Lime Ricky (Romantic Suspense)

by Jill Winters

  Annoyance coiled in her gut. What the hell! He'd done it to her again—sucked her in, then become aloof, disinterested. Just like that. More proof that she needed to stay away from him. Yes, he turned her on—but he seemed to compel her to embarrassment at every turn.

  Whatever. She'd go find Brett, who might be a phony, but after living in California for three years, at least phony was something she understood.

  Chapter 12

  Regrettably, it flopped. When Gretchen found Brett he was sitting low in an armchair, but the omnipresent orange-haired girl standing beside it had been blocking Gretchen's view. So that was where Susanna had been motioning with her eyes. Just as Gretchen approached him, he stood to go work the room again. Quickly, she tapped him on the arm to get his attention. He turned and instantly flashed his winning smile. "Hey, Gretchen, you having fun?"

  "Yes, definitely. Thanks again for inviting me—oh, and happy birthday."

  "Thanks, thanks," he said, glancing over her shoulder, as though scanning the room for any interesting happenings other than her.

  "Brett, who's this?" the girl said, coming closer and taking notice of Gretchen.

  "Oh. Ellie, this is Gretchen. She works on Susanna's show. Gretchen, Ellie," he said.

  "Hi," Gretchen said amiably, getting a closer look at the woman who'd danced sporadically and distantly in her line of vision all night. She was tall, about five-seven, and slender; her hair was long and curly a la early Nicole Kidman. She had that freshly scrubbed, freckled look of youth that set her at about twenty-five or twenty-six. She wore light blue jeans and a white turtleneck sweater.

  "Ellie Galistette," the woman said, giving her full name with a pleasant smile and a brief handshake. "Susanna's one of our favorites. It's great to have you on our team."

  Quizzically, Gretchen tilted her head. "What do you mean?"

  "Susanna is one of our clients," she explained. "At the Allbright Agency."

  "Ellie is Misty's assistant," Brett explained, just as Ellie jumped' in. "Apprentice, actually. I'm sure Susanna's mentioned me; I help her out whenever she has an issue that needs dealing with and Misty's unavailable."

  "Sure, yes, sounds familiar," Gretchen lied, because in the various pontifications and/or diatribes Gretchen could recall, Susanna had never mentioned Ellie. It seemed she relied totally on Misty. Speaking of Misty...

  Gretchen just remembered what Susanna had told her in the limo—that Misty had been hot and heavy with Abe Santasierra until he'd broken it off with her a couple of months ago, and how they'd both be here tonight...

  Briefly, Gretchen glanced around the room, but she didn't see Misty anywhere. She hadn't seen her all night. Could she have skipped the party altogether to avoid seeing Abe? Maybe the breakup was still a sore subject.

  "Listen, Brett, I—"

  "Excuse us," he said, still smiling. He genuinely didn't seem to realize that Gretchen was trying to talk to him. "Help yourself to another drink, or some food," he added with a wink that was more ostentatious than his usual, and led Ellie Galistette through the crowd with his palm flattened on her lower back.

  He hadn't been gone two seconds before Gretchen felt Susanna's breath on her neck and her fingers close around her upper arm. "Well?" she said expectantly as Gretchen's face turned to make eye contact; Susanna's expression was eager, her eyes wide with hope. "So? Don't keep me in suspense? What did he say? Did he go for it?"

  Jeez. If desperation were fabric, Susanna would be wearing a tweed-burlap blend right now. "To be honest, I didn't have a chance to ask him," Gretchen told her.

  With a melodramatic sigh, Susanna slumped a little into Gretchen's shoulder. Then she patted her arm and said, "Well, okay... at least you have all weekend."

  * * *

  Later that night Susanna introduced Gretchen to Ray Jarian—whom you had to admire for being able to hold his head high at a party full of TCN people, so soon after TCN had given him the ax. She recognized him right away. He was tall and lanky with silvery hair and a grayish-white mustache. He wore a cowboy hat and cowboy shirt (well, it was a checked pattern and Western looking, so it was at the very least a square-dancing shirt). There he stood, the Tex-Mex Teddy in the flesh.

