Ben’s hand was instantly gone from her back, but her feet were already on the top escalator step and moving fast. She turned just as two men pulled him away from her.
“Ben!”
He caught her eye just as one of the men yanked him further away. “No way, pal. You are not authorized to be at this event.”
“I’m with a principal…” His words drifted away as the escalator lowered Callie into the crowd, but they held one long gaze.
She knew he could see the panic, fear, and confusion on her face, but he just nodded once, reminding her that she’d promised not to bail or freak out.
Too bad, since both options seemed really, really appealing right then.
Chapter Three
At the entrance to a cavernous, dimly lit ballroom, Callie faced hundreds of tables stretching from one end to the other, most of them blocked by a small country’s worth of people walking, sitting, laughing, talking, and generally not standing still long enough for her to get a good look. This was going to be impossible. This was going to—
And then she saw the centerpieces.
“Son of a… gun.” Every single floral arrangement was topped off with one Black Cherry rose. Her Black Cherry roses.
Any temptation to bug out evaporated. That slimy, conniving, no-good thief stole three thousand dollars’ worth of flowers and used them as centerpieces?
For a moment, she didn’t move, too frozen with fury, but then a wave of people rolled in behind her, pushing her along as easily as the escalator had, carrying her deeper into the room.
At the closest table, she couldn’t help admiring the way the rose exploded like a bloom of black at the top of a ball of white hydrangeas, orchids, and Gerber daisies, each arrangement a work of art. The whole room decor was themed in black and white, the centerpieces adding a stunning accent and contrast.
The centerpieces that should have earned her a lot of money, dang it.
Was it possible that Ben Youngblood was completely wrong? Or at least wrong about the motive? Maybe the thief was the woman who’d come to her farm ostensibly looking for directions but really looking for a source for Black Cherries, not because the flowers were poisonous, but because she could steal them from some local yokel farmer and save three grand.
Not this local yokel, Callie thought, mad as a coon cat. She’d have to find Ben and tell him that her stolen flowers and his potential assassination had nothing to do with each other.
Her shoulders slumped a little at that thought. Would he still pay her six thousand dollars? Probably not. Heck, she’d probably have to give back the grand she’d already stuffed in the Paris fund.
There was only one thing to do. Find that woman and badger the bi… beast for money. She turned in a full circle, moaning softly at the sight of at least a hundred Black Cherry blooms.
“Looking for your table?” A stocky, balding man with a tiny headset in his ear sidled up next to her, yanking her from her thoughts.
Even without Ben’s help, Callie had breezed through all three security checkpoints with nothing but the invitation she’d tucked into her skirt pocket and a Florida driver’s license for identification. The “weak sauce” bodyguards hadn’t even noticed her, so maybe this man could actually help her.
“I’m looking for someone,” she said.
He reached out a hand. “I’m Bob Rianetti with Governor McManus’s event staff. Who do you need?”
A tall blonde who stole my flowers. “The decorator.”
He frowned, angling his head. “Decorator of what?”
“The table decorator.” There was probably an official name for that person, but she had no idea what it was. “Whoever did the flowers. I’m… I’m…” She gave an apologetic laugh. “I’m sorry. My name is Callie Parrish and my father is Martin Parrish.” At his blank stare, she added, “The diplomat? From…” They’d never decided where he was from, had they? “Paris?”
He nodded slowly, no doubt digging into memory banks for information that he’d never find no matter how hard and deep he dug.
“Anyway, I’m planning a similar event for my father in… at the…” Where did diplomats even work? “The U.N.” Oh, brother. She gave him her best smile. “And I simply adore this tablescape.” Thank God she’d watched enough HGTV to know that term. “Can I discuss some details with her? Him? Whoever?”
He surprised her by putting his hand to his ear and speaking softly into the earpiece. Oh, no, he was calling security. Had she failed before she could even look at a single tall, blond woman for a possible ID?
“D&D,” he said brusquely.
D&D? Drunk and disorderly? She was neither. Disguised and dishonest? She was both. Heart hammering, she stole a glance left and right, the longing for Ben to come to her rescue so strong she could taste it, her blood pumping a little too hard for her to carefully examine every fair-headed woman in a room packed with many of them.
“Got it,” the man said into the headpiece. “I’m bringing in a CF from the floor, stat.”
A CF? Complete Fake? Oh, sweet Jesus and all the saints, please help me not get arrested for impersonating a diplomat and crashing a party.
“Come with me,” the man said, putting a hand on her shoulder and giving her a nudge. “This way.”
She followed the order, noticing how close the man stayed as he expertly wove through the crowds toward the other end of the banquet hall.
Faces blurred, voices echoed, and that relentless hand never lifted. What could she do? How could she get out of this? More lies? The truth? Would Ben—
“In here.” With his free hand, the man slammed a metal swinging door and instantly the light and noise changed as she entered a deafeningly loud and blindingly bright kitchen.
Men and women scurried everywhere, fires crackled from a bank of stoves, dishes clanged, and people screamed at each other.
Her escort motioned to a young black woman who had a hand to her ear and spoke into her own headset, holding up an index finger in Callie’s direction.
