A Grand Seduction (9 page)

“
Oh, if you could light the dining room candles, that’d be helpful,” Fran added. “Matches are tucked behind the small grouping of easel art on the far end of the sideboard.”

Nodding, Ridelle twirled on one heel and took the assortment of celery, tomatoes, carrot sticks, and cauliflower into the dining room. Setting the platter on a long whitewashed sideboard, she turned her attention to a freestanding bar at the far end of the rectangular room. A brass ice bucket on top was empty, but a mini-fridge tucked underneath turned up a couple small ice trays. Further investigation turned up cut crystal eight-ball glasses, a bottle of gin, lemon juice, and club soda.

She mixed the drink and was halfway out of the room before remembering the candles. Glancing around, she spotted the book of matches right where Fran said—behind a tiny oval desktop mirror. Next to that sat a miniature oil of Paris in spring done in light pinks and greens, and a framed textile abstract. Candles were used everywhere—tall tapers mixed with short pillars and votives in pale green, cream, and cinnamon. Ridelle groaned. No wonder she’d been delegated to this task. Lighting them all would take a while.

She’d made it as far as the occasional table near the door when a wisp of air sent the flames before her into flickering motion. A lighter came into view just over her left shoulder, followed by a waft of a familiar scent. Her stomach tightened with the first whiff. Oh, Lord. Obsession by Calvin Klein. Why did it have to be Obsession?

“
Here. Let me help.”

She startled as Bruce lit the last taper in that grouping. “Sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to take so long getting your drink.”

“
No worries. Just wanted to make sure you found the bar okay.”

Ridelle put distance between herself and that maddeningly confusing scent, walking around the far side of the dining table and starting on the trio of candle centerpieces set at intervals along its length.

“
Fran likes the whole Catholic altar look,” he went on. “A thousand candles that take all night to light, get wax on the table, and keep me panicked thinking the whole place is going to go up.”

The tone was half teasing, lacking its earlier bitter edge. She met his eyes as he stood on the opposite side of the dining table, lighting the centermost candles. Bruce flashed his best imitation of a boyish grin. “In fact, that Tom Collins might be in dire jeopardy. Alcohol near all this open flame?”

His humor prompted a tinkling laugh that surprised her as she finished one three-candle centerpiece and started for the final group at the far end. “What, you’ve never had a Collins flambe?”

The responding laugh was genuine as he finished the center group. “Now that would be a new experience.”

Ridelle was straight across from him when the words halted her trek. Their eyes met over tongues of dancing flame. Did she dare? “I find a ‘new experience’ good for the soul, every now and again.”

The pause was brief, weighted with an undecipherable flash in his eyes. “You too, huh?”

Smiling to camouflage the panic she swallowed on route to her throat, she broke contact and wandered to the far end of the table. He followed on his side and together they lit the last of the candles. Her hand wavered as the last wick erupted in flame, and her chest heaved under a watchful gaze that made little pretense of not noticing.

“
Are you all right?” he asked.

“
What? Why?”

“
Your face is flushed.”

Her hands flew to her cheeks, which were indeed burning. “Standing over too many candles, I guess.”

Her wild swings between shy and slut were no doubt confusing him as much as they did her. She forced herself to meet his measuring gaze and to do it with a smile.

He hesitated for a moment. “You know, I hope—”

Whatever Bruce might have hoped was interrupted by a series of chimes in the front hall. His guests had arrived.

Ridelle glided around the head of the dining table with as much grace as she could muster in unaccustomed heels. She wandered behind him to retrieve the waiting cocktail. “Don’t forget your Tom Collins.”

Their fingers brushed as it changed hands, and a bizarre tingle shot up her arm. His gaze traveled up from the glass, lingering on her breasts before landing on her eyes. His were glazed with the shimmer of candlelight. “‘Collins flambe’, you mean.” He sipped at it, closing his eyes as though judging a fine wine. “Perfect. Thank you.”

“
My pleasure.”

She followed him to the edge of the dining room, where he paused to slide a dimmer switch on the wall to halfway. The room softened to a mesmerizing glow, with sparkles of starlight shooting off lead crystal facets on the multi-tiered chandelier over the table.

“
Oh,” she whispered. “It’s so lovely.”

“
Very.”

