When she'd sought answers to past puzzles, she'd hoped it would bring peace and understanding. She did understand more than she had, but peace still eluded her. It was hard not to grieve for her parents’ choices and what it had cost them and her. But was she was looking in the wrong direction? Maybe it was time she quit worrying about what might have been, and what had been, and figure out what she wanted the future to be. If she never found out who else might have hired Vance, would the world stop turning? Would she curl up and die? Not bloody likely. Magus might roll over in his grave, but after ten years, perhaps the change in position would do him good, too. Perhaps it was time to cut the puppet strings and be a real girl.
Remy's hand closed over hers, out of sight of the watching crowd. “Almost show time.”
Now would be a good time to start paying attention. Her stomach tightened. This was new territory for her. Magus had never let her get in front of a microphone. Distantly she could hear the flowery introduction, but the flow didn't separate itself into distinct words inside her head until she heard, “Let's welcome Miss Dorothy Merlinn.”
He didn't mention Magus, Dorothy noted, finding she could be amused and terrified. Remy gave her hand one, last squeeze as she rose to her feet. She managed to make it to the podium without tripping or doing anything embarrassing.
“Good morning!” she said into the microphone. Her magnified voice surged out over the crowd.
“Good morning!” they shouted back. Flags waved as they started chanting, “Dor-o-thy! Dor-o-thy!”
It was rather heady stuff. Is this what Magus had craved? Or was this just a side benefit of doing the right thing?
“Thank you! Thank you!” The crowd gradually quieted down. “You've all been so kind to Magus's Prodigal Daughter. And I can't thank you enough for your kind words about my father as we visited earlier.”
“Wi-zard!” they chanted now.
She could almost feel waves of unhappiness from the men behind her.
“He was amazing, wasn't he?” she called. “The last ten years have been spent trying to live without him.” The crowd below her turned, intent and serious. “As you know, I didn't have that many years with him. For a long time, I only knew what I didn't have, which was time with my father. Today, you have all helped me remember the time I did have with him and what an amazing person he was. Thank you so very much.”
The clapping was different this time and their faces showed they were remembering, too.
“I'm not as politically savvy as Magus was,” Dorothy continued, “but as I've gone through his papers and writings, one thing became clear to me, Magus had a lot of respect and admiration for the man I came here with today—Remy Mistral.” She turned to smile at him as the crowd broke into cheers and claps again. When they quieted, she went on, “Magus always enjoyed the people with lots of sass and class.”
The crowd laughed and clapped.
“Remy Mistral isn't your typical candidate. He hasn't held any office, except the one at the radio station, and, trust me, I've seen it. It's pretty small and cramped.” That got her some laughs. She could feel her insides starting to relax as she neared the end of her speech. “But he is a man who cares passionately about this state and the people who live here. He believes that government can do better and I believe him.” More cheers. A few chants of, Rem-y! Dorothy waited them out. “So, it is my privilege and my distinct pleasure to introduce the man I plan to vote for governor of this state, and the man I plan to marry. Remy Mistral!”
That brought the house down. Remy jumped to his feet and grabbed the hands she held out to him. He kissed her on both cheeks and turned to the crowd as if to ask them, isn't she wonderful?
“You can do better than that, Mistral!” someone in the crowd shouted.
He grinned and looked at them, as if to ask their permission. The crowd gave it.
He drew her close, and then swept her down, Hollywood-style.
“You're no Al Gore,” Dorothy taunted, so only he could hear. Then she couldn't say anything because he was kissing her and she was kissing him back. They could have continued indefinitely, but the crowd went wild, reminding them they weren't alone. Remy popped her upright again. She made a show of smoothing her clothes and hair, gave the crowd a bemused smile and went to her seat.
“Thank you, Dorothy,” Remy said, looking at her with a very male, very satisfied smile.
The crowd hooted and hollered and laughed. He owned them now. The men lined up on chairs beside her knew it, too.
