Rachel Morgan arrived promptly at 8:15 at the prestigious, uptown high-rise that housed her office. Exiting the Checker Cab, she thanked the driver and stepped onto the busy Wall Street sidewalk. People from all walks of life milled around her, not seeming to notice her; she blended in so well with her surroundings. Dressed for success in her designer suit and high heels, with briefcase in tow, she felt prepared for a day of high commerce. She heard the familiar whoosh of the revolving doors as she entered the lobby of the world's most successful trading company, Norton & Burns. In the last four years, she had been responsible for billions of dollars in trade and had the most influential clientele in North America and abroad. At this time, she could proudly state that she was the company's top trader. However, this could change at any time. The market is a fickle mistress; it could turn on a dime, as most traders were well aware. Unfortunately, her fiancé was one of them.

Poor Nick, he was having a string of bad luck lately. It seemed the more he failed to judge the market, the more risks he took. This had led to a string of bad investments. His company was not yet alarmed, but she knew that they would be soon. However, she was convinced that if anyone could turn it around, it was Nicholas Van Burin. He was intelligent, confident, funny and romantic, not to mention drop dead gorgeous. Everything a woman could ask for in a future husband. The Van Burins were all wealthy and well-respected members of society. It was hard to imagine what he saw in her. She had often wondered what drew him to her in the first place. She was neither gorgeous, nor wealthy.

She would admit to being attractive, but in a city of stunning blondes, she was easily overlooked. She could recall having drinks with friends at one of the many hot spots in Manhattan, when a man nearly walked right through her in order to get closer to her assistant, Samantha, treading on her foot without even noticing. Who could blame him? Samantha looked like a Scandinavian goddess: blonde, blue-eyed and tall. At five ten, she towered over Rachel by a good five inches. Rachel was petite even in a pair of two-inch heels; she barely reached the shoulders of her husband to be. She was neither a blonde nor a brunette. To her displeasure, her hair was auburn. Not the kind of auburn that was striking, but a color far too red to be considered attractive. It was also far too thick and wavy to do anything with it other than wear it down. When she fastened it back in the latest coiffure, her thick curls always seemed to be trying to escape her head, madly flying off in all directions. Her eyes however were her saving grace, often remarked upon as her best feature. They were a rich emerald green with flecks of gold around the iris. People often stared, and it took her a moment to realize that they were just distracted by the intensity of her eyes. Nick had remarked that once he had looked into her arresting eyes, he knew his days of being a bachelor were numbered.

This thought brought a smile to her face. Continuing to smile that knowing smile that people wear when they are madly in love, she entered the elevator and pushed the button for the top floor. The elevator doors closed as Max from security called out to her, but it was too late to respond as they had already shut firmly in his face. Never mind, she would phone him from her office and find out what he wanted.

This reminded her that she would have to phone Nick this afternoon about their honeymoon plans. They had discussed the Caribbean Islands. She just needed to clarify which island he would prefer. He'd been away on business again this weekend; gone to check out some new investment or other, but he was due back this morning. He'd been away a lot this winter, often gone for days at a time, and had been very secretive about it. When she asked him why he didn't discuss his business trips, he became very agitated and had snapped at her, saying that he could do his job without her input. She was shocked at his reaction. He'd never been short with her before, not in the entire two years they were together. He apologized quickly when he noticed that he had hurt her feelings, stating that he wanted to prove to her that he could get back on top without her assistance. She could understand that. As a man, and her future husband, he wanted to prove that he could fix the mess he was in without her having to bail him out. She hoped he was right. He would need to turn it around before Peters, his company VP, reviewed the quarterly reports. A worried frown crossed her face, causing a furrow between her brows as the elevator doors slowly opened on the floor where her office was located.

The doors opened, and the face of her personal assistant greeted her as soon as she entered the reception area. Samantha looked distressed as she rudely pushed her employer back into the elevator. Rachel cried out in disbelief and outrage as the doors of the elevator closed. "Samantha, what the hell are you doing?" she demanded incredulously as her elbow struck the back wall of the elevator, sending shock waves through her arm.

"Rachel, don't talk, just listen," Samantha said in hushed tones as if the walls were listening. "You have to get out of here. There are two men in your office right now, tearing it apart and looking for evidence of embezzlement."

