by Terry Odell
A resounding burst of applause came from below, followed by the opening strains of Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro.
Miri moved toward the door. “I have to go. They’ll be serving dinner.”
Texas blocked her path. “Not so fast, little lady. What are you doing here?”
She planted her feet and put her hands on her hips. “Delivering food to Mr. Patterson’s aunt.”
“Oh, now who’s got the lottery ticket? I suppose dear Auntie hangs around under desks?”
“Please. Let me get downstairs. I won’t say anything about you being up here.” She sidestepped and he grabbed her shoulders. He was tall, broad, and smelled like sandalwood. She struggled, but he held her at bay. She went limp in his grasp, put her arms around his waist and he relaxed his grip. With a quick jerk and a brisk heel to his instep, she wriggled away and dashed for the door.
Head high, she strode through the hall. Peering down the stairs, she noticed the guard wasn’t at his post. She trotted down and meandered through the guests into the chaos of the kitchen. With everyone scrambling to get dinner plates to the tables, nobody would notice if she was coming or going. She worked her way through the lines of wait staff and through a side door into a storage closet.
She locked the door and bent over, hands on her thighs and took several deep breaths. She had what she came for, and those two men no longer concerned her. The LED on the clock had given off only enough light to navigate the darkened room. From her brief encounter with Texas, she was certain he’d be dressed like every other man here—in a tuxedo. She’d never pick him out in the crowd. Unless, of course, he opened his mouth, and that slow, honey-rich drawl flowed out. Or he stood close enough for a whiff of his delicious sandalwood scent.
Time for part two. She stripped off the caterer’s uniform and changed into the black ball gown she’d hung in the closet when she arrived. She yanked off the short black wig and fluffed out her light brunette hair so it cascaded to her shoulders. From her evening bag, she retrieved her makeup kit and mimicked the society image, although she felt more like a clown than a woman when she was done. A spritz of perfume, and Miri took comfort knowing Texas wouldn’t recognize her, either.
She slipped the treasure she’d retrieved into the beaded purse and snapped it shut. After exchanging her sensible waitress shoes for strappy stilettos, she took one more deep breath, fixed a smile to her face and stepped out to join the party.
Chapter 2
Round dining tables covered in crisp white linen filled four rooms surrounding the ballroom. Dalton found his assigned table and seated himself across from Fozzie. Patterson glided from one room to another, the consummate host. Although others ate with gusto, Dalton had no appetite. Three tables away, Fozzie’s redhead seemed engrossed in animated conversation. Fozzie, undaunted by what would no doubt be a temporary separation, entertained their dowager seating companions with tales from the Australian outback.
Dalton sipped his wine and broke his roll into pieces on his bread plate, all the while eyeing the waitresses, trying to determine which one they’d encountered in Patterson’s study. From their brief contact, he estimated her height at about five-six. A well-rounded rump, he recalled with a faint smile. Feisty. Husky voice, unaccented English. Short hair. Black, or dark brown. He couldn’t rule out Hispanic heritage, which included a fair number of the staff. He eliminated about half the waitresses, but the puzzle of why she was hiding in the study nagged at him. A week’s rations said there was no Auntie Patterson upstairs.
Dismissing the thought as irrelevant to the night’s task, a success even with their minor setback, Dalton resigned himself to getting through the evening until it was safe to leave without calling attention to himself and Fozzie. Yet despite his best efforts, he couldn’t get the mystery woman out of his mind.
She’d nearly squelched the assignment, and he cringed when he thought what his boss, Horace Blackthorne, would have to say about it if she had. He reminded himself she was an impediment, not a warm female who smelled like a spring breeze, with a voice like she’d spent the night making passionate love. After yet another fruitless scouring of the room, he returned to picking at his meal.
Unable to settle, he excused himself to use the men’s room, taking a roundabout route through the other dining rooms in search of his mystery waitress. No luck. Maybe she worked in the kitchen. If not for Blackthorne’s strict admonition to blend in, he would have checked. Dalton returned to his seat and a waiter set a meringue swan filled with chocolate mousse in front of him. Dalton snapped the swan’s neck and popped it into his mouth. The cloying sweetness half-sickened him.
