By Invitation Only (8 page)

Wendy Etherington

To my Y Girls team. Burning calories with you
is my favorite way to start the day.

S
EATED IN THE LOBBY
of the posh and exclusive Rapture Island Resort, Tara Lindsey flipped through
Food and Wine
magazine and pretended to be engrossed in the pages she’d read at least twelve times already.

Foolproof method for roasting chicken? Got that. Ad for a new convection oven? Saw it, too expensive. “Wine Pairings For Every Occasion” had lent some interesting tips. The article titled “You, Too, Can Perform Molecular Gastronomy!” made her roll her eyes. Ah, probably not. At least not without some serious training or a liquid nitrogen tank.

Interview with her mother? Saw that first thing, as her celebrity chef parent had been the one to send Tara the magazine in the first place.

Tara turned the page on her eerie, if older, twin. She saw the same features in the mirror every morning—curly dark brown hair, bright blue eyes, heart-shaped face, camera-ready smile.

Well, not so much with the smile. At least lately.

Which was why she was staking out the lobby of the exclusive Caribbean resort that was the setting of the wedding between Holly Addison, statuesque blond A-list Hollywood actress and J. D. Maynard Jr., son of J. D. Maynard Sr., Texas cattle ranch billionaire and oil magnate.

It was the event of the year. Invitations had been hand-delivered. The paparazzi were in a frenzy to get an inside peek. Security was insanely tight.

Tara had gotten a reservation at the resort—one of the few hotels on the island—by using her mother’s name.

Nearly thirty and still hanging on to Mommy’s coattails? Embarrassing beyond belief. Still, the employees of her catering company—especially the ones she was likely to lay off if business didn’t drastically turn around—probably didn’t care about her humiliation.

As long as they got paid each week, anyway.

An overly thin woman with long, sleek black hair sank onto the sofa a few feet away. She cast Tara a speculative look. “Are you here for the…
you know?
”

“Wedding?” Tara whispered back.

The woman’s gaze darted from side to side before she inclined her head in a surreptitious nod.

“Yeah,” Tara returned, keeping her tone low even though her excitement level rose. The wedding event details were a closely guarded secret. The CIA should take notes. But this was just the opportunity she’d been waiting for. “We’re not supposed to talk about it, are we?”

“No, but I’ve been on a shoot for the last eighteen hours, and I need a damn drink. This cocktail party can’t start soon enough.” Her head turned in the direction of the hotel’s tropical-themed bar. “I’m usually fashionably late, of course, but in ten minutes, I’m storming the gates.”

The dark-haired woman looked vaguely like an actress Tara had seen on a TV drama, but since she did more sautéing than viewing, she couldn’t be sure. No doubt there’d be an avalanche of beautiful and famous people present for the weekend events, but Tara had bigger fish to fry than autographs and pics to post on Facebook.

She was never going to be comfortable in the public eye like her celebrity chef mother. All those zooming cameras made her nervous. The lack of a private life and the pressure to constantly up the last project would put her in a constant state of insomnia.

She was good at what she did—she cooked. The solitude, the hard work, the opportunity to teach her employees new techniques, the pleasure in making people happy by feeding them well—it was her calling.

Yellow Rose Catering was her baby, her life.

And yet Maynard Sr. hadn’t wanted her to cater his son’s wedding. He’d chosen Tara’s competition, Posh Events, which, in her opinion, was overpriced and overhyped.

But losing this latest contract had been a brutal blow, and Tara intended to find out why she was so lacking. To save her business and her reputation.

It was either that or go back to being Mama’s prep chef.

“Hey, don’t I know you?”

Tara flicked her attention to the woman beside her. The inquiry wasn’t a surprise. “My mother is Daisy Lindsey.”

The woman impulsively grabbed Tara’s forearm. “Oh, my God! I
love
her show. I can’t eat anything she cooks, of course, but I swear I get orgasmic just watching.” The woman craned her neck to look around the lobby. “Is she here?”

“Uh, well…not yet.” The lie might have stuck in Tara’s throat, except she was desperate, so most of her ethics had been stamped out by the growing column of red numbers on her company balance sheet. “Probably tomorrow.”

