Lovers and Madmen(Sasha McCandless 4.5) (6 page)

She consulted her timeline then lined up her
ingredients with precision and got busy chopping, dicing, and chiffonading. She
squeezed orange juice into a cup. Sliced vegetables. Whisked oil and vinegar.
Grated lemon zest.

She used quick, economical motions and fell into a
rhythm. She felt self-assured. Confident.

Then she confronted the naked, whole chicken.

She exhaled slowly and shook out her hands. She
could do this.

She preheated the oven then washed the chicken and
seasoned its cavity. She was carefully giving it a butter massage when there was
a knock at the door.

 She washed her hands and dried them on her apron.
She rose on tiptoe to peer through the peephole. The tangle of blonde curls
that filled her view could belong to only person—Maisy, her neighbor from across
the hall.

She unlatched the door.

“Hi, sugah’,” Maisy breathed. “Can you fasten this
for me?” She waved her wrist, shaking a diamond and sapphire bracelet that dangled
loosely.

“Sure.”

Sasha guided the small tongue into the groove and
pushed the clasp until it clicked shut.

“Thank you.” Maisy turned the bracelet so it
sparkled in the dim hall light.

“You’re welcome. It’s beautiful.”

“Isn’t it?” Maisy sniffed the air, and her blue
eyes widened. “Mmmm, something smells good. Is Leo making you a special
Valentine’s dinner?”

“Actually, I’m making
him
dinner.”

The blue eyes grew even bigger.

“Oh.
Oh.
Well—my momma always said the
secret to a successful dinner is to serve lots of cocktails and keep them
waiting on the meal. Nothing makes for a more appreciative audience than a few
drinks on an empty belly.”

She gave Sasha an encouraging smile.

“So, where are you off to?”

“Charity ball.”

Maisy—a local news personality and minor
celebrity—would chair a social event for any worthy cause that asked.

“Have fun.”

“I will. Oh, honey, you should put your flowahs in
watah!” Maisy exclaimed, her Southern accent getting thick like syrup, the way
it always did when she was excited.

“Flowers?” Sasha echoed.

Maisy bent carefully in her tight fish-tailed
evening gown and picked up a bouquet wrapped in paper. She handed them to
Sasha.

 “I must’ve missed these when I came in. Thanks.”

She shut the door on Maisy, distracted by the
flowers. She was pretty sure there hadn’t been a bouquet on her doorstep when
she’d arrived home. And the security guard in the building shouldn’t have let a
delivery person upstairs if she wasn’t there to accept them.

She tore open the paper to reveal a bunch of white
lilies tied with a black silk bow. No card. The flowers looked more like a
funeral arrangement than a lover’s offering. She filled a glass pitcher with
water and stuck the flowers inside. She wasted a minute wondering what had
possessed Connelly to have flowers delivered to the condo when he knew she
wouldn’t be there.

Then she returned to her chicken, which was waiting
patiently to be salted, peppered, and rubbed down with herbs. She trussed its
legs and settled it in the roasting pan. She slid the heavy pan into the oven.

Checking the time against her printed schedule,
she smiled. Ahead of schedule, even with the interruption.

She left her chicken roasting and hurried upstairs
to change for dinner. She traded her fitted sheath and suit jacket for a soft,
wine-colored sweater dress. She pulled the dress over her head and perched on
the edge of the bed to zipper the thigh-high leather boots that Connelly
claimed to think were ridiculous, although his eyes told a different story.

Back downstairs the chicken sizzled, filling the
kitchen with a mouth-watering scent. She donned her apron, basted the chicken
in its juices and added the Brussels sprouts, carrots, and potatoes to the pan.
She assembled the salad and the cheese plate.

She referred to the list again.

All she had left was the scallops appetizer, which
Rouballion had admonished her not to start until she saw the whites of
Connelly’s eyes—
it is like rubber, the overcooked scallop
, she heard the
chef intone in her mind—and the dessert.

She uncorked the wine and decanted it then turned
to the recipe for the
pots au chocolat
, humming along to the music. The
entire meal preparation had gone flawlessly. After she whipped up dessert,
she’d relax with a glass of hard-earned wine until Connelly showed up.

