Guarding the Socialite (10 page)

D
illon took a moment to savor the small victory but there wasn't time to push his luck a further. They'd arrived at the caterers and she was already popping from the driver's seat, a bundle of efficiency in a soft linen pantsuit.

“Tell me about Robert Gavin,” he said, surprising her just as she rang the doorbell to the restored Victorian. She gave him a quizzical look. “Do you like him?” he asked.

“Like him? He seems nice enough,” she answered, still puzzled. “Where's this coming from and why now? Can't this wait?”

He shrugged. “Sure. I just wondered if you and him had a thing. And if you did, I wondered why you didn't know about his thing with Charlotte.”

She stiffened. “There was no
thing
between Robert and Charlotte.”

“You said yourself you didn't know why she had the picture of them together. Seems worth a mention seeing as
everyone in the house seemed to recognize that he had a thing for you, even if it wasn't reciprocated.”

“Will you stop calling it a
thing?
It's suggestive and misleading.” Her cheeks heated and she seemed caught between embarrassment and indignation for his observation. She looked away as she answered. “These are questions best answered by Robert. I've never encouraged anything aside from a professional relationship with him. What he cultivated with Charlotte was ultimately his business not mine.”

“But it bothers you that she didn't tell you,” he pressed, eyeing her keenly. “I mean, you pride yourself on being the shoulder for everyone in the house. This seems like a pretty big omission on Charlotte's part. Did you express some kind of disapproval of a relationship on her part?”

She remained silent a moment, then deliberately pushed the doorbell again. “Charlotte's business was her own,” she said. “That's all I have to say about that. If you don't mind, I have other things to occupy my attention.”

“I'm not picking a fight.” He wanted her to know, but somehow even as he said it he wondered why he felt the need to clarify. Maybe he was picking at something. It shouldn't but it bothered him that this Gavin character was free to ask her out like any other normal guy when he could not. He may have tasted and touched her body but he couldn't take her to dinner or a movie. The simple pleasure of a dating ritual was not available to him and it rankled. Why, he didn't know. Perhaps that's why he was out of sorts. The why of it was a distraction.

The door opened and a short, round woman answered and ushered them in with an exclamation. “I'm so sorry,” she apologized in a rush as she led them to the back of the expansive home where the smell of something savory filled the downstairs. “I had the beaters going and didn't realize
anyone was at the door. And you know, when I get to creating I lose all track of time.”

“No worries, Samantha,” Emma said with a gracious smile. “We were hardly waiting at all. Besides, I can't wait to sample whatever you have cooking.” Emma turned slightly to Dillon, gesturing. “Agent McIntyre, I'd like you to meet the best-kept secret in the Bay Area. Samantha Grosjean, owner of Season To Taste. She's been the unofficial Iris House caterer for the past five years. I don't know what I did before her.”

A delighted smile lit up Samantha's face and she blushed but her gaze fastened on Dillon with the same appreciation he imagined she bestowed upon perfectly prepared mutton chops. “An agent? Wow. I've never met an agent before. I mean, not a real one up close. Once I catered an event for the governor and I suspect there were a few FBI about but I never knew for sure….” She stopped as if realizing she was rambling and then launched back into business mode with a snap of her pudgy fingers. “Follow me! I have the samples out of the oven and ready for tasting. I think you're really going to love what I've put together.”

“I'm sure I will. Everything you make is wonderful,” Emma said, taking a seat at the high counter where plates of bite-sized portions awaited on pretty china. She eyed the plates and waited for the presentation. He took a seat beside Emma.

“I thought we'd start with grilled beef medallions served with port demi-glace or slow-cooked rib eye with pearl onion au jus and horseradish,” Samantha said, pushing two separate plates forward with forks. “Don't hold back. I want your honest opinions.”

Dillon doubted that. By the gleam in her eye, she expected praise and lots of it. But as he took an experimental bite of a beef medallion, he realized she expected it because
her dishes were worthy. The medallion nearly melted in his mouth. He shared a look with Emma, and she rewarded him with a little smile, saying around a dainty bite, “I told you she was the best-kept secret.”