  Before Susanna had waved him over, she'd whispered to Gretchen, "Now there's Ray—listen, when you talk to him, just make sure you don't bring up how badly his life's going these days."

  "Got it."

  Now as Susanna chatted with Ray, Gretchen stood in their circle of three, noticing the little details. Like the glob of wasabi on Ray's tie; it was one of those brown twist-tie ribbons that looked terribly old-fashioned. His hands were tough and weathered, which could be a combination of hot sun and hard living—or maybe it was all the limes he had to squeeze for his southwestern cuisine.

  "Well, I know Gretchen and I will definitely miss your show," Susanna was saying now, jarring Gretchen back into focus. Huh? What happened to not mentioning Ray's failures?

  He faltered for just a second, then tipped his hat, eyeing Gretchen. "Why thank ya, kind lady. I surely do take that as the grandest a' compliments. And, ah, I hope I ain't talkin' outta school here, but..." He winked at Gretchen then. (Gee, was it her? She seemed to be a wink magnet these days.) "Ya sure got yerself a purty assistant here, Suz. Purtier than a sunset over Albuquerque." Holding up his hands, he added, "No disrespect, a'course. Just that an old cowboy like me's bound to notice. After all, may've roped a lotta steer in my day, but I ain't dead yet!" He let out a hearty chuckle as he arched his neck back and took a swig of his drink. He wasn't drinking one of Brett's toddies but a glass full of amber liquid. It looked like flattened cream soda, but Gretchen had to assume it was actually bourbon or whiskey or whatever cowboys drank.

  Meanwhile Gretchen was totally taken off guard by the rest. That part about roping steers—was Ray being serious? She honestly didn't know; in fact, it just occurred to Gretchen that she really had no idea about Ray Jarian's background before coming to TCN. She knew a bit about all of the chefs on the network, except for him. She hadn't noticed his professional bio up on the wall at work along with the other celebrities and hosts. Casually she wondered: What had Ray been doing before he'd abandoned his chuck wagon and headed up north?

  "Come up to the mountains often?" Ray asked. Both Susanna and Gretchen said no. "Sure is purty, but dang it, the powder here's thicker than clover honey on a stack'a huckleberry flapjacks."

  "Yes... that's true," Gretchen agreed with a smile. Eccentricity aside, she respected the fact that Ray's affable demeanor hadn't been thwarted by Susanna's remark about his cancelled show.

  As though picking up on the same imperviousness, Susanna spoke again. Apparently she was determined to get a reaction. "So Ray, tell me: how have you been holding up? It just breaks my heart about your show. And what with your restaurant—and your cookbooks being out of print..." She paused dramatically. Shook her head. Then she reached over to tap his hand sympathetically, and started dragging her voice out, as if talking to a very slow child. "I know it's been hard on you. If there's anything I can do, I'll try my best." Gretchen nearly winced at her boss's phoniness. She didn't have to know Susanna well to see that she didn't mean a word.

  Still, Ray didn't damper. "Well, I tell ya, Suz, I been grand. Been spending a lotta time in Tennessee. Ever been to Tennessee?" He was looking at Gretchen. She shook her head. "Ah, great country out there," he remarked, bringing his glass up in a "cheers" motion, which sloshed some liquid over the rim. Wait, was he tipsy? (Good, then it wasn't just her.) "But then why shouldn't I be grand?" he continued. "The world keeps on a'spinnin' and about as quick as a jackrabbit with a stolen carrot at a picnic lunch."

  "Right, right," Susanna said, nodding, "but without your restaurant to fall back on, I can't imagine it's been easy." She gave his hand another tap, the gesture brittle with false emotion. "If you ever need to talk..."

  Then, what? She'd give him the number of the nearest suicide hotline? At this point, Gretchen was honestly afra
id of what Susanna would say next. It almost seemed as though she needed to humble those around her to assert her own superiority. And the question was: Who was she really trying to convince?

  Ray shrugged. "Can't do much 'bout it now. Just gotta keep on goin'—like a merry-go-round in a windstorm. Just gotta pick up your saddlebags and move on, I guess."

  Gretchen almost laughed. Ray's statement could be taken two ways; either that he would be moving on—or the hidden meaning that Susanna should pick up her saddlebags, figuratively speaking, and move on to her next victim. Ha! It was too funny—had Susanna caught it?

