by Dana Dratch
Also by Dana Dratch
Confessions of a Red Herring
Seeing Red
Red Hot
DANA DRATCH
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Teaser chapter
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 by Dana Dratch
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1660-6
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1661-3 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1661-2 (ebook)
For my family
CHAPTER 1
Like most of the weirdness in my life, the entire adventure started with an innocent phone call.
Or not so innocent, as the case may be.
“Cissy!” My sister Annie’s voice exulted through the speaker. “I’m so glad I caught you. I need a teensy little favor.”
For anyone who doesn’t know it, my sister is Anastasia Vlodnachek. The Anastasia Vlodnachek. Or, as the world, the gossip columns, and People magazine have dubbed her, “the supermodel Anastasia.”
This girl wants for nothing. Looks, brains, charm, money, sense of humor—she’s got it all. Along with a heart the size of the Lincoln Memorial.
She’s exactly what I want to be if I ever grow up: gorgeous, graceful, and cool. Like our mother without the bitter aftertaste.
So when it comes to sisterly favors, Annie is usually on the granting end. Which is why I smelled a rat.
“What have you heard?” I blurted.
“No idea what you’re talking about. But I’m hoping you can help me with something. A little project.”
I looked over at the cold coffee by my laptop and realized it was the only thing I’d consumed today.
I squinted at the screen. Three thirty-five. How did that even happen?
The trifecta was when I realized I was still wearing the pink T-shirt and striped pajama bottoms I’d slept in. I’d been so intent on making the deadline for my latest freelance story, that’s all I’d done.
My younger brother, Nick, had taken off before daybreak to run deliveries to a couple of clients in Annapolis—with our pup, Lucy, riding shotgun. After that, he’d dropped her off for a doggie playdate down the block and was spending the rest of the day baking at the bed-and-breakfast across the street.
We Vlodnacheks have never been afraid of hard work. Or long hours.
And thanks to plenty of both, plus an innate talent for schmoozing clients, Nick’s fledgling bakery was growing like crazy. Even after one of his competitors tried to scuttle it by bribing a crooked health inspector to shut down his (admittedly unlicensed) kitchen. Which was actually in my house.
Did I mention Nick was living with me temporarily? Long story.
The short version: Cheating partner in his first business (an Arizona emu farm). Followed by a quickie trip to Vegas. Followed by an even quicker engagement, breakup, and broken heart.
But Nick doesn’t stay down for long. His new venture—called Baba’s Bakery, after our Russian grandmother—was doing great. As was his social life. And thanks to our British ex-pat neighbor Ian Sterling, who runs a bed-and-breakfast across the street—and relies on Nick’s treats for teas, desserts, and events—my brother’s business has a temporary new home in a very proper, very legal English kitchen.
At least, until he gets mine up to code. A project that would be starting any day now, judging by the yards of painter’s tape and multiple visits by dueling contractors. The only detail they all agreed on was the time frame. Since Nick was just making a few small changes to add some equipment, we were looking at a week, tops.
But with Nick and Lucy out of the house today, I’d had no real incentive to change out of my pajamas. So apparently I hadn’t.
“What’s the favor?” I asked Annie, opting for the “rip the Band-Aid off” approach.
“I need an escort.”
“I’m the wrong gender, and I look lousy in a tux. But Nick might be available. Angelina Jolie took her brother to the Oscars.”
“She also kissed him on the mouth, and people are still talking about it. Besides, it’s not for an event. It’s for a trip. I have to fly to Miami. You remember my South Beach condo?”
Boy, did I! My sister has a string of homes across the globe. But the Miami penthouse is my all-time favorite. Not only does it look—big surprise—like something out of a magazine, but the neighborhood is Party Central.
There were four of us kids—now adults—scattered to the winds.
&nbs
p; My uber-successful older brother Peter was a lawyer and a partner in a Manhattan firm—and married to my glamorous sister-in-law, Zara. Annie, thanks to her own modeling agency and some hefty endorsement deals, was a citizen of the world with a collection of pricy homes in even pricier locales. Our youngest brother, Nick, was even more footloose. He’d dropped out of college and, most recently, lived on a ranch in Arizona. But a few months ago, he’d migrated back to our home turf of metro D.C. and was bunking with me temporarily.
