“Lisa and Cheryl aren’t together unless they’re at home,” Mark said, and how sick was it that it was a good piece of news?
“I know. And Drew’s with her round the clock.”
Mark’s head turned toward the side yard and his lips quirked into a frown. “Drew’s a nice kid and all, but is he, you know, adequate security?”
“Lucky for us, Shilling isn’t especially dangerous to grown-ass men his own size,” Ray said bitterly. His eyes tracked the tennis ball’s movement from Drew’s hands, across the beer-stained sky, under the gilded leaves of a birch tree, and into Lisa’s waiting palm. “And focus tends to put a man on high alert. Drew Forester wants to bone my daughter…”
Mark coughed.
“…and that’s the sort of thing that creates focus.”
25
The Smyths had old money, and lived in one of the well-established, sprawling Alpharetta subdivisions that was situated between two horse farms rather than a new-construction development with postage stamp yards and stripling trees. Their Georgian mini mansion was set well off the road, its backyard ringed by tall, ancient oaks that dappled the gardens with sunlight during the day and provided oily, secluded pockets of shadow after dark. It was a beautiful space, brick-paved paths wending their way through award-winning perennial beds. A koi pond the size of a swimming pool, dotted with water lilies and lined with river stones, stood beneath a white, wood pergola in the far corner of the yard and was the destination at the end of every path.
Beautiful already, Cheryl had transformed Patty Smyth’s yard into an art piece. Lisa settled her hands on the hips of her white cotton eyelet dress and surveyed the décor.
The buffet tables had been pushed up beneath the patio alongside the outdoor kitchen, the white linens spotless, the caterers whisking back and forth, laying out trays of low-calorie whatever-it-was that the Smyths’ friends ate. The brick patio had been set up as a dining area; café tables draped with more white linen were arranged in purposeful disorder, a wide, water-filled glass bowl full of white rose petals, hydrangeas, and floating tea lights set in the middle of each. Cheryl had run translucent fishing line in a web between the trees and had strung white paper Chinese lanterns that added an understated pop of the exotic. Lisa had spent the night before rolling bundles of silverware – Patty Smyth’s real silver because plastic would have been insulting to the guests – and had burned most the skin off her fingers hot gluing cards together that labeled each dish.
It was a muted, white and silver and cream, sophisticated sort of affair, and standing back from it, Lisa wondered if their hard work would show. “You nervous?” she asked her mother.
Cheryl, like her, had busted out her Sunday best and wore a gray knit pencil skirt and white sweater set, the pearls she so rarely wore anymore. Mother and daughter had both painted their fingernails white and toenails a dainty pink. Lisa squirmed inside her stiff halter top dress and longed for a pair of jeans.
“Terrified,” Cheryl admitted. “Let’s just pray Her Majesty approves.”
As if on cue, Patty came sweeping through the open French doors at the back of the house. She passed between two caterers who nearly spilled the serving platters they carried in their haste to avoid her, and Patty clipped along without seeming to notice that she’d almost had tomato basil chicken dumped down the front of her silver cocktail dress.
“Hello, girls,” she greeted in a voice that might have hinted at a British background…though the woman had never left Georgia in her life. Patty Smyth was tall, upwards of five-seven, reed-thin and harsh-looking. She had an aristocratic, austere face and wore her hair short and slicked back over her ears so that it looked like a blonde helmet. In her mid-forties, she was already hitting the Botox hard and had a certain plastic quality to her tight, infrequent smiles.
She surveyed the gardens, long-fingered, ringed hands on her hips. Lisa saw the twinkle of diamond studs in her ears that matched the choker that glimmered around her throat. For what was essentially a tea party for her close friends, Patty was severely overdressed. “Very good,” she said with a sniff and then breezed away on her stiletto sandals.
“Well.” Lisa shrugged. “Guess that’s better than ‘very bad.’”
Two days before, Ray had pressed the keys to Mark’s Chevy, a hundred bucks and an AmEx into Drew’s hands. “Go get something decent to wear to this damn party we’re working,” he’d said, and then he’d turned back to the ordered chaos on his desk in the office at the house. And that had been it. No warning, no other directions.
