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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  512 Forest Lake Drive

  Warner Robins, Georgia 31093

  Reilly’s Promise

  Copyright © 2007 by Christyne Butler

  Cover by Dawn Seewer

  ISBN: 1-59998-552-7

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: August 2007

  Reilly’s Promise

  Christyne Butler

  Dedication

  To the Struggling Writers and the New Hampshire RWA chapter…

  thank you for your incredible support

  To Tina Joyce Butts, Heidi Shoham and Sandra Jones…

  my critique partners at WriteRomance…thank you for your unending willingness to forgo your own work to help with this story,

  most times on very short notice

  To my editor Imogen Howson for her superb editing skills

  To my family for all their love and willingness to ‘fend for themselves’

  on many occasions as I pursued this dream…

  Last, but certainly not least, to fellow romance author Arianna Hart

  who never let me give up…

  Chapter One

  “Murdock! Is that you?”

  The moment the thunderous voice reverberated through the handset, Reilly Murdock realized his second mistake of the day was picking up the phone. His first was bringing back a bottle of tequila from the local watering hole in the wee hours of the morning. He rarely drank anymore, his hell-raising days long behind him, but this time of the year always brought out the worst in him.

  September sucked. No matter the year, whether it was five years past or just twelve months ago, those thirty days that signaled the death of summer sucked.

  “Damn it, Reilly, answer me!”

  Thanks to the lasting effects of an alcohol-induced haze, a rhythmic throbbing pounded between Reilly’s ears. Extending his arm, he put as much distance between his head and the handset as the tangled cord allowed. He began a slow count to ten before bringing the handset to his ear. “Yeah, it's me. I think.”

  “It’s about time. I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks. Where in God’s name are you?”

  Forcing his eyes open, Reilly blinked at the sunlight that filtered through a ragged curtain hanging over a lone window. The room’s bare walls were a dingy off-white and besides the bed, the only furniture was a wooden chair that looked ready to collapse from the weight of a pair of jeans and a faded denim shirt he figured belonged to him.

  Good question. Where in the hell was he?

  “Mexico.” His voice cracked. Clearing his throat was useless. It was dry as the desert. “I think, but don’t hold me to that.”

  “I know you’re in Mexico, but it’s a damn big country. When are you coming back to the States?”

  Reilly closed his eyes again, enjoying the semi-peace found in the darkness. He knew he should recognize the person on the other end of the line, but his mind wasn’t cooperating. “Who the hell is this?”

  “This is the meanest, ass-in-the-grass bulldog you’ve ever had the sorry misfortune to—”

  “Oh Lord.”

  “No, but I rank a close second,” the voice at the other end of the line bellowed, “and you know it.”

  Digger. Damn, he should’ve known. “Old man, you’re more bloodhound than bulldog,” Reilly said. “How did you find me?”

  “It wasn’t easy.”

  “What do you want? Or did you track me down just to annoy me?”

  “I’ve got a job for you.”

  “Forget it. I don’t need your charity and I’m up to my ass working on a job down here.”

  “What you are— No, I don’t want any damn medicine!”

  Digger’s voice dropped away. Reilly strained to hear his friend’s words, catching only the tail end of vivid expletives. His lips creased into their first smile in months. He pictured the master bedroom of a farmhouse located in a Washington D.C. suburb, and a pretty nurse running from the room.

  “What you are—” Digger’s voice came back strong in Reilly’s ear, “—is flat on your ass and probably hungover.”

  “No probably about it.”

  “Stop running and hiding, boy. It’s been twelve months and that’s a long enough pity party for any man. The Marine Corps gave you the family you craved, the discipline you needed and enough medals to sink a battleship.”

  Reilly stopped smiling. A familiar rage filled his chest. Years of training kept his voice respectful, but he couldn’t mask the sarcasm. “Yeah, and a mangled leg, a forced retirement and a warning not to let the door hit me on the ass on the way out.”

  “Bullshit!”

  The heated crack launched Reilly back twenty years in a heartbeat. A raw recruit reporting to basic training, he’d found himself assigned to Gunnery Sergeant Lou “Digger” DiMarrio. Over the years, Reilly had come to respect and admire the man who became his best friend and the father he’d never known.

  Reilly blinked away the memories. “Dig, you don’t understand—”

  “Sure I do. It’s pure hell when everything you’ve known is taken away.” The voice softened, but still held its rugged strength. “You think your life’s over. Then one day some damn doctor, who was still in diapers when you were trudging through the rice paddies of ’Nam, announces you’ve got cancer. Then you’re fighting a battle like none you’ve ever faced before.” A long pause filled the air. “I need you, son, and this time it’s personal. I’m asking as a friend.”

  Stunned, Reilly pinched the bridge of his nose and refused to acknowledge the burning behind his closed eyelids. A favor. A debt owed. In all their years of friendship, Digger had never asked anything from him, until now. “Tell me.”

  As he listened, Reilly rose to sit at the edge of the bed, ignoring the empty bottle that rolled off his lap. He massaged his right knee, more from habit than need, to ease the stabbing pain. “If this daughter of your friend thinks someone is out to hurt her, why doesn’t she go to the police?”

