Sean’s gaze traced her face. She was startlingly pretty in a scanty floral dress with a moss-colored sweater tied around her neck, but it was her eyes that drew him. They glowed in the early evening light like the rows of hurricane lamps placed along the lip of the railing. “Something like that.”
“And I’m only a serf.”
“No, he’s a serf.” Sean pointed at the figure riding a lawnmower toward the shed tucked away among the trees. Graves, the gardener. “You’re a…”
“Jumped-up serf,” Connie said with a laugh, taking a cocktail off the tray of a circulating waiter. She handed it to Sean and reached for another. They clinked glasses. “To those who serve.”
He looked around them, at the upscale party. So not his style, according to his ex. That it was a style she’d wanted to be accustomed to went a long way toward explaining their divorce.
He shrugged. “The maids? The waiters?”
Connie nodded. “Why not?” But then she added, “To those who serve and protect,” while looking at him with her large eyes.
Gulp. That did him in, as surely as anything could. He’d always been a sucker for the pure of heart, especially a woman who was willing to show genuine, unadorned emotion, even when it wasn’t fashionable.
“Protect from root rot,” he said. He’d come to Osprey for solitude, not solace. He didn’t want to feel. He sure as hell didn’t want to let someone new into his heart.
Connie blinked. “Root rot, huh?”
Sean sipped. He didn’t recognize the cocktail, but it was as cold and sharp as an icicle. The inside of his throat was seared. A good explanation for the grating sound of his voice. “Right. Root rot.”
“Yes, and black spot. Very bad, that black spot.” She chuckled, prodding him. “I hope you don’t have black spot. Lift an arm, let me see.”
“My black spots are well hidden.”
At least, he’d thought they were. She had a way of turning over his leaves to let the sunshine in.
Playfully, Connie poked a finger into his chest. “Never mind. A squirt of fungicide would cure you.”
“Or kill me.”
“Not you.” She took a tiny sip, then puckered her glossy lips in thought, making them look like a ripe, dewy raspberry. “You’ve got deep roots.”
He laughed, feeling less than comfortable. He didn’t give a fig about the party and its ritzy guests, but perhaps a little too much about Connie. “Uh, hey there, I’m not the one named after the old sod.”
“I was actually named after the ponies, if you can believe it. Irish Connemara ponies—they’re tough and sturdy. My mother was laid up during the final month of her pregnancy, and she and Dad watched a documentary on TV. He insisted the name would make me strong.” Connie smiled into the martini glass. “The family joke is that I’m lucky they didn’t watch a show about the potato famine instead. My cousins still sometimes call me Spud.”
“Spud, huh? That’s cute.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I hated it, growing up.”
They moved away from the railing, took napkins and hors d’oeuvres from a different waiter. “Not so bad,” Sean said after downing a mouthful of salmon topped with caviar.
Connie concentrated on the flavors. “Mmm…I could get used to it.”
A woman turned. “Yeah, well, try the bluepoint oysters first.” She made a face. “Even with the horseradish, it’s like swallowing mucus. And those gooey little rubber things? Jellyfish. Seriously.”
Connie snorted laughter behind a crumpled napkin. “Good evening, Mrs. Crosby. I’d like you to meet Sean Rafferty. Sean, this is Jillian Crosby, an old friend of Kay’s.”
“Jilly. Everyone calls me Jilly.” The tall blonde stuck out her hand and shook his with a firm grip. “My hubby, Hal, is around here somewhere. We’re from Vegas. What about you?”
“Worcester, Massachusetts, originally,” Sean answered, feeling the need to straighten his already upright posture. The woman seemed liable to say anything, but he rather liked her for that. The hard, shiny facade of most of the guests had put him off. Likewise, it bugged him that Connie seemed to want to impress them. It shouldn’t have, seeing as that was her business, but it did.
Jilly tilted forward on her high heels, running a quick, evaluating eye over him. “Wooshter? Never heard of it, but you two look like the only fun couple here.” She glanced around at the other guests before lowering her voice. “What a bunch of stuffed shirts. Now I know why Kay begged me to come. Someone’s got to liven up this joint.”
