A Grand Seduction Page 6

  Ridelle fished a grape out of one of the bags and popped it in her mouth. “That sucks.”

  Twyla made a sour face. “Ridelle, honey, those haven’t been washed yet.”

  “Yeah well, Mom always told me I had a dirty mouth.” She nodded toward the half dozen bags. “So what the heck is all this stuff anyway? I thought we were feeding two dozen, not two hundred.”

  Fran’s eyes widened in panic. She turned to Twyla, who was busy brushing invisible grocery dirt from a black rayon stretch vest and tailored slacks. Beneath the vest was a long sleeved white blouse, which were in the process of having cuffs unbuttoned and rolled back. “We have a slight problem. Bruce made some changes to the menu.”

  Twyla stopped mid-roll. “Now? What kind of changes?”

  Fran glanced at Ridelle and swallowed. “Turns out one guy is allergic to shellfish, and two others are vegetarian.”

  The blonde’s jaw dropped. “Well, there goes the bulk of our dinner menu. We can still serve the wine baked crab and oyster appetizers, I suppose. The seafood guy can just pass on those.”

  Fran offered a helpless look. “He’s beyond allergic, and Bruce doesn’t want to take a chance.”

  Twyla heaved a sigh of exasperation. “Okay, seafood’s out. Well, dinner’s the main problem, anyway. Coq au Vin won’t fit the bill for our vegetarian guests. Couldn’t he have said something sooner?”

  Fran toed the floor with the point of her shoe. “He claims he did, but I swear he never said a word. I’d have remembered.”

  The blonde closed her eyes for a moment before peeking into a couple bags. “Do you have some heavy cream?”

  “I think so.”

  “There’s enough makings here to do up a quiche alongside, I think. We should use Gruyere cheese, but Swiss will do in a pinch. That is, unless these vegetarians don’t eat eggs or dairy, either.”

  Fran’s beginnings of a smile faded. “I don’t know. Bruce didn’t say.”

  “Why don’t I go find out?” Ridelle grabbed another grape from the sack and popped it into her mouth with a smile. “It’ll give me a chance to start my other work here without a ton of people around.”

  Twyla’s voice was distracted as she pulled jars and bottles from two bags at once. “Good idea. Hurry back.”

  Ridelle ignored Fran’s gaze following her from the kitchen, until a thought forced her to stop at the door. Turning to meet the other’s eyes, she flinched at the jumbled mixture of pain, fear, and resignation. “Any idea where he’d be right now? Could save me a half mile’s walk.” Her attempt at a reassuring smile flopped.

  “Either in the dining room judging the set up, or else in his office. You remember the way?”

  Ridelle nodded and spun around on her heel. The formal dine was the closer choice, off to the right of the great room. Distracted as she was, Ridelle couldn’t help but notice Fran had redecorated since her last visit. Gone were the wines and browns—everything was light and airy in modern lines in pale lemon yolk and cream. A mirror in a silver gilded frame adorned the top of the fireplace, which was no longer lined with brick and trimmed with ridged crown molding.

  Several small conversation groupings replaced the overlong custom sectional and four foot square mahogany coffee table that once took up the bulk of the space. The effect doubled the immensity of the thirty foot room, yet the individual seating microcosms lent an inviting, intimate feel.

  Ridelle had to give Fran her props. She couldn’t imagine Bruce, control king that he was, going along with something so opposite from his personality except for the fact that the design was pure genius. And, Ridelle happened to know, the genius designer was none other than Fran. She’d conceived the entire concept herself. The woman did have remarkable skills, even if wielding a sponge mop wasn’t one of them.

  The dining room adjoined this space, and sparkled with groupings of mirrors, splashes of sea foam green in joint venture with the soft lemon of the great room, and furnishings in carved oak whitewash. The double pedestal dining table was covered in sea foam linen, with a square overlay of white on the diagonal. Place settings in platinum-rimmed Noritake and Swarovski crystal sparkled for two dozen guests. Yep, just a little Memorial Day get together.