“Wait here,” the man said.
“Why?” she asked, finally finding her voice. “What’s a D&D and CF?”
A slow smile lifted and, for the first time, he looked kind and not menacing. “Design and decor, who you want to talk to. A CF is civilian female, which you are.” He nodded to the woman, who was the only person not in a black tux or a white chef’s jacket in the whole kitchen. “That’s Raquelle. She’s your table girl. Enjoy your lunch, Ms. Parrish.”
A moment later, the woman strode over, reaching out her hand, a broad smile across her face. “How can I help you?” she asked.
This certainly wasn’t the woman who stole the roses, but maybe there was a connection. It was a start. Feeling better, Callie shook her hand, introduced herself, and asked if she knew who purchased all the flowers.
“Aren’t they fabulous?” Raquelle asked. “I’m loving those black roses.”
Those stolen black roses. “Where did you get them?” Callie demanded. Yes, she was supposed to ID the actual thief, but surely a name would help, too. Would that still be worth six grand to Ben?
“Oh, I wish I could take credit for them.” Raquelle pointed one long, white-tipped nail toward the center of the kitchen. “But there’s the lady right there. Chef Monica L. Stone. But I wouldn’t bother her now, cause if you think that dude on Hell’s Kitchen is scary, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. There’s a reason the staff calls her Chef De-Monica.”
Across the kitchen, through a bank of stainless steel, a huge orange flame danced high with a sear and a crackle. When the blaze cleared, Callie had a perfect view of the chef who’d caused the flare up.
Even with her blond hair pulled back and a boxy white jacket so unlike the snazzy outfit she’d had on the day she came to the farm, Callie recognized her. That was the woman Callie had walked back to her Black Cherry rose beds. That was the woman who no doubt stole them last night. And that was the woman… who was in charge of what the governor was about t
o eat.
“Oh my heavens,” Callie gasped softly.
“What is it?”
At that moment, the chef turned and looked directly at Callie, her eyes slicing with the same precision as the menacing butcher’s knife she held, delivering a laser-straight look of hate and recognition and warning.
~*~
Ben darted through the crowd, searching for Callie and tamping down his frustration. He didn’t really blame the new security team for pulling him before he could get to the first check-point; he’d have done the same thing. They had no legitimate reason to keep him out, but they’d cost him precious minutes and the opportunity to stay close to Callie.
The tables were starting to fill so he had an almost clear shot across the whole banquet hall, his gaze landing on kitchen doors as they popped open and Callie shot out, her face ghost white.
What the hell? He powered his way through the crowd, calling softly to her when he approached, just enough to get her attention but not anyone else’s.
She whipped around at the sound of her name, eyes wide and wary, then relieved when she caught sight of him. As they came together, she grabbed his arms and let him pull her into his chest.
“What’s the—?”
“I found her.” She looked over her shoulder, squeezing his arms. “She’s the hotel chef.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I recognize her and…” She cringed. “I’m pretty sure she recognized me.” She glanced over her shoulder again. “I’d have gone right up to her and demanded my money, but, oh my God, Ben, she’s cooking for the governor! You might be right about—oh, there she is.”
He pivoted, blocking Callie and stealing a glance at the kitchen door in time to see a white-coated woman march out, her face familiar as she scoped the crowd.
“Chef Stone?” He practically choked the name. “That’s not the hotel chef, she’s McManus’s personal chef who travels everywhere with…” His voice trailed off as everything suddenly made sense.
Monica Stone was most definitely in Roy McManus’s inner circle. Not his political one, certainly, but his personal circle, his only chef. He never even thought of her when Callie described the woman, but he should have. Chef Stone would easily have access and know his schedule and—
“Did you see the centerpieces?” Callie demanded, still clinging to him. “My Black Cherries are everywhere!”
He glanced around, carefully keeping Callie out of Chef Stone’s visibility, taking in the magnitude of the security breach. “There’s poison on every single table in this room.”
“What do we do?” she asked.
His gut said to order an end to the entire luncheon, but neither his gut nor his security firm was calling the shots here. He glanced at the kitchen again, catching the agitated expression on Monica Stone’s face as she searched the room before pivoting to smack the swinging doors on her way back into the kitchen.
“She’s pissed,” he said.
“She’s busted,” Callie replied. “Now what do we do?”
He knew exactly what to do, the only thing he could do to save the governor and win back his job. “We’re going to catch her red-handed.” He did a quick assessment of the room, imagining the flow of traffic when food was served. “Our best shot is to find a place where she won’t see you, but we can see every tray coming out of the kitchen.”
“The invitation you gave me said table fifteen,” she said. “Shouldn’t we sit there?”
He shook his head. “That’s too far away. I have a better idea.” He guided her to a large column that would provide some cover from the kitchen. “Stay here, I’m going to do some last-minute table number management.”
He accomplished his goal in a few quick moves, so used to slipping around an event like this that no one noticed him sneak the number from table twenty-two and switch it with fifteen. When he finished, he brought Callie to the new table fifteen, directly outside the kitchen doors.
“Really?” she asked, tilting her head toward the doors. “So close?”
