There it was. The satin oval, the lace. “You are a witch.”
She laughed and turned back to her packing. “I'm not so bad when you get to know me. Besides, Jane's doing my wedding dress.”
Cal read the embroidered script, the curlicues so embellished that it took several minutes to puzzle out the words.
A. Jane, Atlanta
.
“Doing your wedding dress, eh? Where did you buy this top?”
Johanna was intent on the large open suitcase. “From Jane’s shop, silly.”
“Jane's the designer?”
“Yep.” Johanna folded a sweater and put it in a pile on the bed before pulling out another drawer of clothes. The cat strolled over and inspected the items on the bed before making a leap into the open suitcase.
Cal pretended not to see. “So tell me about Jane.”
Johanna held up a garment. “This shirt doesn't fit right. I ought to get rid of it.”
“If it doesn't fit, yes. So where's this Jane's store?”
“It's not a store.” She held the shirt to her shoulders. “I hate to do away with it. It was the last thing Mother gave me. Maybe I can get it altered.”
Cal gnashed his teeth. “Jane. Where's her boutique?”
“She calls it a dressmaker shop. It's near Lenox.”
The cat curled up in the suitcase and closed its eyes. Johanna didn't notice. Cal ignored it. “Lenox Square in Buckhead?”
“That's where it was there the last time I looked.” She shook out slacks. “Jane's great. Everyone in Atlanta uses her.”
“I don't.”
She gave him an indulgent glance. “She designs for women, Cal.” She folded the slacks, turned to the case, saw the cat. “Snick, get out of there.” The napping cat, amber eyes blinking in feigned bewilderment, was picked up and set aside. “Look at those damn cat hairs all over my good pants.”
“Tell me about Jane.”
She brushed yellow fuzz off jeans. “What's to tell? Jane, like, personalizes things. She's great for giving clothes that extra little oomph. Her stuff costs the earth. You and Claire are springing for her to do my wedding gown, though.”
“We are?”
“Y'all offered to go thirds with Dad on the wedding, remember?” She replaced the jeans and glared at the offended cat who sat on the floor cleaning white-tipped paws and ignoring the open suitcase. “It's the most romantic dress ever, an absolute miracle. I have my last fitting this afternoon.”
“Your last fitting, eh? Near Lenox. I'll go with you.”
“You?” Johanna forgot the cat. “Are you sure you're looking for a dress for Claire?” Her eyes narrowed. “You're not tangled up with another woman, are you?”
“Me?” He put on his virtuous face. “You know I gave up women after my last divorce.”
“Hah.” Johanna slapped her hands on her hips. “So what were you doing with that French model when she threw you in the fountain? I thought Robert was going to have a heart attack when he opened the morning newspaper.”
“Robert worries too much about my business.” Cal waved a negligent hand. “No, really. I
have
given up women. Except for an occasional fling,” he amended under her skepticism. “Come on, Johanna. Give me a break. I really want to do something nice for Claire.”
Good thing Johanna's entry to adulthood hadn’t changed her. She was easily diverted where Claire would have been tenacious. “Well... Claire loves Jane's things but doesn't buy many. She hates shopping and never spends money on herself.”
The cat seized on Johanna's distraction to sneak around and jump onto the bed from the other side.
“So we'll buy one of Jane's dresses for her.” Cal saw the yellow cat, eyes on Johanna's back, put one cautious paw over the edge of the suitcase.
Live and let live.
The cat snuggled down among Johanna's folded clothes.
“If I go with you this afternoon, you can help me pick something out. Tell me more about this Jane.”
* * * *
Amanda was worried about her sister.
She hadn't heard a word from Noelle since their conversation two weeks before. Though she’d left a message on Noelle’s cell several times, Noelle hadn’t called back. Maybe everything was going all right at home and she’d simply forgotten. Forgetfulness was a symptom of Noelle’s disorder.
Maybe it was time to call Noelle at home.
She picked up the phone but put it back down. Edward didn’t work set hours and he might be there. If he didn’t know about Noelle’s indiscretion, Amanda didn’t want to inadvertently let anything slip. Surely Noelle would call soon. Besides, Noelle would have let her know by now if everything wasn’t all right with Edward.
If only everything was all right here.
Until Callaway McIntyre, Amanda had never done anything illegal, and now her conscience, already burdened with memories of Tommy, had a new reason to hound her.
At the drafting table, she twirled the drawing pencil between her fingers while her part in Noelle’s scheme gnawed at her insides. She ought to be figuring how much she could afford to pay on her loan this month, or estimating how many dresses she had to sell to keep her lovely business with its stark white wallboard and varnished wood safe from the bank.
Instead, she couldn't stop worrying about Noelle.
Her workroom, normally a sanctum with its different swatches of new-smelling material, had white walls covered by drawings representing her latest ideas. A few were complete, needing to be taken down and filed after having been constructed by the three full-time seamstresses her growing clientele now allowed her to employ; but most of the drawings were unfinished, lacking some detail or other that would come to her after hours of staring at them and pondering.
Amanda loved her workroom but today her eyes came back to the solid pine desk, adorned by a single photograph of Noelle, Edward, and Teddy, that never failed to warm her. In it, the baby burbled with laughter while his parents beamed proudly over him. The little family was safe, thanks to her, but Noelle should have let her know that for sure.
She threw the pencil down.
How could she work?
Maybe she should go ahead and call. Even if Edward was home, he wouldn’t think it unusual.
Yes, he would. Edward knew she was always too rushed to call Noelle from work.
Taking off her reading glasses, Amanda closed her eyes and pressed them with her fingertips. All her problems were getting her down: Noelle’s future, her complicity in drugging an innocent, well, a nearly innocent man. Her car.