She scanned the ingredient list and then examined
the ingredients clustered on her counter. Where was the dark chocolate? 
Frantic, she pawed through the items—whole milk, vanilla bean, sugar. No
chocolate.

She couldn’t very well make
pots au chocolat
without the chocolate.

Think, Sasha, think.

She’d definitely purchased an overpriced baking
bar of the finest fair trade, organic dark chocolate. So where was it?

Then she remembered. The cashier had bagged it
separately, perhaps accustomed to harried mothers rewarding themselves with a
secret indulgence after shopping. She’d seen her sisters-in-law do it—they’d
snag a Godiva bar at the checkout line and then smile and guiltily say, “Oh,
don’t bag that, I’ll just stick it in my purse.”

And that’s what she had done. The clerk had handed
her a small bag holding the bar and she’d shoved the thing in her handbag.

Her eyes fell on the pile of items she’d dumped
inside the door. Briefcase. Her long cashmere coat. Kathryn’s quilted jacket.
No handbag.

Her handbag, she realized, was currently sitting
beside her desk on her office floor.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She jogged, as best she
could in the boots, toward her office. She didn’t bother with the car. The
sweethearts were out in full force now, circling the narrow streets near
Shadyside’s upscale restaurants in search of parking spots like birds of prey
stalking rabbits. Walking would be faster.

And speed was a priority.

She needed to get back and baste the chicken in
its juices one last time before she made the gravy and the blasted dessert.
They’d be eating dessert late now—it would take the
little cups of
chocolate several hours to set properly, but she was confident she’d find a way
to keep Connelly entertained until the dessert had chilled.

The wind picked up. She raised the hood on
Kathryn’s jacket and pulled it snug, tugging on the drawstring under her chin.

She was glad she’d grabbed the jacket instead of
her own ankle-length coat, which would have restricted her stride and slowed
her down.

Having learned her lesson, she passed by the alley
that connected to the parking lot, opting instead to take the extra steps out
on the well-lit sidewalk. As she hurried into the building and through the
front hall, she nearly bumped into Jake, who appeared to be on his way out.

“Whoa,” he said, putting out a hand to stop her.

“Sorry. Forgot something. I’m in a hurry.”

“Clearly.”

He released her arm. She continued down the
hallway and started up the stairs.

She was halfway up when she remembered the
burnt-out light at the rear entrance.

“Hey, Jake. You should replace the security light
out back,” she called down.

He turned and looked up at her with serious eyes. “I’m
headed to the hardware store for a new light right now, actually. Wish I’d done
it sooner. When Ocean’s shift ended, she left and came right back to let me
know someone slashed Kathryn’s tires.”

Sasha froze, her hand on the railing.

“Someone? Or Nick?”

Jake spread his palms and turned them upward. “Who
knows. No one saw anything. I reported it to the cops. They came out and took a
statement, but you know how it goes—she’s left town and if it was Nick he had
the good sense to beat it before they got here.”

He gave her a helpless look and then pushed
through the front door, jangling the bells that hung from above. She turned and
pounded up the remaining stairs.

She unlocked her office door and didn’t bother
with the overhead lights. She rushed in and used the faint light that streamed
in her window from the streetlight outside to locate her bag in the shadows. Downstairs,
the bells over the front door rang faintly, announcing another customer. She
dug out the chocolate bar and secured it in the zippered front pocket of
Katherine’s jacket, then she tossed her bag into her bottom desk drawer.

She opened the door to leave, but a man’s shape
blocked the doorway. For a moment she thought Jake had forgotten to tell her
something and had returned to catch her before she left.

Then the man reached forward and pushed her back
into the office.

“What are you doing in here, Kat? Did you really
think she could hide you from me?” he growled in a guttural voice.

Sasha strained to make out his features in the dim
light, but she already knew who it was: Nick Costopolous.

He had nearly a foot and probably eighty pounds on
her. But she knew she had the advantage. He’d seen the jacket and thought she
was Kathryn. She ducked her head so the hood fell over her face.

