Obsession Falls (15 page)
If Mr. Gracie was acting, he was doing a hell of a job, because he tugged on her heartstrings. Every woman at the tables had her linen handkerchief pressed to her damp eyes, and every female server was surreptitiously wiping tears off her cheeks. Men groped for their credit cards, resigned and even eager to donate more.
She looked again at Dash.
He was not moved. His credit card remained tight within his wallet. Yet still he watched Mr. Gracie intently, as if struck by Mr. Gracie’s refinement.
She did not for a moment believe Dash knew a damned thing about refinement.
For a long moment, Mr. Gracie stood in silence, his mobile face drawn and pale with the effort of speaking with such emotion, and he looked to his right, as if seeing a beloved ghost. Then he shook himself free of his old heartache, and nodded to Georg.
Georg signaled the line.
The servers picked up the wine and with dignity followed him toward the serving area.
Mr. Gracie said, “Georg’s servers will be pouring for you. If you would hold the wine until everyone is served, so I may make a toast to salute you, my guests, who have honored me with your friendship and support, and to salute your generosity.”
“And to your mother,” Taylor murmured.
Michael Gracie’s head swung toward her. His brown eyes lightened with warm flecks of amber, and his kissable lips grew tender.
He had heard her. Somehow, he had heard her.
For a moment, she feared he would acknowledge her in front of the room. In front of Dash. But no—he faced the room again. “And yes, let’s toast my mother, and the end of the dreadful disease that took her too soon.”
Men like Mr. Gracie and Mr. Brothers reminded Taylor that there was good in this world. Both were leaders of industry. Obviously, they succeeded with a combination of intelligence and ruthlessness. But both men hid depths of emotion, and when Mr. Gracie spoke of his mother, Taylor could see beneath the polished façade into the young boy he had been … and she wanted to protect him.
When the servers were out of the dining room, Taylor felt almost light-headed with relief. She put down her box while Georg directed the table servers on how to decant and fill the glasses. Then she, Charlene, Brent, and Allison left by another door, to the stairs and back down to the kitchen.
For one wild moment, Taylor considered fleeing out the back door, never to return.
But the memory of her father stopped her.
What are you going to do to get yourself out of this mess? You can’t hide forever, Taylor Elizabeth Summers. You’ve got to take the bull by the horns and do something to clear your good name. You’ll recognize opportunity when it presents itself, child. Look for it, and seize the moment.
Going back to her station, she took her pastry tube away from Jasmine, who flounced off, and began once again to decorate the
pots au chocolat.
Was seeing Dash the opportunity of which Taylor’s father had spoken?
Or should she run before it was too late?
She viewed the tremor in her fingers.
Running looked pretty good.
But she couldn’t return to the mountains. She’d barely escaped death too many times to believe that was a viable option.
She knew one thing; whatever else Dash was—athlete, abuser, hit man—he was not an actor. If Dash had recognized her, she would have known. She had been, as Georg hoped, invisible to that particular guest. So her best bet was to go into town with Georg tonight. Stay in a shelter until she could move on. And figure out her next step in bringing Dash to justice.
As Taylor worked, as she thought through her options, as no Dash appeared in the kitchen to kill her, her hot face returned to a normal color. She relaxed her hunched shoulders and rolled her neck. She finished her stint in desserts and began the cleanup, scrubbing the pots until they shone, gathering Georg’s treasured knives from the workstations, sharpening them, washing and packing them in edge guards and carrying cases.
The dinner rush wound down. The kitchen staff began to relax, to chat, to high-five each other and laugh a little. Sarah came by and picked up the white jackets and chefs’ hats, and stuffed them in a laundry bag. Georg came by with the cash. The volume of voices increased and became decidedly more cheerful.
Taylor tried to join in. Everything was okay. The memory of her father gave her comfort. She would do as he instructed; she would seize the day and extricate herself from this nightmare of endless winter and gnawing hunger. Yet in the logical part of her mind, she knew she couldn’t depend on the advice and foresight of a man who hadn’t really been there.
A change in the rhythm of the kitchen caught her attention.
“Heads up,” Allison whispered. “It’s
him,
and this time, he brought friends.”
