Secure Desire Page 34

  Ian pressed his lips together, refusing to laugh.

  “I know better, I’m sorry. She was manipulating me. I considered throwing her over my shoulder, but I figured she would keep trying. It fell apart after that. Cassie watched Julian from behind the glass, and when Sucov turned his face toward the mirror, she paled and started to sweat. Her legs gave out. He said nothing except his name,” he sighed.

  “She knows who he is, Ian. I don’t think she realized she answered Julian’s questions. She played me, and I let her. I’ll stay on until you find my replacement. No mistakes on this assignment.” Martin sounded ashamed.

  “If this were just business, you’d be gone—but we’re family. And that stubborn woman is going to be the death of us. I know this will not happen again. If she tries to pull something like this again—and this goes for all of you—tie her up if you have to. I will take full responsibility.”

  The shared laugh stopped when they focused on Ian’s face. He meant it.

  “Once Cassie gave me a name, it was easy to find identities on the other men. They are all tied to Sabitov.” Martin gave Ian a set of printouts he made after Cassie was safe.

  “We still have nothing to act on. Anything else?” Ian pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Martin closed and opened his eyes. “Cassie and I were talking about her security team. I have a group of good candidates and thought it would build trust to include Cassie in the final decision. It never occurred to her she would need long-term security. She said she was your weak link—the look in her eyes. I’m worried she’s gonna try to flee to protect you.”

  Ian sighed. “So am I. We need to solve this before she does.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Ian, still dressed in his suit shirt and pants, sat at the desk and went over the portfolio from Martin and the report from Colby. The fog of evidence was clearing. As much as he would like to exact revenge, a legal case remained out of reach. He dialed Paul Yates’s direct line.

  “Yates.”

  “Arkady Sabitov? What’s Cassie’s involvement with him?” Ian asked without preamble.

  “Chase, you do realize it’s one in the morning?” Yates yawned.

  “Four of his goons tried to get to the journal today with enough explosives to take out my whole neighborhood. Cassie told me she met Sabitov when she worked for EAF. How does she know his assistant, David Sucov?” Ian could hear shuffling in the background, then a door opened.

  “They took the bait. Gotta hand it to you, Chase. Who’s the leak?”

  “I need to run the tapes, but Rachel Paulsen made a specific reference to Judge Marshall and his wife.”

  “Sabitov is on the Interpol watchlist. He also runs a legitimate art gallery in Moscow. Extracurricularly, he moves things—money, women, drugs, and art with questionable lines of ownership to fund his political endeavors. He exists with little or no interference from the Russian government.

  “Interpol is frustrated. They get close, but when they move in, they find nothing. He was purported to have hidden a Van Gogh valued at fifty million behind a Calyo worth about a hundred and twenty-five thousand. The last two agents who infiltrated his US operation were found dead. Cassie would know Sabitov from her work with Interpol, but if she says she knows him from EAF, why disbelieve her?”

  “I don’t disbelieve her,” Ian stammered.

  “You don’t believe her either,” Yates said.

  “It's not that. Do you think EAF could be caught up in moving the stolen art? I have to go there. Could that be what she’s hiding?”

  “Cassie? Never.”

  “What about Devereaux?”

  “He was her father’s COO. Oh, God.”

  “It’s starting to add up. I need whatever you have on Sabitov, Sucov, and their US operation.”

  Ian stood over Cassie’s sleeping form after he hung up. “Sweetheart, what are you hiding?”

  At no sign of Cassie waking, Ian looked at the phone number in the dossier. It was eight o’clock in Moscow.

  A deep male voice picked up the line. “Mr. Chase, to what do I owe the pleasure of your call? Are you looking for another Titian?”

  “Ya khotel by pogovorit’s vami o Kassiopei Ellis,” Ian spoke in perfect Russian.

  “Ah, Cassiopeia Ellis, lovely woman. I hear she is dead. Sad.”

  Ian continued to engage in their chess match. “Blagodarya vam i vashim RPG.”

  Sabitov chuckled. “Mr. Chase, if you buy meat at a store and undercook it, making people who eat it sick, is the store that sold it to you at fault? The RPG was business.”

  Ian couldn’t believe his ears. Sabitov admitted his rocket killed Cassie. “Who bought the rocket?”

