Taylor took her place in the line as number three server, and as she walked, the hum of conversation from the dining room grew louder.
Outside the doorway, Georg turned to his servers. “You’ll follow me single-file. When I tell you to stop, you’ll place the wine at your feet. You stand against the wall, look over the top of everyone at the table—don’t stare!” He glared at Brent. “And smile. Mr. Gracie will make a speech about the wines he is offering. When he’s done, you’ll pick up your box and we will exit at the other end of the dining room, into the serving area. Got that?” He glared at Brent again.
Brent nodded and grinned.
“My God.” Georg rubbed his forehead between his index fingers, then he straightened. Taking Brent by the shoulder, he shoved him into line directly behind him. “All right, let’s go.” He hovered in the doorway, then at a signal from inside, he gestured to them and led the way.
Taylor walked in second to last, put her box down on the signal, straightened, and gazed over the tops of the heads of the guests.
She had never in her life felt so naked. Yes, her hair was cut. Yes, she had lost twenty pounds. Yes, it had been three and a half months since she’d disappeared into the mountains.
But three hundred wealthy, influential people were gathered at a series of elegant round tables. Taylor had been a high-end interior designer; she had probably worked for some of them, creating warm and inviting interiors for their homes. If one of them recognized her …
She couldn’t resist. She skimmed the faces, never allowing her gaze to linger, but checking to see if anyone was staring specifically at her.
And two of them were, both men, both middle-aged, both openly lustful. Were they the kind of men who sensed vulnerability and swooped in for the kill?
Euw. Thank God that tonight she had been chopping onions and not serving tables, as so many of Georg’s female waiters had been. Now those women stood against the back wall, waiting to be summoned to top off a glass or remove a plate.
She concluded her survey of the lesser tables and slid a glance at Mr. Gracie.
He really was a gorgeous man, well groomed, with a marvelous physique and a deep, resonant voice.
He was saying, “These two aperitifs are jewels of flavor and color, precious gems in the world of rare wines and exclusive ports, moments of sunshine and grapes from summers past.”
Polite applause.
Taylor didn’t care what Georg said. Michael Gracie wasn’t all flash and show. He was eloquent, intelligent, and obviously had a good palate. Maybe someday, when her life was back to normal, she’d see if he needed a home decorated and they could …
“Look. Look!” Allison whispered out of the side of her mouth. “It’s Colin Sebastian, from the new Bourne movie, and he’s with Melissa Clarkson, the one who won all the gold medals in swimming. I heard they were dating, but they denied it.” She chortled softly. “Yeah, right.”
Taylor didn’t care. Not really. She was intent on her own survival, not on the trivia of celebrity dating. But … Colin Sebastian … he was such a great action actor … She didn’t turn her head, but she was looking. “Where?”
“Head table. Behind Mr. Gracie.”
Her gaze found the head table, larger, grander than all the others, filled with men in expensive suits and women in sequined dresses.
She saw Colin, as beautiful in person as he was on the screen, and Melissa, tall and sleek in a dress that bared her swimmer’s arms and shoulders.
Seated at the table next to Melissa, she saw him—Seamore “Dash” Roberts. In the flesh.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Dash looked exactly as he had on the highway at the north end of Wildrose Valley: large, smug, dressed in an expensive suit and impatient with the proceedings.
He wasn’t looking at Taylor. He seemed oblivious to Taylor.
She yanked her gaze away and stared down at her toes, then collected herself and looked over the heads of the diners at the far wall. She did not want to attract attention. Obviously. She wanted to blend in with the other servers.
“Are you okay?” Allison whispered. “You look like you’re going to faint.”
Taylor took a long breath. “Colin,” she said. “I’m woozy. Too close to him.”
“God, yes.” Allison understood rampant hormones.
Georg looked down the line of servers and glared fiercely.
