Gilly skillfully moved the stylus over the screen drawing the finishing touches to the five-piece collection. Leaning back in the chair she rubbed her lower back while tilting the electronic sketchpad up in front of her. This afternoon she planned to start draping the muslin sample on Patty, a mannequin. The bolt of muslin she bought in Seattle a week ago was propped up in the corner of the guesthouse living room—her makeshift studio.
Hearing a car door close, a dog barking racing from the driveway to the patio, she knew instantly who had just reappeared in her life.
A man’s shadow jogged by the window.
Skip.
The dog continued to bark at the patio door demanding attention.
Coco, asleep in a ray of sun, slid out the guesthouse cat door to join her doggie friend.
Gilly knew it had to happen sometime but she wasn’t ready to face him. She wasn’t sure how she felt about him. Before leaving for Paris they had grown close. Even to the point that she had let the idea of their becoming intimate enter her mind. But she left for Paris and Maxime had swept the thought of any other man away. She had come to the realization—too late—that he just wanted another conquest. A stupid, naive, girl from the western sticks of Washington didn’t have a chance against a charming, handsome Frenchman. A worldly man who knew how to manipulate a woman, never mind a girl of twenty-six.
She heard Gramps greet his friend. Skip Hunter. Seattle Times’ reporter. Oh, dear God, what am I going to say? Laying both hands around her belly, she believed she could pass off most comments by merely suggesting she had put on weight. But Skip would think differently. His reporter’s eye would guess her secret whether he said so or not. If he had any feelings for her before, he would certainly throw them away once he saw her condition.
───
“AGATHA, MY FRIEND.” Gramps opened the patio door, the exuberant Bassett Hound kissed the face bent to her, then instantly rolled over on her back, four paws in the air waiting for a belly rub. “Yes, yes. There you are. Missed me did you? Come on in, Skip. I’ll shake your hand in a minute after I attend to my dog here.”
Gripping the edge of the nearby table for help, Gramps stood up, shook Skip’s hand and motioned for him to come in. “Took you long enough to get over here. I was about to call you.”
“Hi, Clay. What do you mean took me long enough?”
“Oh my, now we’re going to be formal are we—vague, pretend we don’t know a certain granddaughter of mine is back in town. I thought you were calling me Gramps but we’re back to Clay. At least you didn’t revert to Mr. Wilder.” Gramps chuckled. “Tea?”
“Love a cup.” In the kitchen, Gramps put two cups and saucers on the table, Skip sat gazing out at Puget Sound. Agatha flopped in her favorite place—half in the living room the front half in the kitchen watching the action as Coco touched noses, then curled up next to Agatha’s ample girth.
“Gilly’s up in her studio.”
“Studio?” Skip took a sip of the lemon-ginger concoction.
“Guesthouse living room. She and Maria have taken over the place. So?”
“So? What?”
“What took you so long? I presume someone, probably Maria, let you know that Gilly was back. Did she say anything else?” Gramps asked searching Skip’s face for any knowledge of Gilly’s pending event.
“Maria did mention Gilly was back. I happened to bump into her and Hawk at Ivar’s having a drink while they waited for the ferry.”
“Well, when you finish that tea you best go up and break the ice. Seems a little tension has crept in since she left here back in May.”
“Not as far as I’m concerned … guess that’s not quite true. When I went to Paris to witness the arrest of Mrs. Wellington I stopped by Gilly’s apartment. Did she tell you?”
“No, she didn’t. Did you see her?”
“No, she was out of town but her roommates and I had a cup of coffee together. I got the distinct impression that Gilly was seeing someone. In fact, it sounded to me like she had gone away for a few days with him. Has she said anything to you about a man?”
“Yes, she has but I’ll let her tell you. Skip, Gilly’s changed…and I don’t just mean physically. Give her a chance, son.”
“You’re talking in riddles. I’ll go up and talk to her … break that ice,” Skip said with a grin. “Okay if Agatha stays with you? I’ll get her when I leave.”
