Love by Association

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  It depended whether or not the Smyths were attending. He’d wanted to keep them off the list, but they both knew that he couldn’t. Not while maintaining Julie’s front of there being nothing egregiously wrong between the two high-society families. Because she didn’t want it known how damaged she’d been. She wasn’t going to let that family run her out of the town she’d been born to, raised in and loved.

  Which was why, on rare occasions, she’d go to evening functions—to maintain her own status quo. But it was usually only when the Smyths were vacationing elsewhere.

  And they weren’t going to be this time. He’d heard the night before that they’d be attending the library event. It was turning out to be the event of the year. Everyone was going to be there.

  Except his sweet sister, who was helping to put on the event?

  Julie went back to her grapefruit and toast. Colin scrolled on his tablet and thought about the woman he’d met the night before. Thought about the fact that he was still thinking about her.

  About ensuring that, aside from murder-mystery business, he’d be seeing her again. Soon.

  “She really had an effect on you.” He was deep in thought about him and Chantel on a yacht on the ocean—something about a private dinner at sunset—when Julie interrupted him.

  Glancing up, he saw her studying him. This time minus the grin. “Who?”

  But he knew who.

  “You were grinning again,” she told him. “And not scrolling.”

  Did Julie spend every morning watching him scroll, for God’s sake? Making a note to read his news before or after he got to the breakfast table—to spend those few minutes every morning paying more attention to his sister—he said, “There’s something different about her, Jules. She’s not like the rest of the women I know. I’m eager for you to meet her.”

  Julie did smile then. “And I’m getting more and more curious.”

  He hoped so. He wanted Julie to like Chantel. Not just because he did and hoped the woman would be around awhile, but because her publishing experience, her own drive as a writer, could help Julie take enough of a step out of her shell to submit some of her work for publication.

  Maybe she’d even be able to help him convince Julie to attend the murder mystery gala. It would be a miracle.

  But who knew? Colin being preoccupied by a woman was a bit of a miracle, too.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ON DUTY AT four on Friday, Chantel finished off a pint of chocolate ice cream for breakfast and lunch at a computer at the precinct, looking up names from the party the night before. Pulling police reports for any that had them. She already had everything there was to have on the Morrisons. Today she was looking at the others on the guest list.

  A break-in, never solved. Several traffic incidents. A couple of DUIs.

  First and foremost, she’d gone straight to the Fairbankses. And hadn’t been surprised to find not one single reference to them in the police database. You didn’t run a law firm as successful as Fairbanks, most particularly not with the types of clients they represented, if you were prone to mischief.

  Still, a girl could never be too careful. If she was going to pretend an interest in the rainmaking attorney—and she was most definitely going to if she could persuade him to pursue her—she needed to be certain that he was going to help her case, not hurt it.

  After brunch, already in uniform, she stopped to give the captain her report and then headed out in her car, driving by Max and Meri’s house—completely unnecessarily, given that the man who’d tortured Meri was in prison for life in Nevada, but it was something she still did several times a week, just the same. And she took a drive by The Lemonade Stand, too, going around the block twice, just watching. She was glad to see that the shops that fronted the unique women’s shelter were conducting business as usual. There was no reason for them not to be.

  But the women who were fighting for their lives inside those shops, fighting for fresh starts, striving to live without violence, deserved to be watched over.

  Then she went to the beach, to sit on a bench and watch the ocean. To clear her mind, relax a bit, so that she’d be prepared and focused when she hit the streets that evening.

  What she saw, as she sat there, was an empty beach with an inner vision of her and Colin Fairbanks transposed onto the sand. They were walking, hand in hand.

  And there the vision stopped. Even when she’d been in a serious relationship, Chantel hadn’t been the type who held hands on the beach. Or had her doors opened for her, either.

  But boy, if ever she had been, a hand like Colin’s wouldn’t have been horrible to hold...

  Giving herself a mental shake, she thought about Leslie Morrison and replayed their meeting the night before over and over. Making note of the “tells” the other woman had given her. There’d been too many to ignore.

  Even accounting for the fact that Chantel had been specifically looking and could have made something out of nothing a time or two, she hadn’t imagined Leslie’s completely changed manner after her husband had joined them.

  Whatever Chantel thought, personally, of Colin Fairbanks, whatever strange and possibly delicious feelings he’d raised in her undercover persona were irrelevant. If, indeed, he was presenting her with the perfect alibi for spending more time in his circle than a few charity events would afford, she was going to use him for all he was worth.

  Because saving a woman and her son from brutality was far more important than Chantel’s social life.

  She’d just have to make certain that Colin understood, from the beginning, that their time together had nothing to do with any real caring between them. She couldn’t let things develop beyond enjoying each other’s company. Maybe she’d have to change her story a bit—maybe she was only in California until she finished her story. Maybe the family would need her back in her publishing position as soon as her book was done. She was out to save a life—not to be cruel.