Taylor looked around.
Mr. Gracie and Dash walked through the kitchen. Three men in black suits surrounded them.
Mr. Gracie spoke animatedly to Dash.
Dash smiled a cold, satisfied smile.
As Taylor stared, she could think of nothing else but Dash’s cold capacity for murder. He was totally selfish, completely immoral, unable to comprehend another person’s pain, willing to snuff out a life. He didn’t even notice the serving staff that surrounded him, or the men in suits who accompanied them. Yet he listened to Mr. Gracie, observed Mr. Gracie, as if everything depended on Mr. Gracie. As if everything depended on … killing Mr. Gracie.
Dash was going to kill Mr. Gracie.
No. No, she had to be wrong. Mr. Gracie was an intelligent, sophisticated man. This was his home. He was safe here.
Yet the specter of Jimmy lurked in the background, directing Dash’s actions. Who knew if Jimmy might hold a grudge against Mr. Gracie? Or might want to take advantage of the schism in the business world his death would cause?
Mr. Gracie met her gaze and lifted his eyebrows questioningly.
She looked down, then up at him in appeal.
He walked over to her, slid a light finger over her cheek. “Smile.” His large, brown eyes warmed to a deep amber. “It’s not as bad as all that.”
His eyes … so beautiful, so kind, so perceptive. She felt as if he saw into her soul. She shouldn’t have asked, but the way he looked at her … She blurted, “Do those men work for you?”
“They are my friends,” Mr. Gracie said.
“Oh.” Now what was she supposed to say?
Don’t trust them?
Head tilted, Mr. Gracie watched her. “You are a funny girl. How old are you?”
“Older than I look,” she said.
“Right.” His eyes cooled. “So you’re underage. When the party is over, make sure Georg takes you home to your mommy and daddy.”
She looked to see if Mr. Gracie’s consideration had brought Dash’s attention to her. It had; he flicked her a disgusted glance and followed Mr. Gracie into the corridor that led to the wine cellar.
Immediately she was ashamed. What kind of self-centered coward feared Dash would harm Mr. Gracie, and at the same time feared more for herself?
If only she knew those other men were truly Mr. Gracie’s friends, and not Dash’s new accomplices. But they didn’t act like friends. Their stolid expressions, their deliberate movements made them look like bodyguards. Or assassins.
“What’s the matter with you?” Allison asked. “You get Mr. Gracie to talk to you, and instead of being happy, you’re clutching that knife like you want to murder someone.”
Taylor looked down at the knife in her fist. She had been sharpening a narrow, four-inch boning knife, and she still held it … but now she held it point out, cutting edge up, ready to stab and slash.
Michael Gracie didn’t realize what he was getting into. He was probably like the rest of the world, interested only in Dash’s athletic record and paying no attention to his criminal record. Mr. Gracie could be walking into a trap.
“Are you okay?” Allison said urgently. “You look sick.”
Yet Mr. Gracie didn’t look like the kind of man who would foolishly trust a man like Dash. In fact, he looked quite the opposite: a man to be feared and respected. Perhaps, this time, Dash had made a mistake.
The trouble was, Taylor remembered Mr. Gracie’s vulnerable appeal for cancer funding, and the touching tale of his mother’s death. He didn’t realize he was associating with a killer. He didn’t know someone—someone with no scruples, someone named Jimmy—might have hired Dash to eliminate him. If Taylor did nothing and Mr. Gracie was killed tonight, Taylor would never forgive herself. “I’m feeling faint,” she said to Allison.
“Did you cut yourself?”
“Yes.” Taylor slid the boning knife into the pocket in her black slacks. She folded her hand into a fist, as if to hide the wound. “A little.”
“I’ll tell Sarah.” Allison started toward the kitchen dictator.
“Don’t! I’m fine. I’ll go clean up.” Taylor headed down the utility corridor. When she was out of sight, she hooked a right and found her way back to the main corridor, then to the service entrance of the wine cellar. She stared at the narrow oak door and contemplated what lay within: a long cellar filled with bottles, then to the left, a wider, shorter cellar lined with wine barrels.