What was Dash doing here? Was he a guest of Mr. Gracie’s? Yes. Yes, he was, because now Mr. Gracie was introducing the celebrities at the head table. Movie stars, two, Colin and a British grande dame. Singers, two: a rap star and an opera star who introduced programs on PBS. Politicians, four: one senator, two big-city mayors, and a Chinese dignitary. And athletes: two, Olympic swimmer Melissa and former football star Dash.
Taylor slid a glance at Dash when he stood up and waved, then sat down and adjusted his tie.
How ironic that she had made the decision to come to the dining room on the ridiculous belief that to do otherwise would be remarked on in the kitchen. Who cared about them? None of them had chased her up the mountainside, shooting to kill. None of them had the ability to murder her with his bare hands.
Her face burned so hot she feared she would burst into flames, yet her hands were icy. This felt like a police lineup; she was caught, held, exposed with a light on her guilty face.
She’d been here for hours. Hadn’t she?
Yet Mr. Gracie was still talking. “I’m pleased to have celebrities among my guests who honor me by visiting my home, and I’m proud to announce you have raised over one hundred thousand dollars for breast cancer research!”
More applause.
“I’d like to introduce the head of breast cancer research at the American Center for Cancer Control, Carolyn Romano, who will fill us in on what your money will do to fight this terrible disease.”
A woman standing at the back of the room came to join him, and spoke earnestly about the efforts to treat and eradicate breast cancer.
Taylor didn’t hear a word. She was sweating too hard, concentrating too much on being invisible, hoping with all her heart she wouldn’t faint from fear.
A burst of enthusiastic applause brought her back to the moment.
“That’s cool,” Allison said.
“What?” Taylor barely moved her lips.
“She says Mr. Gracie is matching the donation. Over one hundred thousand dollars.” Allison sounded hungry. “So he’s gorgeous and generous.”
Taylor wrenched her attention to Mr. Gracie as he stepped up to the microphone.
“I’m not a good man,” he said.
A spattering of applause interrupted him.
He shook his head. “No, I am not a good man. But my mother died of breast cancer. She was such an intelligent woman, dynamic, alive, and even the short time I knew her, she taught me so much about people. I have never forgotten…”
Taylor needed to keep her attention on Mr. Gracie. She needed to appear fascinated by him, as so many women here were fascinated by him. And in fact, the way he spoke, the way he looked—he was fascinating.
Mr. Gracie continued, “That last time when she held me, even as young as I was, I felt the life slipping from her body, and I fought to keep her with me. I begged her to stay. I was helpless.”
Taylor couldn’t stop herself. She slid a sideways glance toward Dash. She expected to see him looking bored. After all, a man who would hire himself out to murder a child seemed unlikely to care about breast cancer.
Dash scrutinized Mr. Gracie with the cool calculation of a running back studying the game play.
A chill ran down Taylor’s spine.
Why? What possible interest could Dash have for Mr. Gracie except as a meal ticket?
She looked again at Mr. Gracie.
He was still talking, a vital, handsome man exposing his vulnerabilities for the good of a charity. “So I donate to breast cancer, because I cannot bear to think of another child having to face those bleak mo
ments when he is irrevocably alone, and forever after, there is no one who understands him … the boy he is, and the man he grows up to be.”
If Mr. Gracie was acting, he was doing a hell of a job, because he tugged on her heartstrings. Every woman at the tables had her linen handkerchief pressed to her damp eyes, and every female server was surreptitiously wiping tears off her cheeks. Men groped for their credit cards, resigned and even eager to donate more.
She looked again at Dash.
He was not moved. His credit card remained tight within his wallet. Yet still he watched Mr. Gracie intently, as if struck by Mr. Gracie’s refinement.
She did not for a moment believe Dash knew a damned thing about refinement.
For a long moment, Mr. Gracie stood in silence, his mobile face drawn and pale with the effort of speaking with such emotion, and he looked to his right, as if seeing a beloved ghost. Then he shook himself free of his old heartache, and nodded to Georg.
Georg signaled the line.
The servers picked up the wine and with dignity followed him toward the serving area.
