Chapter Ten
Saturday night, just ten days to Valentine’s Day, the doors to the St. Francis Hotel’s Colonial Ballroom had been open to the public for thirty minutes. For the first time that day, Bebe took a deep breath. They’d done it.
The Waterston Chocolatiers display looked understated but elegant, done in chocolate satin with gold accents, just the way she and Angie had envisioned it. The long-stemmed red roses were a nice touch. She was quite pleased with the results.
She glanced at her watch. Again. Sam said he’d be there at eight. Why she thought the time would get there any faster if she stared at her watch, she didn’t know, but she couldn’t seem to resist.
When Sam had called at seven that morning, he’d said he’d send two of his security people to “keep an eye on things,” as he’d put it, until he arrived. She hadn’t been awake enough to object. It had been the first sound sleep she’d had in months, and she couldn’t help wondering if Sam’s intervention had been responsible…or perhaps it was reliving that good-night kiss over and over again until she’d fallen asleep?
She’d been so happy to hear his voice, and then nearly snapped at him when he’d apologized for being stuck with an unexpected transatlantic conference call negotiation. As though she couldn’t understand the vagaries of the business world?
If she thought about it now, she’d still be annoyed at his assumption—wasn’t she dipped-in-the-middle of a business crisis? She fully intended to straighten out his mush-headed conception of her business acumen at the first opportunity. She might not run a multinational investment corporation, and she might be in a bit of a jam at the moment, but her MBA was just as valid as his, even if she used it on a much smaller scale.
She’d also intended to send his helpers packing, but at eight o’clock that morning she’d changed her mind.
When she’d opened the downstairs foyer door to leave for the factory, there were two rather dangerous-looking gentlemen standing at the bottom of the porch steps. Before Bebe could say anything, a sotto voce whisper from Gracie stopped her.
“Who are those two? They’ve been out there since six. I was going to call the cops, but I wanted to see what their next move would be.”
“You read too many of those detective novels,” Bebe replied. “You should call the police if you think something’s not right. In this case, though, these guys are the good guys. Sam sent them.”
“Oh. Okay. That’s good then. I knew he was a keeper.”
“He may be a keeper, but I don’t need a keeper. I can take care of myself. I don’t need bodyguards. We’re dealing with a computer nerd, not Jack the Ripper.”
Leaning out her apartment door, Gracie’s eyes narrowed and she pointed a neon-orange-tipped finger at her. “You’d best take these threats seriously. I told you what the cards say. This is a bad man you’re dealing with. You take Sam’s help and be glad of it. Promise me?”
Gracie looked so concerned, Bebe didn’t have the heart to deny her feelings. “Okay. I promise. I’ll let them follow me around like bloodhounds. I’ll even feed them. Happy?”
“Yes. Now have a good day,” she said, closing the door, leaving her to face the two MIB types standing at attention on the front steps.
The two security experts turned out to be blessings in black Brooks Brothers. George and Paul had pitched in to help load and set up.
Angie, insisting Bebe not cut off her nose to spite her face, had also forbidden her to banish them. Besides, she’d argued, “They’re cute.”
With the extra help, they’d finished arranging the display early and had plenty of time to go home and dress for the evening, leaving the men in black on guard. The long soak in the tub and a short nap had done wonders.
Now, looking around the ballroom and the anteroom where the Chocolatiers Gala benefit for the Women’s Health Research Foundation was being held, Bebe was glad she’d taken the time to look her best. The number of exceedingly tall, exceedingly beautiful, and exceedingly blond women circling like hunting cats could be frightening if you were their prey.
And Bebe had a pretty good idea who they were hunting.
The elusive Mr. Sam Sugarman.
She didn’t blame them one bit.
Totally understandable.
Especially after last night’s stellar kiss…
Heat flooded up her cheeks, and she turned her back to the room at large. She wouldn’t want to explain her blush to anyone. And she certainly didn’t intend to replay her own forward behavior—she’d done it enough. A footstool? Really?
