As she listened, a faint quiver of unease brushed along her nerves. Moving a step to the right, she glimpsed Julia Kyle standing a few feet away. Clad in a gorgeous silver lamé gown that matched the streak in her dark hair, the woman seemed absorbed in conversation but her gaze kept flickering in Abigail’s direction.
Anxious to avoid arousing the watchdog’s curiosity over the subject of their tête-à-tête, Abigail seized the first opportunity to interrupt Judge Kyle. “Excuse me, but I’ve heard such wonderful raves about the buffet…”
“I believe I’ll join you, my dear.” The man stiffened as he, too, became aware of Julia’s scrutiny; his sister was no longer making a pretense of conversing with her companions. “No, you go ahead. The mayor has arrived and I must greet him.”
Swept up in the current of those heading for refreshments, Abigail entered the buffet room through a connecting door. Decorated in tones of dark green and amber, the cavernous room seemed crowded after the ocean of waxed floor of the ballroom. An elaborate arrangement of food and drink had been set up. Julia was obviously going all out to make a favorable impression on her guests.
Abigail joined the buffet line and selected an assortment of fruits and cheeses, spooned caviar onto a corner of her plate, and garnished the glistening black beads with crumbled Italian bread.
A muttered curse caused her to look up. With dismay she recognized the man ahead of her as Joe Fredricks, a chauvinistic attorney with whom she’d clashed in the courtroom in the past. He was using silver tongs to pluck an olive from a crystal pyramid dish while his tie grazed a dark red sauce.
Cursing, he turned and noticed Abigail. “Hey, James! Where’s Paul? Thought I’d see the bugger digging into this spread with both hands.”
Abigail explained about the conflict of the dinner.
“Here, try a gob of this white cheese—it’s lip-smacking good.”
She winced as he demonstrated.
“Took a beating in Domestic last week.” Here he nudged Abigail to make sure she got the joke. “My client blackened his wife’s eyes—but a man’s got a right to be upset about runny egg yolks.”
Only an absolute pig could find anything remotely humorous about the often violent agonies of domestic court, Abigail reflected, but she held on to her temper and murmured in dulcet tones, “I hope he fries.”
“Eggs! Fries! Didn’t think you had much of a sense of humor, James. You pinned my ears back pretty good the last time we met, but I’ll forgive anybody with T and A like yours.”
She considered decorating his shirtfront with the contents of her plate but realized Joe must have imbibed more than champagne to have tipped his normally boorish behavior into outright vulgarity. “My man got three months and a restraining order barring him from the house that he’d paid for by the sweat of his brow. Know who came down from his ivory tower to prosecute in person?”
“Ross,” Abigail said.
As his had been a rhetorical question, Joe seemed startled. “Yeah,” he began.
“Here, Joe, I can’t eat another bite.” Abigail shoved her plate into his willing hands and moved away, her heart pounding.
Ross had joined the buffet line. A milk-skinned brunette in a raspberry-shaded gown with a plunging neckline was at his side.
She wondered if he slapped all his women around, but his companion appeared to be in one piece. Displaying an astonishing amount of cleavage, the woman bent over to inspect a platter of exotic fluted vegetables. Ross dropped a spoon and Joe almost dropped his plates. But Ross recovered quickly and dished up caviar with a comment that made his companion laugh and her bosom bob like twin bowls of Jell-O.
Abigail turned away, her only desire to escape. Joe had joined Ross and the brunette and was now craning his neck to peek down the woman’s dress. Ross excused himself and started in Abigail’s direction.
She couldn’t face Ross again—each encounter seemed to lay open old wounds and her nerves were too much on edge to engage in another bout with a man so experienced in finding the holes in her defenses.
Abigail started toward the ballroom, only to turn back as the tinfoil glitter of Julia’s gown near the entrance caught her eye. She retreated to the end of the buffet room where an arched doorway was concealed by a dark green curtain. She made her way toward it, and risking another glance over her shoulder, she saw that Judge Wilcox had stopped Ross.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Abigail drew the curtain aside and saw a door. She pushed it open and stepped into another room. Judging from the dim outlines of books covering floor-to-ceiling shelves, she had entered the library.
