Robert Asprin's Dragons Run (10 page)

“But there was a man! He was coming at me.”

“Threatening you?” Horsie asked.

“Stay there,” Fox Lisa ordered. As Penny watched, she searched the area for the man. Penny knew from bitter experience that he would be gone without a trace. The small woman returned, shaking her head.

“No one’s here, I promise.” Fox Lisa patted her purse. “If anyone tries anything, I’ll take care of them. It’d be self-defense. You don’t have to worry at all.”

“Thanks,” Penny said. She did her best to control her nerves. She set off walking again, but without the sexy swing.

“Should I call for the car?” Horsie asked. “If there’s a stalker out there, you shouldn’t expose yourself.”

Penny waved away the offer.

“No, no, thanks, honey. I think I must just have been seeing things.”

But she knew she wasn’t.

Val
quivered with nerves as yet another thirtysomething man in a business suit took her hand. She met his warm brown eyes shyly.

“Ms. McCandles, glad to meet you,” the man said.

“Welcome, Mr. Stern,” Val said. She was glad of Henry’s exhaustive briefing, including photographs and thick dossiers, of the people on the guest list. “We’re very happy you could make it. I know you’re very busy with the new memory project at NanoStream. You probably don’t have much time off these days.”

“Uh, yes. But I’m happy to get away on a Friday night.”

Mr. Stern cast a curious eye toward her belly. A lot of people did glance at it, but for some reason this felt like a real violation of privacy.

“Hem!” Val cleared her throat with purpose.

Mr. Stern’s cheeks reddened a little. “Well, thanks, ma’am,” he said, and hurried into the room.

Unconsciously, Val smoothed the blue silk draping. The dress had an amazing cut that made her feel like a pregnant supermodel. The dressmaker, a tiny, wizened woman with apricot hair, eyed her without ever touching Val, laid out a pattern on a huge sheet of paper, and came back the next morning with a chic Grecian sheath on a hanger. She wished Val “mazel tov,” and bustled out again. When Val tried the dress on, it fit like magic. The thickening at her waist looked becoming rather than ponderous.

Braided silk cords in the same fabric as the dress held up the shoulders and crossed underneath her breasts. The asymmetric hem danced around her calves. The garment felt light as air but was thick enough that her amazingly expensive undergarments were completely concealed. It was better than armor. Val turned to the next guests.

“Mrs. Green and Mr. Green,” she said, shaking hands with the wife first, as she had been instructed. “Thank you for coming.”

This time, the woman eyed her up and down before meeting her gaze. She offered a friendly smile. “We have three children,” she said. “When’s it due?”

“Late September,” Val said.

“Boy or girl?”

“I don’t know.”

Mrs. Green gave her a conspiratorial smile and tugged her husband’s arm. A server met them three paces away from Val and gave them drinks.

Val leaned back against the newel post of the elegant double staircase. She didn’t realize she had been holding her breath. A slim male photographer in a brocade vest and a bow tie knelt before her to take her picture.

“Oh, don’t,” she said, petulantly.

“Mrs. Wurmley’s orders,” he said, with a winsome grin. “Besides, you look great.”

“Thanks, I guess. Hi, Mr. Neville,” Val said, straightening up to greet a large African-American gentleman in a dinner jacket that strained across enormous shoulders. Her hand was enveloped in a palm like a Ping-Pong paddle. “I mean, good evening. Thank you for joining us. I’m Valerie McCandles.”

“Glad to be here,” he said. His voice was hoarse, but it had a lilt to it. “And where are you from, pretty lady?”

“Well, I’m from Michigan, but I live in New Orleans.”

“N’Awlins? Why, that’s my hometown!” he exclaimed, pleased. “Wait a minute, you don’t have anything to do with Penny Dunbar?”

Val squeezed her memory for a drop that contained the name. “Uh, the politician?” she asked.

Neville grinned, showing split front teeth. “I like the way you say that. Even more that you don’t know who she is. Nice to meet you, Ms. McCandles.” His eyebrows lifted. “I think that’s Mike Burns.”

“Yes, it is,” Val said, following his gaze to the evening’s guest of honor, a handsome man four or five inches taller than her six feet. From her briefing, Val knew Burns was a former professional baseball player, had graduated summa cum laude from Stanford in economics, and expected to raise funds that evening for a run for the Senate. Not from this state, wherever it was, but from Maryland. A thought wandered through her mind that it was strange she didn’t know where she was.