  The room was vacant, so she proceeded along the expanse of caramel-ribboned white marble underscoring the main foyer. A beveled mirror stopped her here, where none of the others managed. Pausing under a brushed nickel chandelier dropping light from the vaulted ceiling, Ridelle gazed anew at the stranger in the glass. Her expression was smooth and determined, all traces of earlier hesitation gone. Smoothing a wayward curl, she turned and allowed her eyes to land between a sweeping staircase and a pair of heavy oak front doors inset with huge ovals of leaded glass. Nestled there was the six-paneled door to Bruce’s office, which stood open.

  This room maintained a strict Bruce feel, with mahogany wall panels and a desk to match. A sofa and a pair of burgundy club chairs sat on the near side of his desk. Underlit bookshelves spanned behind Bruce, who sat at the oversized desk, which was adorned with late-model Sharper Image gadgets. His pinstriped white-and-gray business shirt lay open at the collar, and his charcoal slacks were hitched half-mast where he crossed his legs at the knee. A pair of Ben Frank spectacles perched on the end of his tapered nose as he peered down at a manila folder on his lap.

  Her heart skipped a beat as she crossed the threshold, and she cleared her throat in a small gesture of pardon.

  Bronze eyes glanced up over wire rims, aging himself into the next decade. “Ridelle.” Crow’s feet cranked up a notch as he tossed her a questioning smile. “Trouble in the world of gourmet cuisine?”

  All traces of moisture in her mouth vanished, as if she’d stuck a shop vac hose in her mouth and turned it to full power. She licked her lips, wondering whether he’d view it as some kind of overture. She hoped not. It was too soon to be that obvious.

  “Not at all,” she managed an even tone. “I was wondering if we know whether the vegetarian couple is ovo-lacto or vegan.”

  A wiry eyebrow arched with interest. “Ah, I see someone around here actually knows what they’re talking about.” He flipped the folder shut and dropped it on the desk. “Matter of fact, I’ve wined and dined them a couple of times, and they do eat eggs and cheese.”

  Ridelle offered a relieved smile. “Wonderful. I think we’ve got an answer to stave off disaster, then. Quiche?”

  The smile churned up two marks on the volume dial. “Perfect. Though I doubt ‘we’ came up with that. I don’t think Fran knows the difference between vegetarian and libertarian. So permit me to thank you for saving my ass tonight.”

  She willed her smile to stay plastered in place despite the barbed retort her mouth begged to throw. From the corner of her eye, she saw a black digital frame on his desk morph a photo of Bruce clutching a monster trout into one of him and Fran in happier times. Fran’s beaming virtual presence stabbed through Ridelle’s chest, and she silently hoped the woman would forgive her for playing out this angle.

  She shook her head with a playful laugh. “Well, I didn’t want to say anything, but I appreciate you noticing. Working with her learning curve has been, uh, interesting.”

  He rose with a snort that was lost in part to the squeak of black leather releasing him. “You too, huh?”

  She cocked her head and shrugged. “Not to worry. I know tonight is important, and Twyla and I will help make sure everything’s as sweet and clear as HDTV.”

  His eyes lit up like greedy little beacons. “Oh man, have you seen those? Big as life and crisp as a new thousand dollar bill.”

  “They’re amazing. My father just got one for the media room.”

  “Well, make no mistake, I’ve got my sights set. There will be a fifty-two incher in this house before the end of the year.”

  “Men and their measurements.”

  The comment teased out of her mouth before she could stop it, and her eyes widened a bit at her own trashiness. Next thing she knew, sh
e’d be wrapping a live boa around her naked flesh and slithering around on his desk.

  He stared for half a heartbeat, then laughed. “Yeah, well, we like toys.”

  Do the hair toss thing, she heard Dominique’s voice echo in her mind. Ridelle flipped her hair back, feeling her face creep toward a flush of pink a shade darker than her dress. “Now that I can relate to.”

  The tone left little doubt what kind of toys she meant. Their eyes met, and her heart pounded a warning when the contact lasted a bit too long. She broke contact first, fighting the sick ache in her stomach. “Thanks for the info on your guests. I’d better get back to the scene of the crime and start beating eggs.”

  His glance at her breasts was done with practiced reserve, but Ridelle caught the quick side trip. “No problem. Thank you for all your help.”

  For a final clincher, she added, “Can I get you anything before your guests arrive?” If he asked for his slippers and pipe, however, she was so out of there.

