

  Isabelle smirked. “Honey, in the right circumstances, I’m someone the paparazzi would love to stalk.”

  “Man.” Charisma blinked at her. “I never realized it, but you can be scary.”

  “Yes. And listen—”

  Without warning, Charisma slammed into Isabelle, knocking her to the concrete behind a parked car. “Stone!”

  “What the—” Isabelle half rose.

  Charisma pushed her down again.

  Shots sounded.

  People screamed.

  Tires squealed.

  Charisma yanked Isabelle to her feet. “Okay?”

  “Good.” Isabelle’s knees were skinned and her wrist was swollen. Hurt like the dickens, but when bullets were flying, that was minor damage—and she healed quickly. It was the benefit of her job.

  The two stayed low, running, keeping the parked cars between them and the street. When they’d covered a block, they ducked inside a store and stood, white faced and shaking.

  The store owner hustled forward, as pale as they were. “Did you hear the gunshots? My sister’s shop is there, and she texted me. She says it’s a gang-related violence. Here! On Fifth Ave!”

  “We definitely heard the shots,” Charisma said. “We were out there.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” Isabelle asked.

  “Six guys from a rival gang, but no one seriously. A couple limped away. The rest are stretched out on the street. Cops and ambulances are everywhere.” She waved her phone. “Here, my sister took a picture!”

  Isabelle and Charisma exchanged glances, sighed, and relaxed.

  The bullets hadn’t been meant for them. Which they knew, because the Others didn’t work that way, but it was good to be certain.

  The shop owner looked worried. “You look a little shaken up. Could I get you something? Tea? Champagne?”

  Isabelle looked around, recognized the clothes, realized she was in a small exclusive dress shop. “Aren’t these Asiah Miller’s designs?”

  The owner’s eyes lit up. “You know her?”

  “I wear her.”

  “This was lucky.” Charisma put her arm around Isabelle. “She needs a dress. Cocktail length. Red. Tight. Slutty. Have you got one?”

  “Yes. Wait here. I’ll be right back.” The owner disappeared into the back.

  As soon as she disappeared, Isabelle asked Charisma, “How did you know the shooting was about to occur?”

  “I hear the stones sing. It turns out that in the right circumstances, bullets are stones, too.”

  Three hours later, Samuel walked into Irving’s mansion carrying a bouquet of flowers and a box from a jewelry boutique. He started up the stairs.

  From the library, Charisma shouted, “She’s not here.”

  He backed up, headed in to meet her.

  Charisma was lounging in the recliner in front of the fire, e-reader in hand. And she was smiling at him, the kind of shit-eating grin he had hated to see from a rival lawyer, much less from Isabelle’s friend.

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s in Boston, at her mother’s, getting ready for the Valentine’s Day party.”

  “Valentine’s Day party.”

  “Yeah. You know—the one you didn’t invite her to?”

  “I didn’t know she wanted to go.”

  Charisma sat up straight and gave him the evil eye. “What a crappy excuse.”

  Even he had to admit it was.

  He glanced at his watch. “I can catch the train and be there in five hours.” He threw Charisma the flowers and started out the door.

  In a taunting tone, Charisma said, “Give me the jewelry and I’ll tell you the rest.”

  Turning back, he paced toward her, leaned down, his hands on the arms of the chair. “I picked out the jewelry for her.”

  “In that case ...” She mocked him with her smile.

  “What’s the rest?”

  “She’s bringing a date.”

  Chapter 44

  Isabelle stood at the head of the stairs, her hand on Senator Noah Noble’s arm, and surveyed the ballroom of Patricia Mason’s fabulous Valentine’s Day party. Flowers filled the marble vases that hung on the marble columns that lined the marble floor of the ballroom. Waiters circulated with silver trays full of champagne and hors d’oeuvres, while at one end of the long room, a band played twentieth-century tunes. Guests stood in clusters along the edge, waiting for that moment when the alcohol swept away their inhibitions so they could go out and dance.

  It was the event of the season. Always had been, always would be.

  And Isabelle wanted nothing more than to return to New York and tell Samuel . . . well, tell him something. That he was a jerk, mostly. That even if she had been pregnant, she wouldn’t have needed him. That assuming she wanted him to marry her was insulting and demeaning.

  If only Charisma hadn’t defended him. What was it she said? When you clean it up a little bit, he was saying he wants to take care of you no matter what the circumstances.

  Isabelle had thought about it. She was still angry.

  But every time she really started to work herself into a lather, Noah spoke . . . and spoke. “The legislation I introduced for the month of February proclaimed the fourteenth not only Valentine’s Day, but also the day we appreciate the sawmills of America.”

  Turning her head slowly, she stared at him in patent disbelief.

  He didn’t notice. “It’s a good balance—romance leveled against the raw materials and solid workmanship of America.”

  With impeccable logic, she asked, “Doesn’t the lumber industry ship most of its raw materials overseas to be processed, leaving thousands of sawmill workers out of jobs?”

  “We celebrate the history and the glory of the great American forests....”