The woman’s smile turned dazzling.

Definitely an actress. No normal person had teeth or cheekbones that perfect.

“Would you mind taking down my cell number and calling me when she gets here?” she asked.

“Sure.” Especially since the news about the cocktail party—and the fact that it was taking place right there in the hotel bar—was crucial information to Tara.

As she entered Scarlet Sheldon’s information into her own cell phone, she assuaged the pang of guilt she experienced by noting a reminder to send the actress a signed copy of her mother’s latest book.

Her mother wasn’t coming to the wedding. She was shooting a series of shows in a tornado-ravaged town in Kentucky for the weekend. The woman might have a rib-roast-size ego, but she was always there for her devoted fans.

In desperate need of a drink, the actress headed toward the bar. With a confident cock of her hip and a few words, the burly security guard let her pass into the exclusive depths of the party.

So easy.

And yet not.

There was apparently a strict list of invitees—complete with picture IDs to coincide with names. But to find out what foods her devious competition had created and was serving behind that proverbial velvet rope barely twenty feet away, Tara needed to be on that list.

And yet she wasn’t.

The burly guard looked fairly bored. Maybe she could bribe him. Her petty cash was running low, so that idea had to be considered carefully. Maybe she could seduce him. But, well…
yuck.

Angling her head, she considered his barrel-shaped body. He certainly looked as if he’d eaten a cheese-laden tray of lasagna or two in his life. He might mistake her for her mother—an advantage for once. But then her mother wasn’t on the guest list, either.

If only she could have swallowed her pride and asked her mother for an invitation. But then that would have meant admitting the reason for wanting to attend the wedding, leading to how bad her business was, ending with how she was on the verge of bankruptcy and failure.

Yuck again.

Just then, another man in a dark blue suit approached Mr. Burly. His thick, wavy hair was so black it was almost blue. He had a hard-edged jawline and full lips. He was taller—way taller—and wider at the shoulders but all muscle. And all business.

With his hand resting on the butt of a pistol in a side holster, his gaze swept the lobby with seeming casualness, but Tara had no illusions that he hadn’t taken in every single detail. Did he pause on her? Did she look out of place?

Was it obvious she was about to crash his client’s wedding?

She couldn’t discern his eye color from this distance, but she found herself leaning forward to try to get a better look. He definitely paused then.

Though she turned away quickly, a tingle of attraction danced down her spine.

Perfect. This is just freakin’ perfect.

She reached into her bag for her lipstick and a mirror, which she used to primp, even as she took neck-craning glances around the lobby, hoping to appear that she was waiting for someone.

Oddly, she was certain this subterfuge wouldn’t fool Mr. Hot and Dark.

She rolled her shoulders. It wasn’t as if she was trying to take secret photos of the bride, the groom or even the guests. She wasn’t going to make a scene or an illicit pass at the celebrities. She just wanted to taste the hors d’oeuvres and sample the supposedly custom-made cocktails.

And find out how that suck-up hack Carla Castalono stole her booking.

When she had the courage to glance toward the security guys, the Big Boss had disappeared.
Finally, hope.
Moving quickly through the lobby, she looked for a seriously inebriated male.

Strangely, this wasn’t a challenge.

She sat next to him and watched his gaze rove her legs, exposed by the short, sarong-style skirt she wore. She had decent legs—not movie star quality but still a benefit from rushing around the kitchen all day.

When the guy’s bleary gaze finally reached her face, she turned on the megawatt celebrity smile she’d inherited. “Hey, do you know who’s getting married here this weekend?”

He thrust his arm around her waist as his whiskey-laden breath brushed her cheek. “How ’bout you and me, darlin’?”

Tara laid her palms against the guy’s chest and pushed back. “Ah, no. I—”

“We’re destined to be together tonight,” he said before attempting to shove his tongue into her ear.

Lurching to her feet, Tara fought for her composure. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to deflect some inebriated idiot’s fumbling, but it had been a while.

Is your business worth this?

She thought of her pastry chef, who was a single mom. Her prep cook, whose father had just been diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes.

She could always go crawling back to Mama. Her team didn’t have that option.

Leaning forward, she forced a smile. “I was thinking more about Holly Addison.”