  The Russian laughed. “I am a businessman, Mr. Chase. I stay in business because I keep many secrets. I would be cautious when you ask these questions. Dobryy den’, g-n Cheyz. Good day, Mr. Chase.”

  “Mr. Sabitov, would you like me to give a message to Mr. Sucov? I do not believe he will be returning to your employ.”

  Sabitov disconnected the call, and Ian smiled.

  As the sedative wore off, Cassie tossed in her sleep. The visions in her recurring dream focused on a Caravaggio painting of the nativity. It wasn’t Baby Jesus—it was William. She screamed, making it to the side of the bed before she threw up on the floor. The feeding tube came up with the force.

  “Cassie, I’m here. Tell me what I can do to help.”

  Her eyes flitted around the room as she covered her mouth. This time, she made it to the bathroom.

  Ian scrambled after her. All he could do was hold her hair out of her face. “Sweetheart.” Ian filled a small cup. “Try some water…a few sips to rinse your mouth.” He helped her back to bed and cleaned up the mess. Curled up in a fetal position, her hand held her stomach, trying to stifle the nausea. “Tell me what’s wrong. I’m calling Eric.”

  “My dream, I…I saw… Young Woman in Pink. Then the Caravaggio, the Nativity; Baby Jesus was William. The man with the scar, he looked at me. Ty mertvaya devushka.”

  “You’re a dead girl. Cassie, it was a dream.”

  She shook her head. “No, it was a memory. I saw him. Sucov.”

  Ian opened the door for Eric and Tucker. “She’s thrown up twice. She had a nightmare.” Panic tinged his tone.

  Ian stepped into the hallway and called Yates again while they examined Cassie. “I need to know if David Sucov was ever in the States—and when?”

  “Hold on. I’m checking.” A computer whirled in the background. “It would be a while ago. Sabitov is on the terrorist watchlist as of four or five years ago… if memory serves me right.”

  “What do you know about a Caravaggio with a Nativity in it?” Ian asked.

  Yates laughed. “Which one? The Nativity was a favorite subject of the artist.”

  “Cassie’s?”

  “The Adoration—worth about twenty million. Hold on. Here it is. The most recent time Sucov landed in the United States was six years ago. He was here two years before then too. Both trips were for business. There is no record of him entering the country again.”

  “Well, the bastard is taking up space in my holding cell.”

  “I’ll have the file for you in the morning.”

  Tucker opened the door. “I drew some blood and gave her some Unisom. It will make her relaxed, sleepy, and less nauseated. Her pressure is still low, so we’re pumping her up with more fluid. Nothing by mouth until morning.”

  “What do you think it is?” Ian worried.

  “It could be a bug. It could be anxiety. Could be an infection. We’ll have to wait and see. She seems okay for the moment. Get some rest, and call us if she throws up again,” Eric said.

  Ian changed into a pair of pajama pants. Cassie’s eyes were halfway closed by the time he pulled her back against his chest.

  “Don’t be mad at Martin. He did what I asked him to do,” she said groggily.

  “And it made you sick. Next time you go off without thinki
ng, I will put you over my knee.”

  “You wouldn’t dare?” Cassie reached behind her to pat him.

  “And one more thing—you are not my weak link. You are my joy.” His finger traced a figure eight just below her right shoulder. Cassie relaxed at his gentle touch. “I saw the Adoration. I know it,” she sniffed.

  Ian continued the circles. “Tell me about the dream. Where did it take place?”

  Cassie closed her eyes. Her words were thick. “A big floral couch. Huge candleholders. An easel. The Young Woman In Pink.”

  “Where are you?” Her heart pounded against his chest.

  “Garett’s house, sitting on the den couch. A man, he has a scar. It’s Sucov talking on his phone in Russian. ‘You were not wrong when you said she was as beautiful as the painting. Maybe I should delay our business.’ Garett’s dad left the room. I was alone with him. He didn’t know I understood Russian. He spoke to me; said he was going to enjoy himself. He tried to kiss me, and his hand went down my blouse while he exposed himself.” Goosebumps erupted across her body.

  “Cassie, I’m right here. No one will hurt you. It’s a memory.”