  * * *

  COLIN FELT LIKE a schoolboy as he pulled into the recently poured parking lot of Santa Raquel’s first and impressive full-service library just before noon on Saturday.

  In business attire, minus the jacket, he perused the parking lot, wondering if she was there yet.

  “You see her car?” Julie asked from the seat beside him. Guiding his Lincoln Continental to a stop beside a silver Mercedes—a birthday gift to Leslie Morrison from her husband—he shrugged.

  “I have no idea what she drives. She was dropped off by the hotel’s limousine the other night.” And then he realized that he’d fallen into Julie’s trap. She’d never named whose car he might have been seeking.

  Yes, he’d been thinking about Chantel Johnson. Looking forward to seeing her. It may also have occurred to him that she’d change her mind and not show.

  After all, what did he really know about her? Except that she was beautiful and had made one hell of a first impression on him. She could be a total flake. Lord knew, there were enough of them in their set. There were people, young women in his set among them, who did exactly as they said they would do, too.

  A long black limousine pulled into the grand entrance in front of the historic mansion.

  “Is that her?” Julie asked, looking beautiful in tight black pants, and a long, figure-hugging black-and-white silk top with a black silk scarf tied loosely around her neck. She handled her three-inch spiked heels like they were tennis shoes as she shut the door of the Lincoln behind her. “She’s beautiful, Colin.”

  “Yeah, that’s her.” Reminding himself to wait for his sister, Colin approached the front entrance, getting turned on as one long leg followed another out of the car. In a fitted blue dress that ended just above the knee, the blonde woman with her perfectly manicured nails and sleek makeup could be stepping out of the pages of a fashion magazine.

  Except
that she looked far too elegant to ever parade herself for hours in front of a camera.

  “Chantel!” He greeted her just outside the massive front door. “Good to see you again.” She couldn’t be blamed for thinking he was stalking her—appearing just at the exact moment that she arrived. “I’d like you to meet my sister.” He drew Julie closer. “Julie Fairbanks, Chantel Johnson.”

  Two slender hands met. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, the two women sized each other up. Julie’s interest he understood. But Chantel’s? Could it be that she really was as interested in him as he was in her? That the instant attraction between them was mutual?

  Only way to find out was to pursue her. And so he would.

  Holding the door, Colin followed both of the women inside.

  * * *

  THE LIBRARY COMMITTEE consisted of six members. Seven including Chantel. Each member of the committee was in charge of an aspect of the project—from catering to marketing—and each had people working with them. As they sat over lunch—a sample from the three top caterers in the running to provide the mystery dinner on gala night—one by one they reported on their progress.

  Leslie, who was the committee’s head, ran the meeting. To her right, at a table set for eight in what had once been a dining room and was soon going to be one of several conference rooms in the Santa Raquel Public Library, sat Emily Longfellow, a thirtysomething woman whose plain features were accentuated with beautiful jewelry. Emily was in charge of arranging the mansion for the evening’s entertainment—including all furnishings necessary not only to accommodate dinner seating for a couple of hundred people, but for any necessary accoutrements for the mystery that would be unfolding throughout the night. Next to Emily was a little woman who must be at least seventy, Martha something or other, who was responsible for floral arrangements.

  John Duncan, next to Emily, was a man Chantel had met the other night at the auction. He was a young attorney in Colin’s office who, having just recently passed the bar exam, was on the committee but was there to oversee any work that Colin determined was legally necessary. John’s father, Clemency Duncan, was chief of neurosurgery at Stanford Hospital.

  And then, opposite John, was Colin. Chantel was in between him and Julie, who sat directly to Leslie’s left.

  When Chantel was introduced as their artistic director, everyone smiled and welcomed her. She had a feeling every one of them had already known everything there was to know about her. What she’d led everyone to believe about her, she amended the thought as she smiled and greeted everyone before taking a stab at the salad in front of her. It had walnuts in it. And cranberries.

  “Chantel’s going to be beefing up the script for us, but since I am giving it to her only this afternoon, she hasn’t had a chance to read it yet.” Leslie continued and then moved on to Julie, in charge of invitations and marketing, who reported that their guest count was closing in on the two hundred mark.

  Obviously in her element, Leslie Morrison appeared to be exactly what everyone thought she was—confident, healthy, in control, in charge. There was nothing about her that even hinted at any kind of unrest at home. She asked for the committee members’ opinions as to whether or not they should raise the guest cap on the function in the event that response continued to be so positive. Leslie took a vote and the cap was raised by fifty.

  Conversations broke out at that point, Leslie leaned over to say something for Julie’s ears only and Chantel relaxed for just a moment. Long enough to feel the brush of Colin’s thigh against hers beneath the table. He was engaged in conversation with John, and at first she thought the contact had been accidental.

  Until his hand dropped to his lap, disappeared under the crisp white linen tablecloth and ended up on her leg.

  He was taking a hell of a lot for granted, based on one night’s meeting. Or was simply being bold, telling her in the only way he could in that moment that he was interested.

