“Very nice,” he murmured. For the umpteenth time, Lange regretted not having done his customary background check. Kitchens like this didn’t come cheap. Nor did owning a chunk of the stately old mansion. He glanced around the kitchen again, appreciating the eye for detail in the glass-fronted cabinets and the white painted millwork. When he noticed the yellow bakery boxes on the counter, he asked, “Are you expecting company?”
“What? Oh no, that’s just left from lunch.”
“You must have a huge appetite,” he murmured, raising one dark brow skeptically as he looked from the boxes to her slim figure.
Ashli laughed, and the light, twinkling sound was so magical Lange felt a crazy spinning in his head. “No, not my lunch,” she amended. “It’s from the Tea Party.”
“You had a tea party today?”
The incredulous look on his face generated another laugh, but a niggling doubt wedged its way into her mind. Lange Sterling had come highly recommended as a private detective; so why did he seem so surprised by key elements of her life? Despite his reputation, she was beginning to think the man might be more beauty than brains.
Okay, so beauty might not be the word. Gorgeous was more like it. Handsome. Hot. The man was tall and lean, with ridiculously long legs stretching out a denim-clad country mile. His body was well-toned and fit, his muscles more solid than bulky. He could use a haircut and shave, but the shaggy edges lent him the fashionable air of a rogue. More hazel than brown, his eyes were brooding and mysterious. He would make the perfect PI on television, she decided.
Pulling herself from the depths of his soulful eyes, Ashli forced herself to focus. What was the question? Oh yes, now she remembered.
“No,” she told him, “that’s the name of my restaurant, Ashli’s Tea Party.”
“You have your own restaurant?” The woman was absolutely full of surprises. And he hated surprises.
“Actually, it’s really more of a coffee shop. There’s not a set menu, basically choice of the day, but easy on me, since I do all the cooking.”
“You do all the cooking?” he asked in amazement.
“Can’t trust my secret family recipes to just anyone.” Her eyes twinkled as she opened a box to reveal an array of scrumptious looking desserts.
Dazzled by her smile and twinkling blue eyes, Lange murmured distractedly, “Surely you weren’t planning on eating all this yourself.”
“Of course not. I take it around to my neighbors and share with them. I hate waste, don’t you?”
He mumbled a reply, thinking what a waste it was for her to have such a kissable mouth and him not using it justly so. Dragging his eyes away from her lips, he forced himself to study the food as she opened more containers. “What’s that?” he asked.
“Chicken Puffs. Have one.”
“No, thanks.”
“Have you already eaten?”
“No,” he admitted.
“Then sit down over there and let me fix you something.”
“No, really . . .” His protest became weaker as he thought of her serving him a meal she actually cooked herself.
Southern hospitality demanded she feed him. Hostess mode kicking in, Ashli automatically reached into a cupboard for plates. “I insist. And I won’t take no for an answer.”
Watching her graceful movements in the kitchen, he was struck with the memory of his grandmother, and the way she, too, had loved to cook for company. Feeling an unexpected flutter in the region of his heart, he tried once again to protest.
“Really, I didn’t come here to eat. I came to discuss the case.”
“No reason you can’t do both.” She paused in her task of searching an overhead cabinet as something occurred to her. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t think. Will your wife be expecting you for supper?”
She looked so contrite, so sincere, so damned innocent, standing there with her shapely body stretched out to reach a top shelf and her beautiful face flushed from the effort. Most of all, she looked so at home in the kitchen; exactly like Grams, so unlike Lauren. Unlike Diane, for that matter. Feeling as if he might choke on the words, he managed to squeeze them out. “I’m not married.”
A brilliant smile appeared on her face. “Then there’s no reason for you not to eat, is there?”
For the life of him, Lange couldn’t think of a one. Not even the thought of a furious redhead was reason enough to pass up the opportunity before him.
“Here, let me,” he offered, stepping closer so that he could retrieve the platter she was reaching for. In the process he brushed against her, and he could have sworn he saw sparks fly.
Sidestepping the sizzle, Ashli moved quickly away. “Dinner will be ready in a jiffy, if you want to clean up.”
“Sure. And I need to make a phone call, if you don’t mind.” Hopefully there was enough distance between the kitchen and the powder room that she wouldn’t hear the story he fabricated for Diane’s benefit.
When he returned from making the call, his ears still smarting from the heated words Diane flung at him, Ashli was breezing back and forth in the kitchen, humming some tune. She was like a butterfly in her sunny yellow dress, lighting here to pick up something, touching down there to leave her special mark, gliding gracefully to the next task. She had a veritable feast laid out on the bar, and there was even a centerpiece. A small cluster of white daisies graced a slim glass vase he suspected had once been a jar.
“What would you like to drink?” she asked, looking up and seeing him there.
“Beer?”
“Sorry, the closest I can do is wine.”
“That’s fine.”
She began to hum again, a tune that sounded vaguely familiar to him. Unable to recall the words, he gave up trying as he simply enjoyed watching her move about the kitchen. Watching her was like watching an old memory, grown warm and fuzzy with age. Watching her felt so good it almost hurt.