Fozzie raised his bushy eyebrows. Dalton shook his head. Fozzie shrugged, apparently unconcerned about what happened upstairs, as long as they’d done what they’d come to do.
By nine-thirty, the staff had cleared the dessert plates and refilled coffee cups. Vaguely aware of someone speaking, Dalton faced the source of the voice. The silver-haired woman seated beside him tapped a glossy brochure with an age-spotted hand.
“I’m sorry,” Dalton said. He gave her a polite smile. “My mind drifted. I’m afraid I didn’t hear you.”
“I said, what did you think of Andrew Patterson’s announcement? Did it surprise you as well?”
Dalton threw Fozzie a silent plea for help. The man merely sipped his coffee. The twitch of his eyebrows told Dalton his partner was having too much fun watching him squirm.
“Um . . . yes, I have to say it did.”
“This seems to be such a departure for him. It’s very noble, but also out of character. I’m going to have to think about it a while before I commit.”
“Always a smart thing to do. I agree, it requires some thought.” Dalton reached for one of the fanned brochures in the center of the table, then slipped it into his breast pocket, nodding. “Definitely going to study this some more.”
The woman extended her hand. “I’m Grace Ellsworth.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Ellsworth. I’m Dalton.”
Penciled eyebrows lifted. “Dalton Something or Something Dalton?”
“Just Dalton. I find Mr. Dalton’s too formal,” he said and smiled.
“Oh, you are a rascal. Well, Dalton, I don’t suppose you’d do me the honor of a dance?”
Why the hell not? He figured at least another hour before they could leave. “My pleasure, ma’am.”
“Grace.”
“Grace.” He pushed his chair back, stood, and held out his hand.
Fozzie winked at him and got up, no doubt seeking his redhead. Grace placed her hand in Dalton’s and he guided her through the groups of people heading for the ballroom. Her movements personified her name, carrying him back to those Sunday afternoons in Texas when his grandmother insisted on teaching him and his brothers to dance.
“A man has to be able to do more than ride and rope,” Grandma had said. “You’ll impress many more women on the dance floor than in the rodeo ring.” Dancing with Grace was a trip back to Grandma’s parlor with her scratchy records. Except for the ball gown and diamonds.
Grace tilted her head up at him. “Have you found her yet?”
Dalton’s grip tightened on hers, and he quickly loosened it. “What do you mean?”
“I couldn’t help but notice the way you were searching around during dinner. I can’t believe a handsome man such as yourself would be here alone. Not like me—an old widow with too much time and enough money to be hit for every so-called worthy cause in town.”
So, he’d been that obvious. Dalton cursed inwardly for relaxing his guard. The way to stay sharp was to be on duty no matter what. “No, not really,” he said. “I thought I saw someone I knew when I arrived. I must have been mistaken.”
“You don’t strike me as the type to make those kinds of mistakes,” she said. “When you look at something, you see it, if you know what I mean.” Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Was she more than a rich woman at a fundraiser?
“Tell me why
you’re really here,” she said. “You might be wearing a designer tuxedo, but you aren’t like the rest of the guests. And I’ve never seen you at any of these silly functions.”
Dalton kept a smile on his face. “I’m new in town, ma’am, and you’re right. My cousin couldn’t make it tonight, and I’m here in his place.” Not a total lie. Horace Blackthorne was his cousin, a few times removed.
Before she dug any deeper, the music shifted tempo. Grace’s eyes lit up. “I hope you can waltz, young man. It’s my favorite, although nobody’s been able to match my Edgar, bless his soul. The man could float me around the floor like I was an angel on a cloud.”
“I’ll do my best.”
As they danced, her expression turned dreamy. He hoped she was with Edgar in her thoughts.
When the dance ended, her eyes glistened. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“My pleasure. Would you like another?”
She gave a rueful smile. “I think I’d like to remember this one. Thank you, Dalton. I sincerely hope you find whomever you’re searching for.”