A sane man would have fled and never looked back, maxed out the card, put Ray Russell and his strange family well behind him.
But here he stood at a white garden gate in a new black polo shirt and dark jeans, new belt, new kicks, a touch of gel in hair that he should have buzzed by now, watching the wealthy pretend to eat mini quiches and talk about the funny sounds their Beemers were making these days.
He was too loyal. He’d been loyal to Ricky, to a guy named “Anchor” once who’d nearly gotten him killed, and now to Russell, apparently. But Ray had something that the others didn’t, and she was walking toward him now, a champagne flute in one hand, her sandals dangling by their straps from the other.
“I feel so safe,” she said with an amused eye roll as she drew closer, stepping into the puddle of shadow where he was stationed. She was in a good mood tonight; she and her mother were good at this. Who’d have thought Lisa thrived domestically like this, but she did, and was clearly proud of what she’d helped put together. “The guests, though?” She lifted her brows and nodded toward two women wrapped in jewel-toned shawls who were staring at them – at him – and grinned. “Pretty sure four guys in all black are giving them the creeps.”
“I’m creepy now. Great.”
“Definitely not creepy,” she countered happily – she really was bubbling with good humor – and turned to put her back against the gate alongside him. She threw back half the champagne in an elegant swallow and then offered the glass to him.
“I’m working.”
“Serious,” she said with a grin, putting the glass to her lips again. “Not creepy, but sooo serious.”
“Are you tipsy?”
“Little bit.”
He grinned. Good for her: if he was serious, she was terrifyingly stern. “I’ve never been to anything like this,” he admitted, “not even as security.”
“It’s pretty,” she said, “I love the place, but the people…Patty Smyth is the biggest gossip, and the most influential one, in the tri-county area. She’s a cold bitch, but for the most part, doesn’t exaggerate. Now that one - ” She pointed to a plump, gray-haired woman in a teal dress that was belted tight around her thick waist. “Abby Pine? She might as well carry a butcher block around as many knives as she sticks in people’s backs.”
Drew didn’t really give a shit about any of the details, but it was good to see her more relaxed. “What kinda dirt could any of these people have on each other?”
She turned wide, dancing eyes to him. “Tons. Three years ago, Patty put out the word that Meredith Childress left a charity function two hours early with the stomach flu. Two days later, Abby over there let it slip that Meredith was actually pregnant, and Meredith’s husband had had a vasectomy."
He lifted his brows in feigned surprise.
“Someone’s always sleeping with someone else’s wife or husband or kid or…” She bit her lip. “Jesus, I’m just as bad as the rest of them.” A blush stained her cheeks; he could see it even in the semi darkness, the same as he could see the vibrant green of her eyes, and she turned away, embarrassed.
She lifted her glass again, saw it was empty, and let it fall to her side. “I forget sometimes.” Her smile became frozen as she watched the party. “I get off in my little world, in our old haunted house. At the bar, at the shop…and I forget that I used to be a part of events like this. I was one of these spoiled Alpharetta rich girls,” she said with disgust. “Man
icure, pedicure, name brand everything. I was gonna get married at the friggin’ Ritz, for God’s sakes! Ugh. I got swept up in it.”
Drew couldn’t envision her being one of these people, he just couldn’t. “It happens,” he said and knew he didn’t sound convincing.
“It shouldn’t ha…oh shit,” she breathed, jerking upright beside him.
He was on instant alert, scanning the dense wall of trees and shrubs behind them. “What?” When he glanced back, he noted her posture: it seemed more resigned than frightened. “What?” he repeated.
“It’s alright,” she sighed. “Unless you wanna tackle a pregnant woman, I think you can stand down.”
“Who?”
She stabbed her champagne flute through the air and toward a tall, blonde, model-looking young woman in a tight pink dress that showed off a rounded, pregnant belly. “Missy Albright. Tristan’s wife.”
She was on top of them before Drew made the connection that Tristan was the douchebag he’d decked at the bar that night, and then the prospect of gossip seemed to suddenly be much more threatening.