She stooped to fetch another box of raspberry nougat swirls from under the rear display table.
When she turned to restock the tiered candy stands, Margot Symington-Smythe and two equally blond clones were helping themselves to chocolate suicide truffles.
Bebe smiled and filled in the empty spaces.
“Hello. Baby, isn’t it? I’m so bad with names,” Margot said between chews. “Mmmm. This is divine.” She reached for another truffle. “Have you seen Sam? He did say he would be here helping you with your little booth.”
“No, I haven’t seen him,” Bebe said, choosing not to correct Margot’s undoubtedly intentional mispronunciation of her name in hopes they would move on.
One clone, dressed in a skintight neon-green sheath that turned her skin tone a sickly yellow, said to the other, “I bought this dress especially for this evening. Glenna told me lime green was his favorite color.”
Bebe swallowed a gasp of surprised laughter; good manners covered it with a discreet cough. She decided Sam’s sister had a mean streak and would bear watching.
“I’m sure he’ll be here,” she said while continuing to fill in the empty candy spaces the three were creating at an alarming rate. “Perhaps he stopped at the Finnerman display. Near the door.” She pointed. “See the silver banners?”
Margot turned to discover the large silver banner proclaiming Finnerman’s Finest visible near the entrance. “Oh, yes. I see it. Well, thank you,” she said, snarfing up one more truffle. “But if you see him, tell him I absolutely must talk to him. Ta!”
As Margot and the doubles strolled in the direction of Freddy’s silver extravaganza, their conversation floated back.
“Who was that little person, Margot?”
“No one to be concerned about. Just a business associate. Sam introduced me to her last night at dinner.”
“You had dinner with Sam last night?” the other blonde questioned.
“No. She was having dinner with him.”
“Sam took her to dinner? But she’s not blond!”
“Exactly my point, darling. And as a redhead, a short one at that, she’s certainly no competition. Now come on, let’s go find him before someone else appropriates him for the evening. I’ve never seen so much peroxided hair in my life.”
Redhead? True. Short? Only by North American Anglo-Saxon standards—she could hold her own in equatorial African Pygmy societies. As for not being a threat—hadn’t she been the one waving Sam on his way after that heart-stopping kiss they’d shared last night in her doorway? She had been. She was sure of it. She remembered it distinctly. It was right after she’d tried to climb his body.
When she’d realized both feet were no longer standing on her footstool, she’d nearly panicked. But unlike their previous kiss, Sam had set her gently back on the floor, bent to retrieve her stool, and handed it to her. He’d brushed a light kiss across her mouth and said, “We’ll discuss this tomorrow. Get a good night’s sleep, princess.”
She’d watched him saunter the length of the hallway and disappear down the stairwell, then wondered why she felt like she needed to run after him. Why she missed him even before she heard the front door close. She was still pondering that question tonight, and wondering where he was, since he promised to meet her here at eight, and it was five minutes after.
She stared at her watch. The watch stared back.
…
Sam pulled into the Post
Street entrance of the St. Francis. The venerable old hotel, now branded a Westin and owned by Starwood Hotels and Resorts, had been a landmark in San Francisco since 1904. It overlooked Union Square and hosted many of the city’s major social events.
Cars jammed the underground parking entrance, and the uniformed valet staff ran to accommodate the crush. He tucked the Jag in behind a waiting Lincoln limousine and climbed out, handing the keys and a tip to an approaching attendant, who flipped him a ticket.
As he headed for the entrance, three blondes exited the Lincoln. Tall, sleek, and dressed to the nines. They seemed to turn as one, megawatt smiles in place, and focus on him. Sam glanced back to see if they were looking at someone behind him, but when they each lifted a hand and called “Hi, Sam!” he knew he was in serious trouble. They did look familiar, but he couldn’t come up with names to match the faces. Had he actually dated one of them? Or all of them? Oh, God.