“I intend to.” If nothing else, Grace had dumped a bucket of ice water into his pity party. As an operative for Blackthorne, Inc., no matter how stupid he thought the assignment, he was on a job. After escorting Grace back to her seat, he scanned the room for Fozzie. Sure enough, he spotted him, entwined with the redhead on the dance floor.
Dalton gazed toward the front door. Only one or two guests were leaving. At the moment, most of the crowd was in the ballroom. He wandered through the main dining room. A few couples sat lingering over coffee and conversation.
Blend in. Mix, mingle, and don’t stay too long with anyone. Be forgettable. His headache settled behind his eyes.
A woman with flowing light brown hair sat by herself at a table nearby. Unlike the majority of the women, she wore a high-necked gown, and she didn’t seem as overburdened with jewelry as so many of the other guests. She also appeared to be several decades younger than most of them. He ambled over and stood beside her chair. “I don’t mean to intrude,” he said, “but if you’re not with someone, would you like to dance? Or can I get you a drink?”
Her eyes widened at his questions.
* * * * *
As soon as he opened his mouth, Miri knew it was Texas. Had he recognized her? Afraid to study his face, she ducked her head, painfully aware she was blushing. Where was his Aussie boyfriend? Right. As if she really believed the two men were a couple. They’d been up to something in the study, and it wasn’t sex.
He leaned on the back of the chair next to hers. The essence of sandalwood removed any doubt of his identity.
“We’re both a little out of place here, aren’t we?” he said. “Age-wise, I mean.”
She shrugged, trying to ignore the way his drawl heated her insides.
“You didn’t answer my question. Would you like a drink? Or a dance?”
If she recognized his voice, he’d know hers. She shook her head and pointed to her throat. “Laryngitis,” she whispered.
“Ah,” he said. “I have just the thing.” He reached into his jacket pocket and handed her a wrapped yellow candy. “Have a butterscotch. Should soothe the throat.”
Reluctantly, she accepted the sweet. It provided some moisture for her rapidly drying mouth. Hoping she wouldn’t choke on it, she mouthed a thank you.
He flashed a lazy grin. “So, what’ll it be? Drink or dance? You can move your head, right?”
She lifted her chin.
“I take it that’s a ‘yes.’”
His eyes were gunmetal gray, the color of the sky right before it rained. Creases at the corners deepened when he smiled, as he did now, and she couldn’t help but return it. What the hell? She held out her hand. Although his touch was gentle, she felt an underlying strength. And calluses. Which didn’t quite jibe with his tailored tuxedo. Thick, dark brown hair curled over the tops of his ears. Her guess was he preferred it short and was ready for a trim. That he hadn’t bothered before coming to the event added to her curiosity. Why had he been invited? Had he been invited? She hadn’t.
She stood and led the way to a corner of the dance floor. When she turned to face him, he cocked his head, and those gray eyes seemed to see her thoughts. She hoped not, because her thinking about him naked would embarrass both of them.
Unlike the last few guys she’d dated, this one knew what to do on a dance floor, and she followed his lead without any trouble. He held her close. Caught up in the music, or maybe because of the second glass of wine she’d drunk with dinner, her mind drifted and she savored the sensation. He made no attempts to talk, apparently accepting her laryngitis excuse. Two dances later, the orchestra took a break.
“Thanks,” he said. “Would you like that drink?”
Common sense prevailed. She shook her head and moved toward the table. She mouthed an “excuse me” and wove her way in the direction of a restroom, afraid to glance back to see if he followed. A set of French doors opened onto a flagstone patio. She stepped into the chill night air, found a path toward the front of the house and asked the parking valet at the top of the driveway if he’d call a cab.
“We have a service, ma’am,” he said. “Will you need someone to deliver your car tomorrow?”
She smiled. “No, that won’t be necessary.”
He gave her a nod and waved a car from a line of black sedans. When it halted at the pickup point, the valet opened the door for her. “Have a good night,” he said. “And there’s no charge.” He stared at the driver as he spoke, as if to make sure he wouldn’t pull a fast one.