  She clutched Ian’s arm. “I kicked him. He yelled, ‘You whore. You’re a dead girl.’ He blocked my way. I grabbed the painting and threw it at him to get away. The frame, it split open, and the Caravaggio was inside. I ran to my car. Garett was standing there, and I ran into his arms. He was supposed to save me, but he said, ‘I’m so sorry, baby.’ He was supposed to love me. A needle. I was sleepy.

  “Someone carried me up the stairs. Garett pleading, ‘Do you have to do this?’ A woman’s voice said, ‘It’s a fine mess you created, Cassiopeia.’ Another voice said, ‘She’s seen too much.’ Garett keeps saying he’s sorry. ‘We need to make this work for us. Do the procedure. Keep her asleep?’”

  “Who said that?”

  Cassie’s voice went flat. “I can’t see their faces. A man. An American flag pin. They’re hurting me. There’s a woman in pearls…a triple strand of pink pearls. A ruby clasp.”

  Ian shifted behind her. Betty Bynum wore those pearls at the dinner, and her husband always wore an American flag pin.

  “I’m on a bed. Garett is holding my hand. I'm paralyzed and can't call out, naked from the waist down, and two women are holding my legs open. I try to sit up. It’s Adrienne. She slaps me. ‘Little prissy bitch. You need to behave.’ A man says, ‘Keep her still—or it won’t work.’ Something cold is inside me.” Cassie rolled herself into a ball and rocked.

  “It hurts. Garett said, ‘Hang in there, baby. A little more—and it will be all over.’” Cassie rocked against Ian. “Garett let them hurt me.”

  Ian swallowed hard and cradled her in his arms. “Sweetheart, take a big, deep breath. You’re safe here. They can’t hurt you.”

  Cassie kept talking. “A car. It’s dark, and it smells of exhaust. I’m bouncing against metal. I’m in the trunk. The car stops. Two men lift me up.”

  “Can you see their faces?”

  “Robby and Sebastian. They push me up a flight of metal steps. I trip—my heel got caught. A room, it's empty. They toss me on the floor. It smells of mold. ‘Here, Princess. This will help,’ Sebastian says and holds down my arm. He has a syringe. The needle goes into me. He keeps calling me Princess. You can’t say that. My daddy calls me princess. I see pretty colors.” Cassie froze.

  “Tell me, sweetheart.”

  She pushed out of Ian’s arms. “Ian, it’s too horrible. I’m so dirty.”

  “You did not do this, Cassie. Those men—they are the dirty ones.”

  She crawled to the edge of the bed, and Ian pulled her back before she yanked her IV out. “I couldn’t fight them. Why couldn’t I fight them? I’m on my knees. The man with the flag pin kissed my bottom.”

  Ian went into mental battle mode to check his reactions, his anger threatening to erupt. He was murderous for her attackers.

  “Sebastian yanks my hair. He’s sticking out of his pants. Robby slaps me hard. I scream, and Sebastian forces himself into my mouth. I choke. They won't stop. Stop. Please, stop. Fingers touch me everywhere. The smell, Clive Christian cologne and clove cigarettes. A man pushes inside me. ‘You’re not so stuck up now, are you? You like it hard and dirty. Not a virgin anymore.’

  “They passed me around. No one helped me. Why did they do this? Robby pushed another needle in me. The colors danced. I’m floating on clouds in the sky.” Cassie was panting, covered in sweat and tears.

  “It’s going to be all right. No one is going to hurt you again,” Ian spoke the words like a prayer.

  “Ian, I…why…Ian...”

  “I’m sorry, Cassie.” Ian kissed the top of her head. “I’m so sorry.”

  Cassie cried softly in his arms.

  “Try to rest, sweetheart. We will call Andy and Javier in the morning.”

  Ian slipped from the bed. The exhaustion from recalling the memories and the Unisom kept Cassie asleep. He showered away his fatigue and dressed in his black suit. They were going to bury her this morning.

  Martin stood waiting for Ian in the hall. “I need you to keep her in your sight line all day unless she’s in the bathroom, asleep, or with Pete. On my way to the funeral home, I’ll bring you up to speed. Cassie remembered the attack.”

  “I won’t ask if she’s okay. Mike and Bravo team arrived. I’ll brief him with what you said. Do you want me to call Hunt and Stephanie?”

  “I already texted Hunt. He’ll call Stephanie.”