  “She did, but only because her mother called them first. Not that it helped considering what they have—or don’t have—to go on. In a city the size of New York the police basically said they can’t do anything. Which is fine with her, she doesn’t think anything strange is going on.”

  “But you think different.”

  “There’ve been too many close calls—” A raspy whisper turned into deep, gutted coughing.

  Reilly listened in silence until the coughing subsided, biting back the desire to tell Digger to slow down. “So, you want me to act as her bodyguard and investigate what’s going on?” He heaved a deep sigh. “Come on, Dig, an uptown socialite? I walked away from that years ago.”

  “I know you did, son, and I understand why, but I’m asking you to do this anyway.”

  “This lady—what’s her name again?” Reilly paused.

  “Cassandra Van Winter.”

  Reilly rolled his eyes. Geez, he could smell the musty odor of blue-blood money already. “Yeah, this Van Winter dame doesn’t sound like someone who’d welcome a baby sitter. Ten to one she’s not go
nna want me around.”

  “You’ve been to a lot of places in this world that didn’t—” The heavy coughing began again, cutting off Digger’s words.

  Damn, how bad was his friend? How long had it been since he’d bothered to check on him? “I’m coming to see you first.”

  “No, there isn’t time. Get your ass to New York now,” Digger rasped. “That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir.” Reilly snapped the words with military precision, knowing exactly how much Digger, an enlisted man through and through, would hate being addressed as sir.

  “You owe me twenty pushups for that.”

  “I owe you much more.”

  “I know, son, and today is collection day.”

  Thirty-six hours later

  “How would it feel to have a few million dollars wrapped around your neck?” Cassandra said to herself as she tilted the open jeweler’s box to catch the dim overhead lighting. “Not as good as having those same millions in the bank, I’ll bet.”

  Thanks to the warm late September day, it was a bit stuffy in the windowless room that served as the storeroom of her antique shop, Van Winter Treasures. Though the door was propped open, only a whiff of air made it through.

  Cassandra’s attention remained on the necklace. It was hard to believe the beauty resting on the velvet box’s white satin interior was the same dirt-encrusted, tangled mess she’d dropped off at Sebastian’s a few weeks ago. Now, a dozen purplish-red stones sparkled and danced across a delicate, lace-like platinum base.

  Of course, it wasn’t only the stones that made the piece so glorious. It was the story behind them. Cassandra didn’t believe in wishes coming true, but if this was fate giving her its due, she wasn’t going to complain.

  Impulsively, she lifted the necklace from the box, undid the delicate clasp and reached beneath her curls to hook the almost one-hundred-year-old piece of jewelry around her neck.

  “No harm in trying it on,” she told her reflection in the ornately carved floor mirror. “Besides, it’s not like I’ve never worn expensive…oh, my.”

  The necklace rested heavily against her collarbone, the stones cool on her skin. She pulled aside the lapels of her navy blue blazer to get a better view. It was a bit much for a business suit, but in formal wear, it would be stunning.

  The rare, early twentieth-century ball gown she’d unwrapped for airing caught her eye. The dazzling, champagne-colored dress called to her. Before she could change her mind, Cassandra moved behind a folded screen, kicked off her high heels and undressed.

  Stepping into the gown, she tugged the heavy satin skirt to her waist before slipping the cap sleeves over her shoulders. Not bothering with the long row of buttons on the back of the dress, or her shoes, she lifted the heavy material and made her way back to the mirror.

  “Wow.” Her breath caught in her throat.

  She twisted back and forth, trying to see herself from every angle. Goose bumps skipped across her arms. The low scoop of the boned bodice bared a wide expanse of skin, drawing attention to the necklace. Moving closer, she brushed her curls back over her shoulders. She then trailed her fingertips just below the stones, taking care not to touch them.

  The sharp sting of tears bit at the corners of her eyes. This necklace didn’t know it, but it was going to save her business.

  And get her mother’s and her life back to what it used to be.

  “Thank you.” She offered the fervent prayer to no one. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “Hot damn! Look at you!”

  Cassandra jumped when her assistant came into the storeroom. Dressed in platform shoes, a sleeveless mini dress patterned in vibrant-colored flowers with a matching scarf in her hair, Lily James, a lover of all things vintage, looked as if she’d stepped right out of the sixties.

  “Hey, you okay?” she asked.

  “Yes, I just didn’t hear you coming.”

  “You know, when I saw this dress laying out I figured you’d be trying it on.” Lily moved behind Cassandra and began doing up the long line of buttons. “Boy, your red curls pop against this pale satin. It’d look cool if you piled it all on top of your head in one of those frou-frou hair-dos.”

  Her heart rate back to normal, Cassandra smiled at Lily’s words. She knew her childhood friend’s attention was on the buttons, but she was surprised she hadn’t noticed the necklace yet. “You think so?”

