Hudson Concert Hall

Grand Ballroom

Table #12

The waitstaff all across the ballroom has begun to shuttle the hundreds of dinners to the gala patrons, each golden-rimmed dish burdened with a delectable Spanish-themed meal. When Rena Carlson's plate is served, she glances down at the elegant selection, not entirely certain what she's about to eat.

Greg White leans over to her, and she feels his warm breath against her ear as he murmurs: "It's filet of veal with golden figs and Montillado sauce, according to the menu. And those potatoes are called Papas Fritadas -- amazing stuff, you've got to try them."

"Thanks," she says with a grin, although she's a little worried by the fact that on principal, she doesn't eat veal. Looking across at Martina Rosenoff, she sees that her like-minded friend was savvy enough to anticipate a problem and request a vegetarian dish. Martina notices Rena's quandary and offers a quick smile of commiseration.

Sighing ruefully, Rena picks up her gold-plated fork and prepares to dig in to the potatoes, at least. Then the sight of a familiar face arrests her.

Tristan Campbell is walking into the ballroom from an exit all the way in the back, near the chamber orchestra. His complexion is mottled -- his forehead and lips are pale, but his cheeks are flushed. The damp state of his hair also indicates that he's been outside; his numb facial expression, however, doesn't appear to be caused by the cold air.

Rena feels her stomach tighten in concern, and she lowers her fork, planning to go see what's wrong with her friend. Martina notices the direction of her gaze, and also looks worried.

But Greg's hand reaches out to clasp Rena's, stopping her movement. "What's bothering you? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm not sure. Tristan's looks terrible, and he was outside in the snow for some reason. Something's very wrong."

Greg glances around, frowning at the object of her interest. "Looks the same as he always does," he says, keeping his voice light. "The man's not exactly the poster child for Ecstasy."

"That's not funny. He's upset, I can tell -- I know him very well, Greg, we're old friends."

"Yes, I'm aware." He reaches for his wine glass. "You've told me that. Many times. Why don't you have a little wine? It's Pesquera, an excellent vintage."

She shifts her head to stare at him. "Greg!"

"Look,, your 'old friend' is heading back to his table, so obviously whatever his problem is, it's no great emergency."

Rena's hazel eyes narrow, taking in his sarcasm. "Are you doing the same thing you were before, about Mike? Pretending to be jealous?"

"As a matter of fact, I'm not."

"Not jealous?"

"Not pretending." Greg takes a moment to sip his wine, as if purposely frustrating her. Then, replacing his glass, he moves closer to her again. "I've seen the way you react around this guy. He obviously has a special place in your heart. That's fine. I'm not thrilled that someone got there before I did, but what are the odds of my being the first inside that big, warm heart of yours?"

Rena inhales sharply, and looks down at her plate. Greg lifts her chin with his gentle fingers. "But what I'm talking about is being the only man in that heart now."

Though a thrill runs through her at the thought that he seems to be determined on monogamy, Rena can't let the subject go. "Like you say," she says firmly, "I have a big heart. There's room for a lot of people in there, and I can care about them for a lot of different reasons. You can't expect me to give up my -- my feelings of friendship for Tris. Or for Mike, Clark, Bill, my male friends at the hospital, or even J--"

"Back up a second. Who the heck is Bill?"

"He's a policeman I know. It's not important who he is, do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes. Apparently you have a bigger black book than I gave you credit for." Greg gives her a teasing wink. "I'm impressed, Nurse. Do I at least rate a special listing somewhere amid the crowd? Maybe a star or two?"

Rena lifts her hand to hold his. "You know you're special to me," she says softly, then adds a smile. "I've tried to convince you otherwise, but it never seemed to work."

"I know. Frankly, I'm glad you're so inept at hiding your feelings. That sweet little face has told me many true things that your lips lie about." Bending, Greg gives her a quick kiss, nothing inappropriate considering their surroundings, but still enough to send a jolt through Rena's nerve-endings. When he moves away, he grins and gazes at her mouth. "Didn't feel like a lie to me."

Rena smiles, unable to respond. When he returns to looking at his plate for a moment, she takes one last moment to glance over to Tristan's table. As Greg said, he has returned to his seat, so things can't be all that calamitous. Putting thoughts of her friend aside in a mental folder called "To Be Dealt With Later," Rena lifts her fork again and starts enjoying the Papas Fritadas.

.

2. Grand Ballroom

Table #1

Tristan has at last returned to Cameron Nichols' table.

Even after he'd left the mystery woman for what he'd thought was a final time, he'd swung back, seconds later, to see if she was still standing there, perhaps waiting and hoping for him. Of course, she was gone; the only trace of their conflict remaining was the disturbance of the snow where they'd struggled and kissed, and then the tracks that led outside the courtyard.

Before leaving again, his eye had caught a glimpse of something black and sparkling, some kind of jewelry. Drawn to it, since it could be the only tangible proof that she ever existed, Tristan had discovered that it was the comb that had flown out of her hair when he first caught up with her, spinning her around and sending the rippling cascade of auburn waves around her face.

Now he slips his hand in his pocket, keeping it like a talisman -- or a twisted version of Cinderella.

As Tristan pulls his chair closer to the table, he directs his blue gaze over to his hosts -- particularly Danielle Nichols, as courtesy demands. "I'm extremely sorry, Mrs. Nichols," he says quietly, trying to invest some emotion into his words. "I hope you'll excuse my behavior."

The slim, regal redhead smiles coolly. "But of course, if there was some kind of emergency...?"

