Wow. I could scarcely imagine the effort it must have taken him to build a physique like his. I mean, Danny is well built; you already know that. But Liam Taylor was in a class by himself. Literally. Another weight class altogether. He was a walking advertisement for his training methods. I was impressed.
Maybe I should have been alarmed, too. But except for that brief flicker of hostility I’d glimpsed before Liam had noticed me, Jeremy’s personal trainer seemed to have a real Mary Poppins disposition, coupled with a scientist’s knack for observation.
Was he observing me just then? Looking for physical flaws? Areas to improve? I hadn’t signed up for that. Not yet. I squared my shoulders and got the preliminary chitchat over with.
“That is the sweetest dog,” I couldn’t help saying, noticing her placidly sitting on her leash at Liam’s feet. Not even the numerous squirrels could rattle her. “What’s her name?”
“Goldie.” Liam scratched her head. She almost purred. “It’s short for Goldie Goes for Gold. She’s a rescue from the track. You know, greyhound racing? When the race dogs get old—”
“They retire?” I chimed in, not wanting the harsh reality. I’d had enough of that lately. Jeremy’s death haunted me. “They go to live on a beautiful farm somewhere in the Cotswolds?”
Liam laughed. “Sure, why not? Let’s go with that.”
I parsed his earlier comment about “the track” full of racing greyhounds, wondering if he was a betting man and therefore might have gambling debts to settle, while Liam gave me another evaluative look. I tried to stand straighter. Hours spent hunched over chocolates doesn’t exactly do wonders for a person’s posture. My faux ramrod-straight military stance probably didn’t fool anyone, but I had to do something.
Speaking of which . . . “Why don’t we walk and talk?”
I needed to move. Despite my crack about my chocolatier’s hump, I tend to think best on my feet. Aside from which, Liam had been giving my innocent Americano the stink eye since we’d met. I wanted to show him I was more than an over-caffeinated potential dog napper with a crossbody bag full of chocolate samples and ideas for future decadent treats I intended to make.
I didn’t need to make a good impression on Liam Taylor. Strictly speaking, he was a suspect in Jeremy’s murder, just like (almost) everyone else I’d met in London. But he was a suspect who’d rescued a lovable dog from certain death. That earned him some brownie points, right?
As far as I was concerned, it did. Because I’m an unequivocal dog person. Just as Danny’s incomprehensible dislike of chocolate puts him squarely in the non-soul-mate category, Travis’s (new?) dog put him firmly in the maybe-soul-mate zone.
On the other hand, Travis does have that pesky air-travel phobia of his to deal with. That throws a monkey wrench into our make-believe long-term happiness. Because I’m always on the move. And I’m not going to limit myself to cars to get there.
Amid my Travis-centric daydream, I caught myself staring at Liam’s streaky blond hair, blue eyes, undeniably handsome face, and crazy-hot bod. I shook myself and got back down to business.
I was there for a concrete purpose. Sadly, that purpose wasn’t coaxing away Goldie to come and live with me. I’m afraid my chocolate-whispering lifestyle doesn’t mesh with pets. But I definitely want a place to hang up my wheelie bag for good someday. You know, eventually. Way far into the future.
“I really appreciate your meeting me like this,” I told Liam as we walked side by side. His idea of a walk-and-talk was considerably brisker than mine. I huffed. “Especially on such short notice. After what happened with Jeremy, you must be devastated. Phoebe said you’d worked together a long time?”
He’d been smiling, having caught me admiring his muscles. But now a shadow passed over his face. “Jeremy and I went way back.” His voice sounded gruff, but he kept moving. I examined his profile but couldn’t detect any obvious subterfuge. Or any noticeable culpability. “He wasn’t the perfect client, but he kept me busy. Now that he’s gone, I’m looking to rebuild.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss. It’s such a shock.”
He cleared his throat. “I just want to move on, yeah?”
Liam walked faster, coaxing Goldie to pick up the pace. Because he was trying to outrun his guilty feelings? I had to stay on the alert for deception, no matter how nice he seemed.
“That’s why I called you back,” Liam went on, scanning the nearby trees instead of meeting my eyes. “I need to stay busy.”