He waved and smiled. His memory for names and faces and the pertinent facts about any individual he’d met were legendary. And yet he looked at these three women and drew a complete blank. It seemed that in the hours since he’d met Bebe, his salient memory of other women had taken a hike. This could prove to be embarrassing, especially in a venue like tonight’s, when probably most of the women he’d ever dated would be in attendance.
Fake it, he thought, just fake it.
“Good evening, ladies,” he said, walking forward and extending an ushering arm toward the automatic sliding doors. “Are you attending the chocolate ball this evening?”
“Yes,” the tallest of the three replied. “Unescorted, too, if you can believe it.” She sidled closer. “Did you come alone?”
“Ah, no. I’m meeting my date here.” Sam kept walking—the blondes kept pace; he kept smiling—past the onyx pillars, under the molded gold ceiling, around the carved ebony table that supported a floral arrangement big enough to stage a remake of The African Queen. Bebe could be Hepburn to his own Bogart…
When he spotted the elevators, he decided a detour was in order. He had no intention of strolling through the hotel with three women hovering around him. Bebe might get the wrong impression.
“Well, ladies, have a wonderful evening,” he said. “Enjoy the chocolate.” He made a sharp left, escaped into an open elevator and punched the door’s close button.
His mother had told him the presentations and then dancing to big band music would take place in the Grand Ballroom. The chocolate displays would be set up in the adjoining Colonial Ballroom. Both were located on the mezzanine. She’d been pleased when she’d been chosen to chair this year’s benefit, and Sam knew that with his mother running things, it would be a great moneymaker. He’d certainly done his share with the check he’d written, to say nothing of the contribution Sugarman Financial had pledged. When his mother had left the corporate offices that day, there wasn’t an executive in the company whose wallet hadn’t been tapped.
The elevator pinged to announce the floor, and the doors opened. There, waiting for the elevator, stood two beautiful women. Their faces lit up and each purred, as though in surround sound, “Hi, Sam.” Long platinum tresses were flipped and fondled by each as they cast expectant looks at him.
“Good evening, ladies,” he said, stepping from the elevator. “Let me hold the door for you.” They had no choice but to enter, while the doors closed on their surprised faces. He hadn’t recognized either of them.
Sam glanced around at the milling crowd in the mezzanine foyer. Was it just his imagination, or was there a really disproportionate number of blondes attending tonight’s affair? And why did they all look so familiar? If he could just recall their names, it wouldn’t be so bad. But he was beginning to feel like a cad. A man doesn’t kiss and tell, but he should at least remember.
As thoughts of “The Twilight Zone” and unanswered prayers shot through his mind, he decided to avoid further run-ins with the unremembered.
He needed to find Bebe. Since he’d laid eyes on her, he’d been hard-pressed to think of anything else. Yes, that sounded like a plan. Find his pixie and stay close, very close. She could protect him from predatory blondes, and he could protect her from everything else.
He made it through the Italian Room foyer, which seemed to be serving as a reception-registration area, and into the Colonial Ballroom without further incident. He made strategic use of the multitude of potted palms and avoided eye contact with anyone in a ball gown. No easy feat, since the long rectangular room was filled to overflowing with men in tuxedos and women in evening dresses. Every one of them seemed to have a mouth full of something delicious, judging by chewing cheeks, sublime looks, and groans of pleasure.
Sam knew where Bebe’s display had been set up. He’d checked with his security people earlier to make sure everything had gone smoothly and nothing unusual had occurred. Right now he couldn’t see her because of the milling crowd, but he headed in her direction. And nearly ran over Finnerman.
Freddy’s black tux, de rigueur for the evening, sported a sparkling metallic silver vest. If its straining buttons were any indication, he enjoyed his own product a great deal. He had Sam’s hand in his pudgy grip, pumping like an organ grinder, forcing him to stop or risk being very rude.
“Good to see you again,” Freddy said loudly enough to turn heads in the group milling around his display. “You came to taste my newest creation?” He pulled Sam closer to the display table and reached for several tinfoil-covered balls off the top of a precarious-looking pyramid of similar silver spheres. “Here, take some. They’re the best ones here tonight.”