  "Well, are you gonna try to write a new book, or just put that aside for a while?" Susanna probed, furrowing her brows with pity (and thereby answering Gretchen's question).

  Ray shrugged and hitched up his belt. A flash drew Gretchen's eyes toward the shiny gold plate of the buckle. "Who knows? Right now I'm 'bout as free as a turkey in July."

  Okay, she didn't even get that one.

  "So how about some skiing!"

  It was Brett, standing on one of his ottoman squares in the middle of the room. People cheered at the suggestion. "Everyone, you know the drill—extra skis, jackets, and equipment are in the closet by the terrace." At that, he pointed toward the opposite side of the floor, where there were two sets of French glass doors. Apparently the back and side of Brett's house were vast and hilly and basically served as Brett's own private mountain.

  "There's a hot chocolate bar set up outside, too, so even if you're not skiing, go outside and enjoy. Unfortunately, no snowboards this year because of what happened last year." The whole room chuckled. "And as far as the chairlift goes, let's keep it G—rated up there this year." Everyone erupted with laughter again, including Susanna, while Gretchen felt a bit like the oddball.

  Within minutes, people were swishing in their coats, clunking in their boots, diving into the cacophony of skis and poles, while others darted to the guest rooms on the third floor to change into their own gear. She saw Juan Mirando throw a shiny black parka over his I'M A BUTT MAN (PORK BUTT, THAT IS) sweatshirt. (God, did he have that hideousness embossed on every garment he owned?)

  More coats, boots, skis clattering, and laughter. Then there was a mass exodus through the French doors, onto the snow-covered terrace and into the wintry, blue-black night.

  Soon the house was quiet.

  Where had Susanna gone? Gretchen had fully expected to be called upon to help her boss into her designer snowsuit, to zip it up for her, to fit her boots on, but Susanna had shocked her by apparently slipping off to her guest room and doing it herself. Maybe she was private about changing—who knew?—but Gretchen wasn't going to question it.

  And speaking of guest rooms, Susanna had mentioned on the ride over that she'd asked Brett to put them in adjacent rooms. Honestly, Gretchen felt a little strange about staying over at Brett's house because she barely knew him, and apparently only a handful of people got to stay at the house; the rest were staying down the street at the Brass Lion Inn. But still, she was grateful—she just hoped there was no "catch," like having to massage Susanna's feet before bed or assuage any four A.M. anxiety attacks with a cool cloth and a pep talk.

  It seemed like the only people left inside now were Gretchen and the bartender, who was cleaning up. If she thought Brett's second floor was airy and spacious before, now it was positively huge. And too airy, she noted, as the clinking of the glassware seemed to echo, reminding her that she was alone. Walking over to the French doors that were now closed, she thought for just a moment before turning to the adjacent coat closet and reaching for one of the extra jackets Brett had mentioned.

  As soon as she pulled on the brass handle, the door flew open and she jumped back. Ice-cold wind smacked her in the face. It made her eyes water, swished through her ears, and sent shivers down her spine—even as it urged her closer.

  * * *

  Gretchen had walked partway down the mountain, sticking close to the dense thicket of towering evergreens that sealed in the whole property. She'd gotten tired of walking aimlessly, though, so she'd doubled back, changing her plan of action. No, she wasn't about to ski; she wasn't that stupid. She'd blown out her knee five years ago skiing in Minnesota, twisting her leg in a way that seemed inconceivable. Worst pain she'd ever experienced, and hopefully ever would experience—unless she had kids, of course, but that seemed a long time off.

  Hot chocolate. That's what she'd do. She walked up the last incline, past the terrace, up to the hot-chocolate bar on her left. The bar was really just a long table, shielded from the snow by a wide freestanding umbrella awning. A couple of urns sat on the table with steam visibly shooting off their tops and up toward the clouds and their cords meandering over toward a shed about twenty feet away, intermittently disappearing in the snow. One portable outdoor light rose up from the ground on a tall metal spike. Beside the urns were two tall stacks of paper cups.