I understood that. If he was innocent. That was—had to be—a big if, if I were to find out who’d killed Jeremy. I hated suspecting everyone I met, when all I wanted was information.
Honestly, there could only be one killer. That meant I would unavoidably suspect several people who were innocent.
Liam inhaled, then glanced at me. “What about you, Hayden? I get the impression Phoebe told you all about me, but I don’t know anything about you. Jeremy never mentioned you.” His scrutiny deepened as he said it. “You’re not English, are you?”
“No. I’ve lived all over the place. My parents always traveled for work, so when I was a kid, I did too.” I named some of the places I’ve lived while traveling with my adventure-loving mom and dad. “I guess all the gridskipping grew on me.”
Liam nodded, pausing to let Goldie sniff delicately at a leafy London plane tree. “I like traveling too. A quick holiday to Ibiza, a stag weekend in Majorca . . . whatever, whenever.”
I liked his attitude. Willingness to travel? Check. Dog companionship? Check. Physical attractiveness? Check, check.
It was too bad I wasn’t in London to have fun.
It was too bad Liam was a suspect, I reminded myself. All the same . . . “What do you do with Goldie while you’re gone?”
“She stays with friends. So . . . you’re not a journalist?”
“A what?” I couldn’t help laughing. “No, definitely not. Poking into people’s private lives? Chasing stories? Not me.”
I was surprised he’d mentioned the press. Especially given my own doubts about them. When Danny and I had returned to the guesthouse last night, the crowd of paparazzi had diminished—at least at the back door. The front door had been another story.
Interestingly (or not), Ashley hadn’t been among them.
Liam looked embarrassed. He was definitely English. “It’s just that a few people from the media have contacted me. About Jeremy.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “I guess they thought I might have something to say about his death.”
Now I felt uncomfortable. But I pressed on. For Jeremy.
“Did you?” I pushed. “Have something to say, I mean?”
“Only that he’s gone too soon.” Liam hastily rubbed his eyes, ignoring Goldie’s pull at the leash. “I’ll miss him.”
He seemed genuinely bereft. I felt sorry for him. Commiserating, I touched his forearm. It felt like one of the marble statues lining the exhibit rooms at the British Museum. “I wish I’d known him better. Were the two of you close?”
Liam cracked an appealing grin. “You get pretty close, watching someone sweat.” He inhaled deeply, then looked around. The Embankment had become busier now. Bankers and businesspeople strode to work in a perpetual Londoner’s hurry. “How about you? What are your goals? Improve cardiovascular stamina, of course?”
He said it leadingly, encouraging me to own up to the theoretical physical shortcomings that had brought me to him. I felt new sympathy for my chocolate-whisperer clientele. I’d always found it frustrating when they wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. Or, like Phoebe, when they’d omitted information that I’d inevitably discover later. But now, standing there with my empty coffee cup and my belly full of chocolate-chip crumb cake (you might have guessed that I hadn’t only stopped for coffee), I knew what it was like to feel evaluated. Needy. And lacking.
Of course, what I lacked were solid leads about Jeremy’s murder, not six-pack abs and the ability to bench-press fifty-kilo bags of cacao beans fro
m a Venezuelan plantation.
“Don’t be offended,” Liam rushed to add, undoubtedly seeing my expression. “I set a pretty fast pace back there. It’s on purpose, to get an idea of your current condition, that’s all.”
My “condition” was breathless, vaguely sweaty, and hungry for another slice of crumb cake. In short, I’m someone who perfects chocolates for a living, and it shows. It was going to catch up to me someday. But today wasn’t my day of reckoning.
Except in one particular sense, that was. Trapped in my “I want to shape up” ruse, I bought time by watching Goldie. The dog sat happily at Liam’s side, tongue lolling, eyes taking in a bulldog walking near some fading daffodils. I lifted my gaze to Liam’s similarly openhearted expression and big, blue eyes.
I decided I could trust him. “I want to get in the best shape of my life,” I said firmly. “Starting right now.”
Well, what did you expect? That just because I felt I could trust him, I’d spill everything? Not me. Not the new Hayden Mundy Moore. This (part-time) amateur sleuth was wising up.
I suspected Liam of maybe murdering Jeremy, after all. I didn’t intend to get close to him. I was keeping my eyes open.