"What are you talking about? Is this some kind of sick joke?" Rachel interrupted, her heart now racing.

"No, listen to me," Samantha continued insistently as if she had not been interrupted, "There are two FBI agents in your office, and the warrant for your arrest they flashed in front of my face did not look funny to me."

Rachel noticed tears hanging precariously from Samantha's lower lashes. This frightened her more than anything Samantha could have said; she was never one to show her emotions.

"This can't be happening," Rachel uttered in disbelief. "I would never do such a thing; you believe me don't you?" Rachel pleaded, a lump rising to her throat.

"Of course I do, why do you think I'm here?" Samantha said this as she pushed the button for the fifth floor. "You'll have to use the fire escape, security is on their way up as we speak, and I'm sure that all the exits are being watched." Samantha paused a moment, then continued, "Rachel, take this time to hire the best lawyer you can, because you're going to need it."

"But I didn't do anything! It's all just a big misunderstanding. I'll just go up to my office and straighten everything out. It'll be business as usual before you know it," Rachel said in a quivering voice, not quite believing it herself. The elevator jolted and came to a stop on the fifth floor.

"You're going if I have to drag you out of here myself," Samantha said as she pushed her out of the now open door. "Look, I have to get back before they miss me. They think I'm gone for coffee, and if I'm gone any longer it might raise the alarm. So just go, Rachel, please!" Samantha pleaded, as tears streamed down her face. They embraced each other as the doors began to close. Samantha said, "Good luck," and ducked back inside the elevator.

"Thank you," Rachel blurted out, and as the doors closed, she said in a trembling voice, "I love you Sam."

Rachel heard the muffled sobs through the closed door. Somehow Samantha managed to croak out, "I love you too, Rach."

Quickly, she did an about-face and briskly walked towards the fire escape door that led to the alley. Once on the fire escape, she took the steps two at a time, which was no small feat in her footwear, reaching the alley in record time.

As soon as her feet reached the curb, she swiftly hailed a cab.

When the cabby asked her, "Where to Miss?" she could not respond for a moment.

Where could she go? Certainly not back to her apartment, they might be waiting for her there. "Take me to Park Avenue," she responded.

Before she knew it, she had decided to run. And she knew exactly where she could hide. Maybe if she laid low at Nick's, she could figure all this out. He would help her, she was sure. He would hire the best lawyer – no, lawyers – and the best private investigators to assure her innocence. Having decided her next course of action, Rachel was able to relax. Resting her now pounding head against the backseat, she told herself everything would be all right. Nick would not let anything happen to her. Even if it required calling in the National Guard, he would do it without hesitation. She always felt safe with Nick. She presumed that was what she loved about him. His ability to make her feel like nothing could ever hurt her, not ever again.

Rachel leaned her forehead against the cool window of the taxicab, watching as objects sped past. She was immune to the sights and sounds of New York in springtime, sights that normally held her spellbound. She was jerked out of her reverie when her driver, in one fluid motion, maneuvered the cab into an impossibly narrow space. The cabby then made some sort of obscene gesture to the chorus of shouts and the blasts of car horns. To her relief, she found she was finally in front of Nick's Park Avenue loft. Feeling the adrenaline course through her veins, she quickly stomped down on her emotions. Get a hold of yourself; you can't let Nick see you like this. Exiting the cab, she straightened her shoulders, smoothed her suit, and then ran a shaky hand over her unruly hair.

Leaning in to pay the cab driver, she was unaware that he was looking her over suggestively. The wizened cabbie had a pulse and could appreciate womanly curves, a great set of legs, and lengths of rich curls that turned to burnished copper in the morning sun. Hair that a man could sink his hands into cascaded down her back to curve around a delicious bottom. Yup, she was a looker all right, with stunning features. Large eyes that sparkled like polished pieces of jade, a wide plump mouth, and the kind of creamy complexion that most New York women would kill for. The cab driver pulled away, whistling, shaking his head and uttering under his breath. "Yes siree that certainly is a nice little package I've just delivered."

Rachel turned resolutely. Taking a deep breath, she looked up at Nick's building, comprised of glass and steel. From the moment he first set eyes on it, he had loved this edifice of modern architecture. She, on the other hand, had not, preferring a place with history. The warmth of brick and wood, like the brownstone she lived in with its stoop on the street. Nick's loft with its sterile façade and sharp angles had always left her feeling cold and unwelcome. But not today, today it called to her, beckoning her in like a port in a storm.