Connie started to say, “We’re not a coup—” but was interrupted by Jilly.
“I’d suggest we liberate a bottle of Cristal and go streaking buck-nekkid through the maze, except then Anders would seriously kill me. He and Kaylene have already had one go-round today, so I’d better not cause another.” Jilly giggled, perhaps having already liberated one cocktail too many. “But I am dying to get into that maze.”
Connie smiled politely. “Have you sneaked a peek yet?” Sean knew she was thinking of the previous night’s unidentified trespasser.
“Nope, but I took a real good look from up here.” Jilly strolled to the railing and leaned over it, swaying like a reed. “Is that cheating?”
Sean looked down, past the slate roof and the formal garden to the shadowed maze. At this lofty vantage point, the overall pattern was clear, although the angle and the growing darkness saved the correct route from being obvious without intense study. “How much of the maze will you remember by tomorrow morning?”
“Good question!” Jilly lifted her cocktail and laughed loudly, drawing a glare from Kay. “So maybe I ought to ink me a cheat sheet on my palm the way I used to in my high school history class.” She squinted at them, waving a hand. “Either of you got a pen?”
Sean patted the inside pocket of his sports coat. “Sorry, no.”
“Not me,” said Connie, and Jilly wandered off, calling at random for a writing utensil until she ran into a suited man who appeared to be under fifty. He offered her a cigarette instead and soon she forgot all about her plan.
“Didn’t you want to object?” Sean asked Connie. “You seem protective of the maze’s secrets.”
“I’d rather Jilly won the prize than the rest of them.” Connie dropped to a whisper. “Because she’s right. These people are stuffed shirts.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. What relief—she wasn’t like his ex-wife. “Then what are we doing here?”
“I thought you wanted to come.”
“Not especially. I thought you did.”
She hesitated. “It is my job.” A shrug. “Although not my favorite part. I’m still an earth-grubber at heart.” The waiter swooped a tray under her nose and she took a tiny cup of fluted crust, then looked closer beneath a sprig of green herb. “Oh, no. It’s the jellyfish.” Her mouth drew into a sour pucker. “I just can’t.”
He laughed. “Toss it over the railing.”
She looked tempted. “Someone might see.”
“Allow me.” He took the tidbit and made a motion toward the railing that turned her eyes into saucers. Her alarm became delight when he popped it into his mouth instead. One crunch and he bit into a salty, rubbery goo.
His stoic expression must have broken because she hurriedly passed him a drink. “Wash it down.” She was smiling. “Don’t tell me you’re not a hero. That was absolutely chivalrous.”
“No, that was called taking a bullet for…” He stopped. “I was…only trying not to embarrass you.”
Connie looked at him sympathetically. He hated sympathy. He didn’t want it, or deserve it, yet he’d gotten way too much of it. Osprey Island was supposed to be his refuge from all of that. He wished he’d followed his first instincts and kept to himself.
When he was alone, he had no one but himself to account for. With Connie, nice as she was, there was a high probability that what started out with a simple gesture, like swallowing jellyfish, would end as badly as the rest of his commitments. Divorc
e, separation, death, disappointment.
Not the sort of track record she deserved.
Connie took his hand, oblivious. She turned toward the short railing that capped the half wall of the widow’s walk. “It’s getting late.” While most of the sky remained a deep cobalt-blue, the treetops had begun to shimmer in the subtle golden-pink glow that filled the western horizon. “Sunsets must be really pretty on your side of the island.”
“I, uh, I guess I haven’t noticed.” Too busy wallowing in misery. Self-indulgent misery.
Enough of that.
Connie squeezed his hand. “You should look.”
“I am,” he promised, keeping his gaze high when what he really wanted to look at was her. Instead, he released her hand and did a one-eighty, fists shoved in his jacket pockets as he ignored the other guests and the elegant setting in favor of the raw minimalism of the ocean. Blue-bottomed cumulus clouds hung low in the sky, mounded high on top like meringue on a pie. The wind was light. Several sailboats slipped through the darkening waves, tacking toward home.