My goals were finding Jeremy’s killer and clearing my own name—preferably while remaining unblud-geoned myself. I still wasn’t comfortable staying in the Wrights’ guesthouse, despite Danny having vetted it. He had turned up some interesting information about the place, though. It seemed that Phoebe’s property was located in a pretty old part of London. It was close by the Thames, where cargo would have been moved, so—
“I can definitely help you get into top shape,” Liam interrupted before I could finish the thought. His eyes sparkled at me, practically overflowing with eagerness at the notion of making me run wind sprints, do crunches, and plank myself silly.
He outlined a program. It sounded about as much fun as endlessly baking cookies and never getting to eat any of them.
“How long before all of this starts to work?” I asked.
I was doing this to tease info from Liam, but I wouldn’t mind if I got some results, too. There had to be some benefits to simultaneously consulting at Primrose, tutoring Phoebe, chasing a killer, and embarking on a strenuous workout regimen.
It occurred to me that I might have bitten off more than I could chew. Could I send in a body double to meet Liam? At the chocolaterie-pâtisserie, Poppy was almost a dead ringer for me.
You know, if I’d had zero chocolate knowledge and was six years younger, with an eyebrow piercing and a love of leggings.
Okay, so there was no way out of this. Whoops.
I had to make the most of my cover story. “Just kidding,” I amended with a grin and a “just joshing” poke to Liam’s sturdy ribs. “I can’t wait to get started, and I don’t care how long it takes. Maybe I’ll train for a marathon!”
Hey, in for a penny, in for a pound, right?
“In that case, you’ll want to follow my clean nutrition program, too.” He looked thrilled at the prospect. “You wouldn’t believe how sugar, gluten, and alcohol affect your performance.”
He meant adversely, of course, something that was anathema to me. Somewhere, Danny was laughing his head off at the predicament I’d gotten myself into. As far as I was concerned, bread (with chocolate, natch) really was the staff of life.
If you haven’t had a grilled chocolate sandwich, made with some quality brioche, good dark chocolate, and a sprinkle of fleur de sel, you haven’t really lived, as far as I’m concerned.
Liam was busy outlining the plan that Phoebe and Nicola had alluded to. It sounded positively Spartan. Poor Jeremy. “But surely there are exceptions, right? For birthdays? Christmas?”
“No.” Liam’s expression hardened. “Either you’re all in or you’re all out. I know you’ll have some unique challenges while you’re spending time with Phoebe at the bakery, but you can do it. I don’t tolerate doing things halfway. Jeremy could have told you that much.”
Yikes. At that moment, Liam looked fully capable of whacking to death someone who didn’t adhere to the “program.” I shivered, wondering exactly how well Jeremy had obeyed Liam’s regimen.
Could noncompliance have cost Jeremy his life?
“A glass of wine now and then is okay, though, right?” What can I say? I’m a born rebel. “My favorite restaurant in town serves a very nice Montepulciano D’Abruzzo. It’s so good.”
I named the specific vintner and vintage—one served only at Jeremy’s restaurants. Liam tightened his mouth. And his fist.
Uh-oh. At his side, Goldie whimpered. I had a bad feeling.
Towering above me, Liam narrowed his eyes. He appeared to be considering walloping the memory of Abruzzo’s tasty central Italian red wine right out of me. I might have overplayed my hand, I realized, by bringing up Jeremy one too many times.
But then Liam suddenly grinned. “That’s my favorite restaurant, too! Jeremy’s place at Covent Garden, right?”
His expression glowed at our newfound similarities. He was happy we liked the same place. I practically passed out with pent-up anxiety. Or maybe with the exertion of our speedy walk.
It was hard to tell. I’m relatively new at being sneaky myself. I found it stressful. Also, I could have sworn I glimpsed Danny moving closer to me. We should have devised an “all clear” signal. Given Liam’s size, strength, and agitated demeanor—and my own tense posture—my security expert probably thought I was in imminent danger. He might rush in to save the day at any moment. I had to let Danny know I was all right.