“Thanks. I’ll try them,” he said, pocketing the candy and hoping he made it to the first trash receptacle before the contents of the squishy-feeling orbs oozed through the wrappers. “Interesting display.”
The fat man beamed. “Yes, every year I come up with a better concept than the year before. It’s expected, you know.”
Sam had a hard time keeping a straight face, and he’d give anything to be a fly nestled in the pyramid when his mother got a load of Freddy’s silver extravaganza. Every bit of aluminum foil in the greater San Francisco area must have been put to use in the freestanding six-foot-tall cubicle. Silver banners waved theatrically in breezes produced by enormous electric fans. The pyramid looked more unstable with each silver-covered candy piece someone removed. The two teenagers Freddy had tending the display, also garbed in silver, were clearly oblivious to the incipient disaster. He didn’t intend to be there when the whole thing came down. His mother would handle it…he’d be sure to mention it when he saw her.
“Well, thanks for the samples. Do you know where the Waterston display is?”
“The committee stuck them over in the far corner, near the end of the line. Bebe should have insisted she get a better spot. I offered to talk to the coordinator for her, but she said no. Women! What kind of business sense is that?” His expression suggested an understanding only men would share. Sam decided Freddy deserved whatever his mother dished out.
“I’m sure she had her reasons. Good luck in the competition.”
“Luck won’t have anything to do with it. Neither will the candy. The whole thing’s rigged. We all know that.”
Sam raised eyebrows in disbelief. “You might want to mention your concerns to my mother. She’s the committee chairwoman for this event. I’m sure she’d be willing to address the issue.”
Freddy looked like he’d swallowed one of his own chocolate balls—with the wrapper still on it.
Sam glanced around the room. “When I see her, I’ll be sure to send her over.” He ignored Freddy’s unintelligible sputter. “Bebe is over to the right, you said?”
“Uhh? Oh, yeah. Right.”
“Thanks. See you later.” Sam walked away, then glanced back. He wondered how the man could ever have thought he’d have a chance with Bebe. That would be like Hepburn dating one of the Three Stooges. He shook his head, lost in the incongruity of the image. Fortunately he realized his ow
n imminent peril as he made an end run around the ice sculpture, which acted as the room’s center divider.
He slipped behind a bank of ferns to the left of the Waterston display in time to avoid another encounter with Margot, to say nothing of the two blondes flanking her. He could swear he’d never seen either of them before, but he wasn’t taking any chances. At the rate he was going, he’d probably attended kindergarten through graduate school with both of them.
He only caught snatches of the conversation between Margot and Bebe because the harpist and piano player were tuning up on a small dais just behind him. He watched the woman he desired refill the spaces left after the three women had helped themselves to more than the one candy sample they were entitled to from each vendor.
Like chipmunks storing up for a cold winter’s siege, Margot and her cohorts were gobbling truffles at a speed that left doubt there would be any Waterston chocolates left for anyone else. He was about to step forward to stop the pillaging when he saw Bebe point in the direction of the entrance, smile, and nod. Margot and the two Miss Piggys, one of whom was dressed in the most god-awful lime-green dress he’d ever seen, set off in the direction of Freddy’s extravaganza.
As they strolled away, he watched Bebe slap down replacement candies on the gold trays and mutter under her breath. What could she have said? Did he really want to know? Probably not.
The Waterston display was the essence of sophistication. His mother would love it, since she could easily have designed it herself. Classy yet understated. He knew she’d love Bebe even more.
The mother of his future children stood in the circle of a half-moon table covered in a heavy satin fabric of a chocolate color that bordered on black. She looked stunning in her forest-green gown.
Several large three-tiered gold trays were staged in a semicircle around the table, each tier smaller than the one under it and covered with Waterston’s candies secured in matching foil paper. The trays sat on doilies that resembled spider-spun ruffles of golden filament. The tiny roses laced through delicate gold-leaf garlands were another subtle touch.
Bride by Chocolate (Death by Chocolate) Page 9