Home. He thought of holing up at Pine Cone Cottage, alone, and the concept was no longer as appealing as it once had been. But that didn’t mean he was ready to risk a relationship with Connie, who needed more than he could give. If he was going to play the hero, he’d start with his own son.
The cocktail hour had wound down, with guests heading toward the staircase. Connie hung back with Sean. “Dinner must have been called.” She smoothed her windblown hair. “We’d better go in.”
“Do we have to?”
“You’re a bad influence.” She gave him a shrug. “But you’re in luck—Kay mentioned that it’s a buffet. We might even get away before the sun has fully set.”
“Good. I’ve had enough of these people.”
Connie stuck out her chin as they walked past a couple of the waiters standing at attention with half-empty trays. “You didn’t even try. Some of them are very nice.”
“Like the guy who thought a 10-49 was a tax form?”
“What is a 10-49?”
“The code for wrong-way traffic.”
“Heavens. I think I need to give you a lesson on proper cocktail party conversation.”
“I’ve got to warn you,” Sean said. “I’m not the fancy-party type.” And never would be, if that was what she wanted.
She only laughed as they descended the enclosed spiral staircase. “You have no idea of the irony of me teaching any kind of etiquette. I used to have absolutely no sense of propriety. My husband always said I’d talk doctrine with a ditchdigger and earthworms with the Pope.”
“Is there something wrong with that?”
“Not really.” She’d stopped to glance down a long hallway to the landing, which opened to the vast foyer with whitewashed beams and an oversize blackened iron chandelier. The other dinner guests had all vanished, but their chatter rose like the squabble of the gulls in the harbor.
“But it proves that I’ve come a long way,” Connie added, without much enthusiasm.
Sean stepped up beside her and took her arm. “To dinner,” he said. “Unless you’re willing to commit a 10-49 with me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE BUFFET WAS NOT LIKE the noodle casserole, ham roll and Jell-O salad spreads that Connie had grown up with. The silver and crystal were elegant. The food was almost too beautiful to eat. But she was grateful they weren’t having an interminable and pretentious six-course meal.
A waiter appeared to whisk away her plate as soon as she finished a portion of an obscure fish in an even more obscure sauce. Connie checked her borrowed silk dress for spots, then looked around the room for Sean, more interested in talking to him than any of the guests, aside from one older man who’d spouted Latin plant names at her and had tucked her business card inside his cigarette case.
She walked from room to room, sipping wine, feeling lucky to enjoy such a magnificent home. There were brick fireplaces with old master oil paintings over the mantels and tall windows that boasted stunning ocean views. Wide-plank wood floors were waxed and buffed to a honey glow and covered with muted Oriental rugs. The furnishings were solid antiques, with large comfy couches and chairs upholstered in white cotton duck or faded chintz. Plaster walls had been painted the softest hues she’d ever seen—mottled cream, the silvery green of moss, a soft seashell-pink—and hung with sepia photographs of Edwardian picnics and three-masted schooners.
Yet for all the home’s beauty, it made her appreciate her own humble house even more. Hers had that lived-in feel. The patterns on the carpet were old stains; her fresh flowers were cheap and cheerful bouquets plucked from a bucket at the local florist. It was a comfortable place, where anyone would feel at home.
Including Sean, who’d seemingly disappeared.
Connie was returning to the sideboard for dessert when she came across Kay, who waved grandly at the traditional dining room. “Next summer, all of this will go. Now that the garden is finished, I can concentrate on the interior. Every surface will be modern—granite, stainless steel, marble for the fireplaces. It’s my mission to drag Peregrine House into the twenty-first century.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” Connie blurted. “It’s lovely as it is. Historic, even. The house must have been this way for ages.”
“Historic?” Kay laughed disdainfully. “Don’t you mean old and stodgy?”
“Old is beautiful.”