“I hope you don’t mind sitting at the bar,” she said, setting a bottle of wine between the plates. She carried the glasses as she came around the bar. “Shall we eat?”
Lange took the stool she indicated, belatedly realizing why she simply stood beside her own. Damn, he’d done it again. He started up, but she shooed him away.
“No, no, don’t bother,” she sighed. She pulled the stool out with her foot, then boosted herself onto it.
“Please keep in mind that I specialize in lunch,” Ashli warned, passing him the first platter. It was piled with flaky chicken puffs, individual bacon and jalapeño soufflés, and chunky ham salad. The second platter was filled with assorted rolls and breads, the third with carrot sticks, radish roses, and wedges of lettuce drizzled with poppy seed dressing. A fourth tray stood waiting, filled with desserts.
“Lord, woman, you must have thought I was starving!” he said, yet he filled his plate with generous portions of almost everything she offered.
“You’re a hard-working man, aren’t you? You need your nourishment,” she smiled.
“Come to think of it, I didn’t eat any lunch.”
“Then by all means, fill up. Have anything you want. Except the daisies,” she added with a twinkle in her eyes. “Please don’t eat the daisies.”
He merely stared at her, wondering if she had any idea how much she sounded like Doris Day.
“What?” she asked, laughing at his dumbfounded expression. “I’m only joking!”
“That-That was the song you were humming earlier. The song ‘Please, Don’t Eat the Daisies’, from the old Doris Day movie with the same name.”
“It’s a catchy little tune that kind of sticks with me,” she confessed with a shrug. “I think of it almost every time I see a daisy. Which, living here in Daisy House, is pretty often.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you sound like Doris Day?”
She laughed again, as much in delight as in amusement. “A few people, including my landlord. And especially my dad. My parents have all the old Doris Day movies, so I grew up watching them. I take it
as a compliment, by the way.”
“Absolutely.”
“Here, have another chicken puff.”
“They are good. What’s in them?” he asked, helping himself to two more.
“A chicken and wild rice mixture, stuffed inside a croissant.”
“Delicious,” he said with whole hearted approval.
A foolishly delighted smile came to her face. People had complimented her food before; why did his praise make her feel so pleased? Hoping to hide her ridiculous reaction, she reached for the wine bottle and opener, but he took them from her, saying, “Let me.”
As he worked on easing out the cork, he realized this was not the first time he had seen the trademark yellow boxes gracing her counter. “Where did you say your restaurant was?”
“In one of those wonderful old pre-Civil War buildings down on 10th. We’re right in the heart of the city, near the Capitol and Court’s End and the Medical College. It’s one of those tall, narrow buildings, originally built as a bachelor’s residence. It’s just the perfect size for a coffee shop on the first floor, a dining room on the second, and space for private parties on the third.”
“I’ve never been inside, but I’ve eaten your food,” he said, pouring the wine. “Several clients have brought me lunch from there, and for Christmas I got some sort of wicked brownie with cashews. And I’ve had the tomato basil soup several times.” It happened to be a favorite of Diane’s.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, until she said, “So tell me, what’s it like, being a private investigator?”
“It’s like being paid for being nosey.”
“Hmm, I guess I never thought of it that way. So what made you become one? Just naturally nosey?”
Her teasing smile made it easier to answer the question, the very question he so often avoided. Still, his voice was flat, merely offering the basic information. “I was a detective with the Prince George County Sheriff Department. Becoming a private eye seemed a natural extension of that job.”
“I imagine it must be dangerous at times,” she said.
He merely shrugged his broad shoulders and said, “At times.”
“You work alone?”
“For the most part. Occasionally I find someone to help out on paperwork, maybe a little research.”
“So why did you open your business in Richmond?”
“What, are you applying for a job with me?” he asked shortly, growing irritated with all her questions.
“Are you saying I’m being nosey?” she asked, a smile twitching at her lips as she sipped her wine.
It was impossible to stay angry with her. In spite of the scowl he tried to maintain, a smile broke on his lips. “Yeah, maybe I am,” he admitted, but he no longer looked mad. He looked so rakishly handsome that Ashli’s breath caught in her throat.
“Have another roll,” she said hastily, shoving the platter at him.
“I don’t think I could eat another bite,” he protested, pushing away the plate he had filled at least three times.
“But we haven’t had dessert yet. I was going to make coffee.” She was up off the stool, already clearing away the dishes. Picking up her own empty plate, she realized she had actually eaten a full meal for the first time in days.
As she busied herself in the kitchen once again, Lange stretched his long body and moaned in exaggeration at the amount he had eaten. Taking his wine glass with him, he wandered into the living room, where he inspected the photographs along her built-in shelves.
“Careful, you might disturb my dust,” she called in warning. “Cooking, I love. Housework, not so much.”
“I notice this one guy is in a lot of your pictures, the one you went to prom with. Old flame?”
“High school sweetheart,” she confirmed from the kitchen.
“Still see him?”
“No, he went away to college and met a girl from Alabama. They moved there after they married, and now have a second child on the way.”