  “Oh yeah, you’d look great.” Lily dropped to her knees to fluff out the skirt. “Are you sure you’re okay? I was worried when you bolted out of the store earlier. Did you have another one of your ‘incidents’?”

  “No, just an errand. Did you lock up the shop?”

  “Yes, boss.” Lily scooted around to the front. “The door is locked and the ‘closed’ sign is in place. There, that should do it.” She patted the skirt with her fire-engine-red fingernails and stood. “Are you planning on wearing this to the Bancroft’s shindig—ohmigod, would you look at that!”

  Cassandra’s hands went to her neck of their own accord. “Yes, that was my first reaction when I saw it too.”

  “Where in the name of heaven did you get it?”

  Another burst of optimism for the future buoyed Cassandra’s spirits. “Can you keep a secret?”

  A hint of surprise came into Lily’s cornflower blue eyes. “You trusted me with the real reason you took over this place, didn’t you?”

  Hopefulness altered into lightheadedness and a wave of nausea broke over Cassandra. The last six months hadn’t completely dulled the pain of losing both her father and her aunt in a fiery car crash. Or the depth of the nightmare they’d managed to keep secret until that fateful night.

  Living a lie wasn’t helping matters either.

  “Oh, me and my big mouth.” Lily grabbed Cassandra’s hands. “I’m sorry, Cass. I never should’ve said that.”

  “It’s all right. You didn’t say anything that isn’t the truth.” Even though Lily had only been back in her life for a short time, Cassandra knew deep down she could trust her. “Do you remember the jewelry I found in that miniature chest I brought back from Europe?”

  Lily nodded slowly then her mouth popped open. “Wow, that’s not the same necklace, is it?”

  Cassandra nodded. “I took it to Sebastian a few weeks ago. When I picked it up today, he encouraged me to enter it in Sotheby’s upcoming jewelry auction. He’s appraised it at more than three million dollars.”

  “Wow! Are you kidding? What’s it made of?”

  “It’s platinum. Sebastian said it was a popular choice for Edwardian-era jewelry designers.” Cassandra’s fingers itched to caress the necklace. “But, there’s more. You won’t believe this, but this piece was designed by Fabergé himself. These stones are true Alexand—”

  A loud banging from the front door ricocheted through to the back room, making both Cassandra and Lily jump.

  “Damn, that scared the panties off me,” Lily said. “Or would’ve if I was wearing any. You stay here. I’ll take care of whoever is out there. Do you want me to put that in the safe on my way out front?”

  “No, that’s okay.” Cassandra shook her head. “I’ll put it there myself after I change. Just find out who’s here and don’t forget to make sure the door is wedged open.”

  “Don’t you think you should fix the lock? This place feels as small as my apartment, and listen to those creaking noises.” Lily visibly shuddered. “Is that the walls or the floors? Geez, I don’t want to spend another night stuck in here.”

  “It’s a good thing Willard came by to let us out, isn’t it?”

  “Too convenient if you ask me.” Lily went to the door, jamming the angled door block under the bottom edge. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the one guilty for us getting locked in.”

  Cassandra whipped around to Lily, her eyebrows raised. “Now why in the world would he do that?”

  “He’s saved you a few times lately. Always being at the wrong place at the right time.” Lily’s voi
ce matched her boss’s eyebrows. “That's what I’d call a cowboy to the rescue.”

  “Willard Bancroft? A cowboy?” Cassandra laughed as she pictured her fair-haired, Ivy-League silent partner dressed in a Stetson, jeans and cowboys boots. “I think you better cut back on the romance novels. Willard isn’t the cowboy type.”

  “So why is it he’s always around when you’re having one of your ‘accidents’?” Lily walked away, her index fingers flexing in a jerky hooking gesture.

  Cassandra shook her head at Lily’s and Willard’s continued dislike for each other. Willard had disagreed with her decision to keep Lily on when she took over the shop after her aunt’s death. Maybe that had something to do with the animosity between the two of them. But Lily knew this store like the back of her hand, and Cassandra wasn’t going to lose one of the true friends she had left in this world.

  Willard was also a longtime friend. He and Cassandra had grown up together and without him, Van Winter Treasures itself wouldn’t exist. Heck, without Willard there might not be any Van Winters still in New York City.

  Cassandra turned back to the mirror and let out a deep sigh. “Well, it’s time to end the fantasy. After I try that up-do.”

  Gathering her hair in her hands, she anchored it on top of her head with a pair of antique combs. Wisps of curls escaped to brush against her cheeks and neck as she turned her head from side to side admiring the results.

  “I like it better down.”

  A gasp escaped Cassandra’s lips. She whirled around, her hair falling in messy curls to her shoulders. A dark male figure leaned against the doorframe and the first crazy thought in her head was she really needed to change the storeroom’s dim lights for something brighter. It wasn’t Willard. That much she could tell. In his braced position, this man was easily six inches taller than her friend, who at five nine, was an inch shorter than her.

  “But I can see the advantages of wearing it like that.” He didn’t move as his deep voice resonated across the room. “In fact, it shows off the dress, and the lady wearing it, quite nicely.”