  His fingers didn’t slide up her leg. Or toward her inner leg. He wasn’t being a creep. Or disrespectful, either. He just held on.

  And Chantel liked it.

  * * *

  “DO YOU HAVE some experience with scriptwriting?” Julie was trying the spinach quiche Chantel had shied away from, and, finished with whatever she and Leslie had been discussing, she was addressing Chantel while she ate. Her smile was warm and friendly, reminding Chantel of Jill—the best friend she’d had since grade school and lost to a crook’s bullet several years before.

  “None,” Chantel admitted, breathing through the memory. And then, remembering her cover, said, “I’m a writer, though.” You didn’t have to be published to be a writer.

  “Oh? What do you write? Anything I might have read?” Colin’s hand moved from her leg, leaving a cold place.

  “Hardly.” She grinned and almost forgot to soften the edge of street life from her voice. “I’m not published. Yet,” she added to give the impression that she was serious about her pursuit.

  “Do you have an agent?”

  Did she? Trying to remember anything she might have heard about her aunt’s business, and the story she’d told Colin about her own publishing position, she decided on, “Yes.” And hoped she wasn’t digging a grave before she was ready to bury Chantel Johnson. She’d be doing publishing and agent research later that night.

  “So what are you writing?”

  “Women’s fiction. Suspense. It’s a woman-in-jeopardy story.” And before she saw any of these people again, she better have some kind of plot fleshed out. She’d go through her case files. Find an interesting arrest that had converted to charges and then a conviction.

  Colin’s hand was back. Chantel’s body responded with a small feeling between her legs. She didn’t dare look at him. But she did notice that he was no longer speaking with John.

  She assumed he was listening to her and Julie. So she slipped her hand under the table, leaving it on her lap. “My family’s in publishing,” she said, telling Julie that she’d left behind a position of VP of marketing. Colin’s hand slid over hers.

  When her libido leaped in response, Chantel took a sip of water and then added, “I’m going to go back to it, though. I talked to my folks last night. They agreed to give me as much time as I need to finish the book, as long as I would return to the family business when it’s done. In the meantime, they’re going to be sending work my way. Things they want my decisions on.”

  There. Cleared up a bunch of issues. Namely, any chance that Colin Fairbanks would think there was any future in a relationship between them. It also negated any need for her to be in the market for a permanent residence. Something she had a feeling this friendly and powerful bunch would be glad to help with.

  His hand didn’t leave her lap. Julie didn’t respond, either. She was looking at her brother and was no longer smiling.

  Did she know what Colin was doing to Chantel under the table? And she disapproved? She’d gotten the impression earlier that Julie had been pleased to meet her...

  “What do you all think?” Leslie’s voice raised as she addressed the table, halting private conversations. In that first second Chantel froze, heat rising up her neck and face. Did everyone know how her body was responding to the chaste touch of a man’s hand?

  “Did everyone get a chance to try everything?” Leslie followed her first question with a second.

  Chantel hadn’t had any quiche. Everyone else nodded.

  “We need to make a choice today.” The caterers weren’t being mentioned by name. A had provided the quiche. B was the salad and bread assortments. C had brought some kind of grilled chicken that, in spite of the fact that it was chicken, the meat that was served at every banquet Chantel had ever attended, was delicious. Leslie passed around menus provided by all three caterers minus any kind of identifying determiner.

  Discussion ensued. Chantel listened.
Agreeing with Julie on every point she brought up—the flavors that, while gourmet, wouldn’t please as wide a range of palette as others. The need for a variety of options for those who couldn’t tolerate rich food but yet preventing the dreaded “bland” moniker being slapped on the evening. Colin opted for the meat and potatoes option over fondue and finger foods, his fingers leaving little caresses just above her knee.

  As conversation died down, Leslie called for a show of hands in favor of A, followed by B and C. C had the job unanimously.

  And Colin leaned over to ask her if he and Julie could drop her off at her hotel after their tour of the mansion, preventing the need for her to call and then wait for a ride.

  Her announcement that she wasn’t going to be around for long hadn’t seemed to slow him down a bit. He was knowingly embarking on a short-time flirtation.

  Which made him fair game.

  She accepted his offer of a lift.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  COLIN WAS READY to take the tour and go. Julie’s gaze had bruised him a bit. His little sister was pissed at him for keeping Chantel’s publishing background from her. He’d known she would be. But if he’d told her right up front, she’d probably have refused to meet her with an open mind.

  Ever since the rape, she’d been slowly becoming more closed-minded. Stubborn.

  Could he be blamed for caring enough to try to help her?

  And Chantel...maybe she’d be free to have dinner with him that night. Just the two of them...

  As Leslie was concluding the business portion of the day, the outer door of the library sounded. Someone had just come in.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, dessert has arrived,” Leslie said, smiling, as a couple of white-coated women came into the room, each carrying a large brown box. And right behind them was...Patricia Reynolds—Commissioner Paul Reynolds’s wife.