She hurried to the glass door entrance and smiled at the familiar face of Nick's doorman as he swung the door wide open. Pete was in his early thirties, medium height and handsome, in a fresh-faced Midwest sort of way and Rachel had liked his open manner instantly. They had talked many times, much to the displeasure of her future husband. In fact, she remembered it had been the cause of their first fight, a blight on their otherwise perfect two-year relationship. She and Nick had been attempting to hail a cab to take them uptown to yet another stuffy cocktail party. Which she hated, and Nick always insisted they attend.

"Rach, you just can't go around having personal conversations with everyone," Nick had said with a pained expression. "For God's sake, he's here to open our doors. What would the neighbors think?"

Rachel had been mortified as she felt her old defenses and her natural quick temper rise. She had turned on him, with her cheeks flushed and her emerald eyes flashing. Jabbing her index finger into his chest, she had punctuated her every word with a sharp stab.

"Look Nick," she had said through gritted teeth, "just because he opens doors for a living doesn't mean he doesn't have a life. He's just as much a person as you or me, and he deserves our respect." Nick's eyes had widened as he was being forced to step back down the sidewalk with each militant jab. She was bewildered when he smiled in chagrin, and hugged her body, gone stiff with indignation, against his side.

"That's why I love you, Rach. I can always count on you to keep my feet on the ground, and put me in my place at the same time." He'd said this by way of an apology. She couldn't stay mad at him long; she never could resist his boyish charm and the way his dimples would peek out from his cheeks. After all, they had led different lives. He had grown up with everything, including someone to open his doors, while she had grown up with nothing and no one to open hers. Shaking herself back to the present, she smiled at the friendly doorman.

Pete returned her smile and said, "Good morning, Miss Morgan. It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"

"Good morning, Pete. How are Margaret and the kids?"

"They're great." Pete replied with a proud grin that lit up his whole face. "Going up to see Mr. Van Burin?"

"Yes, I am. Sorry no time to chitchat today Pete, I'm in a bit of a rush. Have a wonderful day."

"Thanks, Miss Morgan you too." Pete replied, as he tipped his hat and motioned her into the lobby.

She made her way through the air-conditioned foyer, her heels ringing on the marble floor leading to the elevators. Pushing the button, she waited impatiently for the doors to open. To be transported into the arms of the man she loved. When the doors opened, she stepped inside and pushed the button for the top floor. She felt the pull of the elevator on her already knotted stomach as it ascended. As soon as the doors opened, she launched herself out into the deserted hallway.

As she walked down the corridor towards Nick's apartment, she admonished herself for her urge to go barging in, stammering and sputtering like the scared kid she had once been. But hell, she was scared; it was hard not to let the past creep up on her and overwhelm the woman she had become. She found her steps quickening of their own accord, her heels ringing a staccato on the parquet flooring. "Stop it Rachel, just stop it, that's all behind you now." She reminded herself of how she had fought and clawed her way to the life she had created. Reaching in her purse, she fished out her spare key. Pausing, she took a deep breath and let relief course through her body. She could almost feel Nick's arms enfolding her, his hands caressing her hair and back, soothing her tension and chasing away her fears. He would tell her everything would be all right. That the FBI was mistaken, and that they would clear up this misunderstanding together. And when they did, they would both resume their normal lives.

Inserting the key and turning the lock, she called out as she entered, "Nick babe, it's me. We need to..." The words froze on her lips as she took in the sight before her. Momentarily bewildered, she thought she must have made some sort of mistake. Maybe she'd gotten off on the wrong floor in her distress. She looked down at the key in her hand, willing it to be the wrong one. No, this was the right key and this was his apartment. But, it was empty. The stark white walls and white shag carpet reflected the emptiness in her heart. She stumbled into the vacant apartment, slamming the door behind her. The sound echoed off the bare walls.

What was going on? Where was Nick? Rachel reeled as she tried to make sense of what was happening. She pulled out her cell phone, dialing his number with fingers that had gone cold, straining to see through eyes that burned. It rang once, twice, three times. Rachel heard a click. She opened her mouth to ask, "Nick what the hell is going on..."