“That, my dear, is an understatement. Not bad at all. What else you got there, love?”

Samantha tittered. “Oh, we're just getting started. By the time you leave you'll wonder how you ever survived without my cooking.”

Dillon stuffed the last medallion in his mouth and then smiled around the bite, gesturing with his fork as he said, “Carry on then. You've intrigued me and I'm frightfully hungry. Oh, and love,” he added with a wink, “might you have a good brew to wash it all down?”

Samantha giggled and dashed away to get him something yeasty to drink, and he turned to Emma, who was watching the exchange with something close to amusement and irritation, and said, “I'm so glad I came. I'd had no idea how I was going to talk you into supper. And here we are…dining together after all. Brilliant!”

 

Emma stared and ignored the flare of heat that kindled to life in her belly because she knew it had nothing to do with the spices Samantha used in her dishes. “This is not dinner, Agent McIntyre,” she said beneath her breath, not wanting Samantha to hear their exchange. She loved her dearly, but Samantha was a bit of a gossip. She enjoyed hearing it and equally enjoyed spreading it. And Emma was not about to give her something to wag her tongue about, so she deliberately took another bite and chewed slowly as if this were an audition for service rather than a foregone conclusion that Samantha would get the job.

“How long have you known Samantha?” he asked.

“Five years.” She spared him a short look. “She's not a suspect.”

He ignored that. “Does she have any employees?”

“One. Jimmy and he's not your guy, either.”

“Oh?” He pulled a small notepad from a hidden pocket on the inside of his jacket. “Let me be the judge of that.” He winked. “It's what I get paid for.”

“Jimmy is Samantha's son and when you meet him you'll realize why he's not a suspect.”

“Appearances can be deceiving, Emma. You have to stop assuming—”

“Jimmy has Down syndrome. He's a lovely young man who helps with the table settings and buses the tables when everyone is finished. He is not a killer. He doesn't have a mean bone in his body. It's just not in his nature.”

His expression was appropriately chastised so she let it go but she was weary of all his suspicions. She supposed it was natural and she should be grateful but she was unaccustomed to second-guessing everyone's motive. Frankly, she was ready for things to get back to normal. And, if she were being honest, she'd have to admit that it did bother her that she hadn't known about Charlotte and Robert, if such a relationship even existed. Why would Charlotte hide that from her? She'd never expressed any kind of censure to Charlotte regarding Robert, though if Charlotte had come to her she might have said that she felt it unwise to cultivate a romantic attachment to a donor as it could be misconstrued. Particularly so given the fact that the boarders of Iris House were former—or soon to be former—prostitutes. The whole thing gave her a headache. And she partly blamed Dillon for making her think of it.

They finished the courses—delicious as she knew they would be—and they left Samantha's, headed for home.

Dillon noticed her stiff demeanor and commented on it.

“Why don't you level with me and share what's on your mind?”

“That would take the rest of the night, Agent—” She paused when he reminded her with a pointed look of their odd little agreement.
“Dillon,”
she amended with emphasis. “But I'll be honest. I'm bothered by the fact that my life has been turned upside down and everything I've worked so hard to achieve is being threatened. It's hard to imagine why anyone would want to hurt me or my girls. Iris House was built with the sole purpose of helping people. Why would anyone want to destroy that?”

She hadn't meant to allow her fear and confusion to seep through to her voice, but it had and Dillon picked up on it easily. She sensed his desire to touch her, to reach out and comfort her in some way but knew he held back due to propriety, which she found oddly endearing yet annoying. She wanted him to touch her. She wanted to feel the soft rasp of his knuckles against her cheek or the caress of his palm against the nape of her neck. She wanted to march to her bedroom with him in tow, divest themselves of their clothing and lie snuggled together as if it were perfectly normal to do so. And that shocked her. She couldn't remember the last time she wanted that from anyone. It was as if there was a block of ice where her heart once beat and now Dillon's heat was causing it to melt. She concentrated on the road and clamped her lips tight so she didn't continue to spit irrational truths. Fatigue pulled at her and she still had a long night ahead of her.