Mr. Gracie said, “Georg’s servers will be pouring for you. If you would hold the wine until everyone is served, so I may make a toast to salute you, my guests, who have honored me with your friendship and support, and to salute your generosity.”
“And to your mother,” Taylor murmured.
Michael Gracie’s head swung toward her. His brown eyes lightened with warm flecks of amber, and his kissable lips grew tender.
He had heard her. Somehow, he had heard her.
For a moment, she feared he would acknowledge her in front of the room. In front of Dash. But no—he faced the room again. “And yes, let’s toast my mother, and the end of the dreadful disease that took her too soon.”
Men like Mr. Gracie and Mr. Brothers reminded Taylor that there was good in this world. Both were leaders of industry. Obviously, they succeeded with a combination of intelligence and ruthlessness. But both men hid depths of emotion, and when Mr. Gracie spoke of his mother, Taylor could see beneath the polished façade into the young boy he had been … and she wanted to protect him.
When the servers were out of the dining room, Taylor felt almost light-headed with relief. She put down her box while Georg directed the table servers on how to decant and fill the glasses. Then she, Charlene, Brent, and Allison left by another door, to the stairs and back down to the kitchen.
For one wild moment, Taylor considered fleeing out the back door, never to return.
But the memory of her father stopped her. What are you going to do to get yourself out of this mess? You can’t hide forever, Taylor Elizabeth Summers. You’ve got to take the bull by the horns and do something to clear your good name. You’ll recognize opportunity when it presents itself, child. Look for it, and seize the moment.
Going back to her station, she took her pastry tube away from Jasmine, who flounced off, and began once again to decorate the pots au chocolat.
Was seeing Dash the opportunity of which Taylor’s father had spoken?
Or should she run before it was too late?
She viewed the tremor in her fingers.
Running looked pretty good.
But she couldn’t return to the mountains. She’d barely escaped death too many times to believe that was a viable option.
She knew one thing; whatever else Dash was—athlete, abuser, hit man—he was not an actor. If Dash had recognized her, she would have known. She had been, as Georg hoped, invisible to that particular guest. So her best bet was to go into town with Georg tonight. Stay in a shelter until she could move on. And figure out her next step in bringing Dash to justice.
As Taylor worked, as she thought through her options, as no Dash appeared in the kitchen to kill her, her hot face returned to a normal color. She relaxed her hunched shoulders and rolled her neck. She finished her stint in desserts and began the cleanup, scrubbing the pots until they shone, gathering Georg’s treasured knives from the workstations, sharpening them, washing and packing them in edge guards and carrying cases.
The dinner rush wound down. The kitchen staff began to relax, to chat, to high-five each other and laugh a little. Sarah came by and picked up the white jackets and chefs’ hats, and stuffed them in a laundry bag. Georg came by with the cash. The volume of voices increased and became decidedly more cheerful.
Taylor tried to join in. Everything was okay. The memory of her father gave her comfort. She would do as he instructed; she would seize the day and extricate herself from this nightmare of endless winter and gnawing hunger. Yet in the logical part of her mind, she knew she couldn’t depend on the advice and foresight of a man who hadn’t really been there.
A change in the rhythm of the kitchen caught her attention.
“Heads up,” Allison whispered. “It’s him, and this time, he brought friends.”
Taylor looked around.
Mr. Gracie and Dash walked through the kitchen. Three men in black suits surrounded them.
Mr. Gracie spoke animatedly to Dash.
Dash smiled a cold, satisfied smile.
As Taylor stared, she could think of nothing else but Dash’s cold capacity for murder. He was totally selfish, completely immoral, unable to comprehend another person’s pain, willing to snuff out a life. He didn’t even notice the serving staff that surrounded him, or the men in suits who accompanied them. Yet he listened to Mr. Gracie, observed Mr. Gracie, as if everything depended on Mr. Gracie. As if everything depended on … killing Mr. Gracie.
Dash was going to kill Mr. Gracie.