“Thank you.” She gave the driver an address and clutched her purse on her lap, wondering how much to tip him. Too little, or too much, and he might remember her. When the car approached the apartment building, Miri gave him a folded ten-dollar bill and slipped out the door as soon as he stopped at the curb. She watched from the lobby until he drove away, then called a cab to take her home.
Half an hour later, in her bedroom in a neighborhood the driver would most definitely remember as totally inappropriate for one of Andrew Patterson’s guests, Miri placed her gown carefully on a padded hanger. Her gown for the night, anyway. Tomorrow it would go back to her sister where it could hang in the spacious walk-in closet with lots of other fancy gowns for company. Tonight it would go slumming with its poor relations in Miri’s cramped reach-in with the warped louver doors that were forever coming off their tracks.
Miri scrubbed off her makeup. She donned an oversized T-shirt, pulled on some thick wool socks, and wrapped herself in an old terrycloth robe. After capturing her hair at her neck with an elastic band, she powered up her laptop and fetched the jump drive from her purse. While everything booted, she fixed a mug of hot chocolate and started a jazz playlist on her iPod.
To the driving rhythm of Dave Brubeck’s Take Five, Miri transferred the files to her hard drive and password protected the folders, mentally thumbing her nose at Patterson for his arrogance in assuming his personal home computer was safe from intruders. Not that she’d noticed an abundance of files in her quick peek. She surmised he kept his work at the office—if he even did that work himself. Probably had a staff of secretaries, assistants, and accountants to do it while he spent his days on the golf course or tennis court.
Nancy’d known about his habit of background checks on people up for positions like Hunter’s. Hell, the investigator’s report was right there in his desk drawer in a yellow file folder clearly labeled Hunter Sanderson.
Cold air found its way through gaps in ill-fitting windows, but with the robe warming her outside and the cocoa warming her inside, Miri relaxed for the first time in the two weeks since her sister had called, panic-stricken.
“I can’t risk it, Miri. You’ve got to help me. Hunt’s up for a fantastic job, working for Andrew Patterson, but they’re going to do a complete background search. On me, too.”
“Why is that a problem? You’ve buried the past long ago. Your identity is secur
e. You’ve got all the right credentials. College degree, job history, the works.”
“If Hunt finds out I was a resident of Galloway House—”
“After all these years, don’t you think it’s you he loves, not your past.”
“I’m not worried about that. It’s that he won’t get the job, and who knows what else might happen. If we didn’t have this damn anniversary cruise with his family, we’d be there, and I could get a better feel for things.”
“Right.”
Miri hadn’t considered the stratosphere of society Hunter and Nancy inhabited, where it was borderline acceptable to marry a woman who actually worked for a living. But finding out she’d come from lower than middle-class stock, often dodging the law to put food on the table for herself and her little sister, would never fly with Andrew Patterson. Or the rest of Hunter Sanderson’s clan. Which pissed the hell out of Miri. What was wrong with rising above your beginnings?
So, she’d spent tonight playing waitress and socialite. To deny her sister would be like not breathing.
Miri opened her e-mail program and clicked her sister’s address, choosing her words with care.
Welcome home! How was the cruise? Hope you and Hunt had time to enjoy the sunshine—and some moonlight?
She hit “Send.” That should cover it in case Nancy’s husband read her e-mails.
Sipping the last of her cocoa, she stared at the screen and the icons for the folders she’d downloaded. She wasn’t sure what triggered the impulse to copy them from Patterson’s computer, other than old instincts that said it was always a good thing to have some extra insurance, even if you didn’t know it was insurance when you took it.
Curious, she double-clicked one of the icons and waited for it to open. What would a man with more money than God keep in his computer? Apparently not a list of his investments or a draft of a memoir with instructions for making more money than God. It appeared to be a remodeling job. Basement renovations, it said. A few schematics, something about an air-conditioning system. Updating his servants’ quarters, perhaps. She closed the file.