"It would almost have to be, wouldn't it?" Cameron Nichols raises an eyebrow as he regards Tristan. "Running away like a bull from a gate -- to use a Carmen-appropriate simile -- well, it was inexplicable. You had me at a loss, Tristan."

Inexplicable is right ... for the life of him, Tristan can't think of any explanation for having darted away from his new business partner and his family. His brain seems to have taken a sabbatical, and he feels both stupid and detached. He just rubs his bloodless hands together underneath the tablecloth, trying to warm them.

Danielle's sharp green eyes look him over. "You've been outside, I see. Were you taken ill, perhaps?"

Grateful for the inspiration, Tristan nods. "Yes. The heat and the crowd ... I just needed a little air, suddenly."

"Can't say I blame you." This comes from Hannah Nichols, a blonde woman with a serene, open expression whom Cameron had described as his sister-in-law. "I felt a little overheated myself before everyone cleared out and took their seats."

Her husband -- Endicott, as Cameron had introduced the older, beefy man -- turns to her. "You should've told me," he says bluntly. "I'd've gotten you out if you wanted."

"Nick, if I wanted I could've gotten out by myself." Hannah smiles and pats his hand, then returns to eating her meal with obvious enjoyment.

Danielle lifts her wine glass, sips and looks over the rim at Tristan. "Well, I'm glad you came back, at least."

"Too bad your own guest took a powder." Laurie Nichols, a younger woman with straight, gleaming red hair and an incredibly low-cut white dress, leans back in her chair with an amused smile. "Something you said, Danny?"

"I didn't have time to say much to her, and I haven't the faintest idea what happened. Cam, you were talking to her the most during the intermission breaks. Did she seem all right to you?"

Tristan swallows and glances over to Cameron, who shrugs. "I don't have much to compare her behavior with. I've never had the pleasure before. But she did appear to be distant, somewhat shy. Is that typical for her?"

Cameron's wife nods, and Tristan nearly chokes on his wine. He sets his glass down at once. Christ, she can play any part, he thinks, swallowing painfully as he thinks about the shy, distant woman who connived her way into having sex in a stairwell, on a balcony, on the docks ...

"Mrs. Nichols," he says abruptly, trying to keep his tone casual. "Who was your guest?"

"Oh, please, there are three Mrs. Nicholses at this table. Call me Danielle."

Tristan hesitates, afraid to meet her gaze. "Danielle," he amends hoarsely, the name sticking in his dry throat. "Your guest...?"

"Elizabeth Durand. She's an up-and-coming fashion designer."

"I -- I see. How do you know her?"

"I've been mentoring her for the past few months. I haven't known her all that long, but I feel almost sisterly towards her -- we just seemed to click at once, the moment we met. Although I certainly can't understand her behavior tonight..." Danielle casts a speculative gaze at Tristan. "Why do you ask? Do you know her?"

Tristan shakes his head, struck with the irony of the question. Inside his pocket, his fingers trace the diamonds of the comb that Elizabeth Durand left behind in the snow.

"No," he murmurs without any emotion. "I don't know her at all."

3. Hudson Concert Hall Ballroom

Table #12

Martina Rosenoff glances over at the Nichols family table, worried less about Tristan's outdoors excursion than the fact of his being so chummy with a suspected criminal under investigation by the district attorney's office and the rest of his apparently mobbed-up family. Her lifelong friend -- once her best friend, now sadly far too removed from her life -- seems enrapt in whatever Nichols' wife is saying, looking away from the woman only when she gets up to leave, apparently for the restroom area.

With a frown, Martina returns to her grilled vegetables. Just then she feels her purse vibrate slightly on her lap, a split second before the sound of an all-too-familiar electronic chirp reaches her ear. "Uh oh," she murmurs, glancing at Mike Fiore with a rueful look. "Keep your fingers crossed."

"Hey, I warned you to turn your phone off during the opera."

"Yes, and I did, but I turned the ringer back on after we left the hall. Calm down, you were never in jeopardy of missing a precious note." Martina pulls the silver-toned cell phone out of her brown satin purse, looking at it discreetly.

Mike leans over her shoulder as he cuts into his veal. "Well? Good or bad?"

"Signs are hazy, ask again later," she says lightly even as she starts to push her chair away. "Seriously, I'm afraid I've got to return this call."

Rising, Mike holds her chair out for her. He smiles in sympathy but can't help murmuring, "Martina, I thought for one night, we could get away--"

"Believe me, so did I. But I can't ignore my responsibilities, you know that."

"Well, I know it's not your boss calling, since he's sitting a few tables away from us and enjoying his meal like everyone else."

"That's the prerogative of being a boss. You get to eat while the minions starve." Martina brushes Mike's cheek with a playful finger before excusing herself from the table.

Mike sits back down, trying not to be annoyed. Next to him, Carlo Fiore pours a little more wine into his glass and offers the bottle to Mike, who refuses. "You okay, Michelino? Never knew you to turn down good wine."

"It's not as good as yours, Pop. The food's not as good either -- the veal tastes like a hockey puck next to your osso buco or piccata. They should have gone to you for the catering."

"Not for Carmen, they wouldn't. Maybe when they do Il Trovotore and want to go Italiano, they'll give me a call." Carlo smiles, but peers at his son carefully. "No, the food is good, it's just that you're not able to taste it because something's wrong."

"Nothing's really wrong," Mike says, smiling despite himself. "I'm just being a spoiled brat. I miss Martina."

"You live with the woman. How do you manage to miss her?"

Anthony, apparently listening in, flashes a wicked grin at his oldest brother. "Maybe you need a smaller bed."

