He stepped to the curb and flagged a cab. She started to duck inside and hesitated.
Was she remembering the last time he’d put her in a cab, too? Jack’s stomach went tight with the anticipation of taking her in his arms again. He’d actually taken a step forward when she issued a tentative invitation.
“Would you like to see where I work?”
The intensity of his disappointment surprised him, but he disguised it behind an easy smile. “Yeah, I would.”
“It’ll have to be a brief tour,” she warned when they got in the cab. “We’re in the final throes of an anniversary celebration with two hundred invited guests.”
“Not including the grandson at Rikers.”
She made a face. “Keep your fingers crossed he doesn’t break out! I have visions of NYPD crashing through the doors just when we parade the cake.”
“You parade cakes?”
“Sometimes. And in this instance, we’ll do it very carefully! We’re talking fifteen layers replicating the Cape Hatteras lighthouse that stands on the spot where our honorees got engaged.”
She thumbed her iPhone and showed Jack an image of the iconic black-and-white striped lighthouse still guarding the shores of North Carolina’s Outer Banks.
“We’re doing an actual working model. The caterer and I had several sticky sessions before we figured out how to bury the battery pack in the cake base and power up the strobe light at the top without melting all his pretty sugar frosting into a black-and-white blob.”
“I’m impressed.”
And not just with the ingenuity and creativity she obviously brought to her new job. Enthusiasm sparkled in her blue eyes, and the vibrancy that had first snared his interest bubbled to the surface again.
“Hopefully, our clients will be impressed, too. We’re decorating the entire venue in an Outer Banks theme. All sand, seashells and old boats, with enough fishnet and colorful buoys to supply the Atlantic fleet.”
Unbidden and unwanted, a comparison surfaced between the woman beside him and the woman he’d loved with every atom of his being. The vivid images of Catherine were starting to fade, though, despite Jack’s every effort to hang on to them. He had to dig deep to remember the sound of her laughter. Strain to hear an echo of her chuckle. She’d been so socially and politically involved. So serious about the issues that mattered to her. She had fun, certainly, but she hadn’t regarded life as a frothy adventure the way Gina seemed to. Nor would she have rebounded so quickly from the emotional wringer of Switzerland.
As his companion continued her lighthearted description of tonight’s event, Jack’s memories of his wife retreated to the shadows once again. Even the shadows got blasted away when he and Gina exited the elevators onto the third floor of the Tremayne Group’s midtown venue.
They could be on the Outer Banks, right at the edge of the Atlantic. Bemused, Jack took in the rolling sand dunes, the upended rowboat, the electronic waves splashing across a wall studded with LED lights.
“Wow. Is this all your doing?” he asked Gina.
“Not hardly. Mostly my boss, Samuel, and...uh-oh! There’s Samuel now. He’s with our big boss. ’Scuse me a minute. I’d better find out what’s up.”
Jack recognized the diminutive woman with the salt-and-pepper corkscrew curls at first look. Nicole Tremayne hadn’t changed much in the past eight years. One of the underlings in her Boston operation had handled most of the planning for Jack’s wedding to Catherine, but Nicole had approved the final plans herself and flown up from New York to personally oversee the lavish affair.
He saw the moment she recognized him, too. The casual glance she threw his way suddenly sharpened into a narrow-eyed stare. Frowning, she exchanged a few words with Gina, then crossed the floor.
“John Harris Mason.” She thrust out a hand. “I should have made the connection when Gina demanded to know if Jack Mason had contacted me.”
“I hope you told her no. She almost bit off my head when I offered to call and put in a word for her.”
“She did? Interesting.”
Chin cocked, Tremayne studied him through bird-bright eyes. She wasn’t so crass as to come out and ask if he were the father of Gina’s baby but Jack could see the speculation rife in her face.
“I was sorry to hear about your wife,” she said after a moment.
“Thank you.”
God, what a useless response. But Jack had uttered it so many times now that the words didn’t taste quite as bitter in his mouth.
“Are you still in Boston?” she asked.
“No, I’m with the State Department now. Right now I’m assigned to D.C.”
“Hmm.” She tapped a bloodred nail against her chin. “Good to know.”
With that enigmatic comment she excused herself and returned to her underlings. Gina rushed over a few moments later.
“I’m so sorry, Jack. We’ll have to postpone the tour. I’ve got to take care of an ice-sculpture crisis.”
“No problem. Just let me know if tomorrow evening’s a go for the duchess.”
“I will.”
* * *
The following evening was not only a go, but the duchess’s acceptance also came with an invitation for drinks at the Dakota prior to dinner.
Jack spent all that day at the NYPD Counterterrorism Bureau established after 9/11. While coordination between federal, state and local agencies had increased exponentially since that horrific day, there was always room for improvement. The NYPD agents were particularly interested in Jack’s recent up-close-and-personal encounter with a rabidly anti-U.S. terrorist cell in Mali. They soaked up every detail of the terrorists’ weaponry and tactics and poured over the backgrounds of two Americans recently ID’d as part of the group. Since the parents of one of the expatriates lived in Brooklyn, NYPD was justifiably worried that the son might try to slip back into the country.
Jack in turn received in-depth briefings on the Counterterrorism Bureau’s Lower Manhattan Security Initiative. Designed to protect the nation’s financial capital, the LMSI combined increased police presence and the latest surveillance technology with a public-private partnership. Individuals from both government and the business world manned LMSI’s operations center to detect and neutralize potential threats. Jack left grimly hopeful that this unique public-private cooperative effort would prove a model for other high-risk targets.
He rushed back to his hotel and had his driver wait while he hurried upstairs to change his shirt and eliminate his five-o’clock shadow. A half hour later he identified himself to a uniformed doorman at the castlelike Dakota. The security at the famed apartment complex had stepped up considerably after one of its most famous tenants, John Lennon, was gunned down just steps away from the entrance years ago. Jack had no problem providing identification, being closely scrutinized and waiting patiently while the doorman called upstairs.
“The duchess is expecting you, sir. You know the apartment number?”
“I do.”
“Very good.” He keyed a remote to unlock the inner door. “The elevators are to your left.”
A dark-haired, generously endowed woman Jack remembered from the wedding reception answered the doorbell. She wore a polite expression but he sensed disapproval lurking just below the surface.
“Hola. I am Maria, housekeeper to la duquesa and auntie to Sarah and Gina.”
Auntie, huh? That explained the disapproval. She obviously considered him solely responsible for the failure of the box of condoms he and Gina