“Childish habits die hard.” Max offered a crooked, apologetic grin. “I whistled whenever my sister Connie, bless her bossy heart, tried to lecture me—I often ended up getting punched in the pucker for my insolence. I beg your forgiveness.”
Disarmed, Keely mumbled an acceptance, feeling as if he’d yanked the chair out from under her.
“Growing up, Connie and I used to square off at least once a day.” Max smiled at a memory. “When she got married, I told her husband to watch out for her left jab. But enough about my past. Let’s hear the bad news.”
Oddly vulnerable, Keely smoothed the paper. She didn’t need to consult the column; every spiteful word was engraved in flaming letters in her memory.
She cleared her throat. “Flo knows a certain photographer is ducking fallout from the latest matrimonial contretemps. This shutterbug’s fame is spreading, but not in the way she’d hoped.
“Flo knows that lately the fantasy weddings the gal boasts of have had nightmare endings. Brides-to-be are taking note in increasing numbers. A whisper’s reached Flo’s ears that the biggest trout in Lake Hope recently slipped off this redhead’s hook. Better fishing next time! You and your catering friend should take note of Emily Dickinson’s definition of fame.”
Max picked up the plate and polished the crystal with a handkerchief. Keely caught herself wondering how it would feel to have those restless fingers caress her skin; an unexpected tingle of erotic desire spiralled through her. Max was too distracting.
“Trout? As in old trout?” Max stopped buffing. “Her prose has got the sharp edges of a junk yard. Who merits the unflattering description?”
“Amelia Hoover. Amelia also planned to utilize Feast of Italy’s services.” Keely studied Max’s reaction as she lobbed the next question. “Did she cancel?”
A direct hit. The plate clattered to the desk. “Enough of this useless discussion. I’ve got work to do.”
Shoving back his chair, Max rose and strode out.
“Neither one of us can afford wholesale cancellations!” Still clutching the newspaper, Keely followed. “By presenting a united front, we might pressure Flo to stop printing these vile insinuations—”
“I take it Feast of Italy is mentioned elsewhere in that libelous sewage Flo calls a column?” Max tossed the question over his shoulder without breaking stride.
“Last paragraph.” Trotting to keep up, Keely quoted, “Flo knows that if there are any rats aboard the rapidly sinking ship of the area’s most prominent caterer, they’d better don their wee life vests—”
Snarling, Max shoved open the swinging door at the end of the corridor and Keely was swept along in his wake into a kitchen the size of a small ballroom.
She momentarily forgot her mission in an awed study of her surroundings. Spotless tiles covered the floor, their oyster color repeated in the marble countertop of an enormous island. Stolid ranks of oak cupboards lining the walls were broken only by massive white appliances and the door frames of walk-in pantries. Keely counted at least a dozen burners and two confectionery ovens.
Max skirted the work station which paralleled the island and removed a clipboard from a wall hook. “Feast of Italy can survive a few cancellations.”
“Reputation is everything in the wedding business and right now our name is mud,” Keely informed him.
She started to drop the newspaper onto a nearby countertop and thought better of it. The marble surface looked as if someone had scoured it into sterility. “If Feast of Italy folds, you could always lease this room out as an operating theater.”
She gestured at the countertops. “If cleanliness is next to godliness, caterers are half way to heaven.”
“That may explain my aunt’s god complex. I’m happy to say Anna Marie will soon resume the helm of the good ship Feast of Italy.”
“Two days ago, you were the one who wasn’t sure the ship would still be afloat.” Keely kept the desperation from her voice with an effort.
Each cancellation hammered home the realization that, doubts about Max’s veracity aside, Keely needed this man’s help. Feast of Italy was a major player in the community and she needed to muster all available clout to battle Flo Netherton.
But she’d lost her audience. Her prospective ally was peering into a refrigerator and muttering something about nine dozen eggs. He made a note on the clipboard.
Although she resented talking to Max’s back, Keely tried again. “I’m asking for your help. When we talked at the police station, you seemed—” she groped for the right word, “nice.”