As she listened to Remy give his speech, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a long, dark limo pulled up under a stand of trees not far from the stand. The driver clambered out of the front and walked toward her. He stopped, tipped his hat and handed her a folded note.
Curious, Dorothy unfolded it.
* * * *
My dear Dorothy,
Do not look up, to the right, or to the left. In fact, don't react at all. There is a sniper, with a gun aimed at Remy Mistral. If you react in anyway or attempt to warn him, he will fire. If you want to save his life, do exactly as I say. At precisely eleven o'clock, stand up and walk toward the limousine with my driver. He will assist you inside. Once we're safely clear of the area, the sniper will be called off, but only if you continue to follow my instructions. If you don't get up, as instructed, the sniper will fire at will and Mistral's death will be on your head. If you understand these instructions, look at your wristwatch now.
* * * *
Dorothy looked at her watch, not because she truly understood, but because she needed to see the time. Three minutes to eleven. Three minutes to try and figure out what to do.
As if her tormentor knew what she'd think, she read on.
There is nothing you can do but follow my instructions precisely. If you do as I say, everything will be fine.
That couldn't be true. What did he hope to accomplish by this daylight abduction? Did he think no one would notice her leave? Or who she'd left with?
Without moving her head, Dorothy stole a look at Remy through her lowered lashes. He was lit up from within as he and the crowd played off each other. He was vibrantly alive. It was obscene that he might shortly be dead. Her gaze scanned the outside of edges of the crowd as well as she could manage without moving. Inside her head, precious seconds ticked relentlessly away.
There. Was that a glint of something in the trees? Why did no one notice? Why? Because Remy was being so fascinating, that's why.
Okay. The threat appeared to be real. Was there some way to get to him? She assessed the distance and realized there was no way she could cross it before a bullet. Was this why she'd been seated here? A cry might save him.
Might.
She couldn't stand to see someone else die. Remy wasn't just “someone else.”
She loved him
. He mattered. A lot. Too much. Bad time to realize it.
She felt something uncurl inside herself at the thought. She'd never been in love. Still without moving, she looked at him standing there in the sunlight. So sturdy, so strong, not perfect, but a good man. Someone who wanted to make a difference and who was willing to step into the fire and at least try, even if he failed. Even if he died. A sob tried to crawl up and out. Tears filled her eyes and dropped onto the note, smearing the words that said everything would be all right.
She glanced down at her watch again. She had one minute to decide. She could risk everything, by stepping down and walking away from the man she loved. It wasn't right. It couldn't be right. He'd do it for me, she thought. He didn't love me, but he'd do it for me.
While there was life, there was hope.
She allowed herself one last look at Remy. He chose that moment to glance her way. His smile was electric. She smiled back, desperately drinking in as much of him as she could. When he looked away, she glanced down again. Ten seconds.
Nine...eight...seven...six...five...
A naked man suddenly burst from the trees and dashed in front of the bandstand. It was a clever diversion. All eyes followed him. No one was looking at her. She let the note flutter to the ground on the side of her chair away from the car and stood up. The chauffeur helped her down the stairs and walked beside her to the car. He opened the door, she climbed in and he closed it behind her, shutting her in with Darius Smith.
“Hello, Dorothy.” His expression was so devoid of emotion, it was like looking into a dead man's eyes. Or her future.
“Make the call,” she said as the car moved forward with a bumpy jerk. She was afraid to take her eyes off him, but also desperate for a last look at Remy. Her need to see Remy won. She looked back.
“Dorothy.”
Darius recalled her attention, his voice without inflection, but with something in it that sent a chill down her back. She turned back to face him, her chin up.
“
Make the call
.”
“I'm afraid it isn't expedient for me to do that.”
As they turned the corner, she heard one shot, then another. And screams. So many screams. She tried to look back, but all she could see were people running, and then they'd turned a corner, leaving it all behind. She couldn't look at him. She couldn't bear to look at him. “I'll kill you if it's the last thing I ever do in this life.”
He touched her shoulder and she flinched away, pressing herself against the door, feeling for the handle.
