House of Cards

CHAPTER 3

More than one speculating glance followed her when she arrived at the Legal Aid offices. Whispered conversations broke off until she'd passed, leaving little doubt that Daisani's arrangement with Russell Lomax had slipped out. Knowing any response would be protesting too much, Margrit nodded greetings and made her way to her desk. She had a trial to prepare for, defense for a rapist who claimed his innocence with sneering mockery. Evidence, to her private relief, was on the prosecution's side, but her job was to defend, not judge. She flipped the case file open, skimming through material she'd long since memorized in search of any errors she might've made that could lead to appeal. There were none; she knew it as well as she knew her own reflection. It was habit, the ritual she went through the day before a trial. "Ms. Knight?"

"Grit." Margrit looked up to find a youthful receptionist leaning over the edge of her cubicle. "You can call me Grit. Or Margrit," she added, at the look of bewilderment on the young man's face. "If Grit's too weird. What's your name?"

"Sam." He stepped around the cubicle, an envelope in one hand and the other extended for Margrit to shake. "I never heard Grit as a nickname for Margrit. You really know Eliseo Daisani?"

Margrit sighed and closed her case file as they shook hands. "We've met several times, yes."

"What's he like?"

"Short, and accustomed to getting his own way."

Sam grinned. "You don't think much of him, huh?"

"I'd never be impolitic enough to say that."

"There's a betting pool on how long it'll take you to go to work for him."

Margrit laughed. "Really? What's the buy-in?"

"Ten bucks. A couple people've got you pegged for handing in your resignation as soon as the Newcomb trial is over."

Margrit reached for her purse. "Come on, I'm made of sterner stuff than that. I give me at least four months. Just don't tell anybody else I'm betting on me."

"Four months?" Sam looked dismayed. "And I'd already signed in for five." He took the ten she handed him anyway, stuffing the cash in his pocket. "Oh! This is yours. A courier brought it by before you came in." He offered the envelope, marked with a NYPD stamp across the seal. "They say you're going places. That you've got a lot of friends in the police department, and that the mayor knows your name, too."

"'They'? What am I, notorious?" Her cell phone rang and she dug it out of her purse, lifting her chin to dismiss Sam, though she added, "Four months. Don't forget," as he waved and disappeared down the corridor. Margrit smiled, tilting her phone up to check the incoming call.

A knot of tension she didn't know she'd been carrying came undone at the name on the screen and she answered with a smile. "Tony. Thank God. Somebody I want to talk to." Wanting to talk to the police detective was a good sign, though a flash of guilt sizzled through her. Tony Pulcella represented the ordinary world, separate from the one she'd been immersed in since Alban's reappearance the night before. For a moment she wasn't certain if it was Tony she was glad to hear from, or if it was simply a reminder of reality that was calming.

"It's only twenty after nine, Grit. It's that bad already?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." She slid down in her chair, head against the padded rest. "It's good to hear your voice, but aren't you supposed to be out catching bad guys? Is something wrong? Are we off for dinner tonight?"

"I'm sorry," he replied, answer enough. Margrit's smile fell away. She had no name for what their relationship had become over the last months: more than friends, but no longer lovers, with a weighty question mark hanging over whether they would be again. Innumerable things had changed the shape of their romance, most of all the pale-haired gargoyle who'd haunted Margrit's dreams the night before.

Alban's image lingered in her mind as she brought her attention back to the phone call. "I'm sorry. What did you just say? I wasn't listening."

An edge of concern came into Tony's voice. "You okay, Grit?"

"I'm fine." She straightened in her seat, deliberately shaking off the gloom that had settled over her. "Say that again. Something about a party?"

"Yeah. You ever heard of Kaimana Kaaiai?"

"Nope. Should I have?"

She could almost hear Tony shake his head. "Me either. He's some philanthropist out of Hawaii, one of those kinds of guys who rents his mansions to homeless people for almost nothing, because he can't live in all seven of them at once, anyway."

Margrit's eyebrows shot up. "I'd be willing to try being homeless in Hawaii...."

"You and me both. Anyway, apparently he's got this thing about early twentieth-century architecture, and he's in town for a week to do some glad-handing and donate some funding for that speakeasy down in the sewers."

"The subways, not the sewers," Margrit said pedantically. "Cam never would've gone with me to look at it if it'd been in the sewers. Besides, sewage probably would have ruined those amazing stained-glass windows." They were more astonishing than anybody knew. Although abstract at first glance, if the three windows were layered over one another, they showed representations of the five remaining Old Races in glorious, rich color.