That's when she heard it, a pre-canned monotone voice informing her, "The number you have dialed is no longer in service." The phone dropped from her now slack fingertips, coming to rest with a dull thud on the shag carpet.

He was gone. Why? Then it hit and it hit her hard. With her mouth gaping open, her legs wobbling and her knees buckling, Rachel sank to the floor. Tucking her knees under her chin, she hugged them tightly against herself and rocked. Hot tears spilled from her lashes, and began to course down her face, leaving salty trails on her cheeks.

"No, Nick, not Nick!" she sobbed, her voice a coarse whisper. It came to her in flashes. She recollected the many times that she had entered her office to encounter him lounging comfortably in the chair behind her desk. He would often say he had come to surprise her and take her out to lunch, and because he was impulsive by nature, she had never questioned his presence.

She could also recall the time at her apartment when she had woken to find him gone from her bed. Getting up with the intention of luring him back to bed, she had tiptoed down the hall with a wide grin on her face, anticipating her role as seductress. That smile had been wiped from her face when she found him rooting through her briefcase. She'd confronted him, told him that she had private client files in there, and asked him what he thought he was doing rummaging around in her briefcase.

He had gotten mad, then hurt. Appalled at her lack of trust, he had asked her incredulously what in the hell she thought she was doing. He had stated in a dejected tone that he had only been rooting through her briefcase to find a pen and paper to leave her a note, because he had an early meeting in the morning. It irked her to remember how she had apologized over and over again that night, begging for his forgiveness. Rachel heard her hoarse bitter laugh ring off the empty walls of Nick's abandoned apartment. Oh, and let's not forget his constant interest in her latest clients. To think she had actually congratulated herself on finding a man who was eager to hear about the job she loved.

And what about all the weekend business trips he had taken in the last six months – supposed business trips. She had been so excited for him; his boss finally trusted him with the responsibility of drumming up new clientele. She had thought his luck was finally changing. Thoughts ran through her head at breakneck speed. How had he discovered her company security code? How had he figured it out that she had used the name of the only person who had ever truly loved her unconditionally as her access code? She had shared her most painful memory of loss with him, one she had never shared with another, and he had used it to frame her.

Needing to regain her equilibrium, Rachel willed her shocked mind to function normally, pressing the heels of her palms hard against her eyes to stem the flow of tears. Never again would she cry for that rat bastard. She felt it then: her old mantle of resolve. She put it on, slipping it over her like a familiar coat.

Balling her fists, she hoisted herself up off the floor on legs that felt like jelly. Her dire circumstances forced her to take stock of her surroundings. The loft looked like it had been cleared out in a hurry, but she noticed for the first time that it was not completely empty: books and magazines were strewn haphazardly across the floor, the kitchen counters still held evidence of some forgotten meal, and the waste paper basket and garbage were still present. She noted with distaste that the cleaning lady had not been here, judging from the pungent odor wafting from the kitchen. She recalled that Maria was not scheduled to come until tomorrow. Nick had arranged that she come in on Tuesdays, so that in case of a long weekend, they could lie in bed till noon, never having to worry about being disturbed. Wasn't he just so very thoughtful? She snorted and rolled her eyes in disgust.

Rachel began moving through the loft, looking in every direction, picking through the remains, turning the books and magazines over and shaking out their pages. She was looking for some evidence to link him to the frauds he had committed in her name. To implicate him in the nefarious doings at her office or something that might indicate where he had gone. She made quick work of the search in the living room. Finding nothing, she decided it was time to move on.

She entered the kitchen, rummaging through the drawers and throwing open the cupboards. Finding nothing of consequence, she made her way to the sink and opened the cupboard beneath it. She removed the garbage can, tipping it over and letting the contents spill out across Nick's limestone floor, not caring if the coffee grounds left a stain. Crouching down, she began to pick through his leavings.

Thank God, Nick didn't normally eat in. She didn't think her emotionally raw stomach could take much more. Riffling through the refuse, she read every receipt. She had just about given up when she noticed a matchbook, hidden beneath a discarded orange rind. Quickly, she snatched it up, brushing off the grounds that smeared its surface. It was just a run-of-the-mill matchbook, advertising a riverboat casino. The cover depicted a boat, its decks elegantly illuminated in soft white lights as it drifted leisurely down a moonlit river. Missouri Queen Casino was written in gilded letters on the front. It was no doubt a memento from one of his recent business trips. She couldn't say exactly why she felt it held any significance, but she did. Quickly pocketing the matchbook, she moved on, her nerves screaming at her to hurry.