“Of course. I think I have one of those rawhide bones hidden away just waiting for her to visit me.”
───
GILLY LOOKED UP HEARING the scratch of the intercom.
“Gilly, Skips on his way up.”
“Okay, thanks, Gramps.”
Her chest tightened, held her breath as Skip’s shadow passed the window. He opened the door and stepped in. Gilly stood with her back to him, hands tight across her middle, eyes closed as she faced the far wall.
“Hi, Gilly. Gramps said I should come up. I hope you don’t mind—
Gilly slowly turned around letting her hands hang to her side. “Hello, Skip.” Breathing came in short bursts, her mouth slightly open, words were impossible.
Skip looked at her, taking in the slight swell of her belly. He looked to her face, his blue eyes questioning what he saw in front of him. “I didn’t know you were married. Your roommates didn’t—
She wanted to bury her face in his chest. Wanted him to wrap his arms around her as he had done before. Comforting her, Protecting her. Telling her everything would be alright. But she had no right to ask. Wait. What was she thinking? She didn’t want him back in her life again. She didn’t want any man. She didn’t want any man to enter her life ever.
Afraid to speak, she raised her left hand showing him that her ring finger was bare.
“I don’t understand,” he said sitting in the plastic garden chair at the end of the long table. She had made no move toward him. In fact he felt a distinct wall of ice go up between them. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to tell me what happened in Paris?” Skip spit out the words, words that felt like darts hitting her body.
So what. She didn’t care. “Not a whole lot to tell.” Gilly picked up her half finished glass of milk willing herself to breathe long and deep. She drank the milk, put the glass down, faced him.
“The short version, the only version, is that I met a Frenchman. It was love at first sight. We planned to marry after he returned from a government assignment but he was killed. I came home to start my business.”
“That’s it? That story rolled off your tongue rather easily—like a marketing pitch in an elevator. There’s more. What is it?”
Gilly saw his temper rising. His blue eyes turning flinty. She’s was glad because it made it easier for her to snap back in return. He had a nerve questioning what she said. So what if he didn’t believe her? “There isn’t any more. He’s dead and I’m home and, as you can see, I’m working hard getting my business started. Maria is—
“If that’s all you’re going to tell me, then I think I’d better be going.” Skip strode out, down the three steps, more long strides to the patio door, jerked it open and swung around. Gilly stood outside the guesthouse door, arms crossed, glaring at him.
“When’s the baby due?” he spat out.
“April Fool’s day.” She saw him blanch like the wind had been knocked out of him. He looked up at her, his eyes full of hurt as he entered the patio slamming the door behind him.
Gilly stepped back into the guesthouse slamming the door in retaliation. She stood staring at the closed door, sparks flying from her eyes, her lungs screaming for air. She saw his shadow pass the window as Coco darted in the cat door, jumped up and squirmed to the sunshine behind the curtain watching Agatha scamper into the car.
Gilly imagined him getting into his jeep, heard the engine turnover, the car quietly pulled out of the driveway and up the road, the sound of the engine fading to nothing.
Gilly flopped down in the chair, elbows on the table ho
lding her head. Coco fished her way out from behind the curtain, brushed her mistress’s arm, purring.
Feeling a tear stinging her eye, Gilly’s head snapped up. “NO. NO. Stop it, Gillianne Wilder. Get back to work. NOW, Gillianne! NOW!” she shouted. Her words a clear rebuke to the tear and any that might follow.
Picking up the stylus, she made a slight correction to the black jacket on the screen of her electronic tablet.
Chapter 27
───
Paris
EDWARD CHURCHILL HOBBLED ONTO the Air France jet bound for Paris, settling his slight frame into the first-class window seat. His funds were running low but he splurged on the upgraded fare, after all he was a Churchill, and Churchill’s were accustomed to first-class travel. Edward figured his father had found out his mother was routinely depositing money into their son’s bank account as her routine had become sporadic. No matter, his account would soon be fat again, and, if things worked out, money might be deposited regularly from another source, maybe two other sources, well into the future.