It was ridiculous to believe anyone would put a bomb in her car, but that's what the detective had told her when he came by the day before. “It was set to explode when the engine reached a certain temperature but the thermostat was off. If you hadn't seen the smoke and stopped when you did, you would have been inside. Are you sure you don't have any enemies? A jealous ex-husband? An angry ex-boyfriend?”
No. There was no one who wanted to harm her.
“Gangs,” the detective had suggested. “They're into everything nowadays. Maybe it was an initiation. Or maybe they got the wrong car.”
That was the last time she'd park overnight at that particular shuttle lot, even though there had never been problems in using it before. Of course, if it hadn't been for Noelle, she would never have parked there to begin with.
Which brought her back to her more immediate concern. Should she phone Noelle or not?
Her assistant stuck her head into Amanda's office. “Jane, Johanna Lathen is here for the final fitting.”
“Thanks, Melissa. I'll be right out.” Johanna was a nice child. The fitting would mark the end of a long day and leave Amanda plenty of time to call Noelle at home when the shop closed.
Getting up without undue haste, she inspected herself at the full-length mirror beside the door. Looks were important, and her severe image let customers know they were dealing with a professional. The loose jersey fell gently to mid-calf, with only a white lace collar to relieve the austere gray. A stray hair needed tucking into the knot at the nape of her neck before she headed toward the door to meet Johanna.
She froze.
Beyond the glass wall of her office, Johanna and a man talked to one of the clerks. A man with a wide forehead and prominent cheekbones.
Callaway McIntyre.
In her shop.
Her legs threatened to buckle. Instinctively she stepped back, out of sight of the couple in the front room. Her shoulder, propped against the wall to hold her upright, wrinkled a drawing of an unfinished design destined to go to the governor's niece, but no matter.
Panic welled, was pressed down.
Callaway McIntyre couldn't possibly know who she was. There was no way he could know.
Then why is he here
?
Sick at her stomach, she made her rubbery legs carry her over to the corner desk and its intercom. “Melissa, will you come back here, please?”
Her assistant returned, raised brows questioning.
“Who is that man?”
“Ooooooh.” Melissa's eyes sparkled, widened. “He's hot, isn't he? That's Cal McIntyre, Johanna Lathen's brother.”
“Her brother?” Amanda repeated faintly.
Melissa frowned. “Half-brother, I guess. Do you remember Claire Winslow? She’s bought one or two things from us. She’s his sister, too.”
“Claire Winslow?” Johanna and another customer? Callaway McIntyre’s sisters? Dear God, what was she going to do? “I can’t quite place her.”
“She’s only been in a couple of times. Anyway, he and Claire had a different father. He left them the McIntyre hotel chain. Johanna's father was a mere diplomat.” Melissa flapped one hand in exaggerated downplay.
She was going to throw up.
“You've probably seen him in the newspapers,” Melissa went on. “He and his girlfriend had a falling out a while back and there was a picture of him on the front page of the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
, soaking wet after she pushed him into a fountain at some fancy party in Paris. Boy, did he look annoyed.”
“I’m sure,” Amanda murmured, managing to breathe.
Melissa lingered. “He wants a dress for his sister's birthday. Claire, not Johanna. I could show him what we have while you're with Johanna.”
“Yes. Have her go back to the fitting room and I'll meet her there.”
“Are you all right? You’re awfully pale.”
“I’m fine.”
Brother. Callaway McIntyre was Johanna Lathen and Claire Winslow’s brother. Brother to two of her customers. Claire owned part of the McIntyre hotel chain.
Calm down, calm down
. She would stay in the back, fit Johanna's dress, and let Melissa help Callaway. With any luck, he’d never see her, though it wouldn't hurt to disguise herself a little.
Reading glasses would help hide her face and wasn’t there some cologne in her desk drawer an elderly customer had given her? Yes. A liberal spritzing of the awful stuff should make him think of wrinkled old ladies instead of sexy Scarlet Smith.
There. The very essence of a discreet salesperson. Even if he saw her, Callaway wouldn't be expecting the wanton Scarlet in the prim woman with brown hair pulled back in a spinster's knot.
Purely coincidence. It had to be.
* * * *
“We cater to a clientele from all over the country,” the attentive clerk told Cal as a clarinet's haunting notes showered them from a hidden sound system. “We provide antique lace and hand-sewn beading and anything else the customers require. Jane herself goes to Europe periodically and picks up materials at special auctions.”
Pete Fountain's magic didn’t distract Cal. “How long have you worked here, Melissa?”
She stuttered, flustered. “F-four years. Since I got out of high school.”
“Ah. A mere baby.”
She managed a nonchalant shrug, but a blush gave her away. “Hardly. I've been on my own all that time.”
“How long was Jane's here before you started? I've never heard about her till now.”
Recovering her poise, Melissa was happy to enlighten him. “She opened about three years before I came, but she was at Macy's before that. Everyone knew her. Since I came, business has tripled. Even Jane says she can't believe the way it's grown. Something black, you said?”
The abrupt transition back to the object of his visit threw Cal. He had to think. “Oh. Yes. Black. Strapless and straightish, made out of that kind of clingy stuff. Silk or chiffon, maybe? Long, with a slit on the side. And a kind of halter top.”
The fifth dress she showed him was The Dress.
When she held it out, the mellifluous sound of the fabric moving against her arm recalled the whispered rustle as he slipped the dress over Scarlet's head. He took the thin material in his hand and could have sworn it smelled of oranges mingled with cleaning fluid.
Oranges. The scent brought back the softness of small breasts and rounded hips.
Despite himself, inside the cold ashes of anger, something akin to desire flickered.
He extinguished it, along with the tiny ache that always showed up whenever a woman disappointed or betrayed him.