  Instead, a grateful gaze ping-ponged between pained and surprised, and words took a moment to form. She stared at him quizzically at knowing she’d truly caught him off guard. His genuine look of shocked gratitude elicited a single and disturbing flicker of sympathy. “Why, yes,” he managed. “I’d love a Tom Collins, actually. If it’s no trouble. Know how to make one?”

  “Regular squirt of lemon, or double?”

  “Regular is fine. Thank you.”

  The smile was again genuine, and Ridelle went on her way. The super-glued smile vanished as soon as she was out the door.

  “If it’s no trouble”? Surely this polite man was not the open sore who used an ugly mouth to beat on Fran? Would he be so polite to her when his lecherous behavior came to light? Would he said, “Gee Fran, can I bend your best friend over my desk? That is, if it’s no trouble?”

  As her steps echoed back toward the kitchen, she snarled her lip. As hard as she knew it would be to drum up the willpower to seduce a vengeful sot, it dawned on her that it might prove harder still if that sot turned the tables and tried to act like an actual human being.

  The kitchen was at Defcon two by the time Ridelle returned. Fran was attempting to use a chef’s knife while Twyla bent over a cabinet, rooting through pots and pans with a clatter. She came up with a set of stainless steel nesting bowls and spotted Ridelle. “So, what was the great word?”

  “Quiche is fine.” She was aware of both women watching her as she strolled over to where several sacks of ingredients now sat in indefinable arrangements on the island counter. Yet another grape met its end between her lips.

  Fran pretended to be busy chopping what turned out to be the useless, hairy root of a shallot as Twyla pressed on. “And?”

  Ridelle ceased chewing. “And, uh, thanks for thinking of it?”

  Twyla pulled the largest bowl from the stack and set the rest on the counter behind her. “You know what I mean.” Her voice dropped. “How’d it go?”

  The girl shrugged, throwing a guilty glance at Fran. The redhead’s gaze dropped away and she snatched up another shallot. “It wasn’t like I threw myself across his desk.” Not quite. “I just asked him about the quiche and he talked about wanting a big screen TV. Oh, and he wants a Tom Collins.”

  Fran snorted. “Figures he’d treat my friends like slaves, too. Sorry, Ridelle.”

  “Actually, the offer was mine.” The woman’s so-now-you-know-my-pain smile faded. “Which bar should I use?”

  The knife froze in midair. “The one in the Great Room isn’t fully stocked. Try the dining room.”

  “Here.” Twyla turned and grabbed an oval platter off the counter near the double sink. “You can set out crudites. They’ll keep the longest.”

  Ridelle accepted the platter and plucked a cherry tomato off the top. “Thanks. Hey, Fran—any special advice on his Tom Collins?”

  She shrugged as she scraped a pile of shallots into one of the smaller nested bowls. “How would I know? I’m not a bartender.” A flutter of almost-irritation crossed her face. “Didn’t know you were.”

  Ridelle brushed off a quick stab of anger at the little dig. Her friend had a bucketful to deal with right now, after all. She was bound to be bitchy. “Hardly. Dad taught me a few drinks so I could help at parties.”

  Twyla snapped mushroom caps from their stems with laser precision. “The Brie is baking now. We’ll start putting out hot appetizers right at six. Meanwhile, since you’re our booze expert, you can uncork wine for the stuffed mushrooms and Coq au Vin when you get back. I’d have you wash grapes, but I doubt any would survive the effort.”

  Balancing the platter with one hand, she gave a snappy salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh, if you could light the dining room candles, that’d be helpful,” Fran added. “Matches are tucked behind the small grouping of easel art on the far end of the sideboard.”

  Nodding, Ridelle twirled on one heel and took the assortment of celery, tomatoes, carrot sticks, and cauliflower into the dining room. Setting the platter on a long whitewashed sideboard, she turned her attention to a freestanding bar at the far end of the rectangular room. A brass ice bucket on top was empty, but a mini-fridge tucked underneath turned up a couple small ice trays. Further investigation turned up cut crystal eight-ball glasses, a bottle of gin, lemon juice, and club soda.