There wasn't much time. The FBI would surely know Nick was her fiancé. His apartment would be one of the first places they would look. Her only hope was that Nick might have gotten careless in his haste. She prayed that he had left something behind, some sort of evidence that would prove her innocence. After all, no one would believe her without proof. Her life had not been a lily-white one. She noted with irony that he had picked the perfect patsy to set up. Anger spurred her into action.

Rachel raced upstairs and entered the bedroom. She emptied out the wastebasket and searched the closets, frantically running her hands along the shelf that lay atop the rod, but finding only neglect as her hands came free caked in dust. The closet was devoid of everything except naked hangers. They jingled merrily, mocking her black mood.

Moving into the en-suite bathroom, she was immediately confronted with the sight of its large Jacuzzi tub and walk-in shower. Rachel felt a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach as she was assaulted with the memories of Nick and her. The romantic evening they had spent in that very tub. Nick had drawn a bubble bath for her, using most of the bottle. The bubbles had cascaded over the side. She had said incredulously: "Nick, you hate baths!"

His only reply had been, "True, but I love you." She had laughed as he threw her in with all her clothes on. Nick had spent the rest of the evening smelling strongly of Lily of the Valley.

Fresh trails of pain raked though her at the memories of making love in that very shower. How the steam had risen to meet their desire-slicked bodies. She could almost hear the ghostly whispers of their sated sighs echoing off the granite walls.

"Oh God!" she groaned. Wrapping her arms protectively around her quivering stomach, she was stricken by a sickening thought. Had he been using her all along? Had he ever really loved her? Rachel could control it no longer, her stomach roiled. Tasting the bitter metallic sting of bile in the back of her throat, she threw herself down on the toilet, retching until her stomach had nothing left to give. Raising herself up off the cold floor, she ran a shaky hand across her face. Walking over to the sink to rinse her mouth and splash cold water on her sallow cheeks, she looked up in abject horror to find a barely recognizable face confronting her in the mirror. Who was that woman peering back at her? If the question had been asked this morning, she would have responded that it was a woman with the world by the tail, but now she couldn't say. How quickly things could change. Blocking out her haunted image, she turned and left the room with a shudder.

Turning right, Rachel entered the nook that had housed Nick's home office. She quickened her pace and threw open the folded glass doors of the closet where he had kept his files. She entered the closet, running her hands across the upper shelf. Standing on the tips of her toes, she craned to see its barren surface. She was crestfallen. Nothing. She had found nothing but a ridiculous matchbook. She was just about to leave when she noticed something wadded up in the corner of the second shelf.

Rachel's palms began to sweat. Her heart started to beat out a stupefying rhythm in her chest as she moved in for a closer look. Yes, there it was, wedged in the corner. It had fallen behind the shelf and was now lodged between it and the wall. She reached over to grasp the object, wiggling it ever so gently, managing to pry it lose. It was a crumpled piece of paper. Please let it be a printout of one of her accounts. She smoothed out its wrinkled surface with trembling fingers, only to find a parking receipt for the Kansas City Marina. Pushing down her disappointment, she quickly pocketed her newly found treasure. That was it, an innocuous parking receipt and a discarded matchbook were all that she had found. Whether either item would eventually prove her innocent remained to be seen.

The one thing she was certain of was that she had to get out of Nick's apartment. She knew intrinsically that her time of freedom was finite; the window of opportunity for escape was closing. She would run. She knew how to run. But before she did, she would need to get to one of the many Internet cafés surrounding Central Park to search for pertinent information about the Missouri Queen. Information she hoped she could use to her advantage.

Rachel took one last look around the place that would have been her home. She let her fury give her the purpose she needed to move towards her uncertain future. With a strength she didn't even know she possessed, she strode towards the door of Nick's apartment, throwing it open, and slammed it behind her with such force that it shook on its hinges. Closing the door to what had been and what might have been. She felt the slow burn of anger as she traveled down the elevator. It seeped through her, filling the empty spots inside, and she welcomed it.