"Right. Well, I guess the city needs money to put in a seriously high-class security system down there, and they've been negotiating with this Kaaiai guy over it."

"Okay. What's that got to do with dinner tonight?"

"The guy's got a security detail, but one of the things he does is always get a few locals to work on it. He feels like he gets a better sense of the city that way, and besides, locals recognize the real trouble."

"And he wants you?" Margrit laughed at the incredulity in her own voice. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound so surprised. I'm sure you can do it. It's just-"

"Just that I'm a homicide cop without any high-reaching connections," Tony finished. "Six brothers and sisters and none of them are in anything like this league for casual socializing. I have no idea how he came across my name."

"Have you asked?"

"I haven't met him yet. He comes in this afternoon."

"Ah-hah. So we're off for tonight. Well, damn."

"I can make it up to you."

Margrit tilted back in her chair, an eyebrow arched. "How?"

"The lieutenant says she's heard Kaaiai is generous to the people who work for him, and I guess he is. He's issued a package of invitations for the events he'll be attending while he's in the city. Theater, dinners, lunches, concerts-the guy's booked. Looks boring as hell to me, but the point is I can bring a date." Wryness crept into his voice. "Anybody who passes the security clearance and doesn't mind her date working all night and not paying attention to her."

Margrit laughed. "You know anybody like that, Detective?"

"I had a girl in mind," he said good-naturedly. "She works for Legal Aid, but I think this is probably her kind of thing. She's gotten kind of high-profile lately."

"Really?" Margrit's laughter left a broad smile stretched across her face. "What's she done?"

"Got the governor to pass clemency on a murd -"

"Self-defense."

Tony hitched a moment before agreeing. "Self-defense case." Margrit leaned forward in her chair again to put an elbow against her desk and press her fingers into the inner corners of her eyes. Long before the Old Races had interfered in her life, her job had been the major crack in her relationship with Tony. Coming, as they did, from different angles on the same side of a flawed legal system, the topic incited them to break-ups as often as passion got them back together. The case she had on the table was the sort they could never discuss. The very necessity of building a decent defense for a rapist was offensive to the cop in Tony. Margrit sympathized, even wondered sometimes if he was right, but her ability to abhor the crime and still do her job effectively was a dichotomy Tony could barely fathom. Arguing that anything less than her best would create an opportunity for appeal or mistrial fell on deaf ears.

Curiosity tickled her, making her wonder if Alban would have the same difficulties. The world he came from might be so different from Margrit's own that no evident double standard in human behavior could distress him. Margrit curled her lip, trying to push the thought away as she listened to Tony's amused litany.

"Then she took on the richest guy on the East Coast over a squatters' building, and he backed down. I think she's got some high-minded ambitions. Hanging out with this kind of crowd might be good for her career."

"She sounds like somebody you wouldn't want to mess with."

"I dunno, I kind of like messing with her. Whaddaya say?"

Margrit laughed. "I think it sounds fantastic, but isn't offering tickets to exclusive events very much like bribing an officer of the law?"

"I'm not getting any personal gain out of it." A thin note of strain sounded in the words, as if Tony was censoring himself on the topic of how he might be rewarded. Margrit pinched the bridge of her nose harder. Weeks ago, he'd used her to set a trap for a killer, and she'd lied to him consistently about Alban, leaving them both regretful but not repentant. Their relationship had been rocky since then, as they tried to work out with words what they'd always solved before by-going back to bed together. But too much had changed this time for such an easy resolution, and while Tony had agreed, she thought he'd expected a quicker return to the intimacy they'd once shared.

She put on a smile and deliberately lightened her voice, forcing pleasantry back into the conversation before it soured too much. "It's a date, then. Or not, as the case may be."

Tony hesitated a barely noticeable moment before responding in kind. "Great. I sent a courier over with the invitation-"

"I got it a few minutes ago. Hadn't opened it yet."

"Good. I'll see you tonight, okay?"

"I look forward to it," Margrit said, and hung up the phone with a silent chastisement. There were things Alban could never offer her, just as Tony couldn't spread wings and fly with her above the city. Tony was solid and reliable, and when something came through from him, it was tangible: evenings out, time spent together, and in this case, a deliberate attempt to help her career. That was selfless, especially considering the ease with which they argued over her job. There were things to be said for the ordinary. It would stand her well to remember that.