“Keep your back to the doors until trays of food come out and then we have to examine the food, especially the governor’s plate.”
When Callie sat, he stood behind her, his trained eye moving around the room to take in the position of every security person, the route between the kitchen and the governor’s dais, and the table hosted by the Angela McManus, the first lady of Florida.
“Ben, look at this.” Callie pointed to the printed menu. “Shaved black truffle salad with beet root jelly.”
“The pectin catalyst.”
“And a thinly shaved black truffle could look an awful lot like a black rose petal.”
Two couples approached the table, frowning at the numbering sequence and clearly unhappy with the lousy location. Ben greeted them with a quick nod and sat next to Callie, putting his arm around her and pulling her close before the others started a conversation.
“You’re into me,” he whispered.
She didn’t respond, unless he counted the sudden blossom of goose bumps on her bare arms. He lightly held her chin, keeping her ear close to his mouth.
“We don’t want to engage with anyone, just each other. So, be into me. Got it?” He turned her face toward his and their gazes met.
“Got it.” She inched closer so that their lips nearly touched, one hand on his leg. “But…” She let their cheeks brush as she whispered in his ear. “We have to watch the kitchen.”
Her breath was warm, her fingers tense, the soft scent of roses teasing his nose and tempting him to inhale deeper and get even closer. The two couples at their table chatted with each other, ignoring Callie and Ben, but the other four chairs stayed empty; no surprise, proximity to the kitchen made this table the worst seat in the house.
And perfect for thwarting an assassination attempt.
Behind them, the kitchen door opened, and Ben kept his arm around Callie, angling her like he was still talking in her ear, but managing to cover her face and give her a clear shot of the tray just before a waiter hoisted it.
“Your job is to see if the truffles are roses.”
“Okay.” She repositioned herself a little, her breasts pressed into his arm, her thigh against his. “I think I can…”
He kissed her ear, and not just because it helped her cover. Because… he wanted to. “Of course you can, Callie. So you can take your great-grandmother to Paris.”
Next to his cheek, he felt her smile, but her fingers tightened on his leg as the next server staged and set another tray. One after another, platters spun by Callie, giving her scant seconds to secretly examine each. But she did.
“Truffles,” she whispered over and over. “Truffles. Truf… I think.” She inched back and gave him a look. “I’m not sure about that last one.”
“I’ll watch where it goes.” Ben’s gaze followed the tray, which was held aloft by a bustling waiter, taken to the middle of the room, far from the governor.
“Truffles, all truffles on the next set.”
For a few minutes, they worked like a seasoned team. Ben watched the principal—the former principal—while Callie watched the plates. McManus worked his way through the room, flanked by two men Ben recognized as event handlers and followed at a reasonable distance by a burly bodyguard. The governor shook hands, patted shoulders, bussed cheeks, and encouraged his guests to start their salads as he worked his way to the head of the room.
“Every one of them are truffles,” she said.
“You’re positive?” He didn’t dare take his eyes off McManus to double check her, but if she was wrong and someone in this room was being poisoned—and he hadn’t stopped it from happening—then he didn’t deserve to be a Bullet Catcher.
“I can see the ridges on the sides of the truffles easily,” she assured him in a breathy whisper. “All truffles. The chef must have just been dying for black roses as centerpiece and unwilling to pay three grand. Is that normal?”
“Not in the least. The chef
isn’t typically involved with decor and they spend three thousand on paper clips. No one would steal flowers.” Unless they wanted to use them to kill the governor and not leave a trail that could be easily followed. And conveniently spread the “murder weapon” throughout the room which would only complicate any investigation.
McManus stopped at his wife’s table, gave her a peck on the cheek and shared a loving exchange before rounding the stage. There, he stepped up to the platform where two rectangular tables and a speaker’s podium faced the audience.
As he did, applause exploded he gave the crowd a wave, slowly making his way to the seat of honor.
“Governor’s table!” someone in the kitchen called.
Ben shared a look with Callie and covered her hand, threading their fingers. “Watch for the plate trimmed in gold,” he whispered. “That’s his.”
Her gaze shifted as the next tray appeared. He finally took his gaze off McManus to watch Callie, unable to see the trays as she could. He studied the slope of her lovely nose, the angle of her cheekbone, the fullness of her mouth. A powerful wave of affection and attraction rolled through him, surprising him with its lousy timing and unexpected strength.
And then her eyes widened and her soft, sweet cheeks paled with the sudden loss of blood.
“Roses,” she whispered. “On the gold trimmed plate.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Ben.” She clutched tighter. “What are you going to do?”
“What I always do—save his ass.” With a quick kiss on her cheek, he shot his chair back and got up to follow the tray.
Chapter Four
Callie’s heart hammered louder than the clatter in the kitchen, making her almost forget the other trays, as her attention stayed riveted to the sight of Ben dodging tables and waiters on his mission to save the governor. Then the kitchen doors burst open again, so she peeked over her shoulder, certain Ben would want her to continue monitoring the plates.
But a tall silhouette blocked the light in the kitchen doorway.
Pick Your Poison Page 3