How could he do this to her? The elevator's classical music provided a perfect backdrop to her ominous mood. Clenching her fists she swore to the empty air, "You bastard, I'm going to find you. I will wring the truth out of you and right the wrongs that you've committed, if it is the last thing I ever do. I will never trust again." She noted with irony that it was he who had taught her to trust again, he who had convinced her that to let someone in didn't always lead to betrayal, and it was he who would pay for his treachery. She would hunt him down. She would make him pay. No matter what it took!

Once on the ground floor, she made her way through the lobby and hurried past Pete. His friendly expression changed to one of surprise as she ran past. She promptly turned west and began to make her way through the throng of people on the sidewalk. It was late morning and the sidewalk was crowded. A multitude of office personnel spilled from buildings on either side of the street, all in search of an early lunch. She matched her stride to their driven pace. Scanning the shops, she paid close attention to the neighborhood she had become familiar with. Hadn't she and Nick frequented these local shops during their many Saturday morning strolls? Yes, she remembered the place. An Internet café was located two blocks down on the corner of 5th Ave. They had spent a rainy afternoon cuddled up on a trendy sofa, each engrossed in a book.

As she approached the building, she reminded herself to look just like any other customer. She opened the door, immediately noticing the row of computers that lined the far wall. There were many screens blinking pale light on the faces of the entranced users. To her relief, no one looked up as she entered. Rachel was secretly glad of that, because the less she was noticed, the better. She moved into the line of patrons and imitated the bored mannerisms of the other customers that waited impatiently to be served.

Ordering her coffee, she made her way to one of the many computer ports, sat down and placed it aside. Staring at the beverage, she shuddered with revulsion, knowing without a doubt that she wouldn't be able to force even a tiny swallow past her raw throat. She fished the matchbook out of her suit pocket. Typing Missouri Queen Casino into the search engine, she pressed Enter, and the following options appeared: make reservations; scan high priced gaming, casino owner biography.

She clicked on the latter and found a biographic excerpt from a magazine entitled Kansas City Success. Rachel perused the article, scanning it for pertinent information:

37-year-old Darren Malcolm Mc Quinn is a multimillionaire, an entrepreneur and one of Kansas City's most eligible bachelors. Mr. Mc Quinn is the sole owner of the Missouri Queen Casino.

The Missouri Queen is a 19th century paddleboat refurbished to blend the old with the new. The Casino offers: high-stakes gambling, haute cuisine dining, and live entertainment to a small number of elite clientele. This luxurious excursion leaves nightly from the Kansas City pier.

"Mr. Mc Quinn, not only are you the owner of this magnificent boat, but you have many investments, both nationally and internationally. How do you find the time to oversee all of your many holdings: in real-estate, horse racing, your investment in a NASCAR Team – one car in which I believe is driven by your sister Josephine Mc Quinn, a national celebrity in her own right – as well as this casino?"

"Well, Miss Fairbanks, I consider this my flagship. I control all of my investments from the Missouri Queen. It's not just the home base of all my business holdings, but also my home.

"Mr. Mc Quinn, with so much work, how do you manage to separate your business life from your personal life, let alone have one?"

"That's easy Virginia; I don't separate them. Business and life are like a game of poker. Poker teaches you how to take chances while watching all the angles ...so too does life; it also helps if you never sleep."

To all my female readers, I don't mind saying that the sexy slow smile and deep chuckle he gave when he made this comment had this hardened reporter's pulse jumping. Yes ladies, he is single!

"Mr. Mc Quinn, here at 'Success' we ask the question on everyone's mind. To what do you attribute your success?"

"I owe all that I have achieved to my grandparents, Judge Bill Mc Quinn and Dr. Maggie Mc Quinn. My Grandfather still lives in our family home. Unfortunately, my grandmother didn't live to see my success, as she passed away four years ago, but I know she would have been proud to have seen me giving something back to the city.

"My Grandparents took my brother, sister and myself in and raised us here in Kansas City after our parents' death twenty-five years ago. They are the strongest, most loving people I have ever known. I live by their motto, 'Do what you love, follow your heart, and you'll never have to lie to yourself about who you really are at the end of the day.'"