Mike shoots him a black look, and Carlo lifts a warning finger. "Maybe you need a smaller mouth. And Tonio, that's enough wine, by the way."

"I only had one glass."

"I'm not so good at math as your sister, but I can count to three. No more, okay?" Carlo returns to Mike. "Now, what do you mean, you miss Martina?"

Sighing, Mike rests his knife and fork on the plate. "It's her job. Well, that's not entirely fair, it's my job too. We've both got ridiculous caseloads these days. I'm working on two murders. She's trying to close some cases from her old practice and show her new senior partners that she can handle anything they throw at her. Either I'm running around interviewing people, or she's stuck at her office. It's crazy, I hardly see her."

"And that phone call was about work?"

"Yeah. So that's what got me in a mood. I just wanted tonight to be a real break from everything." Mike shrugs, smiling again. "Like I said, I'm spoiled."

"Why don't you two go away for a little while? You couldn't take a break during Christmas, but after New Year's maybe you'll get a chance...?"

"I don't know, Pop. It'd be great, but like I said, we're both so swamped. The Reilly and Kessleman cases aren't gonna solve themselves overnight."

"Didn't you tell me Frank's back at work now? Maybe he can take on some of his load again."

"He just started, so he's trapped on desk duty. He'd love to be out in the field, believe me -- Frank's going crazy after being out of commission so long. But I guess you've got a point, though ... at least he'll be able to do the paperwork Cahill's stuck me with in his absence."

"See? So then maybe you two can take a weekend and go somewhere."

Mike pretends to be shocked. "Gee, I dunno, Pop. Frank and I are close, but I'm not sure we're ready to go away together--"

"Hilarious. I try and give you good advice, and you become a comedian like your brother."

Grinning, Mike returns to his dinner, mulling over the enjoyable possibilities of having Martina all to himself at last.

4. Hudson Concert Hall

Patron Lounge Area

Since the guests are seated at dinner, the Brooke Patron Lounge is empty, except for deserted tables and a sole member of the catering staff who's busily packing up the bar area.

Martina, carrying her cell phone, enters the carpeted lounge and gestures apologetically towards the small corridor leading to the private restrooms. "Hi, sorry to bother you. May I go in here for a phone call? The regular ladies' rooms are too busy..."

The young man bends down behind the bar, depositing some bottles of liquor, then pops back up again. "Sure. Didn't see anyone go in there, so you should be fine."

Heading down the hall, Martina uses her thumb to dial the number she already knows by heart. She enters the spacious room, with its black tiles and shining nickel fixtures, and moves behind an alcove to sit on one of several large, comfortable chairs in front of the makeup mirror.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Sylvie, it's Martina. How--"

"Thank God, thank God, I was afraid you didn't get the message!"

Sylvie Kessleman's voice is husky and ragged -- which has always been the case, even before her husband's murder, her own shooting, and her subsequent heart attack. But now, unlike the few times Martina spoke to her prior to the tragic events on Christmas Day, Sylvie sounds scared to death.

Martina turns away from the mirror, shaking her head in concern. "I'm so sorry, I called as soon as I could. What happened? Did something happen?"

"My daughter got a phone call. How did they know where she lived? She went back home right after I got out of ICU, you know we're not close. But they called her anyway!"

"Who called her?" Martina hears Sylvie's weeping, and her heart goes out to the old woman alone in her hospital room. "Sylvie, please don't cry. I know you're frightened, but please, stay strong just for a little while longer. I need you to tell me who called Rachel and what he said."

This stops Sylvie's tears for a moment. "She didn't tell me what they said. I don't understand how they found her. Marty, do you think they tapped my phone calls? And somehow traced it to Rachel?"

"From the hospital? I doubt it. But please, I can't help you if you're not straight with me. You know I've been asking you to tell me exactly what happened on Christmas, but you've refused--"

"Do you want them threatening you too?"

Martina looks at her free hand, resting carefully on her knee. The serene pose pleases her, offers her comfort. "Obviously not. I appreciate your worrying about me, but I think it's too late for that."

Sylvie's gasp is very loud. "What do you mean? Have they gone after you already?"

"No, but I'm just assuming ... Look, if, hypothetically speaking, you're referring to the people who killed your husband--"

"Of course I am!"

"--and if these are the same people with whom he had a past business relationship ... are they?"

Sylvie remains silent, still clearly unwilling to go any further to identify Ossie's murderers. Martina sighs. "My point is, it's quite likely that they already know who I am. My court appearances on Ossie's behalf are a matter of public record."

"Yes. But they don't necessarily know that you know who they are."

"Please, Sylvie, let me worry about myself. I'm more concerned about people who shouldn't be involved in this at all -- you and your daughter. You know, Ossie always told me that he was estranged from you two, but it's obvious he loved you both very much. He would want me to take care of you."

"He told that to everyone. He wanted to keep us out of things. He thought if they didn't know about us, we'd be safe..." The word turns into a choked sob, which Sylvie quickly extinguishes. "O-okay, Marty, you're right, but you remind me so much of Rachel. You're her age, and a daughter too. What would your parents say if I got you killed?"

"First, I'm not going to get killed. Second, if, God forbid, something did happen, you wouldn't be the one who caused it. And third, my father taught me how to be an advocate, in every sense of the word. He once said an attorney's role is to stand between her client and the rest of the world, even before the most frightening judge -- even before God Himself. That's what it means, to represent someone." Martina rolls her eyes at her own words. "Look, I don't mean to sound so pompous. I'm just saying I'm doing my job, that's all. Besides, Sylvie, this isn't about me. Is Rachel somewhere safe?"