The stewardess handed Edward his complimentary drink as well as the dinner menu. He smiled thinking about the poor suckers in the rear cabin—they had to pay for everything and endure the cramped seating. Edward fished out a little pill case from his breast pocket and downed two capsules with his boilermaker—a whiskey with a beer chaser. After dinner he’d go over his list of the top five fashion houses once more and then sleep for the long flight into Charles de Gaulle Airport.
The travel agent had made reservations for him at a hotel in the fashion district. After a catnap he’d begin his search for the father of Gilly’s baby. He figured given the short period of time she was in Paris that it must have been a torrid affair and someone at where she worked would be aware of the hot redhead from the States involved in a hot affair.
Following his plan, Edward stepped from plane to cab to hotel in record time. Refreshed from a two-hour nap and a shower, he headed to the first company on his list. He had his story—he was returning to the States from the battlefield of Afghanistan where he was wounded in the foot. He was looking for his sister. He wanted to see her before heading home to his mother and father and much needed therapy and rest from his ordeal.
His first stop was good and bad. Good because the personnel manager had teared up hearing his story and wished she could help him. Looking up Gillianne Wilder on her computer, she was sorry, but no one by that name appeared. She did, however, give him another company to add to his list. Thanking her, he limped from her office, obviously in more pain from his wound than when he entered. Passing a café he thought about stopping for an afternoon drink but postponed the urge. He didn’t want to have liquor on his breath when he was asking for his dear sister; although no one would have blamed him for having a drink or two given he was fresh from the war zone.
Company two had no record of a Gillianne Wilder and was so so sorry to disappoint him. The woman helped him as he limped to the front entrance wishing him well.
He hit the mother lode at company three. The personnel manager was out but her assistant, a chatty forty-something French woman in spike heels and tight dress providing a view to her ample cleavage, found G. Wilder on the first pass.
“Yes, your sister works here … oh, wait a minute, there’s a note that she is no longer available. I’m not sure what that means. I’ll write down the name and number of her agent. Maybe she can help you.”
“Thank you, Madame, that would be helpful. Maybe she took a job somewhere else.”
“She’s certainly a pretty thing. Her picture … I’ve seen her. Oh my, yes, she’s the one.”
“Excuse me, the one?” Edward asked his heart skipping a beat. This old lady knows something. Easy, Edward, don’t spook her.
The woman looked up from under her fresh set of long eyelashes applied that morning. She gave a furtive look at the office door and quickly closed it. “Your sister had us all panting.”
“My goodness,” Edward giggled. “Why was that?”
“Maxime Beaumont. He saw her one afternoon modeling a gown, a very revealing gown I was told. And he pounced. So to speak.”
“Madame, are you saying Monsieur Beaumont pounced like in asked her out?”
“Oh, my yes. He pursued her. Whenever she modeled for us he was there. One of the fitters caught them in a very compromising kiss. Whew, he causes my heart to race just thinking about him. I’m not surprised your sister didn’t tell you about him after all he is a married man. She suddenly disappeared. Maybe she went back to the States. Her agent, the number I gave you, probably knows how to reach Ms. Wilder if she’s still in Paris. Of course, your parents must know where she is.”
Edward leaned in. “Maybe she doesn’t want to be found … you know ran off with this Beaumont fella.”
“I don’t think so. I saw an article in the paper the other day. He’s running for the Senate next spring.”
───
EDWARD SAT IN THE corner of a cozy café near his hotel giggling to himself, smiling from ear to ear as he nursed his second whiskey, straight up. He would have bet every penny he had that the father of Gilly’s baby was Beaumont, and when she told the creep about the baby he dropped her like a hot potato. Mulling over his next step he flagged the waitress and ordered a steak, rare, with mushrooms. Forget the salad. He needed something hearty to flesh out his plans for Beaumont.