The memory of a kiss, stolen in the midst of flight, heated her skin and made Margrit knot her fingers around her phone. Alban's body playing under hers as muscle bunched and stretched, bringing them in leaps from danger into safety. The sting of air imploding against her skin as he shifted from one form to another, becoming more and less than a man within the compass of her arms. There was nothing ordinary in those memories, and the ache of desire they brought didn't belong in the workplace. Margrit caught her breath and spat out a " Dammit ! "that did nothing to relieve the pulse of need that had caught her off guard.

"Margrit?" A coworker's concerned face appeared over the edge of her cubicle.

Margrit put on a smile. "Sorry. I'm fine."

"It's okay. Hey, have you finished the paperwork on the Carley case?" He tapped his finger nervously on the cubicle's metal frame and Margrit startled, shaking her head at the reminder.

"Sorry, no." She dug the files she needed from below a stack of papers. "I'll have it to you by five."

"Thanks." He beat the flat of his fingers against the cubicle edge twice, then scurried off. Margrit tucked an errant curl behind her ear, and moved the files again, hunting for the courier package and the evening's agenda. A moment's search told her the soiree was at eight. Plenty of time to go home after work, get a snack, and find something appropriate to wear to a high-society function.

She puffed her cheeks out and exhaled noisily. Plenty of time. The only problem was squeezing in a dragonlord who wouldn't take no for an answer.

Janx was not going to kill her. Margrit smoothed a hand over her stomach, the nubbly silken fabric there sending a wave of chills up her arm. Janx was not going to kill her for the same reason Daisani wouldn't: she was useful to him. Especially to Janx, because she owed him two favors of incalculable size. At worst, he would be irritated.

At worst. Margrit's stomach flip-flopped, another shiver washing over her. At worst, a man whose presence could eat up all the air in a room would be irritated with her. At worst she'd annoyed someone who considered her life to be an amusing trinket to play with.

She hadn't left work on time, research for the Carley case turning out to be more time-consuming than she'd expected. Then she'd found a deep stain on the dress she'd intended to wear, wine discoloring creamy velvet. Margrit had stood over the dress for long moments, too frustrated to move on. Finally she'd called, "Cameron?"

Her housemate, clad in a T-shirt and workout shorts that showed long legs and a dramatically scarred shin to great advantage, appeared at the bedroom door. "What's up?"

"Do you have anything I could wear to a posh reception at the Sherry-Netherland?" Margrit expected the laughing response. The other woman was eight inches taller and had a fashion model's slender build, in contrast to Margrit's hourglass curves. "I need a dress by eight."

"Nobody expects you to be on time," Cameron said airily. "Get shoes, put your hair up and we'll hit Prada."

"You've got a lot of faith in my credit line."

"Well, you can't go to the Sherry in something less," Cam said pragmatically. "Fear not. I'm the world's most efficient shopper. We'll be out of there in twenty minutes. Get your shoes."

Margrit got her shoes and Cam proclaimed them capable of going with anything, then hauled her across town to a boutique fashion shop. In the space of three minutes, she dismissed everything Margrit's eye landed on, instead settling on a white, knee-length raw silk dress. The saleswoman, whose expression on their arrival had indicated it was too close to quitting time to have to deal with customers, looked startled, then approving. Margrit fingered the dress gingerly, its long, off-the-shoulder sleeves and straight neckline unexciting to her eye. "Are you sure it's dressy enough?"

"I'm certain. Trust me on this, Grit. You're going to be overwhelmingly understated. Put it on and see if I'm right."

And she had been. The dress snugged against Margrit's curves as if it'd been made for her, a six-inch kick pleat behind the knee allowing her room to walk despite the hip-and-thigh-hugging fit. Margrit pinned her hair up before leaving the dressing room, letting a few corkscrew curls to fall down her back, and came out with a guilty smile. You were right."

"I'm a genius," Cameron said with satisfaction.

Margrit ran her fingers over the raw silk, tempted but still hesitant. "You sure I shouldn't just go for basic black?"

"You should never wear black." Cam put a fingertip against Margrit's bare shoulder, leaving a white mark against cafe-latte skin when she released the pressure. "Not with skin tones like that. You've got drama inherent in your coloring. Crimson and cream, that's what you should wear."

"I have a lot of those in my wardrobe," Margrit admitted. "I always thought of them as being battle colors, though, not playing up my skin."

"Really." Cameron's eyebrows quirked, a smile darting into place. "You have a lot of wars to fight, Margrit?"

"Against the man, every day, sistah." Margrit made a fist and thrust it toward the sky. Cameron laughed then Cam caught Margit's hand to study the slight point the dress's long sleeve came to over Margit's wrist.

