The Longest Night. Kathleen O'Reilly
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teary-eyed. Behind her was a tall, nervous-looking one in geeky glasses.
The last one was Cassandra.
They had put her in a demure dress, deep maroon, long sleeves, no cleavage. It wouldn’t have mattered. The color made her hair darker, made her eyes more mysterious. She had kept her hair loose, falling in big curls to her waist. God, she could make a man want.
Currently, he wanted. He should have been terrified by the thought. One look in those deep pools of brown and a man turned to stone, or at least the important parts did.
Deliberately, Noah turned away and began to studiously examine the toes of his shoes. He had never been one to run with the pack, instead choosing his own way, and damn if he was just going to be another notch on her lipstick case.
He kept his eyes downcast as she walked past, but he didn’t need to look to remember. He had every curve of that perfect body committed to memory.
Yeah, him and the rest of Chicago.
That was the big drawback to Cassandra. Her body was the sort that haunted men and she was the sort of woman who loved to act on it.
Not that he was going to judge her, but Noah had always been proprietary. What was his, stayed his, and all his life he’d stayed away from the girls who were busy on Friday nights. He knew men who had gotten burned by obsessing over Cassandra. Noah knew better.
He looked up and his hot gaze followed her as she walked down the aisle. But sometimes just knowing better wasn’t enough.
THE RECEPTION was a beautiful thing, with a string quartet and a bubbling champagne fountain. Each table was covered with white daisies. Cassandra smiled from her table located in a back corner. The ceremony had been exquisite—the perfect mix of style and heart. Beth had cried like a baby, exactly like they had all known she would. Beth could be a sentimental fool, but Cassandra always had a soft spot for her anyway.
Mickey made her way across the room and sat down in an empty chair next to Cassandra. Mickey was not nearly as sappy as Beth, although sometimes the brainiac tortoise-shell lenses misted into a soft shade of rose. “What you doing?”
Cassandra pointed to her plate of desserts. “I’m eating my way to exercise class tomorrow.”
Mickey snorted. “Hand me one of those,” she requested, snagging a cream puff.
“You need to try the éclairs,” said Cassandra, who believed that dessert belonged predinner rather than post. “Where’s Dominic?”
Dominic was Mickey’s husband and the subject of a large percentage of Mickey’s goofier moments. “He’ll be here in a minute,” she answered, polishing off the dessert. “Had to go and make a call. Why didn’t you bring a date?”
“No one was worthy,” offered Cassandra with a shrug. She hadn’t brought a date to any of her friends’ weddings. It didn’t seem right. Her men fell into one category, her friends into another. And Cassandra didn’t believe in category mixing.
“Off week, huh?”
“Never,” she said, flashing her mysterious smile. She liked building upon the Cassandra mystique. And the more her best friends coupled up, the more Cassandra played it up. Maybe it was shallow, but she wanted to remind them that single life really did have its own rewards.
“There are some eligibles here, by the way. A couple of men from the Herald, plus, all Beth’s waiters are here.”
Cassandra scoped out the hotties who were tending bar and laughed at the familiar faces. Thomas, Seth and Charles. Beth had opened a tearoom, highbrow and staid, except for the waiters in tuxes that made it smolder, Chicago-style.
“They’re just babes in the wood,” answered Cassandra, though she had actually considered it at one time.
“Beth told me who Noah was. Quite conveniently we noticed that he’s alone.”
Cassandra tapped a fingernail on the table as her sole concession to Noah Barclay. “Why don’t you go find your husband? I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t want company?”
“It’s nice to sit and think, remember all the good times we had.”
“It’s a wedding, not a funeral,” said Mickey, using her glasses for the full egghead effect.
Cassandra leaned back, watching the matrimonial circus in front of her. “It all depends on your perspective.”
2
IT SADDENED NOAH that his sister had been right. The James-Von Meeter wedding hosted a hotbed of Chicago politicos. So far he had discussed the finer points of a chocolate layer wedding cake with Alderman Frederick H. Brown from the Eighteenth Ward, not to be confused with Frederick T. Brown from the Fourth Ward. He’d asked Alderwoman Margaret Watson from the Twenty-second Ward to dance, only to discover that she was on crutches. And he’d rescued Judge Roscoe Warren from dunking his head in the punch bowl. Judge Warren was a two-fisted drinker, and not a steady one at that. It was a lot of work for Noah, who didn’t feel comfortable mingling among the artificial ingredients of society.
Having had quite enough of that, Noah escaped to the relative safety of the bar. He watched Cassandra as she sat by herself, drinking a vodka martini. Judging from the vibration at her throat, he thought she might be humming.
It didn’t seem normal to see her sitting there alone. In his mind, she was always surrounded by a pack of men as the goddess granting favors while the mortals genuflected at her feet.
Thoughts like that kept him firmly at the bar, nursing his whiskey.
At this rate he was going to end up with another three years of celibacy. God, six months had been bad enough. He sighed and deliberately turned away just as two men approached.
“I’m going to go see if she needs another drink,” one said in a cocksure voice, with lust deep in his mortal heart.
Two guesses whom they were talking about.
“You think she’d let me take her home?” asked the shorter one, younger and less worthy of a good beating.
“She’s drinking martinis, right? Load her down with a couple and you’ll be on your way to paradise. Did you read about the time after the Blackhawks post-season party? I heard she was there.”
Noah swallowed his drink, then swallowed the anger that rose in his throat. Stay out of it. It isn’t your place.
As he watched, the two men made their way across the room to flirt with her. She laughed at some stupid joke. Probably a dirty one. But it was none of his concern.
While he kept his distance, she tilted back her head, clearly having a great time. The next thing he knew, the tall man was handing her another martini.
Bastard.
He really didn’t want to interfere; he’d wait until she sent them on their way.
The minutes ticked by and she didn’t.
They were pricks on the prowl. Couldn’t she tell? Well, for tonight, there was a new sheriff in town.
With his mind made up, he walked over to the table. His fantasies and his more noble aspirations started to merge until, in his mind, she was swearing her undying gratitude, even as he was ripping off her dress.
“Hello, Cassandra,” he said, betting her golden-tanned skin was golden-tanned all over—it was in his dreams. While he was still contemplating the seductive vision, he realized he had nothing else prepared to say. He usually thought faster on his feet, instead, he was staring hot-eyed and openmouthed, just like the other two pricks on the prowl.
He wondered if she had forgotten that he’d once rejected her offer. He’d been polite, nice, but firm. And stupid.
Then she looked up, met his eyes square on, and he