“Well, I need to talk to him. Pleasure, Ms. McCandles.”

Val almost collapsed with relief.

Thank heavens, that was the end of the reception line. Henry came over to take her by the arm.

“Nice job,” he murmured. “Now, mingle. I’ll let you know when you have to announce dinner.”

“What do I say to them?” Val whispered desperately. She didn’t know anything about financial debentures or Rolls Royces or whatever rich people liked.

“Why are you asking me?” Henry said, shooing her away. “You’re in the hospitality business. Talk to them as if they were your customers.”

Oh. Really? Was that all? Val took the glass of yellow juice offered to her by the thin girl in uniform and moved into the midst of the crowd.

“So, how is the economy treating you?” she inquired of Mr. Benjamin, a plump, short man who had arrived alone. According to Henry’s dossier, he was the CEO of a technology company and held a majority of the shares. “Did the dot-com bust hit your company?”

“Not too hard,” he said. “We had to close down a line I thought was promising.”

“Where do you see expanding next?”

“Personal computers,” he said, warming to his topic. He leaned a little closer to her. “There’s a lot of room for lightweight machines. When the market recovers, people will want high-end gear. My niche consumer is white-collar workers. They have cash to spend, and they like having the latest and lightest electronics.”

“Don’t you want to go after the teen market?” Val asked. “Every kid I see is playing games on pocket devices.”

“No, I don’t see it,” Benjamin said. “That’s not where the growth is going.”

“You’re wrong,” a slim, dark-haired man said, joining them. “She’s right. The kids have all the money. I’d put my lines on turning out cheap, easy-to-use machines, and license every game I could afford.”

“Mr. Novello publishes comic books,” Val explained to Benjamin.

“Graphic novels,” Novello corrected her with some heat.

“I’m sorry,” Val said. “I haven’t read any since I was little.”

Benjamin laughed. Novello lowered his black eyebrows into a disapproving V.

“You’d find they’ve changed a lot. You might like them more now.”

“Print is dying,” inserted Mr. Green, joining them. “Sorry to overhear. Electronic books are the next big thing.”

By asking a leading question here or professing the need for explanation there, Val was able to keep the men talking. She listened closely, as Henry had told her to, in case any of them sounded as if his finances were in a downward spiral. She hated the feeling that she was spying on them, but she didn’t want to let Melinda down. Griffen would have finessed the conversation much better than she could.

How weird that Griffen hadn’t called her. She had left a message for him on his cell phone that morning. Even allowing for a late-Thursday session, he ought to have listened to it by then. She was worried about Gris-gris. Every time she had called so far, the sweet-voiced nurse at the hospital told her he was asleep. How badly hurt was he? He had insisted he was going to be all right when she had seen him Tuesday night. If only she could talk to him.

She cringed at how much daytime calls must be costing on Melinda’s house phone, but her cell phone was good for local Louisiana calls only. When Melinda came back, Val wanted to go home. She would pay her hostess back later. If her job was still there waiting for her.

Henry appeared behind the crowd and lifted his eyebrows at her. Val went up to Burns, took him by the elbow, and addressed the rest of the circle surrounding him.

“It’s time for dinner. Would you all come this way?”

She steered her captive toward the double doors that led to the formal dining room. As she went, she touched guests on the sleeves or the back of their hands. Immediately, they broke off conversation and fell in step behind her. Val felt like the Pied Piper.

The doors ahead of them seemed to open by themselves. Val heard a collective gasp as the guests saw the brilliance beyond. Crystal glasses in clusters at each place on the table caught the light from the enormous chandelier. The china plates glowed like exotic pearls. The white of the linen napkins and crisp tablecloth was one Val had never been able to achieve in her own laundry. She wondered what the secret was.

She steered Burns toward the head of the table and took her place at his right hand. Little tent cards, handwritten by Henry in perfect copperplate, stood on each plate in front of the peaked napkins. A buzz erupted among the other diners as they bustled around to find their seats. Servers, some on staff but most hired for the evening, stepped from concealment against the inner wall to collect cocktail glasses and assist ladies into their chairs. A slim, good-looking man who might have been a flamenco dancer whisked Val’s napkin off her plate and spread it over her blue silk lap. Marcella, severe looking in a black silk floor-length dress, directed two young women to pour chilled water into round-bellied glasses. She nodded, and dinner service began.