"You need a ring. How much time do we have?" She looked for a clock, then clucked her tongue. "I know a great costume jewelry place a couple blocks from here. Let's pay for this and go."

"I like how you say that like we're both paying for it. It's seven-thirty," Margrit said in despair. "I'll be late."

"Nobody expects you to be on time," Cameron repeated. "And we are both paying for it. See?" She ushered Margrit to the saleswoman and handed over Margrit's credit card as if it were her own. "You'll show up at eight-thirty and make an entrance. It's what all the stars would do."

And it was what she had done. The evening had passed in an exhausting, exciting blur. Margrit proved a terrible New Yorker, blushing and stuttering at coming face-to-face with a handful of genuine celebrities. Tony caught her once, his wink making her blush harder.

He could have been a celebrity himself, wearing a tuxedo that made his shoulders a dark block of strength, as if he'd stepped out of a Bond film. Genuine delight had lit his eyes when Governor Stanton, arriving without his wife, had squired Margrit around the room for half an hour, making introductions.

She liked the tall, unhandsome politician, their camaraderie genuine. They'd greeted Mayor Leighton together, Margrit focusing hard not to wipe her hand on her dress after she extracted her fingers from his clammy grip. Stanton had pursed his mouth curiously at her expression, but said nothing, his silence conveying a subtle sense of agreement with her feelings toward the mayor.

He introduced her to Kaimana Kaaiai before excusing himself. The philanthropist struck her as Daisani's nearly perfect opposite: a big man with very dark eyes who spoke with an easy Pacific Islands lilt, he seemed almost embarrassed by the attention his money brought. Margrit felt an unexpected rush of sympathy for him, and, as if he sensed that, he gave her a rueful smile before turning to the newest group to be introduced. Margrit slipped away, finally at ease, and spent hours chatting with people, until she realized the reception room was beginning to clear out. Only then, noticing how badly her feet hurt, did she retreat to a corner to remove her shoes. Even accustomed as she was to both running daily and wearing heels, stilettos still made her feet ache, "I should've brought tennies to wear home," she mumbled to them. "I've already lost all my cool points by taking my shoes off at the Sherry."

"On the contrary. Think of it as a... humanizing factor." Eliseo Daisani's Italian leather shoes came into Margrit's line of sight and she ducked her head.

"Something you know a lot about, Mr. Daisani?"

"You might be surprised. I'm impressed, Miss Knight. I believe you've conquered a good portion of the city's elite tonight. Was that your intention?"

"Saying so either way would be imprudent, don't you think?" Margrit looked up as she slipped her shoes back on. In her heels, she was a little taller than Daisani, and the idea of letting him catch her literally flat-footed made her uncomfortable. "You didn't come say hello to the governor. You must be the only person here who didn't."

"Jonathan and I greeted one another."

"You made eye contact. I saw that. What's the story there, Mr. Daisani?" She stood, hardly expecting an explanation.

"Perhaps you'll learn the answer to that someday. I don't suppose you've reconsidered my offer since this morning."

"I don't suppose I have," Margrit agreed. "I know you're richer than God, Mr. Daisani, but I went to a fair amount of trouble to earn my law degree. I don't want to use all that education being your personal assistant. Besides, I'm finding out you're a terrible nag. Who'd want to work for a nag?"

Surprise creased Daisani's forehead and he gave a quick dry huff of laughter. "I see. Well. Having been put thoroughly in my place, I think I'd better bid you good evening and retreat to reconsider my strategy. No nagging." He bowed from the waist, never breaking the eye contact that let Margrit see his amusement. "Until later, Miss Knight."

Goose bumps lifted on Margrit's arms as she watched him walk away, not daring to breathe, "Not if I see you coming," until she was confident the noise in the hall would drown her words. Only then did she let her shoulders relax, and lift her gaze to look over the people left at the reception.

Out of dozens present, two watched her with clear and open curiosity. Governor Stanton might have been expected, as he'd attended to her for a good portion of the evening. The second, though, made a stillness come over Margrit when she met his dark, liquid gaze. After a moment the Hawaiian philanthropist smiled and looked away.

Her breath caught as if she'd been released from a hold imposed upon her. Janx had done something similar, his use of her name weighing her down so thoroughly she had been unable to walk away from it, or him.

Janx. Margrit's fingers curled in recollection and she looked at her aching feet apologetically. "Sorry, guys. The night's not over yet."