  No one was at the hot-chocolate bar now; they were all skiing and celebrating far down the hill. Gretchen wondered what the difference was between the two urns before taking a paper cup and filling it from the urn to her left. Then she headed toward that shed, the one that overlooked all the activity on the mountain. She'd go over there, relax, and just take in the scenery.

  On her way over, she took a long drink to warm herself up—whoa. So that was the difference between the urns. One was spiked, and it was obviously the one to the left. She knew she should probably dump it out right now, because she still hadn't eaten dinner and she'd had the two hot toddies before, but... oh, why not? The burn in her throat felt really good, especially when it melted into her chest, slid fluidly to her arms and legs. She took another drink, feeling warmer by the second, as her feet climbed over the snow, around the side of the shed. Breathing a heady sigh, she had the saturating sensation of utter, boneless relaxation. Just as she climbed around the side of the shed, some blustering flurries blew up with the wind and rushed in a scattered frenzy across her face. Only after her vision cleared did she spot a man she knew standing about five feet away. He was leaning against the shed, facing out, getting a bird's—eye view of the mountain, just as she had planned to do.

  It was Rick. She froze in place, not wanting to take a step closer to him, not wanting him to notice her. Strange. Why was he standing alone in the dark? Why wasn't he skiing with everyone else? Then Gretchen realized: She was alone and not skiing, too, and hey, she was perfectly normal. Tasting the spiked cocoa on her tongue, she thought, Drunk but normal.

  Chapter 13

  Rick shook his head, wondering why had he bothered talking to Gretchen tonight. She was obviously an opportunist, plain and simple. She'd blown hot and cold since the night they'd met, really warming up to him only after she'd found out who his brother was. Not a first for Rick, but this was the first time it had bothered him so much. And tonight she'd abruptly switched the direction of their conversation by asking about Brett. That fake sweet smile, too. It's important. Did she think he was an idiot? Hell, she wasn't even subtle about it.

  But then, why should he be pissed off? He was the one who'd approached her, both times now. And if she liked Brett, hey, that was her snowball's chance in hell. Why let it bother him? He took another drag, savored it for a second before letting it out.

  Sure, he was attracted to her, but she was obviously one of those girls looking to attach herself to Mr. Celebrity, not caring about his reputation with women, not caring what a goddamn prick he could be once he got bored with someone, which was almost immediately.

  He still didn't know why the hell he'd gone up to talk to her tonight. But shadowing Brett had been pointless, not to mention goddamn boring. If someone still wanted his brother dead, he or she was being real low-key about it. No more calls or threatening e-mails and nothing awry at the party so far.

  But when he'd seen Gretchen tonight and watched her with careful, speculative scrutiny, he hadn't been able to stay away. And she'd looked almost... lost. No one to talk to, he
r big dark eyes roving the room. Well, hell, it didn't really matter at this point.

  Rick had always been different from Brett when it came to women. He never felt the particular need to cut and run after sex. Most girls were kind of sweet; even if a fling wasn't serious, there was no reason to be a dick about it. Brett, on the other hand, was a fuck-now, apologize-later guy. Or a bang-a-married-woman-now, hide-under-the-bed-from-her-husband-later guy, as the case may be.

  Damn, sometimes his brother just got to him. Rick knew it wasn't right, but he couldn't help it. Their father had died proud of Brett. Yeah, he was proud of Rick, too, after he'd become a firefighter and found some purpose in his life, but still, it had taken way too long for Rick to get his shit straight. Way too long to make his dad proud, and now he was gone.

  Rick tossed his cigarette into the snow just as he heard someone cry out, "Ohh!"

  He whipped around and through the partially lit darkness saw a girl slip and fall flat on her back. Shit! Running to her, he went down the incline, toward the terrace where she was and then he saw who it was. "Jesus Fucking Christmas—you," he said with disgust, reaching down to lift her up.

  Gretchen was flattened to the ground, looking more startled and confused than anything else, her breath coming up short. The impact of the fall had kicked up some of the snow, sending it onto her face and into her dark hair, which was fanned out around her. Dark liquid had seeped into the white, and for just a quick second, Rick's heart stopped—shit, was that blood? But then he saw the overturned paper cup and realized she'd dropped her cocoa. "Take my hand," he demanded when she failed to react.