"Yes. I told her to leave her house, so she went --"

"No! Don't tell me where. I know I said it's unlikely that anyone could tap a hospital phone, but nothing's impossible. The important thing is, you and Rachel have to be kept safe. She's in a safe place, and you -- the policeman's still outside your door?"

"Yes. I don't think they care about me. They could have killed me that day if they wanted."

Martina frowns, having to admit that this is true. "But why would they go after Rachel?"

"I don't know," Sylvie says, moaning. "If they hurt her ..."

"We'll get her protection too. Sylvie, try to get some sleep, if possible. I'll visit you tomorrow, and we'll talk about everything then."

"Yes. I'm so grateful for you, Marty, I thank God for you every day! I don't know how you got to be so brave. I should be brave by now, the way Ossie lived, but I stuck my head in the sand for so long..."

Listening, Martina nods with sympathy, but her head jerks up when she hears someone entering the restroom. Though the alcove blocks her view from the main sink and toilet stall area, she can hear that the new arrival is actually a couple -- a man and a woman, apparently feeling a little amorous. The clattering sound of a dropping purse, and of a beaded dress being pressed against a tile wall, and laughter and kisses ... all of it echoes back through the alcove to an uncomfortable Martina.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Sylvie," she whispers once her client finishes, glad that the couple are fairly noisy. "Bye."

Now the couple is mumbling to one another between kisses, and as Martina shuts off her phone, she tries to think of a tactful way to get out of the room with the least amount of embarrassment for all parties. So far, nothing springs to mind.

When the kissing diminishes and the soft conversation takes precedence, Martina breathes a quick sigh of relief. The echo off the tiles distorts their words far too much for her to hear a thing they're saying, so at least she's not eavesdropping on anything. She starts to sit up again, looking in the mirror as she does -- hoping that their reflection will confirm the couple's return to more innocent activities.

A second later, Martina has to clap a hand over her mouth in order to muffle the involuntary sharp intake of breath.

The reflection does indeed prove that the man and woman are now just talking as they embrace. But to Martina, the word "innocent" cannot possibly describe either Mrs. Cameron Nichols or Alex Eckhert, Jr., Assistant District Attorney.

5. Hudson Concert Hall

Patron Lounge Area

Alex Eckhert stares into Danielle's jewel-like gaze, enjoying both the view and the reflection. "I love seeing myself in your eyes," he murmurs, running his fingers along the naked expanse of her back. Her gown cuts down so low behind her he can slip his hand beneath the silken material to cradle the soft swell of her buttocks.

"Those aren't my eyes you're manhandling," Danielle says, in her usual bored manner. "Be careful with that material. I know you have a thing for ripping clothes, but you don't have enough money in your bank account to pay for this dress. Or the consequences of Cam seeing me in such a state."

"I can be gentle as you want. I'm not an animal."

"I think you're the biggest sadist I know -- and trust me, if you knew my mother-in-law, that is quite a statement."

"You're a worse sadist than I am. You're wearing my favorite color knowing I won't be able to take my eyes off you all night, you invite me in here, and now you won't let me--"

"I invite you in here, and you automatically assume that the invitation includes screwing me?"

"I think anything you say to me is an invitation that includes, as you delicately put it, screwing you. Whether you intend it or not."

"Interesting." Danielle arches an eyebrow. "Prosecute any rape cases lately, Alex?"

He laughs, and slowly presses her against the wall again, moaning as he grinds down to feel the friction of her beaded dress, and the taut stomach muscles beneath it. "You can't rape the willing, Danny," he whispers into her mouth while letting his tongue trace her lips. "And you're the most willing woman I've ever met."

Her skin turns a shade of pink, as close to blushing as Danielle gets. Damn, but life is good right now, he's king of the world and he knows it. He has the wife of the most powerful man in the region wrapped around his finger -- a goal that is now literal as he slips his hand further down her dress.

But Danielle pushes his hand away. "I'm willing when I say I am. I want to talk."

Alex sighs. Sometimes he has to wonder if she really enjoys making love at all. She claims that she does -- at the appropriate moments in bed, she puts on a brief show for him, at least, though frankly it's not something Alex believes. No, he guesses that to her, it's just about power -- the power to hurt her husband, and the power to put lives in jeopardy every time she picks up a new lover. But when it comes to making love ... well, sometimes when Alex is bearing down on her, she may be crying out his name with appropriate passion, but he has the sense that Danielle is busy planning the invitation list to her next society luncheon.

Part of the addiction of being with Danielle Nichols, which he suspects is shared by all of her manifold lovers, is the hope that somehow he'll be the one to smash through the barrier she puts between her and the rest of the world. That one time, she'll release a genuine moan of pleasure, or share a kiss that reveals the stormy desire within her that is always promised, never delivered.

It's not his fault, he knows that. He's good at what he does, even the little bitch once told him he was the best -- and she wasn't the type to lie, at least not at that point.

His ability in bed is no surprise. Alex makes it a point to acquire things, and skills are no different. He's had a lot of practice by now. Besides, like Danielle, Alex loves the power of sex ... but it's not just a political game to him, as he suspects it is with Danielle. The sensual aspects of the act are what empowers him -- the taste, smell, and especially the feel of pushing himself into someone, his whole body taking over their own. An unstoppable force meeting the immovable object -- to him, that is the essence of sex.

"All right," he says, sighing and running a hand over his face. "If talking is what you want, you might as well start now. We can't be hiding out here forever."