26
Lisa had seen women ravaged by pregnancy: bloated and damp with sweat, sans makeup and forty-some-odd pounds heavier, angry and red-faced. Missy made pregnancy look like a weekend stay at a resort spa.
Her blonde hair was gelled and teased and sprayed into its usual defiance of gravity, her makeup flawless, if not overdone. She was tan, her ankles trim, legs looking miles long in heels. Her fuchsia dress would have looked more appropriate on a high schooler at homecoming, much like all of her wardrobe, and it flaunted her belly. A diamond solitaire necklace gleamed at her throat and her engagement ring flashed as she lifted a hand to tuck a non-stray piece of hair back. Lisa had the small satisfaction of seeing that the ring was the same one Tristan had given her once upon a time, but otherwise, even pregnant, Missy was not a girl who made other girls feel good about themselves.
“Lisa,” she said, bubbling over with false congeniality. “I didn’t know you put this little thing together.” She swatted at the air in an “oh, you” gesture, smiling.
“Missy.” Lisa twitched a tight smile. “I see you’ve finally mastered the art of subtle intimidation as opposed to your usual direct insults. Way to grow.”
The blonde’s smile seemed to freeze, the humor draining out of her eyes. “You always did struggle with being polite, bless your heart,” she said through her teeth. Her blue eyes moved up and over Lisa’s shoulder and Lisa knew she must be checking out Drew. Her smile twisted. “Security? I forgot that’s what your dad was doing these days.” Her eyes returned. “How’s he doing? Poor thing.”
“My dad owns several businesses,” Lisa said coolly. “He’s doing fine.”
Missy’s head tilted to the side, golden hair waterfalling over her shoulder. Behind her, two lackeys approached like actresses who’d been given cues, like beautiful, brunette zombies coming to their leader’s defense. Lisa remembered first names, but not last: Brittany and Dani. “That’s really good,” Missy said, voice laced with the kind of cloying sweetness all the liars in her social circle employed. Her henchwomen fell into place on either side of her. “Good for him.”
“Isn’t it about time for you to rub some more cocoa butter on your stretch marks, Missy?” a familiar voice chimed to Lisa’s left. A glance revealed Morgan beside her, as perfectly coiffed as ever, in a dress that looked like a disco ball but somehow worked on her. Lisa hadn’t heard her friend’s approach, but was more than grateful for her presence now.
Missy wasn’t. Her smile was more of a sneer. “Morgan. You were invited?”
“My mom’s in the book club same as yours. Plus, I can actually, you know, read.”
As had always been the case, Missy could dish it out, but could not take even a little bit of it. Rebuttals were not her thing. With a lift of her tanned nose and a haughty shrug, she swept away – swept, despite her ponderous belly – her minions at her heels.
“You looked like you could stand to be saved,” Morgan said when they were gone. She glanced over at Drew. “Tall, dark and dumbfounded over there didn’t look like he was doing much good. No offense, sweetheart.”
Drew shrugged. “Hey, just glad you think I’m tall.”
“You didn’t tell me you were coming.” Lisa elbowed her friend.
“I wasn’t sure I was coming.” She shrugged. Morgan slid her arm through Lisa’s and began towing her away. “I’ll keep an eye on her,” she promised Drew as they moved back toward the patio.
“I don’t need watching,” Lisa said, rolling her eyes.
“Right, right. That’s why your dad hired this crew to watch a damn garden party.” She lifted her waxed, pale brows in a knowing way. “You’re not, you know, top secret, Lis. I get what’s going on here.”
Lisa had never ranked Morgan among the people in her life with advanced deductive reasoning, but she felt a jolt of alarm. Lisa scanned the party and, more importantly, its fringes. She found her uncle, Sly, Eddie and Drew all tucked away in their shadowed alcoves beneath the tress. To anyone else, they would have been terrifying: threatening, man-shaped shadows with white, flickering eyes, the darkness providing the illusion that they were twice their actual size. What sort of ordinary girl brought a retinue of guards with her to a function like this? Their presence made it all the more obvious that she didn’t belong here, among merry, twinkling lights and finger sandwiches. They were a living embodiment of the resentful, dark contempt she held for the life she’d once attempted.