“Nice?” Outraged, Max replaced the lid on a glass container and swung around. “Nice?”
“I meant it as a compliment!”
“No more crushing word to the male ego has ever touched a woman’s lips than the adjective ‘nice.’ Only a mother can get away with such an insult. Lady, you change opinions too fast for comfort. I’m nice. I’m a liar. Now I’m back to nice. It would be nice, if you made up your mind!”
Time to eat a little crow. “Anna Marie wouldn’t have given you custody of her business if you weren’t worthy of trust.”
“She had no choice and, according to you, I’ve been fraternizing with the enemy.” Max returned to his inventory. “You caught me red-handed with Flo, remember?”
“I decided after reading today’s column that she wouldn’t trash Feast of Italy so savagely if you were working together,” Keely admitted. “I did see a man who looked just like you—”
“You saw black pants and a white shirt and jumped to the conclusion the guy was me. Could you swear to it?”
“I may have been mistaken in my identification.”
“Now’s a fine time to reach that conclusion.” Max grunted. “After you’ve hung me out to dry for Gifford.”
“I told Detective Gifford what I thought was the truth!”
“The truth hurts. Especially when it isn’t true.”
Keely thought about the note she’d found taped inside today’s daily newspaper that warned, “Patience isn’t my strong suit.”
She said slowly, “There’s another possible explanation for the mention of Feast of Italy in Flo’s column.”
“Which is?”
“She’s trying to force you into some action.”
Max uttered a sharp bark of laughter. “A man who’s got nothing to lose can’t be blackmailed.”
“Nothing to lose? What about Anna Marie and Feast of Italy?”
His pen made a slashing mark. “I’m beginning to think you were right when you said families were millstones. Sometimes those old ties don’t just bind, they strangle.”
“I don’t care whether you were whispering in corners with Flo or not. My only concern is saving my business.”
“Why are you wasting time talking to me?”
“Max, the robberies were well planned. Whoever’s behind them knew the schedule of events, knew the security firm hired for the Westhaven wedding and substituted their own guard—”
Max jerked open a walk-in pantry to reveal rows of bulk herbs and spices. He checked containers, peering in before slapping lids back on. “Gifford’s reached the same conclusion. What’s your point?”
“They had an inside person with access to a timetable and other details. I want you to cash in Anna Marie’s chips, call in every favor you can. Between us, we possess contacts throughout the local network. Someone, somewhere, knows about the robberies.”
Max continued to check spice levels. “Allspice, cloves, black pepper—”
Keely’s voice rose. “Are you going to take Flo’s abuse lying down?”
“Do you expect me to dash to the newspaper office and challenge her to a duel? Salad forks at ten paces?” Max dropped the sarcastic tone. “During her recent visit, Detective Gifford suggested I’m the inside contact for the Sterling Ring. Please, just go. Allow me to wallow in solitary self-pity.”
“I’m not leaving.” Keely slipped between him and the open pantry, braced herself. “Not until I
’ve got your promise to make a few telephone calls. United, we have a chance—divided, we perish. I won’t let Key Shot die without a struggle!”
Max nodded at the newspaper clutched in Keely’s hand. “This fervent determination wasn’t sparked by those lines in the Ripples. What happened?”
“I told you, I’ve got a business to save.”
“Now who’s dodging the issue?” Max’s voice softened. “What brought you to my door bearing a dish of humble pie?”
Keely pleated the sheets of newsprint into accordion folds. Her shoulder brushed against the door. If she retreated another step, she’d be in the pantry. The scent of Max’s Polo mingled with the tantalizing aroma of spices.
“You have expressive eyes, Keely.” The gentle tone belonged to the Max she remembered from the police station. “Some renegade memory just bushwhacked you. Want to tell me about it?”
Keely avoided his intent gaze. Dazzling sunlight reflected off the polished faucets of the island sinks. Be nice or be disagreeable, Max, just stop knocking me off balance!
“Confession is good for the soul, Keely.”