Abigail switched on a lamp made from a celadon crackleware vase, sank down into a leather chair, and drew her first deep breath in the last half hour.
She repinned a strand of hair that had slipped from her upswept hairstyle and recalled Cathy’s earnest declaration that she wished Ross would doodle her name. Poor Cathy, that stain on the chiffon would never come out—
Abigail gasped as a picture came into focus in her mind—one of a stained dress, a dance floor, and Julia’s watchfulness over her brother. Some of the ingredients from Terrell’s story were present here, as if Abigail had been caught in a bizarre re-creation of the night of the tragedy. Then, too, upstairs in this house, Rosemary had made love to Austin’s father and Belle had found Rosemary’s portrait under the pillow of a lovesick boy; this lamp might have been burning as Austin removed a bag of gold coins from his father’s safe.
Shivering, Abigail massaged the raised gooseflesh on her arms. The library seemed too remote from the gaiety of the cocktail party and she rose and crossed to the door on the far side of the room, hoping it led to the passageway and the front door. Coming here had been a mistake; she had discovered herself to be a craven spy and her quarry was too busy mingling with his guests to engage in a private talk.
A man loomed outside the library and Abigail’s heart skipped a beat as she recognized the dignified figure of her host.
Chapter 30
“May I help you find something, Ms. James?”
The blood surged into Abigail’s cheeks. “I’m sorry—the noise, a headache…I thought I’d rest in here a minute.”
In the dimness of the hallway, Austin’s smile was a mere flicker across his patrician features. “No apologies necessary. I could use a break myself. Would you like to see my workshop?”
He was virtually delivering himself into her hands. A smile curved Abigail’s lips as she accepted his offered arm. “I’d be delighted, Mr. Kyle.”
Her companion led the way in silence and Abigail tried to banish a feeling of apprehension that only grew stronger as they moved away from the hubbub of the party. Once inside the security of his workshop, Austin shed his stiffness and adopted the manner of the jovial pub host. He bustled around to switch on all the lights and display his latest creation with a flourish, a duckling whose chunky body and cunningly webbed feet brought a smile to Abigail’s face.
“He’s adorable.”
Encouraged by the praise, Austin, still in his faultless evening attire, got down on his hands and knees to extract a block of wood from a battered tin pail underneath the workbench.
“This is going to be another duckling,” he explained. “I’m going to carve him as if he were swimming, with one foot extending out behind and his head tucked in.” He assumed the pose, balancing on one shoe and ducking his chin to his chest.
Abigail returned the duckling to its creator. “Does the shape of the wood suggest the bird or do you look for a piece with your subject already in mind?”
As the artist responded, she remembered how Michael’s enthusiasm for his ballads had expressed itself the same way, the gesturing hands, the glow of inspiration lighting his face.
“I shouldn’t be away from the party—Julia wants me to circulate. This court nomination seems to be the driving force in her life right now.” Returning a gleaming instrument to its case, the judge adopted a casual tone. “Have you made any pro
gress on the Dickison investigation?”
Abigail stared at him, surprised by the voluntary introduction of Rosemary’s name. He returned her glance, and for a brief second, she glimpsed the pain lurking behind his eyes.
Giving a brief summary of Rosemary’s actions the night of the dance, Abigail concluded, “The question that intrigues me the most is why did Rosemary take her sister’s dress? Judge Kyle, do you have any idea what compelled her to do such a thing?”
The confidence that had enveloped him like a cloak when he displayed his whimsical duckling fell away to reveal an elderly man whose lips trembled with emotion as he spoke. “I suppose she wanted to look beautiful on her wedding night.”
Softly, softly, she cautioned herself and said nothing, encouraging him with her gaze to continue. Austin looked around the room as if he’d suddenly been dropped into unfamiliar surroundings and spread his hands, palm down, in a gesture of surrender.