The article ended there. Rachel took a deep breath. What did this mean? Why would Nick be taking trips to a riverboat casino in Missouri? She began to let her mathematical mind sort through the parameters, putting two and two together to make four – Nick and a millionaire casino owner. Nick, who had embezzled money from her company, was associating with a casino owner who had a great deal of money on hand. Money that was won or lost, that moved quickly, and that was needed to cover patrons' winnings. An astronomical amount of money changed hands on a daily basis, enough money to cover the tracks of a no good ex-fiancé and embezzler. Rachel's brain clicked and she began to panic.

Oh my God! Nick and this so-called self-made multi-millionaire – most likely Mafia mobsters – were partners? That scum must be heading to the casino to launder the money. After all, who could track exactly how much money was won or lost on any given day? He would exchange the marked bills for unmarked house winnings. A cold feeling sank into the pit of her stomach. She knew without a doubt that if he got there before her and succeeded in laundering the money, there would be nothing to stop him from leaving the country. Nothing to prevent her from taking the fall, and she would very likely spend the rest of her life in prison.

Fear of that outcome cleared her befuddled brain, and she began to formulate a plan. Pausing uncomfortably with the idea of having to involve an innocent person in the illicit actions of another, she came to terms with the fact that there was no other way. She uttered inaudibly to herself, "I have to prove my innocence. I have to get on that boat in order to accomplish that goal-no matter who stands in my way."

She exited the café. Outside, the sun positioned directly overhead told her that it was midday. Promptly, she entered the adjacent store. Its front windows displayed casual wear for the typical college student. She purchased: a cap, a pair of jeans, an oversized backpack and a sweatshirt with the insignia of NYU in bold black letters across the front. Wrapping her Donna Karen suit around her briefcase, she stuffed them unceremoniously into the oversized backpack. Dressed in her newly-acquired purchases, she exited the store a new woman, appearing to the world as a fresh-faced college student. Pulling her "I love New York" ball cap low over her eyes, she hailed a cab,

"Where to, kid?" the cabby grunted.

"Grand Central Station, and hurry!"

Once in the cab, she took stock of what she had. Riffling through her purse, she pulled out the thousand dollars she had brought to work to give to her flamboyant So-Ho wedding planner. She was reminded of their conversation when she had hired him; she had chased him from shop to shop while he spoke to her in rapid fire. "I have been short-changed too many times to risk it again. It is my opinion that the more money they have, the less likely they want to part with it. For this reason, I deal only in cash, like it or not."

Oh, she liked it all right. If Miguel had not insisted on this cash-only policy, she would not have this kind of money on hand, and her plan would have been doomed to fail. She would purchase a locker at the station, depositing her credit cards and identification. The FBI would undoubtedly be able to track her if she used them. A thousand dollars was all she had to her name, but at least she had that.

Rachel entered a bus bound for the Midwest. Taking a window seat at the far end of the bus, she promptly placed her backpack on the seat beside her. She didn't care for company at the moment. Resting her head against the window, she stared off into space. When a young man asked her if the seat was taken, she replied, "Why yes it is, my bag's quite comfortable there. Thanks for asking." She dismissed his presence as she turned to look out the window once more, while knowing he must think her the rudest woman alive.

As he walked away, she heard him mutter under his breath, "New Yorkers," as if this was explanation enough for her rudeness. She was unrepentant. She couldn't face making idle conversation with a stranger at the moment. What she wanted more than anything was to be alone.

And she was alone, wasn't she? Just when she had thought that she would never be alone again. That she would have someone in her life that loved her and would love her until the day she died. She snorted sardonically. Her romance hadn't been a fairytale; it had been a farce. She had dreamed of a wonderful future. Those dreams had included Nick. She could see her future plans slowly fading away – their wedding day, their honeymoon, their years together as a newly married couple, and eventually the children they may have had. She would have been a wonderful parent. She would have given her children something she had never had: love. More importantly, a parent that would think of her child first, not go flying off for a second honeymoon. If only her parents hadn't gone. Rachel would have had someone to care for her. She wouldn't have had to grow up alone. Now, just when she had thought she would never have to be alone again, she'd been betrayed. Why this shocked her, she could not fathom.

Rachel was no stranger to betrayal...

Thanks for reading. I hope you like the video. I produced it many years ago.  I'm such an amateur that I hope you don't find it laughable. Hugs.