Was that a touch of heartache he heard in her voice? Was that regret he listened with? Why did he even care? Her love life was of no interest to him. These questions were strictly on a professional level, he assured himself.
“And this other guy, the one with blond hair?”
“That’s Mitch. Mitch Greenway, the one I was out with last night.” She came into the living room, carrying a tray of coffee and dessert.
“I thought you said he wasn’t your boyfriend.” God, why did his voice come out sounding so accusing?
“He’s not, he’s just a friend. And like I told you, we work together.” Suddenly understanding the line of questioning, she looked appropriately shocked. “Wait a minute, if you think any of my friends are behind this, you are dead wrong.”
“Well, someone is stalking you, and my guess is that it’s someone you know. The majority of cases like this turn out to be spurned lovers or ex-boyfriends.”
“I can assure you, that’s not the case this time.”
“How can you be so certain?” he challenged her.
“Not that it’s a very long list, but none of them would do something like this. Besides, what’s the point?”
He shrugged as he came around and joined her on the sofa. Taking the coffee mug she offered, he explained his reasoning as he sat aside the wine glass. “Sometimes it’s jealousy. They see you with a new lover and can’t handle it, so they attempt to make your life miserable. Sometimes it’s their way of getting you back. The new lover walks out, the old one walks back in. Sometimes it’s just pure vindictiveness, pure malice. Sometimes . . .”
“Yes?” she prodded, when he hesitated.
“Sometimes it’s something deeper, something more sinister. Sometimes they try to harm you, thinking if they can’t have you, no body can.”
“Well, like I said, none of those apply in this case.”
“You can’t be certain of that.”
“Yes I can. I’m not seeing anyone right now, so it can’t be jealousy. There’s no one trying to win me back. And before you even ask, no, I’ve never dumped anyone, so don’t bother suggesting it’s a get-even thing.”
“You can’t sit there and tell me you’ve never broken anyone’s heart before!” He took a bite of her chocolate cake, thinking her cooking alone could break a heart.
“Not even a little crack,” she assured him.
“I find that hard to believe.” His cocked a skeptic eyebrow. Taking a generous sample of strawberry shortcake, he talked with his mouth full. “I’ll need a list. Every man you’ve ever been romantically involved with, going back to pretty boy there in the tux.”
“It’s going to be a short list.”
“Don’t forget to list casual relationships. Sometimes the briefer the romance, the more likely the suspect. Unrequited love, and all that. Even undeclared love. It may be someone you only dated once or twice.”
“Like I said, it’s going to be a very short list. Embarrassingly short.”
“I guess you’re the type that believes in true love.” His tone was condescending.
“To be honest, I haven’t had a boyfriend in over two years!” The admission came with an embarrassed flush.
“Funny, I didn’t take you for the type who put her career before true love,” he murmured. Even he could hear the disappointment in his voice. After being involved with two totally independent women, he thought he could spot the type. For some reason, the desserts didn’t taste nearly as appetizing as they had.
“My dates and I seem to have a difference of opinion on how to end an enjoyable evening. I don’t take relationships lightly.”
“In other words, you don’t indulge in casual sex.”
“Do you always ask such personal questions, Mr. Sterling?” she asked coolly, even as her face began to warm.
“Please, please. We’re discussing sex. By all means, call me Lange,” he drawled in a dry tone.
“Okay, Lange, do you always ask such personal questions?”
He set a
side his dessert plate, suddenly all business. “In cases like this, you bet I do. You can’t hold anything back from me. You can’t rule someone out because ‘they don’t seem the type’ or because they have nice eyes or because the hair on your neck doesn’t stand up when they’re around. Someone is stalking you, someone just sent you a dead goldfish, and I’d bet you this condo that it’s someone you know.”
“Fine, I’ll get you a detailed list.” Her tone was cool and brisk, only a few degrees less severe than his.
“Tell me about the other tenants here.”
“Verbally, or on the list?” she clarified.
“Both.”
“There are six apartments in all. The two downstairs are ground floor units. Mr. Parnell, our landlord, has the unit on the right, under mine. Although I guess landlord isn’t really the right term, since we all own part of the house.” She digressed with a slight frown. “Building super is more the word, since he takes care of most of the maintenance and such. Dear, sweet man. Getting quite forgetful, though. The house has been in his wife’s family since the original Dr. Daisy had it built in the mid-1800s for his new bride. Mrs. Parnell passed away a few years ago, and the house was too much for just one, so he came up the idea of condos.
“Anyway, the couple on the other side, Mr. and Mrs. Harris, have been here from the first. They’re probably in their seventies, fairly active, have children and grandchildren that come to visit quite a bit. Sweetest people you ever met in your life.”
“Upstairs?”
“Front right, Unit 3, is Jason Madison. He’s a professor at the university. Rather quiet, seldom participates in any group activity we have. Front left is Jasmine something-or-another, I never can pronounce her name correctly. She’s a gorgeous Asian lady, late-thirties I’d say, but it’s hard to know with skin as smooth as hers. She’s a buyer for one of the major department stores, so she travels a great deal. I think she’s in Milan right now. Or maybe it’s Morocco.”
He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not Page 3