Our mother, she of the tart tongue and designer threads, resided in a tony part of the District. And Baba, our dad’s mom, still lived in the same small, immaculate Baltimore apartment where he’d grown up.
Still, when the need arose—or especially a food-centric holiday—somehow we always found enough room under one roof to coexist almost peacefully. For twenty-four hours, at least.
“Well, the homeowners association board’s scheduled some sort of super-secret emergency election,” Annie explained. “I was hoping you might come with.”
“Can’t you vote by mail? Like with stocks?”
“Normally, that’s exactly what I’d do. But there’s something weird about this. The annual election’s supposed to be in December. Because that’s when more of us are actually there. Now they’ve suddenly scheduled a special election in July with practically zero notice. Who does that? This time of year, a lot of the residents are away. And I can’t get a straight answer from anyone on why they need this vote.”
“You think something’s fishy?” I asked, suddenly curious.
“It’s probably nothing,” my sister admitted, sighing. “But if you came along, it would at least be fun. Road trip!”
Annie flew back and forth to Miami all the time. Now the owner of her own mega-successful modeling firm, she did a lot of business there. Hence the condo. And with brains to spare, she was more than capable of sorting the election mystery mishigas on her own. So why the sudden invite?
“What did Nick tell you?” I asked, taking a swig of my now tepid coffee.
“The word ‘workaholic’ may have been mentioned.”
From the outside, it looked like I’d planted roots, too. I’d been a reporter for the Washington Tribune, one of the area’s two daily newspapers, for more than a decade. And two years ago, I’d purchased my snug little home—a tiny bungalow in the Northern Virginia bedroom community of Fordham. Close enough to the Beltway to be convenient. Far enough out that I could almost afford it.
But Nick wasn’t the only one of us still searching for a niche. After ten happy years as a reporter, I’d allowed myself to be lured away to an executive spot with a public relations firm, enticed by the prospect of a salary that I could actually live on.
That had lasted all of three months. One of my two bosses had been a megalomaniac who drank too much, used people, and had his hand in the till. The other one went to prison.
As career moves go, not my best decision.
So now I was freelancing. I loved setting my own hours and choosing my own assignments. But I missed perks like health insurance, a retirement plan, and a steady income.
My best friend, and former editor at the Tribune, Trip Cabot, regularly encouraged me to come back to the newsroom. And there’d been several offers.
But I was enjoying my new-found freedom. And skinny bank balance or not, I wasn’t all that anxious to give it up.
“Hey, it’s not easy maintaining a steady income when you’re freelancing,” I said to Annie.
“Exactly,” she replied. “But ‘freelance’ means you can literally work from anywhere. From what I’m hearing, you’re long overdue for a little fun. And so am I. So trade the home office for a poolside chaise with a view of the beach. Just for a week. Two weeks, tops. You won’t hate it, I promise. Besides, I wasn’t kidding about the election. I really could use your help. Something’s up. And before I vote one way or the other, I’d like to know what’s going on.”
I couldn’t. Not really. Not if I wanted to keep my name in front of editors, keep landing assignments, and keep my bills paid. But I was sorely tempted.
I glanced toward my kitchen—and the virtual rainbow of contrasting tape from Nick’s competing contractors. In the home renovation shows, this was about the time the homeowners were gently bundled off to a hotel—to reappear only for the stunning reveal. When the place had been carefully cleaned and all renovation glitches were firmly in the rearview mirror.
Which, right now, seemed like a really good idea.
“OK, you’ve got yourself a houseguest.”
Six little words. Who knew they’d spark so much trouble?
CHAPTER 2
By the time Nick and Lucy rolled in that evening, I’d showered, changed, and was packing a suitcase. Or, more accurately, a battered duffel bag.
What can I say? The idea of a week of fun and sun had inspired me.
“Can I take this to mean you said yes?” Nick inquired, grinning as he lounged against the bedroom doorframe.
“Annie needs my help,” I said, as I tried to decide between two white T-shirts. Opting for expediency, I shoved them both into the bag. “And far be it from me to say no to a family member in need.”
“Good to know. Because I have a little news. And I need a favor.”