“Tell me the reason you opened Iris House,” he said, a subtle coaxing in his voice. The dark interior of the car lent a sense of privacy that encouraged her to share, even though she rarely talked about Elyse to anyone aside from Chick. “I know it must be personal.”

“It is.”

“Painful?”

She swallowed. “Very.”

Silence followed and she knew he wouldn't stop digging. Eventually he'd find out, and she'd rather he hear it from her than some police file. Still, it was hard to talk about Elyse with a virtual stranger. She focused on the road, only instead of taking the road to Iris House, she detoured and headed for the hills. She didn't think she could do this without the buffer of the road. The distraction of driving enabled her to focus on the telling rather than the heartache that always followed.

“I was a twin,” she said, hitting the freeway and leaving the city behind. If Dillon took note of her sudden detour he didn't comment. “Her name was Elyse. We were adopted by Veronica and Nigel Vale when we were born. Our mother was a teenage girl who wasn't ready for motherhood, much less twins.”

“Was it an open adoption?” he asked.

Emma chuckled at the idea. Nigel Vale sharing something he'd bought and paid for? Absolutely not. “No. Elyse and I didn't even know we were adopted until we were fifteen. Elyse found the paperwork to our adoption when she was snooping in our father's desk for some cash.”

“Ouch.”

Emma's mouth twisted derisively. “Yeah. Ouch.” She recalled the big blowup, the tears, the anger, the confusion. They'd clung together as they always had in times of crisis, but even so, Emma could sense the dark, yawning chasm that was swallowing her sister from the inside. That need to reconnect to the woman who had given them life and then walked away. Whereas Emma had thrown herself into her academics, Elyse had simply thrown herself away. Sudden tears pricked her eyes. “Elyse rebelled when our parents refused to help us find our birth mother. I think if they had,
things would've ended differently. Elyse just needed to ask why, to hear that the decision had been made out of love not desperation.”

“I imagine it was hard for your parents to accept that she wanted to know the woman at all. At that point they'd raised you, given you a home and a name…I can see how that would be difficult.”

“My mom cried a lot. My father just got more bullheaded. He refused to help in any way and it drove a wedge between him and Elyse. Elyse started acting out in any way possible. It started with ditching school, dabbling in drugs, partying all the time, and then when our father cut her off from any funds, she turned to other means of supporting herself. She dropped out of school, ran away, and each time we brought her home, my father would try and force her to straighten up.”

“How would he do that?”

She shrugged. “It varied. When she was still a teenager, he'd lock her in the house with hired guards to watch over her. Sometimes he'd lose his temper and hit her.” That part she remembered with a flinch. Emma downshifted and pulled off on a secluded road. The lights of the city twinkled below them and silence followed when she shut off the engine.

“Was your father abusive often?” he asked quietly.

She considered that question. It was hard to answer. “I would say no but there were times…Elyse pushed him to the breaking point. And he left bruises. Afterward I would sneak in her room and spend hours holding her while she cried. I tried to talk sense into her, to get her to quit the drugs and the prostitution but by the end…she was so lost.”

“How'd she die?” he asked.

Emma drew a breath to ease the tightness in her chest but it didn't help. Nothing did. Each morning she rose with Elyse's shadow, and each night before she fell asleep Elyse's
last words followed her dreams. “A drug overdose. She was twenty-two.” But by that point the drugs and the lifestyle had started to take its toll. Emma couldn't help but remember the sallow skin tone, the mottled and fading bruises each in various stage of healing, her thinning hair, the scarred-over pockmarks, and worst of all, the desperate soulless reflection in her blue eyes.

“Were you identical?” he asked.

“Yes.” At least they'd been born that way. The differences were easy to see by the end. She shuddered and pushed the memory away. “She was my other half,” she admitted softly. “Sometimes it feels as if she's still here…watching over me. But I know that's not possible.”