Like a lightbulb, her mark’s eyes brightened. “She’s hot.”

“She is indeed. Plus, she’s here.”

The bleary eyes struggled to focus. His gaze moved past her. “Don’t see her.”

“Oh, but you will.” Tara pointed toward the bar. “She’s having a big party here to celebrate her upcoming wedding.” She slipped him a twenty. “Buy her a drink.” She winked. “You know, one more for the road.”

The guy squinted briefly at the bill in his hand, then rolled his shoulders, returned her wink and stumbled off.

I am not a criminal. I am not evil.

Repeating this mantra, she headed toward the entrance to the bar but remained some distance behind her distraction. While he monopolized the guard’s attention, she slipped around a tiki pole and over a rail, vaguely hearing her “partner” make a fuss about not being allowed to buy Holly a drink.

They were old friends, you know.

Tara did her best to disappear among the crowd and hoped his whiskey-altered state was too severe to pick her out of a lineup.

I am not going to be arrested.

She added this to her list of mantras and made a discreet beeline for the food tables.

With the Maynard coffers footing the bill for the destination wedding, she studied the elaborately decorative spread. A massive steer ice sculpture was the centerpiece. Tacky but at least she understood that. The garnishes of artfully carved fruits and veggies, plus a spread of green and red leaf lettuce looked lovely and fresh surrounding selections such as rolled-up ham alongside cubes of bright orange cheese, a beef roast being sliced by a bored-looking guy in a white chef’s coat and mini egg rolls that glistened with the grease they had been fried in.

People whose faces and bodies made or broke their careers weren’t going to eat that stuff.

And where were the vegetarian options? Something for the vegans? Hell, the only thing green was the globby-looking wasabi sauce and the beds of lettuce made to look like something but really only plumping up the skimpy offerings.

Keeping her head down, she reluctantly put a sampling of each item on her plate. Everything was as she’d suspected—processed, greasy and tasteless. The wasabi sauce had more mayonnaise than spice, and the egg rolls had certainly and most recently been stored in the freezer section of a supermarket warehouse. Fine maybe for a beer-and-ball-game gathering at a neighbor’s house, but this was J. D. Maynard Jr.’s one-and-only—presumably anyway—stroll down the aisle.

Discreetly, Tara laid her nearly untouched plate on a corner table. Maybe with celebrities as guests, Maynard had figured nobody would eat, so there was no point in hiring a first-rate caterer. Yet Carla’s prices were notoriously higher than Tara’s. So why wouldn’t he have saved himself a buck or two if he didn’t care about quality? Which, ironically enough, he would have gotten if he’d hired Tara and her team.

Still, there had to be somebody at this shindig who ate. Holly’s aunt Mildred or J.D.’s uncle Jake, somebody’s goat-ranching grandfather or a big-time producer who didn’t have to worry about fitting into a size-zero gown every awards season. Wealthy people could afford the best, and she knew Maynard Sr.’s business reputation was stellar. Why would he settle? It was weird.

The bar was doing a brisk business. A lot of guests were holding pink-tinted drinks—and, gee, how embarrassing for the guys. Maybe all the effort had been put into the booze.

Smiling vaguely at those she passed, one of which was the bride in a supertight blue satin dress, Tara inched her way to the bar. As she got closer, she overheard a guest comment about the delicious and refreshing drink “that clever caterer” had developed especially for the bride called The Addy.

The bartender—looking much more harried than the roast carver—shoved the drink toward her, then quickly turned to the next in line, so Tara slunk off to a corner to sample the brilliant concoction.

Well, hell, it was a Tom Collins, probably with a drop of red food dye to make it appear pink.

That drink had certainly been around before Maynard Sr. bred his first head of cattle and certainly way before Holly Addison’s glam staff had discovered the wonders of performance-enhancing cosmetic procedures and the advantages of marrying a billionaire’s son.

Custom cocktail, my ass.

Still, it was the best thing she’d tasted all night, so she sipped as she watched the guests mingle around her. She recognized many faces from stage and screen and found herself reluctant to return to her solitary room. It was sort of like being backstage at a concert or on a movie soundstage.