“Hey, the more the merrier. At this point, I don’t care if I have to sleep on an air mattress on the floor. But you know Annie—I’m sure she’s got room for all of us. How soon can you get packed?”
“Not that. I mean the kitchen. Your kitchen. I finally hired a guy, and he can start tomorrow.”
“Nick! That’s great! Congratulations!”
“Not a huge deal. All I had to do was talk with every renovator in town and throw wads of money at the one I wanted. Big honking fistfuls.”
“No lie.” I’d seen the estimates. He wasn’t exaggerating. “So what’s the favor?”
“Well, my guy is gonna have the whole thing done inside a week. But while he’s working, that kitchen’s pretty much a no-fly zone. And it’s kind of Lucy’s main hangout spot.”
Lucy may have started life as a stray in the back alleys of Las Vegas, but she’d quickly acclimated to the comforts of suburban life. And my sunny, yellow kitchen was her favorite room in the house.
Mine too, if I’m honest.
Every morning, Lucy skipped out the back door, down the steps, and into her private backyard to romp in the grass, chase butterflies, and sniff flowers. Her water bowl lived just under the kitchen table. When we ate there—which was just about all the time—she shared the food and the hospitality from her favorite spot on the floor (within reach of whoever might slip her a few extra nibbles). And she loved nestling under the table when Nick was baking—a definite no-no, according to our new mandate from the county health department.
I’d realized early on that Nick’s construction plans were going to upend our lives for a few days. But, for some reason, I’d never considered the impact on Lucy.
I glanced up. The pup was stretched out, sphinx-like, at my brother’s feet, sporting a pair of sunglasses.
“Admit it, she belongs in Miami,” he said.
“Are those for real?”
“Doggles. The latest in canine eye protection. Sun, sand, or surf, the little dog is ready to party, South Beach style.”
“She’s better prepared than I am. Are you sure you can manage without her for a week?”
“Nope,” he said, stroking her velvety russet head, as Lucy flipped over exposing a round, white tummy. “But it’s gonna be too dangerous for her here. Between the dust and the noise and the power tools and the open doors.”
“Your basic doggie danger zone.”
“Times ten. And I can’t take her to Ian’s. I spend all my time in the kitchen, and she’s not allowed in there. Besides, the guy is already loaning me work space.”
I mentally bit my tongue. Ian Sterling was not my favorite person at the moment. I loved that he was helping Nick. But I still didn’t trust h
im.
Ian was magnetic, I’ll give him that. Tall and athletic, with dark hair, blue eyes that changed color with his mood, and the quiet self-assurance of someone who knew how to handle almost any situation. I admit the man made my heart beat a little faster.
And that was before we shared an electric kiss during a lightning storm.
That was also before I found a listening device in my home phone. And learned that Ian Sterling had planted it. I understood his reasons. But l’d also resolved to keep my distance.
Once burned.
“I thought about boarding her,” Nick continued. “But she’s never been away from home that long, and I think she’d be scared. Or feel like we’d abandoned her. She’s really still a puppy. Dr. Scott says she’s not even fully grown yet.”
“Look, no sweat. Annie loves her. I love her. And you’re right—she’s going to have a blast in Miami.”
Besides, Lucy adored car rides. Road-tripping with her would be a breeze. The pup’s standard auto trip agenda: Spend the first five minutes sniffing the back seat for stray french fries, spend the next five minutes staring out the window, then curl into a ball and sleep for the rest of the trip.
I should be so lucky.
“I’ve already packed a bag with a few of her favorite toys, a spare leash, and some food,” Nick said. “And her vitamins. And I threw in a set of booties.”
“Booties?” I was hoping the word meant something different for dogs. I couldn’t see Lucy prancing around in high-heeled ankle boots. Canine fashionista or not.
“It’s Florida in July,” he said. “You can fry eggs on the sidewalk. And paw pads are sensitive. These things are like heavy socks with traction. If you lose one or she chews it, you can get replacements at PetGo. But they’re not cheap.”
“What about you? How are you going to make do without a kitchen for a week?”
“Between fast food, takeout, and delivery pizza, I’ll be fine. Besides, I can always fire up the grill. Or use Ian’s stove if I get desperate. Which I won’t. The last thing I want to do after a long day in a hot kitchen is cook.”