“I loved Rosemary,” he said in a choked voice. “We were going to be married and planned to live in Paris. But that night, the night of the dance, I—”
“That’s enough, Austin!” Julia’s dramatic silver gown shone like a beacon against the dimness of the passageway. The full sleeves designed to conceal any betraying sag of the flesh of her upper arms swirled as she advanced. “How did this woman get in?”
“I have an invitation.” Abigail opened her evening bag and took out the gold-embossed card.
“You couldn’t! I tore yours up!” Julia bit her lower lip, chewing at the dark red lipstick coating her mouth.
The sight of the invitation seemed to have taken the wind out of Julia’s sails and the other woman hesitated.
Pressing her advantage, Abigail took a step forward. “Judge Kyle and I are discussing Rosemary Dickison. Do you still insist that you don’t recall your brother’s fiancée?”
“Fiancée? My father wouldn’t have allowed her to set foot in the door, much less become engaged to Austin.” Julia had regained control and her voice was once more coolly authoritative. “This harassment of my brother must cease, Ms. James. I have influence and I won’t hesitate to use it if you attempt to speak to Austin again or I discover you are in league with the journalistic vultures of the media.”
“My first loyalties are to my client, Ms. Kyle. I have no desire to muddy the waters of your brother’s candidacy. But I suggest that you allow me fifteen minutes to clear up—”
“Admiring the judge’s workshop, Red?”
Ross’s bulk filled the doorway and Abigail stared at the newcomer in dismay, noting the hostile glitter of his green eyes and the partially healed scratches inflicted by Olivia, which added to his menacing air.
The tide had turned against her. Abigail risked a quick glance at the judge, hoping for his support, but he was mopping his brow with a handkerchief and she realized anew that isolating herself on enemy territory had been a foolhardy act.
Ross took Abigail’s arm. “Come along, Red. I think the judge has neglected his other guests long enough.”
Although his tone was friendly, his fingers bit into her upper arm and she was forced into the hall, the click of Julia’s heels on the hardwood floor signaling that the older woman was following them. Abigail held her head high, determined not to give Ross the satisfaction of her pulling away until they returned to the ballroom.
Her gaze traveled to a painting of a clown holding a feathered loo mask hanging on the right-hand passageway wall and she realized with a thrill of fear that she had never seen it before—Ross was taking her deeper into the house. A memory of Paul’s joke about dungeons surfaced and Abigail shuddered. In the office, such a notion had been laughable, but in this gothic world with the sconces in the hallway dimmed and Ross’s set face…
Acting on an instinct for self-preservation, Abigail jammed a stiletto spike into Ross’s instep. As his grip relaxed, she jerked free, whirled, and darted past a startled Julia. She ran until she was brought up short when her skirt snagged on a brass chest. She wrenched at the fragile material with a ruthless hand and righted herself, a bubble of relief buoying her spirits as she recognized the chest as one she’d seen on the way to the workshop.
At the closed door of the library, Abigail glanced back to find no sign of pursuit, and with a more sedate pace, she continued to the front door. With a nod to the butler still on sentry duty for late arrivals, she stepped outside and turned in the direction that the taillights of her car had disappeared.
Once clear of the floodlights, Abigail increased her stride again and chided herself for panicking without cause. When her heel caught in a hole, she stumbled, pitching forward into the arms of a man who’d been stalking her on silent feet. Her startled cry was muffled by the hand clapped over her mouth.
“Darling, you’re trembling. Must be desire.” Muscular arms enfolded her as Quincy bent her backward; the moon was blotted out as he claimed her mouth.
Lifting his head, her captor murmured, “Ever made love on the cushions of a Rolls? A silver beauty’s parked about fifty feet from where we stand and you taste like a ripe fruit ready to be plucked.” His lips blazed a trail down her throat and his hands moved with practiced familiarity across her hips.
Recovering from the shock of the assault on her senses, Abigail kicked out and caught his shin with the toe of her pump. His hands shifted but she twisted frantically and pulled free, the movement accompanied by a ripping sound as the delicate material across her bodice shredded.