"Thank you for the reminder," Danielle replies dryly. Her voice, like his, remains low and unhurried. "I'll get to the point then. Cameron may know something."

Alex feels his mouth go dry. He pushes himself back a bit to get a better look at her. "By 'knowing something' you mean... what, precisely?"

"Precisely, it means what you think it means."

"I see." He swallows, trying to read her impossibly detached expression. "About me specifically? Or about your randy little habits in general?"

Danielle's lips tilt into a crooked smile. "Why am I not surprised that you're concerned about that distinction?"

"Because neither of us is a fool. You know me, and I know your husband."

"You've known the risks since day one."

"Yes, but I haven't accomplished what I want yet," he says unthinkingly, but amends it at once. "What we want, that is."

"I wonder if we want the same thing."

"You know we do," Alex says with the sincere "I Know What's Best for You" look he's perfected over the years as a district attorney. "You still haven't answered my question. What exactly does he know?"

"I'm not sure," Danielle murmurs -- wearing a coy "Maybe I'm Lying, Maybe I'm Not" expression, which Alex knows she has perfected over the years. "During the end of the opera, he claimed that he'd kill me if I was unfaithful to him. I told him he was being ridiculous, which he was, of course."

"Why do you say that?"

"Sometimes children are the best insurance policy a woman could have. He won't kill Becca and Simon's mother. Not after seeing dear Ian grow up without one."

"But you were there for Ian too."

Danielle smiles, the same crooked little smile as before. "Oh yes, indeed I was."

Alex ignores the appearance of her maternal instinct. "All right, so he said he'd kill you, which doesn't concern you. Was that all?"

"He said that he'd kill my lover. And for a moment, the way he looked into the audience, it was as if he was trying to find the culprit. As if he knew the man was only just across the theater."

Her soft, whispered words are so insincerely delivered that he can't fathom why he believes her. And unbelievably, there's a smile on her lips. Suddenly he wants to show her that playing with his life is not a smart thing to do.

Grabbing her arm, Alex pulls her back against the wall again and kisses her, almost hard enough to bruise. His hand curls around her tiny waist and squeezes the bare skin of her back, again with no respect for any pain he's causing. He can taste her faintly perfumed skin as he drags his mouth across her ivory throat, and when he returns his attention to her mouth she responds to his kiss -- probably because she guesses that he'll be less likely to be as angry if she responds.

But then she freezes, stiffens so completely that Alex can't help but draw away from her. Her gaze is beyond his shoulder, and when he follows its direction he sees the bathroom door swinging closed as if propelled by itself.

"What the hell was that?" he whispers, staring back at her.

"A woman. I think she must have been there the whole time -- I saw her sneak out!"

"Christ!" Alex drops his grip on her hand and rushes to the door. "Did she hear anything?"

Danielle wipes the now-free hand across her mouth to fix her lipstick. "I doubt it," she says, back to being her usual blase self. "We were being very quiet, but... she certainly saw what we were doing."

Grabbing the handle, Alex pulls the door open and looks down the corridor. All he can see is a bronze dress, a mass of brown curls ... and a soft, curving body that he's possessed far too many times not to recognize.

Alex turns back to stare furiously at Danielle, not sure if he laugh or scream or punch a hole in the goddamn wall.

But all he does is mutter: "I know her."

6. Hudson Concert Hall

Grand Ballroom

Table #12

As the thin chocolate shell melts on her tongue, Rena closes her eyes, a little groan escaping her. "This is amazing," she says with a tiny laugh, looking sideways at Greg. "You're staring at me like I'm making a fool of myself. Am I not supposed to enjoy the food here so much?"

"Well, it's not typically the subject of that much pleasure. Women at events like this usually pretend not to care about the food."

Coloring, Rena plonks her spoon down in the bowl, where her banana ice cream used to be until she swallowed it up. "I -- well, it seems like a shame," she murmurs, glancing away. "The cooks must've gone through a great deal of trouble for all this, don't you think?"

Greg takes a sip of coffee, blue eyes sparkling in amusement. "Rena, don't be embarrassed. As far as I'm concerned, you can eat all the food you want, and show as much pleasure as you want. Trust me, that's not exactly a turn-off."

"I don't want to look more out of place than I already feel."

"Do you know what I want to feel?" He leans forward conspiratorially. "When that music starts up again, I want to feel you in my arms, tripping the light fantastic. Are you willing to give it a try -- this time not hiding out in some dark corner?"

Rena meets his gaze, remembering their first dance with delicious clarity. At the hospital benefit, when he'd taught her how to slow dance in an alcove, away from the rest of the crowd. How their bodies had moved together to that glorious old tune, the song she still hums sometimes in the shower ... Does Greg remember the music too?

If he really cares about me, he'll remember our first song, she declares childishly, knowing it's childish but still making the wager with herself. She clears her throat. "I'll dance with you -- only if you can remember what we were dancing to, then."

His full lips curl into a smile. "That was an awfully long time ago. You've put me through a lot since then."

"It wasn't that long ago, and it's not like you've been to a million galas since. Have you?" she adds, a little nervously.

"Guess not," he admits. "Well, I'll have to think about it for a little while, maybe it'll come back to me."

Rena nods, a little disappointed but still holding out hope. She looks across and sees a breathless Martina return to her seat, her olive cheeks as red as Rena's own usually are. "Marty? You okay?"

"I -- yes, I'm fine."

Mike also notices Martina's high color and agitation. "You were gone a long time there. Is everything all right? You look very strange."

