“Yeah, I haven’t decided yet if he’s like that because he’s the mayor, or if he’s the mayor because he’s like that.”
“It’s tough being in that kind of shadow.”
“Tell me about it. I guess you could, couldn’t you?”
“Only thing you can do is make a break and move on.”
“Easier said than done.”
In the end, it hadn’t been that hard at all. She’d stayed away from her parents for four years during college. Built a life for herself that had nothing to do with them. Pretended to be some other Celia West. Worked two jobs—bookkeeping in the evenings and shelving at the university library on weekends—to pay her tuition and expenses, and it had all been worth it. She’d even started swimming again, able to do so without dwelling on old disappointments.
The time for speech-making arrived. She lingered with Mark in the back of the hall, growing pleasantly tipsy on her third glass of champagne, leaning on him, and drawing stories out of him—amusing anecdotes about the mayor from his childhood, harrowing tales of his years on the police force. Not so many of them. He’d only made detective six months ago and was young for the rank. He tried to turn the conversation back on her. Deftly, she avoided his questions. It didn’t seem right, telling amusing stories about Captain Olympus from her childhood.
The first speech came from the symphony’s musical director, profusely thanking everyone for their support and subtly digging for more donations. Next, the mayor stepped up to the podium. He went on about the city’s cultural heritage, managing to work in some stumping appropriate for the venue. She was fuzzily not paying attention.
At least, she wasn’t paying attention to the podium. Movement at the edges of the hall caught her notice. The crowd of socialites and symphony patrons stood in the center of the foyer, faces turned attentively to the front. But here and there, a half-dozen people wearing catering staff uniforms moved purposefully along the walls.
One of them drew a handgun from under his apron.
Celia’s hand clenched on Mark’s arm.
He glanced sharply at her. “What—”
He didn’t have time to ask. A hand closed around her throat and hauled her away from him. The steel nose of a gun pressed against her temple. She dropped her champagne glass, which shattered.
An irrational part of her complained,
In moments, it was over. A couple of women screamed. A large space, in which Celia and her captor formed the center, cleared. Mayor Paulson’s voice demanded over the PA, “What is this?”
The other gunmen surrounded the string quartet and their priceless instruments.
“Nobody move, nobody make a sound, or she gets it!” shouted her captor. He held her in a headlock, pinning her against his body. She gripped his arm for balance, and couldn’t move without his assistance. “Hand over the instruments!”
Before the musicians could comply, the assailants took them out of their hands. The cello player started to resist; he held both hands on the cello’s neck and glared. Celia’s captor made a noise and gestured with the gun for emphasis. The cellist let go.
She was insurance. Somebody might launch into heroics at the risk of destroying a chunk of wood and string. But not when someone had a gun pointed at her head.
Not for a minute did she believe that their choice of hostage was random.
With the instruments taken captive, the gang made its way to the back of the hall and the service entrance. The leader dragged Celia along. They weren’t going to let her go.
Mark broke from the stricken crowd to intercept the gang. Celia had no idea what he thought he could do. Flash his badge and intimidate them? He ought to know better than that.
He said, “Let her go. Take me instead.”
“Mark, no!” said the mayor, still speaking into his microphone.
Mark continued. “Don’t hurt her. I’ll do anything you ask, just don’t hurt her.”
God, it was touching. If only he had a clue. “Mark, don’t,” she said. “It’ll be okay. I’m used to this.”
“Please,” Mark said, ignoring her.
“Okay,” the gunman said. Celia groaned to herself.
Still dragging her alongside, he inched over to Mark to make the switch. He wasn’t going to take chances, and he wasn’t going to take his gun off both of them. She sincerely hoped Mark didn’t have some kind of rough-and-tumble police kung-fu trick planned. She liked him, but she didn’t trust him to rescue her.
In one movement, the gunman shoved her away and trained his weapon at Mark, who held his hands up and stayed still. Celia hugged her shawl tight around her shoulders and met Mark’s gaze as the gunman grabbed his arm, pushed the gun to his neck, and hauled him away. He seemed calm and determined. Very heroic.