“I must say,” put in Kay’s companion, “the antiques are invaluable.” She was an older woman without an ounce of fat on her bones. Beneath her blond bob was the leathery, windburned face of a New England sailor. She looked like she’d been soaked, put through a wringer and drip-dried. “It would be a travesty to replace them.”
“Well, of course I wouldn’t touch the antiques.” Kay’s smile was overbright. “Only, you know, freshen them up a bit.”
“Ah.” The other woman nodded.
“New paint, new accessories. Maybe get rid of some of those moldy old pillows, and there are so many fussy knickknacks. Anders has commissioned an artist to paint my portrait, and it will be hung over the main fireplace….” With a sour glance over her shoulder at Connie, Kay moved with her companion toward the next room, gesturing with less confidence.
“Fiddlehead.” Connie frowned down at her dessert, a floating island so light she half expected it to take flight. “Stepped in it again.”
Sean approached, hands in pockets. He looked around the room with a dubious air. “Stepped in what?”
“Manure,” she muttered. “I’m always tracking it inside.”
“I doubt it, but who cares? That’s what they hired you for.”
She laughed. “Not exactly. Turns out that designing gardens for the social elite is a lot more complicated than digging a vegetable patch for my uncle’s neighbor.”
“Just a bigger scale. With better food.”
“And homes. And views.” She stared longingly toward the French doors that opened onto a wide stone terrace overlooking the ocean.
Sean nodded toward them. “Ready to slip away? It’s not dark yet. We can take a walk along the cliffside and enjoy your client’s million-dollar view for free.”
“Is that where you were hiding, out on the terrace?”
He looked sheepish. “Just perfecting my hermit act.”
Was it an act? Connie wondered. Perhaps. He’d agreed to be her escort readily enough.
She set aside the uneaten dessert. “You can be the hermit while I play the serf with delusions of grandeur. And we’ve both put in enough of an appearance for one night.” She reached for his hand, but only to push up his sleeve and check his watch. “I’ve got the sitter for another hour.” The housekeeper’s daughter had come to stay with Pippa, much to her daughter’s displeasure at being treated like a baby.
“Then let’s not waste any time.”
“The other way,” she said, when he started for the French doors. “Through the kitchen. So no one will see me ditching early except t
he caterers.”
She led him to a swinging door at the other end of the room, which opened into a through-room that was called the butler’s pantry, then to the kitchen proper. She’d used the space as a temporary potting shed. The last thing she expected to come across was Anders Sheffield with a pretty young maid backed up onto one of the zinc countertops.
Connie stopped so abruptly that Sean clipped her heels.
“Oopsie. We’ve got company.” The maid giggled, blushed and tried to squirm away.
Anders coolly released her. He gave a tug at his tie and looked at Connie with one upraised eyebrow, only his disheveled thin silver hair betraying his usual bespoke formality. “Lose your way, then?”
“No.” Her face had turned hot. “Just going to the kitchen.” She burst through to the next room, shot a warning look at Sean and quickly made her way past the catering employees and household staff to the exit.
The cool air felt wonderful. “Pretend you didn’t see that,” she said flatly, although her stomach felt queasy.
“Naturally,” Sean replied.
She sighed. “Stepped in it again. It’s a damn lucky thing this job is almost over.”
“I’m starting to understand what you meant about the complications.”
“Yeah. You’d be amazed by the dirt that the Sheffields’ staff and employees are privy to. Until I started this job, I thought Upstairs, Downstairs was just a TV show.” She brushed her hair off her neck and hiked up her knotted sweater sleeves. “I’ve learned the value of discretion.”
Sean regarded her steadily, an expressionless expression that was becoming familiar.
“You have no worries for my part,” he said, but his coolness made her suspect he held little respect for the Sheffields and their ilk. “As long as no crime is involved, I won’t talk.”
“Good.” She looked down at her borrowed dress, aware that although she’d joked about being a serf, she really was playing a role, from her borrowed finery to her careful handling of the Sheffields. But that was how it had to be.
Carrie Alexander - Count on a Cop Page 8
