Holding the Dream (24 page)

“Charlotte,” he finished, and didn't bother to conceal the smugness. “Lottie. She's a pediatrician, married, three kids. And she has just the kind of warped sense of humor that might make her appreciate having my lover call her a tramp.” He watched the embarrassed blush stain Kate's cheek. “Want that beer now?”

“No.” Voice strained, pride forfeited, she got to her feet. “I apologize. I don't normally jump to conclusions. It's been a difficult and emotional day.”

“Uh-huh.”

Damn him. “I was asleep when she called, and she never gave me a chance to say anything.”

“That's Lottie.”

“And I just assumed. I was asleep,” she said, furious. “Disoriented. I was—”

“Jealous,” he finished and backed her up against the refrigerator. “That's okay. I like it—to a point.”

“I don't like it, to any point. I'm sorry I hit you.”

“You're going to have to work on those arms if you want to have any impact.” He put a hand under her chin to lift it. “You wouldn't have gone for the knives, would you?”

“Of course not.” She slanted her gaze toward them, shrugged. “Probably not.”

He let his hand drop, took another swig of beer. “Honey, you terrify me.”

“I'm sorry, really. There's no excuse for behaving that way. It was knee-jerk.” She pressed her hands together. Confession
always hurt. “I was involved with someone a couple of years ago. I don't get involved easily, and he wasn't what you could term the faithful type.”

“Did you love him?”

“No, but I trusted him.”

He nodded, set the beer aside. “And trust is more fragile than love.” He cupped her face in his hands. “You can trust me, Kate.” He pressed his lips to her brow, then eased back with a grin on his face. “I would never risk having you slice off any important appendages with a chef's knife.”

Feeling both soothed and foolish, she settled into his arms. “I would never have used it.” Her lips curved against his. “Probably.”

“This is so incredibly dumb.” Naked, Kate fidgeted and blew the bangs out of her eyes. “I feel like an idiot.”

“Leave your hair alone,” Margo ordered. “I worked too hard on it to have you screw it up. And stop gnawing on your lip.”

“I hate wearing lipstick. Why won't you let me see my face?” Kate craned her neck, but Margo had draped the mirror in the wardrobe room. “I look like a clown, don't I? You made me look like a clown.”

“Actually, it's more like a twenty-dollar hooker, but it's such a nice look for you. Hold still, damn it, so I can get you into this thing.”

Suffering mightily, Kate lifted her arms as Margo hooked her into what seemed to be some instrument of medieval torture. “Why are you doing this to me, Margo? I cut the check for your dippy string trio, didn't I? I went along with the truffles—even though they're snuffed out by pigs and hideously expensive.”

Her face set like a general leading troops into battle, Margo adjusted the bustier. “You agreed to follow my guidance for your image tonight. The Annual Reception and Charity Auction is Pretenses' most important event. Now stop bitching.”

“Stop playing with my tits.”

“Oh, but I love them so. There.” Margo stepped back, then nodded in satisfaction. “I didn't have much to work with, but . . .”

“Keep it up, Miss D Cup,” Kate grumbled, then looked down and goggled. “Jesus, where did they come from?”

“Amazing, isn't it? In the right harness, those puppies just rise.”

“I have breasts.” Stunned, Kate patted the swell rising above black satin and lace. “And cleavage.”

“It's all a matter of proper positioning and making the most of what we have. Even when it's next to nothing.”

“Shut up.” Grinning, Kate slicked her hands down her torso. “Look, Ma. I'm a girl.”

“You ain't seen nothing yet. Put this on.” Margo tossed her a thin swatch of stretchy lace.

Kate studied the garter belt, tugged it, snorted. “You're kidding.”

“I'm not putting it on for you.” Margo patted the bulge under her sparkling silver tunic. “At seven months and counting, bending over isn't as easy as it used to be.”

“I feel like I'm in dress rehearsal for a porn flick.” But after a struggle, Kate snapped the garter belt into place. “It's a little hard to breathe.”

“Hose,” Margo ordered. “You'd better sit down to put them on.” With her hands on her hips, Margo supervised the production. “Not so fast, you'll snag. Those aren't your industrial-strength panty hose.”

Brows beetled, Kate flicked up a glance. “Do you have to watch me?”

“Yes. Where's Laura?” Margo wondered and began to pace. “She should be here. And if the musicians don't show
up in the next ten minutes, they won't have time to set up before the guests start to arrive.”

“Everything'll be fine.” Stalling, Kate smoothed her hose up her legs. “You know, Margo, I really do think it would be best if I kept sort of a low profile tonight. With this cloud over my head, it makes things awkward.”

“Chicken.”

Kate's head shot up. “I am not a chicken. I'm a scandal.”