“I know it’s not everyone’s idea of fancy,” Liam was saying in a remarkably easygoing tone, “but it’s a special occasion place for me. I grew up on a council estate in East London, see. Same as Jeremy. Things were rough. I’m successful now, but—”
“But a part of you will always remember that. I get it.”
Behind my back, I tried surreptitiously shooing Danny away.
“Yeah.” Liam’s face eased even further. I began to wonder if I’d imagined his menacing demeanor earlier. “I’m pretty lucky. Mostly thanks to Jeremy. After he got out, he took me with him. But you probably don’t even know what a council estate is, do you?” His quizzical look probed me. “Since you’re not—”
English, I figured he was about to say. But I was already ahead of him. An idea had occurred to me. I was running with it.
“I do, but only because Jeremy invited me to invest in his charity,” I fibbed. I figured he would have done so, if he’d lived long enough. “Are you familiar with its work?”
I wanted to keep Liam talking about Jeremy in particular, not British public housing in general. I needed to keep control of the conversation, but I wasn’t sure how to do that without seeming as though I was interrogating him. That would surely spook him. I’d never find out what information Liam could share.
This all would have been much easier if I were DC Mishra. She had the authority to grill people, no questions asked.
But Liam didn’t seem to suspect a thing. “Sure, you could say I’m familiar with it—since I’m on the board of directors.”
“Really? Then you’re probably not an impartial source.”
I was joking, but Liam creased his brow. “I don’t have to be uninvolved to see the good work they’re doing at Jeremy’s Jump Start Foundation.” He crossed his arms, the self-appointed defender of Jeremy’s charity. “Are you planning to invest? Now that Jeremy’s gone, we’ll need more support than ever.”
“I haven’t decided yet.” I’m stubborn that way. You don’t want to back me into a corner. “I need to find out more first.”
That was the first excuse that came to mind. Not that I don’t like to support good causes. I absolutely do. All the time. But I didn’t like feeling strong-armed into doing things.
Besides, I had an undercover agenda here. Liam bit on it.
“Why don’t I take you for a visit?” he offered. “I’m going out there soon anyway. The kids need an expla
nation for Jeremy’s death. They need to hear from someone besides the media.”
His dislike of the press seemed to mirror mine. I wondered why. Had the paparazzi followed Jeremy on his workouts, too?
“I’d love to go with you.” Doing so would give me an inside glimpse into another part of Jeremy’s life—and any people within it who might have wanted him dead. My suspects were piling up quickly. “Just tell me how and when, and we’ll go together.”
Skeptically, Liam angled his head. “You’re not afraid?”
“Of a bad neighborhood?” I shook my head. Even if I’d been terrified, I knew I’d have Danny nearby for protection. “I know how to handle myself. Besides, who’ll bother us with you there?”
At my overt flattery, Liam grinned. “I’m a pussycat.”
“I’ll bet those kids love you. Sometimes when people make it out of the neighborhood, they don’t want to ever go back.”
“Not me. Or Jeremy. He wasn’t like that.”
“I wonder how Phoebe felt about that. Did she visit, too?”
Liam chortled. “Phoebe? At the council estate? No way. She thought she’d get stabbed if she stepped east of Knightsbridge.”
“She didn’t support Jeremy’s foundation?”
“Sure, she did. By getting her fancy friends to donate.” Liam paused. “Speaking of which, how involved are you at Primrose?”
How involved? That was a tricky question. I didn’t want to give away the real troubleshooting work I was doing on Phoebe’s behalf. As far as her staff knew, I was nothing more than a knowledgeable new hire, brought in to help Primrose benefit from my experience. Why I’m at a particular business is always undisclosed; the fact that I’m there can’t be. I have to be on site to do a consultation.
I wished more of my consultees would be open about needing my help. It would make things much easier for me. I’m skilled at evaluating ganache and gianduia, not at hiding my raison d’être.
“Pretty involved.” I crouched to pet Goldie, hoping to hide my impending smokescreen. “I’m aces at chocolate.” All good cover-ups contain some truth. That’s what Danny had told me. “I spend a lot of time at Primrose. But taste-testing three-layer German chocolate cakes isn’t exactly a cardiovascular workout, is it?” Trying to hone my poker face, I rose. “Why do you ask?”
The Semi-Sweet Hereafter Page 9