Finished with his dinner Edward strolled back to his hotel—the pain barely noticeable he was so preoccupied, and numbed with liquor. He had mapped out his strategy to get the biggest payout possible from the man running for the Senate, a man who could not stand to have a scandal erupt. Of course, European men were known for their mistresses, but an American mistress with child, that was different. Ohhh yes sir. This was going to be easy.
───
EDWARD LIMPED INTO BEAUMONT’S office at ten o’clock the next morning—late enough the man would be in, but early enough he wouldn’t be out to lunch or a meeting. He had dressed carefully—suit and tie, his best black Italian shoes. Beaumont was not going to take him for some bum off the street. No, Beaumont would recognize Edward as a significant adversary.
The receptionist scanned her boss’s calendar, but didn’t see an appointment with an Edward Churchill.
“I’m sorry, Monsieur Churchill. There seems to be no appointment today with your name. Perhaps you would like to schedule an appointment for another day?”
“Please give Monsieur Beaumont my name. Tell him I have the information he requested concerning a June baby. I think he’ll see me.”
“Well…”
“Just tell him, s'il vous plaît.”
The young woman hesitated then decided to speak with her boss. Surely he’d tell her to get rid of the man. She stepped into Beaumont’s office with Edward’s request to see him. To her surprise, her boss looked up sharply from the report he was preparing for his father.
“Show the man in. I’ll get rid of him.”
Edward strolled into Beaumont’s office hiding his limp, sucking up the pain at the same time taking in the sumptuous furnishings, gleaming mahogany floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with law books, Oriental rugs scattered over plush carpets, and heavy tapestry drapes. He knew he stood in a room filled with great wealth. He extended his hand to Beaumont who remained seated behind his desk, and then flopped in a chair a pain darting up his leg.
“What is it you wanted to see me about? My receptionist indicated it was urgent,” Beaumont asked, leaning forward in his black-leather chair, elbows on his desk. He sat in his shirtsleeves, a black silk suit jacket placed carefully on a hanger Edward saw on the open door of a closet.
Edward sized the man up. Figured Beaumont to be in his mid to late thirties, and oh yes, he was a handsome Frenchman. Women probably fell all over themselves to do his bidding especially a young stupid girl from the sticks of Western Washington. A girl like Gilly. “I have a deal for you, one I’m sure you’ll be very interested in
accepting.”
“What kind of a deal?” Maxime scrutinized the skinny fellow facing him—June baby? No way. The guy looked nothing like Gillianne so he couldn’t be a relative. Nonetheless, Maxime’s heart rate rose.
“Something you want in return for something I want,” Edward said quietly his tone firm with a hint of conspiracy.
“And what do you want, Monsieur Churchill?”
“One million Euros.”
Beaumont chuckled. “And what could I possibly want from you for such a sum?” My God. Such a large amount. He must think I’m an easy mark or … or … he knows something. A tick in Maxime’s left eyelid accompanied his elevating pulse.
“My silence.” Edward paused seeing the nervous twitch in Beaumont’s eye. “For my silence regarding your bastard baby Gillianne Wilder is carrying. My silence that the story will not appear in the media—the newspapers, television, radio, tabloids, and no tipoff to the paparazzi devils.”
Chapter 28
───
Seattle
THE SIDEWALKS OF DOWNTOWN Seattle were teaming with office workers, shoppers, and tourists. Gripping her rolling suitcase containing the precious first presentation of her five-piece collection, Gilly wove through the throng to her first appointment. She hoped her lookbook of sketches would entice the two people she was meeting with to ask to see samples. If asked she and her mom and Maria would somehow produce them.
Her meeting with Stacy Sinclair, owner of The Working Girl shop, was a bit nostalgic but she also felt she had an edge. After all, Stacy had displayed three of her fall looks following Gilly’s success modeling the pieces in her store.
Taking a deep breath, Gilly pushed through the plate-glass doors a big smile on her face. It felt good to be back in the pretty little shop. It was in a good location—a block from Nordstrom’s Department Store.
Murder by Design Trilogy Page 31