Panting, they faced each other under the watchful eye of the moon and Abigail gasped, “I want my car. Now!”
“Not the Rolls?” Moving with the speed of a striking rattler, Quincy grabbed her arm just above the elbow where the flesh was still tender from Ross’s fingers. She cried out in pain and anger, pulled her hand back, and slapped him across the mouth, the impact cracking the stillness.
The thought flashed through Abigail’s mind that she must have slipped through a crack in time and onto the nightmarish path Rosemary had trod years earlier. First a pass, a slap of rejection, and then what—a car streaking out of the darkness, headlights illuminating her as their helpless target?
She backed away as Quincy grunted and raised one hand to his cheek. Abigail slipped off her left pump and pointed the heel like a weapon, prepared to jab for the throat if he came any closer.
But the other attendant had moved up, attracted by the struggle, and Quincy shrugged. “Get her car, will you? I’m going on break.” They moved away and Abigail caught a few muttered words. “Lady’s in a hurry—think someone got too familiar.”
She did her best to appear composed, holding the ruined fabric across her shoulder and steeling herself not to flinch away as the headlights of her car prowled toward her. The valet assisted her behind the wheel and closed the door. Abigail stepped on the accelerator and frantic tears stung her eyes when the automobile remained stationary.
The valet stooped to the open window. “Ya gotta put it in drive, lady, or you’re never goin’ anywhere.”
As she fumbled with the lever, he reached for the door handle with a muttered curse of exasperation.
Her nerves at the breaking point, Abigail screeched, “Don’t touch me,” jammed the car into gear, and took off as if someone had dropped the starter’s flag at Le Mans.
The attendant leaped backward in time to save his toes from being pancaked inside his shoes and swore in disgust. He walked back to Quincy, accepted the offer of a cigarette, and the two stood smoking companionably.
“Who rattled her branches?” the second attendant muttered after a moment.
Quincy grinned and flicked ash onto the hood of a nearby Mercedes. “Don’t know, man. But it’d be fun to be the one doing the shaking, wouldn’t it?”
Chapter 31
The catering staff emptied ashtrays and collected plates, glasses, and soiled napkins until the head of the crew was summoned to the phone. Left unsupervised, the rest toasted one another with leftover glasses of champagne and raided the
bonbon baskets while bursts of laughter echoed down the halls.
Austin did not hear the merriment. He had locked himself in his workshop, unable to face his guests after Julia’s explosion of rage. His sister had hurled wood, paints, and tools, and as a finale, she dashed Austin’s duckling against the wall and laughed as the little creature shattered into jagged splinters.
He bent down to pick up a webbed foot, now fragile and somehow pathetic nestled in the palm of his hand. A wood shaving curl clung to the dark stripe running up his pant leg and he plucked it free and watched the spiral float to the floor.
Austin closed his eyes. Julia’s fury had revived unpleasant memories of another tantrum. She’d been very angry the night of the dance…
The sober portion of his mind cautioned that he shouldn’t be driving after countless cups of punch and a few belts from Nathan’s flask, but Austin soothed his conscience with the knowledge he’d encounter very little traffic after they were clear of the city limits.
Celeste had caught her gown in the door when he helped her into the car, but the ripping sound only amused her and she kept poking her finger through the hole in her skirt and giggling.
From the backseat, Julia leaned forward. Her tone dripped with venom. “You’re a fool, Austin, making a public show of dancing with that slut. Father’s not going to be pleased when I tell him.”
Accelerating, Austin shifted up a gear, hearing instead Rosemary’s sweet whisper as they parted, “Later, lover.” His palms tingled with excitement. This was going to be his wedding night.
Julia’s voice buzzed with the minor irritation of a mosquito near his ear. “How could you profane Mother’s memory by giving her necklace to that tramp? Austin, how could you?”
He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She was crying; her poise had deserted her to the point where she no longer cared about airing dirty family linen before the others.
Nathan made no move to comfort her. Austin detested the man and suspected that he was only courting Julia for her dowry.
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