No. No, she had to be wrong. Mr. Gracie was an intelligent, sophisticated man. This was his home. He was safe here.
Yet the specter of Jimmy lurked in the background, directing Dash’s actions. Who knew if Jimmy might hold a grudge against Mr. Gracie? Or might want to take advantage of the schism in the business world his death would cause?
Mr. Gracie met her gaze and lifted his eyebrows questioningly.
She looked down, then up at him in appeal.
He walked over to her, slid a light finger over her cheek. “Smile.” His large, brown eyes warmed to a deep amber. “It’s not as bad as all that.”
His eyes … so beautiful, so kind, so perceptive. She felt as if he saw into her soul. She shouldn’t have asked, but the way he looked at her … She blurted, “Do those men work for you?”
“They are my friends,” Mr. Gracie said.
“Oh.” Now what was she supposed to say? Don’t trust them?
Head tilted, Mr. Gracie watched her. “You are a funny girl. How old are you?”
“Older than I look,” she said.
“Right.” His eyes cooled. “So you’re underage. When the party is over, make sure Georg takes you home to your mommy and daddy.”
She looked to see if Mr. Gracie’s consideration had brought Dash’s attention to her. It had; he flicked her a disgusted glance and followed Mr. Gracie into the corridor that led to the wine cellar.
Immediately she was ashamed. What kind of self-centered coward feared Dash would harm Mr. Gracie, and at the same time feared more for herself?
If only she knew those other men were truly Mr. Gracie’s friends, and not Dash’s new accomplices. But they didn’t act like friends. Their stolid expressions, their deliberate movements made them look like bodyguards. Or assassins.
“What’s the matter with you?” Allison asked. “You get Mr. Gracie to talk to you, and instead of being happy, you’re clutching that knife like you want to murder someone.”
Taylor looked down at the knife in her fist. She had been sharpening a narrow, four-inch boning knife, and she still held it … but now she held it point out, cutting edge up, ready to stab and slash.
Michael Gracie didn’t realize what he was getting into. He was probably like the rest of the world, interested only in Dash’s athletic record and paying no attention to his criminal record. Mr. Gracie could be walking into a trap.
“Are you okay?” Al
lison said urgently. “You look sick.”
Yet Mr. Gracie didn’t look like the kind of man who would foolishly trust a man like Dash. In fact, he looked quite the opposite: a man to be feared and respected. Perhaps, this time, Dash had made a mistake.
The trouble was, Taylor remembered Mr. Gracie’s vulnerable appeal for cancer funding, and the touching tale of his mother’s death. He didn’t realize he was associating with a killer. He didn’t know someone—someone with no scruples, someone named Jimmy—might have hired Dash to eliminate him. If Taylor did nothing and Mr. Gracie was killed tonight, Taylor would never forgive herself. “I’m feeling faint,” she said to Allison.
“Did you cut yourself?”
“Yes.” Taylor slid the boning knife into the pocket in her black slacks. She folded her hand into a fist, as if to hide the wound. “A little.”
“I’ll tell Sarah.” Allison started toward the kitchen dictator.
“Don’t! I’m fine. I’ll go clean up.” Taylor headed down the utility corridor. When she was out of sight, she hooked a right and found her way back to the main corridor, then to the service entrance of the wine cellar. She stared at the narrow oak door and contemplated what lay within: a long cellar filled with bottles, then to the left, a wider, shorter cellar lined with wine barrels.
Mr. Gracie could take care of himself. She was not obligated to save a grown man as she had been to save a young boy. Yet she intended to do nothing but walk in quietly and, if all was well, pretend to look for her knife, pretend to find it, and leave. If violence was being done, she intended to flee, screaming, out the door, up the stairs and into the kitchen, and give Dash what he deserved.
That was all. That was easy. She could do this.
The door was stuck. With a feeling of relief, Taylor tugged at it—she would not have to go in at all.
Then with a silent whoosh, the door gave way.
Damn. Now she was committed.
She crept inside. The door shut behind her, silent and weighty.
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