With a shake of her head, Martina waves her hand in dismissal. "I-it's nothing."

"But the phone call--"

"Mike, it's nothing." She suddenly gives a weak, unconvincing laugh. "Let's just say I suddenly have a lot of information to digest. Can we change the subject, please?"

Greg turns to Rena and nods solemnly. "That's why I keep my cell phone off. If anyone needs me, they can page me through the hospital. Remember that."

"Got it."

Mike, looking carefully at Martina, clears his throat. "Okay, here's a topic change. I had an idea -- well, Pop had it, actually, he's the genius, but let's pretend it was me so I can seem like a smart guy."

Martina pauses. Her brown gaze focuses on her hands, which gives Mike the impression that she's busy concentrating on some mental conundrum -- it's an expression he's seen a lot. She then blinks and returns to smile at him. "Okay, let's pretend, then," she says smoothly, almost as if she's been paying attention. "Shoot."

"You're distracted. No, don't argue, 'cause I'm distracted too. We're killing ourselves with work. And my idea --"

"Your father's idea."

"Right, that one, but we're pretending it's mine, right?"

"Right. Go ahead."

"Well, we deserve some time off for good behavior. We missed all the holidays, what with your new job and my having to take over as second-in-command while Frank was off, and--" Mike flips his hand over, not bothering to continue. "You know the deal, I don't have to tell you all this. Long and the short is, I'm wondering if we can grab next weekend and go away, out to the country, down to Manhattan, wherever you want to go."

Martina holds her fingers out and proprietarily brushes off an infinitesimal crumb from his tuxedo jacket. "You always sell yourself short. Not that your father's not a genius, but you've already thought of that idea."

"You're getting good at this pretending stuff."

"No, I'm being serious. Chanukah was only a couple of weeks ago, and already you forgot my present?" She raises an eyebrow. "My kidnapping coupon. You're supposed to kidnap me, remember? Except it's supposed to be a surprise, and now you've kind of ruined it by planning it in advance."

Mike closes his eyes, feeling incredibly thickheaded. "Oh, I don't believe I did that. I completely forgot about it. With the overload at work and everything... I'm sorry, honey."

"Don't you apologize! I forgot about it myself, until you just mentioned going away."

"That's even worse. That means it would've been a perfect surprise, if I'd only remembered it. Damn!"

Next to him, Carlo notices his son's distress. "What's wrong? Didn't she like the idea?"

"Yeah, she loved it, but I forgot all about the kidnapping."

"Kidnapping? Someone was kidnapped?"

Rena overhears this and looks up, alarmed. "Oh my God, Marty, who?"

Carlo puts a hand on Mike's arm. "Is that what her phone call was about?"

Laughing, Mike covers his eyes with one hand. "Great, now everyone knows. Look, people, there was no kidnapping. Nothing happened. I was supposed to arrange a weekend away for Martina and me, and whisk her off to a romantic getaway as a surprise. I gave her a coupon for it, it was -- it was stupid."

"You crazy romantic fool," Tom says with fluttering eyes, and Julie laughs. "Don't be embarrassed, I think it's adorable, Mikey."

"Yes, very adorable."

At the sound of the familiar baritone, Martina turns around slowly, having somehow anticipated hearing Alex Eckhert's voice.

He smiles down at her from his advanced height, standing just behind Mike's chair. "Of course, Detective Fiore's probably just embarrassed at the thought of making light of such a serious crime. Kidnapping is a capital offense, you know."

"I'm aware of the law, Eckhert," Mike says lightly, not wanting to ruin the pleasant mood. "Is there something we can do for you?"

"Actually, I do have a matter to discuss with Martina. Perhaps you'll all excuse us for just a moment?"

But Martina turns away from him, shaking her head. "I'm not available just now, Alex. If it's something that involves one of my clients, call my office tomorrow."

"It's rather urgent."

"Sorry, I don't think so." Martina catches Rena's gaze, noting the approval and pleasure in their hazel depths. She then shifts to stare at Mike's handsome, amused face. "We did say we were taking tonight off, didn't we?"

"Yeah, I recall saying something to that effect."

"Tina, you clearly don't understand--"

"No, actually, you don't understand." Martina stands up slowly from her chair, turning to face him with a faint smile. "You are not my fiancé. You are not an ADA assigned to any of my clients' cases. You are certainly not a friend. In short, you're not anyone on whom I plan on wasting one iota of time, energy or emotion." Her smile widens slightly. "How is that for clarity, Mr. District Attorney?"

His lean face seems to tighten, and he takes a step towards her. But she holds her hand out to Mike, blocking his path.

"Besides, the music's started up again," she adds with a grin at the man she loves. "And Mike's promised me the first dance. Not going to renege, are you?"

Mike stands at once, casting Alex a quick warning look out of the corner of his eye before returning to beam at her. "You kidding? I wouldn't dare break a promise to you."

He sweeps her out onto the dance floor, joined by Rena and Greg and dozens of other couples enjoying the evening. Alex returns to his chair, but turns his head slowly to stare at Martina's triumphant, glowingly beautiful face.

7. Hudson Concert Hall Grand Ballroom

Dance Floor

Greg helps Rena with the dance step, fortunately a simple waltz, and holds her closer to him than the music dictates. He bends down slightly, surprising her, and starts humming along in her ear.

"Ouch!" She frowns, laughing. "I know I'm a lousy singer myself," she says, pulling back. "But even I can tell that you're way, way off."

"Wow, your ear really must be made of tin. I'm singing it perfectly."

Wrinkling her nose, Rena shakes her head. "Let me hear it again."