  She mixed the drink and was halfway out of the room before remembering the candles. Glancing around, she spotted the book of matches right where Fran said—behind a tiny oval desktop mirror. Next to that sat a miniature oil of Paris in spring done in light pinks and greens, and a framed textile abstract. Candles were used everywhere—tall tapers mixed with short pillars and votives in pale green, cream, and cinnamon. Ridelle groaned. No wonder she’d been delegated to this task. Lighting them all would take a while.

  She’d made it as far as the occasional table near the door when a wisp of air sent the flames before her into flickering motion. A lighter came into view just over her left shoulder, followed by a waft of a familiar scent. Her stomach tightened with the first whiff. Oh, Lord. Obsession by Calvin Klein. Why did it have to be Obsession?

  “Here. Let me help.”

  She startled as Bruce lit the last taper in that grouping. “Sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to take so long getting your drink.”

  “No worries. Just wanted to make sure you found the bar okay.”

  Ridelle put distance between herself and that maddeningly confusing scent, walking around the far side of the dining table and starting on the trio of candle centerpieces set at intervals along its length.

  “Fran likes the whole Catholic altar look,” he went on. “A thousand candles that take all night to light, get wax on the table, and keep me panicked thinking the whole place is going to go up.”

  The tone was half teasing, lacking its earlier bitter edge. She met his eyes as he stood on the opposite side of the dining table, lighting the centermost candles. Bruce flashed his best imitation of a boyish grin. “In fact, that Tom Collins might be in dire jeopardy. Alcohol near all this open flame?”

  His humor prompted a tinkling laugh that surprised her as she finished one three-candle centerpiece and started for the final group at the far end. “What, you’ve never had a Collins flambe?”

  The responding laugh was genuine as he finished the center group. “Now that would be a new experience.”

  Ridelle was straight across from him when the words halted her trek. Their eyes met over tongues of dancing flame. Did she dare? “I find a ‘new experience’ good for the soul, every now and again.”

  The pause was brief, weighted with an undecipherable flash in his eyes. “You too, huh?”

  Smiling to camouflage the panic she swallowed on route to her throat, she broke contact and wandered to the far end of the table. He followed on his side and together they lit the last of the candles. Her hand wavered as the last wick erupted in flame, and her chest heaved under a watchful gaze that made little pretense of not noticing.
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  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “What? Why?”

  “Your face is flushed.”

  Her hands flew to her cheeks, which were indeed burning. “Standing over too many candles, I guess.”

  Her wild swings between shy and slut were no doubt confusing him as much as they did her. She forced herself to meet his measuring gaze and to do it with a smile.

  He hesitated for a moment. “You know, I hope—”

  Whatever Bruce might have hoped was interrupted by a series of chimes in the front hall. His guests had arrived.

  Ridelle glided around the head of the dining table with as much grace as she could muster in unaccustomed heels. She wandered behind him to retrieve the waiting cocktail. “Don’t forget your Tom Collins.”

  Their fingers brushed as it changed hands, and a bizarre tingle shot up her arm. His gaze traveled up from the glass, lingering on her breasts before landing on her eyes. His were glazed with the shimmer of candlelight. “‘Collins flambe’, you mean.” He sipped at it, closing his eyes as though judging a fine wine. “Perfect. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  She followed him to the edge of the dining room, where he paused to slide a dimmer switch on the wall to halfway. The room softened to a mesmerizing glow, with sparkles of starlight shooting off lead crystal facets on the multi-tiered chandelier over the table.

  “Oh,” she whispered. “It’s so lovely.”

  “Very.”

  Her head whipped around at the word hanging in the air to find Bruce gone, sauntering down the hall toward the door while ice clinked in his glass. The echo of his wingtip shoes drumming away from Ridelle followed her as she made a hasty retreat to the kitchen.

  Chapter Seven

  The evening found the women rocketing back and forth from their kitchen launch pad to keep twenty guests supplied with fresh appetizers for the first hour, followed by dinner at eight o’clock. There was salad with raspberry vinaigrette, followed by chicken and mushrooms in red wine, mushroom quiche Lorraine, asparagus, and tender new potatoes. Wines were mildly aged and fragrant, moods were high, and conversation animated. Topics centered around financial debate, peppered with bawdy jokes, gossip, and even the occasional limerick.