“It won't open.”
This time his hand gripped the back of her neck. She didn't cry out, but it took all her self control not to. He forced her to turn around, then grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. Despite the violence of his touch, he looked detached, almost indifferent.
“Whether you get a chance to fulfill your threat will depend on what you do right now, Dorothy.” The hand on her chin slid down and circled her throat, tightening just enough to be unpleasant. “I can kill you right now. Or I can let you live. You cared for Mistral. I understand that. I'll give you some time to get over it, but my patience isn't endless.” His grip on her throat softened, while he let her feel his power over her. “You can submit, be broken and submit, or die.”
His grip tightened again. She couldn't breathe, didn't dare more.
“It would be a pity, if you chose death and I'll regret the necessity, but I have rather burned my bridges, haven't I?”
As if her throat fascinated him, his hold tightened and loosened, tightened, then released again and again. Each time, the pressure was harder and longer. It made her stomach roil to touch him, but she had to touch him to survive. At her touch, his hand tensed, and then eased away from her throat.
“As I said, my patience isn't endless.”
“How long do I have to decide?” Her voice was raspy and thin as it pushed past the raw and sore places in her throat.
He thought for a moment. “I'm not an unreasonable man. I'll give you until tomorrow. Twenty-four hours.” He looked at his watch. “I'll be generous. You have until noon tomorrow.”
“And if I decide to...deal with the situation? How long do I have?”
He considered for the space of five heartbeats. “I should think a month is more than enough time to get over someone like Mistral.”
He didn't touch her, but his gaze considered her. It was both cold and dispassionate and far worse than lascivious would have been.
“We'll put the word out that we eloped, overcome by unexpected feelings. And when I'm sure I can trust you, you'll have your freedom again.”
She stared at him. Beyond the fear, she was amazed. He saw nothing weird or wrong about his behavior. This was what he wanted, so this is how it would be.
“Why me?” She clearly hadn't sparked some unholy passion in him. His interest seemed almost clinical, like a doctor with an interesting specimen he wanted to check out. It was more terrifying than passion would have been, because he didn't seem to mind if he killed her. He was giving her this awful choice between death or hell.
He looked mildly surprised at the question, as if she should already know the answer.
“Because of your mother, of course.”
“My mother? What's she got to do with this?”
For the first time he hesitated.
“What? Did she turn you down?”
“No.” It was the first change in inflection he'd allowed himself. “She wanted to be intimate with me. I even wondered if you were my daughter.”
His near squeamishness about sex was interesting, under the circumstances.
“And? I'm still not seeing where I come into this, since I'm clearly not your daughter.”
He'd been looking off into the distance, but now his gaze homed in on her with disturbing, frigid intensity. “You look like her, you know.”
Dorothy swallowed the movement both dry and painful. She wanted water as bad as she'd needed air, but there was no way she was going to ask him for it. “But I'm not her. I'm a different person.”
His lips curved up in what should have been a smile, but somehow didn't quite manage it.
“I know that. That's actually a good thing. Your mother's a disappointment. And much too old to interest me now.”
Okay, this was beyond weird. “My mother's dead.”
His brows arched, and the edges of his lips edged into cruel. “She still hasn't told you then? Interesting. Clearly she underestimated me.”
Dorothy couldn't imagine what he was talking about, or why she should feel a growing dread about finding out.
“Actually, she's not dead at all. She's pretending to be your aunt Kate.”
“Right.” Was that all? “Okay, I know she's been telling some of you guys that she's Emma—”
“Do you really think I wouldn't know Emma? After I knew every inch of her so...intimately.” He licked his lips. “You're the one who knows nothing. But you'll learn.”
It was pride that helped her absorb the blow without flinching, but she had the feeling he sensed it. It was worse than being stripped naked. Maybe. She was hoping she never found that one out.
Hope
. While there's life, there's hope, she'd thought only moments ago. She was already learning how wrong she'd been. He'd baited the trap perfectly and she'd walked in. She was going to learn from that, too.