Katia's Promise. Catherine Lanigan

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       CHAPTER TWELVE

       CHAPTER THIRTEEN

       CHAPTER FOURTEEN

       CHAPTER FIFTEEN

       CHAPTER SIXTEEN

       CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

       CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

       CHAPTER NINETEEN

       CHAPTER TWENTY

       CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

       CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

       CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

       Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

      GOLDEN AND BRONZE autumn sunset beams shot through the wooden slats on Katia’s high-rise apartment windows. She padded across the beige carpet in bare feet, rushing from the bathroom to the bedroom. She was late for her own party.

      She’d spiraled a navy towel around her hair, then spritzed herself with jasmine-and-almond-scented body spray. Now, standing in front of her closet, she pulled out the black silk and lace sheath dress she’d recently bought at her favorite resale shop on the far North Side. The dress had obviously never been worn. Like most of the dresses at Sonja’s Secrets, this one had probably belonged to an affluent woman from Wilmette or Kenilworth who shopped out of boredom and not need. Katia hadn’t had time to be bored since she was very young. Ten years ago, she was too busy building her résumé and her reputation in the insurance business to shop, go to the movies or do anything other than work. Then she’d turned thirty, landed a job at Carter and Associates with Jack Carter, and in her four years there, she’d become a manager. She’d won confidence and approval.

      She was on top of the world.

      Katia zipped up the dress and turned to check herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. She smiled. The dress fit like a dream and showed off her slender figure, and the well-placed darts accentuated her waist. Katia only had two rules when it came to diet and exercise: no French fries, and she walked the twenty-one blocks to and from work every day. Life already had enough rules to follow, she thought.

      Katia unfurled the towel and shook out her messy mane of coppery hair. She quickly applied black eyeliner to make the dark green of her eyes pop. She swooped on blusher and then uncapped a brand-new flame-red lipstick. The salesgirl at Macy’s had claimed it was such a powerful red, it would change her life.

      Just then, Katia smelled something burning in the kitchen. The turnovers!

      Tossing the lipstick onto her dresser, Katia raced, still barefoot, into the kitchen. The timer was chirping, and there was a thin stream of brown smoke coming from the oven. Using an orange pumpkin-shaped pot holder, she opened the oven and pulled out the cookie sheet of feta cheese, spinach and bacon phyllo dough appetizers.

      Katia looked over the tray of golden crisp finger foods. Only one victim. I’m saved, she thought.

      As she turned off the oven, the intercom rang. It was Joey, the doorman. “Miss Stanislaus. Your guests are arriving. In droves, I might add. Should I send them up?”

      “Yes, Joey. Thanks.”

      Katia hung up and quickly moved the hot appetizers onto a tiered serving stand. She took the stand into the dining nook, placed it strategically on the table and surveyed her work.

      Katia’s apartment was small, but it had a large enough dining and living area that she could comfortably host small parties, like the engagement party she was throwing tonight for her coworker Tina and her fiancé, Allen. The kitchen was minuscule, but since Katia didn’t cook—except for when she had company—she didn’t mind. The bathroom was more of an alcove than a room, and the only saving grace in her bedroom was the walk-in closet, which housed the bounty of her bargain-hunting addiction.

      The building had been constructed in the late 1950s and wasn’t very aesthetically pleasing. What it had going for it was great access to her work, security and a massive window that looked out over Chicago. Many was the night that Katia lived to see the lights glittering beneath her, as if she was walking on stars.

      Katia smoothed the white cotton tablecloth she’d bought at an outlet store—yet another great bargain—and straightened the fruit platter of grapes, pears, melon wrapped in prosciutto, pineapple chunks speared with maraschino cherries, apples for dipping in caramel sauce and twin mounds of strawberries with chocolate fudge. She’d displayed an array of specialty cheeses on a slab of rough-edged marble she’d found at a granite and marble boneyard. She had four kinds of crackers and three bread selections.

      She crossed to the antique marble-topped buffet on the wall next to the boring, mantel-less fireplace. This was the most important element of all—the bar.

      Recently, Katia had discovered Crenshaw Vineyards while passing through her hometown, Indian Lake, on a business trip. She’d gone back four times, and now her wine rack and portable wine cooler were stocked with some of the best wines Katia had ever tasted. Katia had bought discount wineglasses and garage sale decanters, and she’d trawled eBay for the best deals on bar paraphernalia. But she never scrimped on the food and wine that she served to her guests.

      Katia loved giving parties, and though she couldn’t afford florists, live music, caterers or even a bartender, she enjoyed making holidays and special events even more exceptional for her friends and coworkers. She wanted them to have happy memories.

      “I want them to remember me,” Katia murmured as the doorbell rang.

      Putting her hand on the doorknob, Katia scanned the room one more time. She couldn’t remember if she’d dusted the glass shelf in the bathroom or if she’d lit the scented candle in the kitchen.

      There was a knock.

      It was too late now for a last-minute check. Katia felt her heart pound ever so slightly, as it always did before an important meeting or a special event, then she whisked open the door.

      “Hi, guys!” She beamed at Tina Goodman, her assistant at Carter and Associates, and Allen Hampton, the football coach for St. Michael’s High School. “If it isn’t the bride and groom!” The second the words were out of her mouth, Katia realized she still wasn’t wearing any shoes. She’d been so immersed in the food and decor, she’d forgotten to finish dressing. It wasn’t like her to be so scatterbrained, but she’d been noticing herself slipping up more often lately.

      Allen—lean, blond and California handsome—kissed Katia’s cheek. “You look gorgeous, as always,” he said, winking at Tina and pulling her close with a possessive arm.

      Katia smiled demurely. “But not as beautiful as the bride.” She squeezed Tina’s hand.

      “Very