“Yesterday I met with the mothers of a bridal couple to get footage of selecting their dresses for the wedding. It’s a good way to include the groom’s family in the preparation segment of the video. I overheard a discussion in the dressing room.”
“Go on.” Max moved a step closer.
Keely focused on his shirt button, second from the top. “Marilyn’s mother indicated concern that Marilyn had refused to hire another photographer. The groom’s mother said, ‘I wouldn’t trust the O’Brien woman. There’s never smoke without a fire, and she’s been smack in the middle of two horrendous crimes. I give her a month and she’ll be out of business and out of Lake Hope—’”
Keely crushed the newspaper into a ball. “Then she called for a saleswoman to remove a loose thread.”
Max took the newspaper from Keely’s unresisting hands.
“I opened the dressing cubicle and suggested she use her sharp tongue to cut it.” Keely smiled wryly at the memory of the ensuing uproar. “The only way for poor Marilyn to keep peace with her future mother-in-law was to fire me. I saved her the embarrassment and quit.
“It was humiliating.” Keely clenched her fists. “I want to save my business, Max. I want my good name back.”
“It’s a sad irony that kingdoms can withstand armed invaders, but a reputation topples at a whisper.” He took a step.
Although Max had trespassed past the border of Keely’s personal comfort zone, she felt a tingle of excitement at his proximity.
“Flo described you as a red-head, but those waves look more like spun cinnamon.” Max touched her hair with a reverent hand. “Maybe we could continue this discussion tonight over a privately catered dinner for two.”
“You want something from me. I want something from you.” Keely blushed at his knowing grin. “I’m talking business, Max, not pleasure. Will you make those calls?”
“You’re a beautiful woman, Keely O’Brien.” It was as if he hadn’t heard her. His fingers sifted through the loose strands of her hair, his voice an intimate murmur. “I haven’t had the perfect soufflé dream since meeting you, Keely.”
Keely suppressed the urge to kiss the lips whispering her name. Business, she told herself. Business only.
The clipboard clattered to the floor. Max stood with one hand hovering over Keely as if in benediction. His worshipful regard drew her gaze to his and suddenly she was drowning in a tide of sensual awareness.
Her back pressed against the wooden shelving of the pantry with Max mere inches away. She was a bird caught in a powerful updraft—soaring higher and higher. Unable, unwilling to escape.
Max’s hand brushed her shoulder as he removed a container from the shelf behind her head. “I specialize in foods that provide a sensual delight to the palate. Eating becomes a spiritual experience, satisfying body and soul.”
Keely stared, mesmerized by his voice which lingered honey sweet. Tracing the curve of Max’s face with a fingertip, she gave him unspoken permission to take her in his arms.
Somewhere in the room, a refrigerator clicked on, a throaty hum which vibrated through the soles of Keely’s feet. Dry-mouthed, she felt her muscles turning to liquefied chocolate. In another moment, she’d be reduced to a sweet, sticky puddle.
He fanned the flames by gently massaging the back of her neck. “A famous French chef told me that in cooking and lovemaking alike, the proper spice enhances the mundane and elevates the glorious to the sublime.”
The scents of herbs and spices overwhelmed her overloaded senses. Brushing back her hair with tingling fingers, Keely was acutely aware of the slow slide of a bead of perspiration as it trickled between her breasts.
Keely’s hands moved toward Max’s chest, stroked the soft cotton of his shirt. Their lips were a scant inch apart when memory intruded, a vision of Max and Flo in a darkened corridor jarring Keely from her trance.
Echoes of shattered intimacy had reverberated in that passageway. The couple she’d glimpsed were involved on a dangerously deep level—what Keely had witnessed was no chance encounter.
She stiffened, pushing him away. “Do you treat all women like a dish to be devoured, Mr. Caterer? I’m proposing a business arrangement, nothing more.”
The curt question dashed the desire from Max’s eyes and he stepped back, releasing her. “No disrespect intended, Ms. O’Brien. A word of advice. If you can’t stand the heat…”
“I won’t invade your kitchen again,” Keely promised. She still quivered inside. She had come so close to surrendering herself to someone she didn’t know or trust.