“And last year I was the scandal.” Margo shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe we can work something out so that Laura can fill the role next year.”

“It's not funny.”

“Nobody understands that better than I do.” Margo laid a hand on Kate's flushed cheek. “Nobody understands how scared you are right now better than I do.”

“I guess not.” Comforted, Kate turned her face to Margo's palm. “It's just that it's dragging on for so long. I keep expecting that Kusack character to show up and cart me off in chains. It's not enough that they can't prove I did it if I can't prove I didn't.”

“I'm not going to say you'll get through it. That's not enough either. But no one who knows you believes it. And didn't you say Byron had some sort of angle to work on?”

“He didn't really explain.” She moved her shoulder, tugged at the elastic strap on the lacy belt. “Just mumbled the equivalent of me not worrying my pretty head over it. I really hate that.”

“Men like to play white knight, Kate. It doesn't hurt to let them do that now and again.”

“It's been weeks since Marty got the copies to us. I've gone over them all, line by line, but . . .” She trailed off. “Well, we've all been pretty busy, and I haven't been jolted out of sleep by the sound of bullhorns telling me they've got me surrounded.”

“Don't worry. When that happens we won't let them take you alive. If they raid the shop tonight, we'll have Byron help you escape in one of his macho cars.”

“If he makes it at all. He had to fly down to L.A. this morning. I thought I told you.”

“He'll be back in time.”

“He couldn't say for sure.” And Kate refused to pout over it. “It doesn't matter.”

“You're crazy about him.”

“I am not. We have a very mature, mutually satisfying relationship.” Distracted, she tugged on the strap again. “How do these silly things work?”

“God. Let me.” Huffing, Margo knelt down and demonstrated how to hook the hose.

“I beg your pardon.” Laura paused at the doorway, stuck her tongue in her cheek. “I seem to be
de trop
. Perhaps there's something you two would like to share with me.”

“Another comedienne.” Kate looked down at the top of Margo's head and giggled. “Christ, now here's a scandal. Pregnant former sex symbol and suspected embezzler celebrate their alternative lifestyle.”

“Could I just go get my camera?” Laura asked.

“Done.” Margo proclaimed, then held up a hand. “Stop snickering, Laura, and help me up.”

“Sorry.” As she hauled Margo to her feet, Laura's gaze fell on Kate. Her friend was sitting in an elegant Queen Anne chair wearing a black bustier with matching lacy garter belt and sheer black stockings. “Why, Kate, you look so . . . different.”

“I have tits,” she stated and rose. “Margo gave them to me.”

“What are friends for? You might want to finish dressing, unless that's your outfit for this evening. The musicians pulled up behind me.”

“Terrific. Laura, it's the off-the-shoulder floor-length bronze.” Margo gestured vaguely as she started into the main showroom. “I'll be back.”

“Why does she think I need to be dressed? I've been dressing myself for several years now.”

“Let her fuss.” Laura took down the gown Margo had
chosen. “It helps keep her from being nervous about tonight. And. . .” Laura pursed her lips as she studied the dress. “She's got a hell of an eye. This is going to look great on you.”

“I hate all this.” Sighing lustily, Kate stepped into the gown. “I mean, it's okay for her, she loves it. And you—you'd look elegant in tinfoil. I'd never be able to wear what you've got on. What is that, anyway?”

“Ancient,” Laura said, dismissing her smartly tailored copper-toned evening suit. “I'm getting one last wear out of it before I put it into stock. There, all hooked in. Stand back, let me see.”

“I don't look stupid, do I? My arms aren't bad now. I mean, my biceps are sort of happening. I've been working on the delts, too. Bony shoulders aren't very attractive.”

“You look beautiful.”

“I don't really care, but I don't like looking stupid.”

“Okay, we're right on schedule,” Margo announced as she hurried back in. With one hand she supported her belly and tried to ignore the fact that the baby seemed determined to settle directly on her bladder. She tilted her head, took a long, narrowed-eyed study of her creation, and nodded. “Good, really good. Now a few finishing touches.”

“Oh, listen.”

“Oh, Mommy, do I have to wear that exquisite jeweled collar?” Margo whined as she lifted it from the box. “Oh, please, not those gorgeous earrings too.”

Kate rolled her eyes as Margo decorated her. “Can you imagine what she's going to do to that kid? The minute it pops out she's going to have it swaddled in Armani and accessorized.”

“Ungrateful brat.” Margo took a purse atomizer out of her pocket and spritzed before Kate could evade.

“You know I hate that.”

“Why else would I do it? Turn around and—drum roll, please.” With a flourish, Margo tugged the draping off the mirror.