  As he droned on, she thought, When I was engaged to him, he wasn’t this dull, was he? He’s worse than he used to be, isn’t he?

  “Darling, you came!” Patricia Mason came out of the crowd to kiss Isabelle’s cheek, then stepped back and scrutinized her dress. “That is quite the gown.”

  “Thank you, Mother.” Isabelle’s dress was not only crimson velvet; it was also tight, sequined and short, and bared one shoulder. Even Noah, who during their engagement had been impressively uninterested in sleeping with her, had done a double take and straightened his tie.

  “You didn’t let me know ahead of time that you’d be here,” Patricia said.

  “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Feeling guilty because she knew good and well she would have missed the party if Samuel had said the right things, asked in the right way, Isabelle said, “It is the best party of the whole year.”

  “Thank you! And you came with Noah.” Patricia’s approval slid around them like a s
atin ribbon, tying them together. “Isn’t that nice? Your father will be so pleased.”

  My father doesn’t care at all whom I date. But you do. But Isabelle smiled and nodded. “It looks as if Boston turned out tonight.”

  “It is a good mix. Even Samuel came, although his father simply does not handle that boy well.” Patricia shook her head.

  “Samuel? Samuel who?”

  “Samuel, dear. The butler’s son.”

  “Wow.” Noah sounded awed. “He brought Allysen Cadell.”

  Isabelle followed his gaze and saw Samuel, in a suit that shouted Armani and a black cashmere sweater, standing next to the most gloriously beautiful model of the decade, laughing at something she said.

  Isabelle literally saw red. “That fucking bastard.”

  “Isabelle! I am shocked!” Patricia was shocked, eyes wide, hand to her mouth.

  “I don’t know that we ought to be discussing his antecedents in those tones,” Noah rebuked. “After all, it’s not as if he can help being born without the benefit of his parents’ wedlock.”

  “Maybe not, but even Charisma would have to admit I said that just right.” Isabelle felt a bitter satisfaction about that. “Come on, Noah. We have some mingling to do.”

  Samuel watched Isabelle work the room like a pro. She shook hands, kissed cheeks, flirted with elderly men, and complimented ladies. And she looked absolutely right doing it. She was so accomplished. So beautiful. And that dress . . . he was torn between wanting to cover her up or strip it off.

  His plan to make her jealous had better work, or she’d find herself facing a desperate, horny man.

  “Who is that in the red dress?” Allysen asked.

  “Hm?” Samuel pretended he’d only a minute ago noticed Isabelle. “Oh. That’s Isabelle Mason, the Masons’ daughter.”

  “She doesn’t look anything like them.”

  “She’s adopted,” he said briefly.

  “She’s gorgeous! If she were a little taller, she would be a top-drawer model. She has that magnetism that attracts every eye. That radiance.” In heels, Allysen was his height, willowy-thin, and gorgeous, with startling green eyes that glowed in her dark face. She was pleasant, too, athletic, good at poker, and not worried about chipping her nails.

  He liked Allysen. “As do you.”

  “Thank you.” But she wasn’t paying him any heed. “In fact, I know a photographer who’s desperate to find the next new face. I might suggest her to him.”

  Isabelle? Posing for the camera? She’d never do it.

  But what did he know? He had never imagined she would wear a dress that showed off her ripped shoulders, revealed her legs almost all the way up to her ass, and wrapped her tiny waist like an embrace.

  He did not want her modeling. “She’s got a job,” he said.

  “Not very many women would keep a nine-to-five in preference to modeling.” Allysen smiled at him. “It’s perceived as glamorous, you know.”

  “I do.”

  “Who’s she with?”

  “That’s Noah Noble, or as I call him, Senator Slick Hair.”

  Allysen laughed out loud. “He could use a little less mousse. But he’s good-looking, and he’s the senator from ...?”

  “New York.”

  “Ooh. Powerful. Always an aphrodisiac. Are they involved?”

  “Who?”

  “Isabelle and Noah!” Allysen joggled his arm. “Pay attention!”

  “They used to be engaged. He dropped her like a hot potato to marry someone more appropriate”—actually, his wife hadn’t been more appropriate, and Samuel had never figured out why he’d done it—“and now they’re divorced.”

  “Isabelle must really like him if she’s willing to date him after that.”

  “I don’t know.” Did Isabelle like Noble? He supposed she did. Samuel thought the guy was a complete yawn, but she’d been engaged to him, and she could have chosen anyone. Now they were together again.

  Samuel thought it was to make him jealous. After all, that was what he was doing with Allysen.

  But what happened if Senator Slick Hair romanced Isabelle? Would she rebound into his arms?

  Glancing up, he saw that Isabelle and Noah were getting close.

  Samuel couldn’t fake civility. Not now. Turning to Allysen, he asked, “Would you like to dance?”

  Suspiciously, she asked, “Are you good at it or are you going to step all over my feet?”

  “I’m very good at it. And at dancing.”

  It was a stupid joke, but she chuckled anyway. “In that case, let’s dance.”