“You do?” She kept her voice neutral as they reached the patio. She slipped her arm away from Morgan’s so she could put her shoes back on.
“Yeah, and I gotta say, it’s overkill, girl. Do you honest to God think Tristan’s gonna come after you? His black eye’s not that bad.”
Lisa chuckled. Only Tristan would be so egotistical that he thought she was afraid of him, and only Morgan would jump to that conclusion. She was glad for the misunderstanding, though. “You never know,” she said, trying to hide a smile. “I hear angry exes can be pretty dangerous.”
Eddie had been thinking the only good thing to come out of this night would be a check. But as he watched the leggy brunette in the bright teal wrap dress break away from her pregnant friend and head his way, a champagne flute in each hand, he began to rethink that assessment.
She was a nicer grade of meat than he was used to: perfectly straight, blindingly white teeth, the expensive kind of fake tan, a haircut that had probably cost more than he made in a week, mani, pedi, designer label dress that hugged every curve. “I didn’t take Patty for the type to hide the good stuff in the back,” she purred as she slid to a hip-swiveling halt in front of him. She extended one of the champagne flutes in offering. “But that just applies to men. If I were her, I would have hidden you too.”
It was exactly the kind of cheese Eddie himself ladled onto his potential conquests at bars; nice to know this one was dishing out charm on her own. She wouldn’t take any convincing that way.
Ray had specified no drinking on the job, but really, this was more about some quick cash than an actual responsibility. He accepted the glass, raised it halfway to his lips and offered her a calculated smile. “Trying not to get mobbed, sweetheart. What’s your excuse?”
She flushed with pleasure and took a sip of her drink. Her dark eyes made a leisurely stroll up from his toes to the gelled tips of his hair. “There’s never anyone interesting to talk to at these things.”
He quirked his brows. “You found me though.”
“Yes I did.”
They measured one another up a moment. If you knew where to concentrate your efforts, there was very little courting that ever had to be done. Eddie didn’t hold much with lies and small talk when it came to the ladies. Tonight, he’d found his perfect match, and it had nothing to do with astrological signs or compatibility scores.
“I’m Dani,” she said at last, her white, wide smile dazzling.
“
Eddie.”
“There’s a bathroom in the hallway upstairs.” She half-turned, like she was prepared to walk away. “If you go in through those French doors, take a right and go up the staircase off the kitchen, it’ll be your third door on the left.” She gave him one last smile. “Knock twice.” Then she threw back her champagne in one long swallow and headed for the house.
“How’s it going?”
Drew was doing his job, standing at his post, observing any and everything just the way he was supposed to, but Ray’s voice floating from the darkness somewhere behind him was a bit of an unpleasant shock anyway. Ray had that effect on people.
“No signs of anything unusual.”
“Any new arrivals in the past hour?”
In truth, Drew had spent most of the last hour eye-stalking Lisa as she and her blonde friend made the rounds, but he wasn’t about to admit that. “Some of the husbands – boyfriends – whatever they are.” He pointed toward the knot of cigar-smoking men who’d shown up en masse like they’d all been off together having some sort of guys’ night while the women had their tea party. Still sporting a green ring of old bruising around his eye, Lisa’s ex had an arm around the pregnant blonde, the two of them nauseating in their coziness.
Ray made an acknowledging sound in the back of his throat. “I always hated that little prick. He – ”
A scream shattered the muffled chatter of the party. It was female, the kind of terror-borne shriek that burst vocal cords and set dogs to barking. As heads whipped around and guests startled, Ray took off, bolting toward the house, and Drew followed.
In the kitchen, one of the pregnant girl’s friends was leaning against the counter, a hand to her throat as she choked on wet, noisy sobs, her face red, tears leaving wet trails through her makeup.
“What?” Ray demanded of her. Guests were pouring into the house, crowding them.
Footsteps came thundering down the rear staircase behind her and Eddie appeared, his eyes wide, face uncharacteristically blank.
Made for Breaking (The Russells Book 1) Page 23