  Ian, Kieran, Monique, and the Paulsens stood in front of two waiting limos. “We don’t have much time, but Cassie remembered her attack. I’m calling Andy Blake from the car. I’ll conference everyone in.”

  “What happened?” Kieran buckled his seat belt.

  “Whitman set her up.”

  Andy answered on the first ring. “Blake.”

  “I’ve got answers,” Ian said.

  “I’m headed to the funeral now.”

  “Cassie had a breakthrough last night. I’m going to conference the Paulsens, Paul Yates, and my people for this call.” Moments later, Ian relayed the heinous particulars.

  “Where’s the painting?” Yates asked.

  “She doesn’t know.”

  “Chase, you know, without corroborating evidence, we can’t prove much of this. Ames, Bynum Jr., Phyllis Wilson, and Maddox are dead,” Blake warned.

  Ian said, “Burt and Kevin said they covered for Garett.”

  Javier groaned. “Covered for what? Other than Cassie’s memory, which any rookie defense attorney can rip apart, there is nothing on the Whitmans or the Bynums. Unless you can break him, Sucov will be deported, and Sabitov will take care of him. We can see if he’s a match for the infant. We still don’t know why. I’m sorry,” Javier said.

  The funeral service was simple, elegant and filled with warmth and tears. Standing at the lectern, Ian paused to compose himself. His eyes caught his quarries: Senator and Betty Bynum sat with Judge Alex and Claudia Marshall and Bradford and Adrienne Whitman. Garett was missing.

  Ian spoke about Cassie’s strength and sweetness. No one in the group could doubt his love for her. “Cassie was with us for too short a time, but in her last days, she was able to accept and understand the pain from her past. That peace allowed us to find love and happiness. That’s all anyone can ask, even if it’s only for a short time.” He stepped from the lectern and kissed the head of the casket before taking his seat.

  The service ended with the processional to the cemetery, where Eagle’s Talon was keeping the mausoleum under continuous surveillance. After a brief prayer, the crowd dispersed. It was time for more waiting.

  Twelve weeks had passed since the stabbing. Three and a half weeks had passed since Cassie's faked death. And even though they knew most of the story, they were no closer to resolution.

  When Cassie awoke, Hunter, Stephanie, and Martin were in the sitting area. Their concerned faces brought the night back to her, the memories emerging lik
e hellfire. She jumped from the bed and ran to the bathroom.

  Hunter leaned over her while she vomited, then handed her a wet washcloth. “Honey, give us time. We’ll get this under control.”

  After the feeling passed, he left Cassie to wash up, then Stephanie helped her dress. Against the brightly colored outfit, Cassie looked gray.

  “Hey, Gator. You look beautiful.” Martin smiled as she came out of the bathroom.

  Cassie huffed. “I’m as green as a gator. Maybe Ian should pay for a better eyeglass plan.”

  “Come sit, Cassie. Stephanie is going to stay a bit, and Martin will be outside. When you’re done, I want you to rest. We’ll see if you can tolerate a little tea and toast.” At Hunter’s mention of food, Cassie ran to throw up again.

  Uneasy, Hunter walked downstairs to speak with Pete and Lillian. “How is she?” Pete asked.

  “She’s in trouble. She’s still vomiting what she doesn’t have. Her electrolytes will skew fast if they aren’t already.”

  “Virus?” Lillian asked.

  Hunter stared at her for a long moment. “Lillian, I need to know: are you Cassie’s nurse or Ian’s mom?”

  “Both,” she answered without hesitation. “Oh my.” She stood up. “How far along is she?”

  Hunter handed the blood tests to Pete. “Three weeks or so from conception. Probably due in May.”

  “Does she know?” Lillian asked.

  Hunter said, “Not yet … and when she does, it is up to her to tell Ian. That’s our obligation.”

  “I won’t break her confidence.” Lillian looked out the window.

  Pete tapped his fingers on the report. “She’s still at least fifteen pounds underweight. Look at her numbers. If this is hyperemesis, can she even support a pregnancy? What’s the plan?”

  “First off, does she want this baby? We need the answer. I suspect she will more than anything, but until we ask… One of the best high-risk OBs in the country happens to be on staff at University. I want to speak with her to get as much information as possible before I tell Cassie anything.