“Holy shit.” Her mouth agape, Kate stared at the reflection. There was enough of Kate to recognize, she thought, dazed. But where had those exotic eyes come from, and that unquestionably erotic mouth? The figure, an actual figure, draped in shimmering bronze that made all that exposed skin seem polished.

She cleared her throat, turned, turned again. “I look good,” she managed.

“A grilled cheese sandwich looks good,” Margo corrected. “Baby, you look dangerous.”

“I kind of do.” Kate grinned and watched that siren's mouth move smugly. “Damn, I hope Byron gets here. Wait till he gets a load of me.”
 

He was doing his best to get there. The trip to L.A. had been inconvenient but necessary. Under normal circumstances, he would have arranged to make a full swing of it, spot-checking the hotels and resorts in Santa Barbara, San Diego, San Francisco. It was important, he knew, for the staff at every Templeton hotel to feel that personal connection with the home base.

Josh handled the factories, the vineyards and orchards, the plants, and continued to spot-check the international branches. But California was Byron's responsibility. He never took responsibility lightly.

And there were still ruffled feathers to be smoothed from Peter Ridgeway's reign, which by all accounts had been as cold as it had been efficient.

He knew what was expected of him—the personal touch that Templeton was founded and thrived on. The memory for names and faces and details.

Even as he jetted back, Byron dictated a raft of memos to his assistant, fired off countless faxes, and completed one final meeting via air phone.

Now he was home, and late, but he'd anticipated that. With the finesse of long habit, he quickly fastened the studs on his tuxedo shirt. Maybe he should call Kate at the shop and tell
her he was on his way. A glance at his watch told him the reception was into its second hour. She'd be busy.

Would she miss him?

He wanted her to. He wanted to imagine her looking toward the door whenever it opened. And hoping. He wanted her to be thinking of him, wishing he were there so they could share some comment or observation about the other guests. The way couples always did.

He looked forward to seeing that speculation in her eyes when she studied him. That look of hers that so clearly said,
What are you doing here, De Witt? What's going on between us? And why?

She would continually march along looking for the practical answer, the rational one. And he would cruise on the emotional.

It made, he decided as he adjusted his black tie, for a good mix.

He was willing to wait for her to come to the same conclusion. At least for a little while. She needed to resolve this crisis, put the whole ugly business behind her. He intended to help her. And he could wait for that before looking toward the future.

When the phone beside the bed rang, he considered letting the machine take it. Family or work, he supposed, and either of those could do without him for a couple of hours. Then again, Suellen was expecting her first grandchild, and . . .

“Hell.” He snapped up the phone. “De Witt.”

He listened, questioned, verified. And with a grim smile on his face, hung up. It appeared he had a stop to make before the party.
 

Kusack was still at his desk. It was his wife's bridge night and her turn to host the evening. He preferred the sloppy meatball sandwich and lukewarm cream soda at his desk to the tiny lady treats being served at Chez Kusack. He definitely preferred the smell of stale coffee, the headachy ringing of phones, and the incessant bickering and complaining of his
colleagues to the cloying perfumes, the giggles and gossip of the ladies' bridge club.

There was always paperwork to see to. Though it would have earned him sneers to admit it, he enjoyed paperwork and plowed through it like a St. Bernard through a blizzard. Slow and steady.

He liked the tangibility of it, even the foolish convoluted policespeak so necessary to any official report. He'd made the adjustment to computers more smoothly than many cops his age. To Kusack a keyboard was a keyboard, and he had used what he called the Bible method of typing—seek and ye shall find—all of his professional life.

It never failed him.

He was tapping on keys, grinning to himself as the letters popped onto his screen when a man in a tuxedo interrupted him.

“Detective Kusack?”

“Yeah.” Kusack sat back, skimmed his cop's eyes over the suit. No rental job, he deduced. Tailor-made and very pricey. “It ain't prom night, and you're too old anyhow. What can I do for you?”

“I'm Byron De Witt. I'm here regarding Katherine Powell.”

Kusack grunted, picked up his can of soda. “I thought her lawyer's name was Templeton.”

“I'm not her lawyer, I'm her . . . friend.”

“Uh-huh. Well, friend, I can't discuss Ms. Powell's business with anybody who walks in here. No matter how nice they dress.”

“Kate didn't mention how gracious you were. May I?”

“Make yourself at home,” Kusack said sourly. He wanted the monotony of his paperwork, not chitchat with Prince Charming. “Underpaid public servants are always at your disposal.”

“It won't take long. I have new evidence that I believe weighs in Ms. Powell's favor. Are you interested, Kusack, or shall I wait until you finish your dinner?”

Kusack ran his tongue around his teeth and eyed the second half of his meatball sub. “Information is always welcome, Mr. De Witt, and I'm here to serve.” At least until the bridge club clears out. “What is it you think you have?”