He hums the music, the vibration tickling her ear. She giggles. "That isn't even remotely close. The notes are going in totally different directions, and you're going way too slow. You said this was a waltz, right? Whatever you're singing, that isn't a waltz."

"True."

"Okay, then. So let me hear the orchestra play, and stop--"

"They're playing a waltz. I'm singing a serenade. Moonlight Serenade, to be precise."

Rena blinks, and stops moving. "Moonlight Serenade," she says softly, feeling goosebumps break out on her arms. "You remembered it."

"Could I really forget our first dance, much less our first kiss?"

Slipping her arms around his neck, Rena stands as tall as she can, closing her eyes and inhaling his skin and aftershave, feeling his surprised smile beneath her lips just before he responds to her enthusiastic kiss.

All too soon, he pulls away from her. Rena's disappointment is almost palpable, but from the expression on his face, his decision has nothing to do with her. She turns to the right, where he's focusing.

Chelsea Stanford has somehow made her way onto the dance floor, and has slipped her hand around Greg's elbow. At first, Rena's crazed thought is that Chelsea wants to cut in, but -- like Greg -- she realizes that there's obviously something wrong.

For one thing, Chelsea's still wearing her coat and scarf. The golden-haired woman stares up at Greg, her blue eyes wide and apologetic. "I'm sorry to interrupt," she says, not looking at Rena. "Greg, I'm -- I really need to talk to you. I tried to call, but I never got through--"

"My phone's off," Greg says distractedly. "What's wrong?" Noticing that other couples are looking at the strange threesome, he leads the women off the dance floor and back towards the table. "Chelsea, what is it?"

"It's your brother. There's been a really bad accident, and he's in the hospital. I heard it from a cop, and then I heard it on the radio over here -- he's supposedly gonna be taken into surgery."

Greg looks like he's been hit by a brick, his eyes widening in mute shock. Rena clutches his hand hard, but stares at Chelsea. "What happened?"

"There was some kinda explosion at the newspaper building. He was in the elevator with Elaine Wagner, I heard that on the radio too, and the thing crashed to the ground --"

"Elaine! Oh my God," Rena whispers, shaking her head in tiny motions. "Weren't there any details about their injuries?"

"No. Just that they were in critical condition, lots of smoke inhalation stuff. The building's almost ruined, not that it matters in the big picture, but in a way it's amazing that they got out alive at all. Or that no one else was hurt."

Rena puts a hand over her mouth, horrified. Greg finally returns to life, snapping at Chelsea: "Wait a second, did you say the newspaper? What in hell was Doug doing there? That's got to be a mistake, maybe it's not really Doug--"

"No, it makes sense. He and Elaine are kind of ... well, I don't know if they're dating or what, but I've seen 'em at lunch and stuff. Jem once said he thought they were..." Chelsea shrugs, then bites her lip. "Greg, I'm so sorry, I hate to be the one to tell you-- I thought maybe you knew already, but when I saw you out here dancing--"

"Don't apologize, I'm ... I'm ... Thanks for coming all the way here," Greg finishes, hugging her with his free arm. "I appreciate that."

"No problem. And I can take you to the hospital if you want. I mean, I don't know if you've got a car or anything, but I'm going to the hospital anyway -- I'm friends with Elaine," she adds with a quick look at Rena that Rena can't quite translate.

Greg runs a hand through his hair. "We have a car service. But if you're going anyway, I'd appreciate it." He suddenly darts a look over at the Nichols family table. "Jesus, I have to tell Daphne."

Chelsea nods. "I'll go bring the car 'round. The jerk valet idiots wouldn't let me double-park. I've got the red Miata."

When she leaves, Rena squeezes Greg's fingers. "Go tell Daphne. I'll call the hospital to see if I can get an update on what's going on, okay? And -- I'd better see if Clark and Beth know about Elaine."

Nodding, Greg swallows to gather courage. Then he turns back to her, his eyes pleading. "Rena..."

"I know, Greg. You've just got to pray things'll be okay."

"Yeah."

When he moves over to Daphne, Rena watches him for a second or two before spinning around, dizzily trying to get back to the table to find her purse.

8. Hudson Concert Hall

Table #1

Daphne White has enjoyed herself, as much as possible with a family this imposing and powerful. They talk about so many things, from art to politics to sports -- the latter mainly between Ian's uncle Nick and his half-brother Simon, both of whom share a love of football. Most of them are pretty funny, too. Simon isn't nearly as obnoxious as she thought he was on first glance, and even Becca has chilled out as the evening progressed -- probably due to the champagne buzz from earlier. She feels awkward around Tristan Campbell, whom she knows as a former friend of her parents' ... before her mom confessed to killing his mother, of course. He hasn't said much to her, though ... or to anyone but Ian's parents and his aunt Hannah.

It's Hannah who's put a damper on the evening for her. The woman with the sweet, happy face has nonetheless cast some sharp looks in her direction, and Daphne can't help but be certain that she's about to be exposed.

But whenever her fears have started to overwhelm her, Ian has been there. It's as if he has a sixth sense regarding Daphne's mood, and somehow knows just when to slip his hand over hers, or put his arm over her shoulders in a casual show of support, or even brush his fingers absently through her hair. Admittedly, he seems to be doing this whenever Hannah or Danielle are looking in their direction, so Daphne can't really think it's a total psychic connection. Still, he's really gone over and above the call of duty, even if he is just trying to fool his parents into thinking they're a couple. He's so good at it, Daphne can almost forget that it's all going to end after tonight. Instead, it's easy to stare at his intense dark eyes and sensuous, perpetually amused lips and remember the times they've been inches away from her ... such as when she and Ian had shared a pretend kiss that felt stabbingly real.

