Love By Association. Tara Taylor Quinn

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СКАЧАТЬ they sat over lunch—a sample from the three top caterers in the running to provide the mystery dinner on gala night—one by one they reported on their progress.

      Leslie, who was the committee’s head, ran the meeting. To her right, at a table set for eight in what had once been a dining room and was soon going to be one of several conference rooms in the Santa Raquel Public Library, sat Emily Longfellow, a thirtysomething woman whose plain features were accentuated with beautiful jewelry. Emily was in charge of arranging the mansion for the evening’s entertainment—including all furnishings necessary not only to accommodate dinner seating for a couple of hundred people, but for any necessary accoutrements for the mystery that would be unfolding throughout the night. Next to Emily was a little woman who must be at least seventy, Martha something or other, who was responsible for floral arrangements.

      John Duncan, next to Emily, was a man Chantel had met the other night at the auction. He was a young attorney in Colin’s office who, having just recently passed the bar exam, was on the committee but was there to oversee any work that Colin determined was legally necessary. John’s father, Clemency Duncan, was chief of neurosurgery at Stanford Hospital.

      And then, opposite John, was Colin. Chantel was in between him and Julie, who sat directly to Leslie’s left.

      When Chantel was introduced as their artistic director, everyone smiled and welcomed her. She had a feeling every one of them had already known everything there was to know about her. What she’d led everyone to believe about her, she amended the thought as she smiled and greeted everyone before taking a stab at the salad in front of her. It had walnuts in it. And cranberries.

      “Chantel’s going to be beefing up the script for us, but since I am giving it to her only this afternoon, she hasn’t had a chance to read it yet.” Leslie continued and then moved on to Julie, in charge of invitations and marketing, who reported that their guest count was closing in on the two hundred mark.

      Obviously in her element, Leslie Morrison appeared to be exactly what everyone thought she was—confident, healthy, in control, in charge. There was nothing about her that even hinted at any kind of unrest at home. She asked for the committee members’ opinions as to whether or not they should raise the guest cap on the function in the event that response continued to be so positive. Leslie took a vote and the cap was raised by fifty.

      Conversations broke out at that point, Leslie leaned over to say something for Julie’s ears only and Chantel relaxed for just a moment. Long enough to feel the brush of Colin’s thigh against hers beneath the table. He was engaged in conversation with John, and at first she thought the contact had been accidental.

      Until his hand dropped to his lap, disappeared under the crisp white linen tablecloth and ended up on her leg.

      He was taking a hell of a lot for granted, based on one night’s meeting. Or was simply being bold, telling her in the only way he could in that moment that he was interested.

      His fingers didn’t slide up her leg. Or toward her inner leg. He wasn’t being a creep. Or disrespectful, either. He just held on.

      And Chantel liked it.

      * * *

      “DO YOU HAVE some experience with scriptwriting?” Julie was trying the spinach quiche Chantel had shied away from, and, finished with whatever she and Leslie had been discussing, she was addressing Chantel while she ate. Her smile was warm and friendly, reminding Chantel of Jill—the best friend she’d had since grade school and lost to a crook’s bullet several years before.

      “None,” Chantel admitted, breathing through the memory. And then, remembering her cover, said, “I’m a writer, though.” You didn’t have to be published to be a writer.

      “Oh? What do you write? Anything I might have read?” Colin’s hand moved from her leg, leaving a cold place.

      “Hardly.” She grinned and almost forgot to soften the edge of street life from her voice. “I’m not published. Yet,” she added to give the impression that she was serious about her pursuit.

      “Do you have an agent?”

      Did she? Trying to remember anything she might have heard about her aunt’s business, and the story she’d told Colin about her own publishing position, she decided on, “Yes.” And hoped she wasn’t digging a grave before she was ready to bury Chantel Johnson. She’d be doing publishing and agent research later that night.

      “So what are you writing?”

      “Women’s fiction. Suspense. It’s a woman-in-jeopardy story.” And before she saw any of these people again, she better have some kind of plot fleshed out. She’d go through her case files. Find an interesting arrest that had converted to charges and then a conviction.

      Colin’s hand was back. Chantel’s body responded with a small feeling between her legs. She didn’t dare look at him. But she did notice that he was no longer speaking with John.

      She assumed he was listening to her and Julie. So she slipped her hand under the table, leaving it on her lap. “My family’s in publishing,” she said, telling Julie that she’d left behind a position of VP of marketing. Colin’s hand slid over hers.

      When her libido leaped in response, Chantel took a sip of water and then added, “I’m going to go back to it, though. I talked to my folks last night. They agreed to give me as much time as I need to finish the book, as long as I would return to the family business when it’s done. In the meantime, they’re going to be sending work my way. Things they want my decisions on.”

      There. Cleared up a bunch of issues. Namely, any chance that Colin Fairbanks would think there was any future in a relationship between them. It also negated any need for her to be in the market for a permanent residence. Something she had a feeling this friendly and powerful bunch would be glad to help with.

      His hand didn’t leave her lap. Julie didn’t respond, either. She was looking at her brother and was no longer smiling.

      Did she know what Colin was doing to Chantel under the table? And she disapproved? She’d gotten the impression earlier that Julie had been pleased to meet her...

      “What do you all think?” Leslie’s voice raised as she addressed the table, halting private conversations. In that first second Chantel froze, heat rising up her neck and face. Did everyone know how her body was responding to the chaste touch of a man’s hand?

      “Did everyone get a chance to try everything?” Leslie followed her first question with a second.

      Chantel hadn’t had any quiche. Everyone else nodded.

      “We need to make a choice today.” The caterers weren’t being mentioned by name. A had provided the quiche. B was the salad and bread assortments. C had brought some kind of grilled chicken that, in spite of the fact that it was chicken, the meat that was served at every banquet Chantel had ever attended, was delicious. Leslie passed around menus provided by all three caterers minus any kind of identifying determiner.

      Discussion ensued. Chantel listened. Agreeing with Julie on every point she brought up—the flavors that, while gourmet, wouldn’t please as wide a range of palette as others. The need for a variety of options for those who couldn’t tolerate rich food but yet preventing the dreaded “bland” moniker being slapped on the evening. Colin opted for the meat and potatoes option over fondue and finger foods, his fingers leaving little caresses just above her knee.

      As СКАЧАТЬ