Val had adored the tiny silver forks Henry had shown her during her briefing on how to conduct a formal dinner until he informed her they were for eating escargot—snails. She cringed as the small plate was placed in front of her.

“Just eat one,” Henry had commanded her. “You’re the hostess. No one else can begin until you do.”

The snails, decanted from their shells and concealed under a crust of bubbling, fragrant butter, looked like wads of gray chewing gum. With her heart in her throat trying to prevent anything else from going through it, Val smiled at Burns and speared a snail. It took all her self-control to chew and swallow the rubbery glob, but she did it. To her relief, as soon as she had taken a mouthful, the rest of the table dug in to their appetizers. In fact, they seemed to like it. Val would have been much happier with a roll to sop up the delectable garlic butter, but none was served. Honor satisfied, she turned to Burns.

“So what should I be worried about in this economy?” she asked.

He smiled at her. “Not much. The drop in technology was a natural downturn. Everyone should have seen it coming. If you didn’t have investments in those companies, you should be all right for now. The market is coming back.”

“That’s good,” Val said. She took a sip of water.

He had very handsome blue eyes. They twinkled with mischief.

“You’re not eating your snails.”

“I’ve heard they’re bad for developing babies,” she said.

“Oh.” He knew that wasn’t true, and his conspiratorial grin proved it. “It’s a nice change to sit next to a woman as attractive as you. Where do you come from?”

“New Orleans,” Val said.

“And what do you do there?”

No need to tell another fib. “I’m a bartender, Mr. Burns.”

“Call me Mike. I thought you seemed too normal for this crowd. What’s your connection with Melinda?”

“A distant relative,” Val said. That was probably true, too. She bet all dragons were connected back to some reptilian Adam and Eve.

“Not a mother-in-law?”

“No,” Val said firmly.

“Ah,” Burns said, looking pleased. “Then you won’t mind my asking what you’re doing tomorrow evening?”

“I don’t mind at all,” Val said. He was handsome, and she liked the warm tones of his voice. She knew he was a politician, but she had had passes made at her by several prominent citizens of New Orleans. “And call me Val.”

“I know a spot with a terrific band, nice for talking—and getting to know one another.” The blue eyes glowed.

“That sounds great,” Val said. “Just keep in mind I’m not much for late nights at the moment.”

“No problem,” he said. He glanced down at her belly. It seemed impossible for anyone to ignore it, but Val didn’t find his attentions offensive. Quite the opposite. If he found a pregnant woman attractive, she had to like him for his open mind.

They chatted through the salad and the Asian consommé and into the perfect, blood-red tenderloin with a gigantic golden scallop perched beside it. Hers was served with a fantastic au jus instead of the wine sauce the others had. It tasted absolutely divine. Living in the French Quarter, she had learned an appreciation for fine food that she could never have dreamed of in her dorm years. This meal would have been a triumph in any of the best restaurants in New Orleans. In spite of herself, Val was filling up. She knew that dessert was a chocolate pot de crème with a thick, creamy texture like fluffy fudge. She wanted to save room for it, but everything was so good she was finding self-control difficult.

Henry appeared on the other side of the room and gave her a severe look. Val scooted her chair back with the help of the server who appeared there, and stood up. She tapped her water glass with the edge of her spoon. Henry mouthed the first words of her speech along with her. After a nervous hesitation, she was reeling it off as if it were a familiar song.

“Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of Melinda Wurmley and the Economy Party, I want to welcome you all this evening. You’ve all come because you support the goals the Economy Party represents. Tonight, we’re happy to have Michael Burns with us. He’s hoping to be the next United States senator from Maryland. Please welcome Michael Burns.”

“Mike,” Burns said, as he rose. He touched her on the shoulder, and Val felt a tingle race through her body. “Thanks, Val. My friends, I appreciate your being here with me this evening. It’s no easy task to bring the goals of a third party into this two-party system, but we believe the time has come for a way of true leadership . . .”

For the first time in her life, Val didn’t find a political speech boring.