She blinks a little, realizing that Ian is talking to her. "Hey, are you falling asleep?"

"No! I'm sorry, no, I just ... well, it's a little late, I guess."

He grins at her. "Not long now. Trial's almost over."

"It wasn't a trial. I had fun. I'm having fun," she adds, but then lowers her voice. "Your aunt's been looking at me a lot."

"I've noticed. I'll talk to her later tonight, or tomorrow if I don't get a chance. I wouldn't worry about it."

"I wouldn't be worried, except you're the one who told me how scary your uncle is." Daphne glances over at Nick Nichols, who's laughing at something Simon has said. "I can't say he looks all that scary."

"Looks can be very, very deceiving. Nick can be a sweet man. He can also be your worst enemy, believe me."

"Then I don't know why you asked me here. If you were afraid that I'd--"

"I have my reasons."

Daphne nods, smiling sarcastically. "Right. You really like being some man of mystery, huh? I bet you tell every girl you have a major dark side."

"I don't have to." Ian smiles crookedly at her. "They figure it out eventually. Besides, my reputation so often precedes me."

"You're not the only one with a dark side. And it's not all it's cracked up to be, either. Sometimes it's a relief to know a normal person."

"Like Tyler?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact."

Ian smirks and looks away. "I've seen him, remember. And you're welcome to normality, if dullness is truly what you seek."

Her cheeks reddening, Daphne inhales to protest, but is interrupted by a sudden commotion to her right. Surprisingly, she discovers that it's her uncle, rushing near the table but being stopped by two incredibly large men who seemed to materialize from nowhere.

"Let me through, will you?" Greg says, frustrated by the two men trying to stop his approach. "I need to talk to my niece!"

Ian glances at Daphne and, seeing the recognition on her face, turns to nod at his father and grandmother. "Dad, Nana ... it's okay."

Cameron thanks the bodyguards, who slip back to stand unobtrusively by the wall. "I apologize for the misunderstanding. They're sensitive about people approaching my family."

"So you're Daphne's uncle?" Adele looks him over, obviously finding little fault with his appearance. "A pleasure meeting you."

Greg nods distantly at her, but returns to stare at Daphne. "I'm afraid I have to talk to you in private."

Daphne can easily see the distress in his wide blue gaze, and her heart jumps painfully. "Something's wrong. It's Mom, they've done something--"

"No. Can you come with me, please, Daph...?"

"Please just tell me!"

Greg sighs and touches her shoulder. "Your dad's been in an accident. He's at the hospital."

"What happened?" Daphne feels emotionless. "Was it a car accident?"

"No, it was a fire ... or an elevator ... to be honest, I'm not sure of all the details. We'll find out more on the way there, but we have to get up there now."

"It's that serious?" Her voice sounds very small and breathy.

Greg holds her shoulders, supporting her. "Come on, sweetheart," he says, perhaps unconsciously echoing her father's most common endearment. "Let's get your coat."

Tristan stands up clutching the table. "Dr. White, if there's anything I can do..."

Looking at him dazedly, Greg doesn't seem to understand Tristan's response, but just nods and moves Daphne away.

9. Hudson Concert Hall

Table #1

Those remaining at the table look at one another. Tristan takes his seat, shaking his head. Cameron clears his throat. "Do you know Mr. Knapp, Tristan?"

"I'm sorry, who...?"

"Daphne's father."

"Oh. Well, he and my mother were -- I'm sorry, did you say 'Knapp'? His name is Doug White." Tristan shakes his head to himself.

Cameron's cell phone rings, and he excuses himself to take the call. Danielle, meanwhile, turns to her stepson, who continues to stare after Daphne. "I'm a little surprised at you, Ian," she says in a low, thoughtful tone. "You didn't even offer to go with your girlfriend to the hospital?"

Ian glances around, surprised, but before he can speak his grandmother interrupts him. "Actually I have to agree. I expect a little more gallantry from you than that."

"C'mon, Nana," Becca says, yawning into the back of her hand. "It's so late. If he doesn't want to go, it's his decision, right?"

"Of course it his," Danielle murmurs. "I'm just telling him what I'd expect him to do, if he were my boyfriend."

Ian eyes her. "And what would that be, Danny?"

"I'd want you to stay with me."

With a cool smile, Ian stands up, placing his napkin carefully on his chair. "Of course, you're right. Excuse me, everyone."

He leaves his family behind, jogging after Daphne. Danielle watches him for only a fraction of a second before returning to her remaining guests. Cameron steps back, apologizing for having to take the phone call. "Nick, may I see you for a moment?"

Frowning, Nick gets up to move a few feet away with his brother. "What?"

Cameron's long face is inscrutable, except for an unsettling gleam in his hazel eyes. "Coincidence is a very strange thing, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I'll take your word for it. What?"

"Apparently the accident that threatens the life of young Daphne's father? It took place at the building owned by our mutual acquaintance."

Nick tries to measure his brother's mood, but fails. "Go on."

"The fire and explosion took out nearly half the building, so I am informed."

"No kidding." With a brief glance at his watch, Nick shakes his head. "Well, Dean's fast, I'll give him--"

"What are you talking about?"

"You only told him to get to work a couple hours ago. And now--" Cameron's expression suddenly makes sense. "Wait a minute. You saying this wasn't your job?"

Cameron shakes his head almost imperceptibly. "It was not my job. And I am not pleased."