  He swung her onto the floor, deftly avoiding Isabelle and the senator, and when the music ended, he managed to put them on the far end, away from Isabelle, but still in plain sight.

  Bring a date, would she?

  Two could play that game.

  He played like a pro, flaunting himself and the beautiful model, being witty, clever, dedicated to Allysen’s every desire while never letting her know she was being shamelessly used. . . .

  Then Isabelle disappeared. Her and Senator Slick Hair.

  As soon as Samuel realized they were gone, he stopped right in the middle of the floor. Stopped dancing, stopped talking, stopped smiling.

  “What’s the matter?” Allysen asked.

  “Huh?” He scanned the ballroom.

  “They headed out that door.” Allysen pointed toward the Masons’ art gallery.

  “Who?”

  “The two people who have you tied in knots. Isabelle Mason and the cute senator.”

  For the first time that night, Allysen had his total attention.

  She smiled. “Oh, Samuel. She’s gorgeous, and I didn’t get to the top of the modeling business by being dumb.”

  “Right.” He walked Allysen toward the edge of the dance floor, and felt like the jerk Isabelle told him he was. “I’m sorry. This was crappy of me.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve had a great time, and I’m pretty sure when you leave me here alone to chase after your girlfriend, I’ll find someone to take your place.”

  He looked around.

  Men eyed Allysen as if she were a parrot in a flock of blackbirds.

  “You don’t mind?” he asked.

  She waved him off. “Go on, or you might catch them kissing, and I’d hate to hear you’ve gone to prison for killing a US senator.”

  As he turned away, she was smiling at Gruene Cole, the second-best dancer here.

  Samuel walked swiftly through the crowd, attention fixed on the entrance to the art gallery . . . which was lit only dimly.

  Oh, sure. Mrs. Mason wanted to discourage her guests from touring the house without her, so she had lowered the lights.

  Didn’t she know someone was going to get the bright idea to slip in there for a quickie? Someone like her daughter?

  He walked faster. He stepped inside. Heard voices at the far end of the thirty-foot gallery. A woman’s laughter. Isabelle’s laughter.

  He reached for the light switch, ready to raise the lights on this little assignation.

  Then Noah shouted, “Watch out!” ... right before something big and unwieldy crashed to the marble floor.

  Chapter 45

  Samuel ran.

  He found Isabelle kneeling by an unconscious Senator Noble, surrounded by the debris of a broken marble bust and the pedestal on which it rested.

  She was fine. Thank God, she was fine.

  Glancing up, she saw him. “Samuel! I’m so glad it’s you. Keep the rest of the guests away. I’ve got to fix him.”

  Noble’s open eyes had rolled back into his head, his forehead was sliced open, and his elbow was twisted at an odd angle.

  Isabelle had a drop of blood on her cheek, that was all, and Samuel thought perhaps it was Noble’s.

  “I’ll head them off,” Samuel said, and strode back toward the entrance.

  He met his father coming in.

  “We need to keep everyone out of the gallery.”

  “What did
you do?” Darren tried to look beyond him, into the dim reaches of the gallery.

  “Right. It’s got to be my fault.” But for the first time in his life, Samuel recognized that what his father thought of him didn’t matter. Darren always believed the worst of Samuel because it was easier than dealing with his own failure as a father. In fact . . . when it came to relationships, Samuel’s level of maturity far outstripped Darren’s. Whew. Something to remember in his future dealings with Isabelle.

  Coolly, Samuel told him, “A marble bust somehow fell and hurt Noble. Isabelle is working her magic, so unless you want—”

  “I’ll handle it.” Darren might not have been much of a parent, but he was ever the efficient butler. Swinging back toward the ballroom, he met the initial rush of guests brought by the sound of the crash. “A small accident,” he called. He herded them back to the ballroom and shut the doors.

  When Samuel reached Isabelle’s side, the senator was already stirring.

  “What happened?” Noble asked groggily.

  “I bumped into one of my mother’s art pieces and apparently it wasn’t anchored as it should have been.” Isabelle helped him sit up.

  Samuel looked at the scattered remains of the massive marble bust, looked at the curtained cubbyhole that had protected it, and realized there was no way Mrs. Mason would have so abjectly neglected the safety of her art object. No way Isabelle could have bumped the heavy thing and moved it.

  He glanced at the stairway that led upstairs, at the door that led out to the gardens, then at her. “Did you see anything?”

  She shook her head. “Not now, Samuel.”

  Noble glanced up, saw him. “Hey, old man, been meaning to come over all evening and say hello. Isabelle and I were never in the vicinity, that’s all.” Ever the politician, he offered his hand.

  Samuel shook it. “Let me help you up.”

  “Whoa. Yes, I must have hit the floor a little harder than I realized.” Noble leaned heavily on Samuel’s arm and got to his feet, then looked around at the mess. “It’s a miracle someone wasn’t hurt worse.”

  “A miracle,” Isabelle agreed.

  “Last thing I remember was admiring you in that dress....” Noble leered.