“Answer me when I talk to you. Did you get my
flowers?”

He pushed her again, roughly, and she stumbled
backward into her desk.

Sasha felt around blindly behind her for the desk
phone.

“You think you’re going to call for help? That’s
funny, Kat. No one’s going to help you.”

Without warning his arm shot out and he lashed her
across the face. It was an open-handed blow, but the force sent her sliding
sideways across the desk to the floor on the other side.

She stumbled but stayed on her feet. She charged
him, driving a palm heel strike into his chin.

The force slammed his mouth closed, and he bit
down on his lip.

“You dirty bitch! You’re gonna regret that,” he
warned and spat blood on the floor.

She switched on the desk lamp with her right hand
and tugged the hood off her head.

“No, Nick.
You’re
going to regret this.”

She took advantage of his moment of wide-eyed
surprise to land a roundhouse punch. Her fist connected squarely with his
Adam’s apple.

He sputtered and choked. And then he reached out
and caught her left hand. He squeezed hard, crushing the bones together.

Nick was very strong, she realized. And much
crazier than anyone else she’d ever faced in a sparring session or on the
street.

He must have seen that knowledge cross her face
because he grinned wildly at her.

“Ah, you aren’t so tough after all, are you,
little lawyer?”

She gritted her teeth to keep from crying out in
pain.

“You might be the dumbest man alive. You could
have literally gotten away with murder. But now you’re going to pay.”

“What are you gonna do? Sue me?” he laughed at his
own joke.

He dropped her hand and charged forward, wrapping
both of his hands around her throat. His grip compressed her windpipe, and she
struggled to breathe.

Her last deliberate thought was that Daniel had
picked an excellent time to review defending chokeholds.
Leverage and
surprise,
she reminded herself.

Then her brain switched off, and her training
clicked on.

She planted her rear foot to create a base and
stop her backward momentum.

At the same time, she raised her hands. His face
clouded with confusion, like he thought maybe she was surrendering.

No such luck, Nick.

She reached over his arms and, in an explosive
motion, hooked her hands between his fingers and her neck. She shot her hands
down and plucked hard at his thumbs, pulling them out from her throat. Her
hands closed over his thumbs, and she twisted them down, trapping his hands
against her chest.

She gasped greedily for air.

Follow with at least three combatives.

Keeping his hands pinned against her body with her
right hand, she dropped her left elbow and smashed it into the side of his face.

His head bobbled back and she moved in. She drove
a knee into his groin the followed it with another crushing left elbow strike.

When he doubled over, she was ready. She smashed
her palm into his chin. Another knee to the groin.

He sunk to his knees, cradling his crotch.

She estimated the time from thrusting her arms up
into the air to Costopolous on his knees whimpering was less than three
seconds. Judging by the dazed confusion in his eyes, he still didn’t know what
hit him.

She backed toward the door and yelled for help in
a raspy voice. Her hoarse shout echoed off the walls and bounced back to her
loud and urgent.

Footsteps sounded below as Jake’s workers ran
toward the sound of her voice.

Now that it was over, she had only one thought:
her chicken better not have dried out.

The dishwasher from Jake’s
evening crew turned out to be an enormous, ripped Cross-Fit devotee, who was
more than happy to flex his ample muscles babysitting Costopolous until the
police arrived.

After handing off Costopolous to the dishwasher,
Sasha called Connelly’s cell phone repeatedly. He didn’t answer. She didn't
want to leave a message that said,
hey, Nick Costopolous attacked me, so I'm
running late
. So she left no message at all.

By the time the police had taken her statement and
the paramedic had bandaged her hand, it was nearly nine o’clock.

Jake insisted on driving her home. She was
grateful but didn’t want to talk, so she leaned her head back and closed her
eyes until the car came to a stop in front of her building.

“You okay to get inside?”

She smiled tiredly at him. “I'll be fine.”

She felt the opposite of fine—battered and
bruised; her damaged hand aching, her dinner ruined; Connelly unreachable.