Max watched her closely, his face intent. Attempting to maintain a distance between them, Keely shifted the conversation from the personal. “I refuse to allow that woman to intimidate me.”
“Intimidate? Are you talking about Flo’s column or has something else happened?”
An inner voice warned her not to disclose the existence of the notes. “I was alluding to the Dickinson reference.”
Max hooked his thumb through his belt and leaned forward until his breath ruffled her hair. “How did Miss Dickinson of Amherst define fame?”
Keely sidled sideways, trying to shake off the invisible bands tying them together. Mental note to self: avoid confined spaces containing Max in the future.
He slammed the pantry door and leaned against it, arms crossed. “Dinner on for tonight?”
Keely inhaled, the scent of cinnamon was strong. She managed to keep her voice matter-of-fact. “I’m on my way to talk tough to Flo. Care to act as back-up?”
Max retrieved the clipboard from the floor. With a deft flick of his wrist, he returned it to its hook. “A warning, Keely. I don’t play games in relationships—I’m strongly attracted to you. If we spend time together, I will act on that attraction.”
“I’m not looking for complications at the moment.”
“Then our relationship’ll be strictly business.” He grinned. “As long as that point’s negotiable later.”
Winona had been right, Keely decided, watching Max lock up the building. In his crisp blue shirt and charcoal gray jacket, he looked good enough to eat. Or at least nibble. Get a grip, girl. Your mission is to keep an eye on this guy, not admire him. Strictly business, remember?
Max shoved the key ring into his pocket. “You never told me Miss Emily’s definition of fame.”
“I looked up the quote. ‘Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.’ The same description could be applied to men.”
“Speaking as a man, I resent that.” Max opened the driver’s door for Keely with a flourish. “As I recall, whenever my plate shifts, it’s usually a woman’s hand doing the shaking.”
Chapter 12
Keely’s cell phone rang as she pulled out of the parking lot.
When she made no move to grab it off the dash, Max inquired politely, “Would you like me to answer that?”
�
�It’s probably Ida with the latest cancellation update.”
“It could be good news.”
“Are you an optimist or a pessimist? Find a persona and stick to it, Max, you’re confusing me.”
“Pollyanna or Cassandra?” Max grabbed the phone and said in a piercing falsetto, “Ms. O’Brien’s car, Pollyanna speaking.”
“Idiot! What if it’s a client?” She snatched the unit from his hand. “Keely O’Brien speaking.”
“Where’ve you been? I called your office a dozen times!” The plaintive wail wiped the smile from Keely’s face. “Sorry, Mom, I’ve been busy—”
“I need rescuing, baby! I can’t stay in this place another minute. They treat me like a feebleminded child and the strongest drink they offer is lemonade.”
“We’ll talk later.” Braking for a stoplight, Keely flipped on the left turn signal. While the engine idled, she shot a glance at Max, who appeared absorbed in the view. “I promise I’ll call tonight.”
“Tonight? When I’ve just told you I can’t abide this hellhole another minute?”
“Please, Mom.” Keely forced the words past a grapefruit-sized lump in her throat. “Things have been going so well. You’ve only got a few more weeks—”
“My roommate snores! Nobody can play a decent game of gin rummy and I miss all my friends.” The tone turned wheedling. “Come on, darlin’. Get your sassy self over here and spring me from this stuffy ol’ rat trap.”
Be firm, Dr. Davis had advised Keely. The treatment period is usually rougher on the loved ones than the patient. Loved ones. The irony of that phrase had triggered a spasm of hysterical laughter which the doctor mistakenly attributed to Keely’s grief over her mother’s condition.
So tough love it was. “If you don’t finish treatment, the judge said you’ll have to do jail time for that last DUI. Which will it be?”
“Jail time?” Moira’s laughter was bitter. “This place IS a prison. They won’t let me drink or dance. Always asking me to strip my soul naked to a bunch of whining women, spill my guts on the griddle they call ‘group.’ Prison can’t be worse than this clinic where you stuck me to be rid of me.”
Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes Page 9