Mr. Gracie could take care of himself. She was not obligated to save a grown man as she had been to save a young boy. Yet she intended to do nothing but walk in quietly and, if all was well, pretend to look for her knife, pretend to find it, and leave. If violence was being done, she intended to flee, screaming, out the door, up the stairs and into the kitchen, and give Dash what he deserved.
That was all. That was easy. She could do this.
The door was stuck. With a feeling of relief, Taylor tugged at it—she would not have to go in at all.
Then with a silent
whoosh,
the door gave way.
Damn.
Now she was committed.
She crept inside. The door shut behind her, silent and weighty.
This part of the dim, L-shaped cellar was empty. She heard nothing, no voices. She tiptoed forward, one timid step at a time, past the long walls filled with bottles. The cool air washed across her hot cheeks, and she took big breaths to ease the constriction in her lungs. Nothing helped; the closer she got to the second cellar, where the wine barrels lined the walls, the more afraid she was.
At last, at the left-hand corner where the two cellars met, she knelt and contemplated what to do next. She could go forward, creep along the wall behind the wine barrels, look between and below the stands that supported them, assure herself no one was there, then return to the kitchen.
But her jangling nerves told her someone
was
there … and she should get out as fast as she could. She was about to back away when from somewhere unseen, Mr. Gracie said, “Dash, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about your performance last August.”
“Oh. Yeah, Mr. Gracie.” Dash sounded alert, concerned, ready to report.
Taylor relaxed. This wasn’t a hit. They were discussing Dash’s showing in arena football. These guys were doing nothing down here except chatting and tasting wine. Taylor had made a big mistake.
But this mistake was not fatal. All she had to do was escape without being detected. She started to ease away, back around the corner, toward the door and back to the kitchen.
Then Mr. Gracie said something that froze her in her tracks.
“So, Dash, tell me again about how you lost track of Taylor Summers.”
At the sound of her own name, Taylor’s mouth dried. She slid down until she squatted on the balls of her feet. Pure instinct told her she needed to make herself as small a target as possible. Because the world had just tilted on its axis.
“What? Why?” Dash sounded wary. Concerned.
“Because none of the reports said anything about Taylor Summers being a self-defense expert.” Mr. Gracie’s voice was coolly interested.
Taylor slid, inch by wary inch, toward the shadow under the closest of the wine barrels.
“The reports all said she was a crazy bitch,” Dash said.
“They did that,” Mr. Gracie acknowledged. “But
you
said she was a karate expert. You told me that’s how she got away from you.”
Taylor put her cheek on the floor, and looked through the spindly supports of the barrel stands. She could see men’s shoes, five pairs, all black, all shiny, and the hems of black, pressed, suit pants.
“She attacked. I was surprised. Maybe she wasn’t an expert, but she took me out and escaped.” Then Dash turned aggressive. “Anyway, why do you care? I fixed her car up good, and she died in the blast.”
“That was a smart move.” Mr. Gracie sounded approving.
He approved of Dash killing her.
Which meant … he had hired Dash to kidnap and kill Miles McManus.
My God.
Taylor had made such a mistake. The biggest mistake of her life. Maybe the last mistake of her life.
She had to get
out
. Out of this cellar, out of this house, and no matter what it took, as far away and as fast as possible. She started to crawl backward.
Dash wandered into Taylor’s view, framed by wine casks.
She froze, a hunted animal that had roamed into the wrong den.
“I’m concerned that you didn’t check in that whole thirty-six hours. That’s not like you, Dash.” Now Mr. Gracie wandered into view, too.
Two men. One had tried to kill her. The other … the other now demanded an accounting of Dash’s failure.
As blood drained from her head, Taylor wobbled. She slid her hand up the leg of the cask support, and clasped it firmly to hold herself still.
Dash was a massive hulk who looked suddenly diminished by the tall, slender gentleman beside him. Yet Dash smiled, showing the gap between his teeth, and said, “Jimmy, my man, I told you. After she attacked me, I was unconscious until the next morning. Then I headed back down the road and found her car. I knew I didn’t have much time before the cops found it, too. So I came here, picked up the explosives, and did the job.”