Her head whipped around at the word hanging in the air to find Bruce gone, sauntering down the hall toward the door while ice clinked in his glass. The echo of his wingtip shoes drumming away from Ridelle followed her as she made a hasty retreat to the kitchen.

The evening found the women rocketing back and forth from their kitchen launch pad to keep twenty guests supplied with fresh appetizers for the first hour, followed by dinner at eight o’clock. There was salad with raspberry vinaigrette, followed by chicken and mushrooms in red wine, mushroom quiche Lorraine, asparagus, and tender new potatoes. Wines were mildly aged and fragrant, moods were high, and conversation animated. Topics centered around financial debate, peppered with bawdy jokes, gossip, and even the occasional limerick.

Bruce played simultaneous host, barkeep, and entertainer, and he and Ridelle’s respective duties kept them at a distance during her many trips through the room. No matter how distracted she was, however, she couldn’t help but feel his presence. It tugged like an invisible cord that pulsed between them, heightening her awareness of his location in the room. She thought she felt his smoky topaz eyes burning her skin, though she found them focused elsewhere when she risked a glance. She dared to catch his eye a couple of times, never with Fran in the room and hopefully without raising any eyebrows. When their eyes did catch, the reward was a quick and ready smile from him, followed by the slight gnaw of indigestion.

If nothing else, she had to admit the man juggled his roles with impressive aplomb. Laughing and lighthearted as he appeared, Bruce Myers took the job of client-rubbing and back clapping seriously. All that expenditure of charm was no doubt why he had zip left for his wife at the end of the day. Then again, maybe if his wife fixed him a ‘Collins flambe’ every now and again, he’d be more inclined to keep his trouser target at home.

The thought froze her in place for a moment, and she knocked it away with a mental slap. She was here to help Fran, not point a finger at her. Ridelle completed her waitressing circuit at the head of the table, where Bruce was now seated. Crossing behind, she stepped between him and Fran—it was decided that his wife would be seated and served during the meal—and proffered a porcelain tureen of Coq au Vin. To his nod she leaned over, inhaling the heady aroma of garlic and Cabernet steaming from the fricassee of gourmet chicken as she ladled it onto his plate.

An upward glance found the dilated pupils of a cherry-faced Irishman fastened to her chest. They gaped in a thick haze of anticipation, as if an areola might pop free from the gaping boundaries of her halter at any moment, wave at him, then whistle Dixie for good measure.

A quick, but innocuous narrowing of her eyes bounced the other man’s bloodshots off her bosom before she realized Bruce had been speaking to her. Her gaze quickly snapped to the man below her, where she saw a hint of knowing smile. Bruce had noticed the exchange with the overstuffed leprechaun.

“
You’ll join us, of course?” he asked, though it sounded less like a question and more like a decision.

She looked up at Twyla, who was rounding the table with a dazzling smile and a bowl of potatoes. “Thank you, but I’ll just grab something in the kitchen later.”

“
Nonsense. You’re a guest. The least I can do to show gratitude for this excellent food is to have you dine with us.”

Ridelle stopped ladling and straightened up, catching Fran’s eyes cooling measurably. “But the guests need to be served.”

“
Fran will help.” He leaned forward to address his wife, his tone dulling from accommodation to command. “Why don’t you get up and help, Frannie? That way our guests can relax for a while.”

Ridelle froze, panging with embarrassment for her friend as Fran’s gaze circled the table. Only a handful of those seated nearby overheard—the Irishman and his plump wife, a Jackie Kennedy clone, and a natty thirtyish blond man. Still, there was a moment of awkward silence.

Brassy hair glistened in the twinkling light as Fran nodded. To her credit, she arose with all the graciousness of a goodwill ambassador welcoming a relief envoy to a ravaged land. “Of course.” Then in a thready hush to Ridelle, “I’m not very hungry, anyway.”

So that’s how it came to be that Ridelle found herself at the far end of the Myers’ table, at the right hand of the host and waited upon by the woman she was doing the favor of betraying. She had to force herself to eat, especially with Bruce’s eyes flicking her way. While Twyla picked at her meal to appear polite and Frannie fussed over guests she’d all but ignored thus far, Ridelle seized the opportunity to escape when diners began pushing away from the table. She loaded herself with a stack of dirty plates and disappeared into the kitchen.

Throwing a black dish towel over her shoulder, she filled one side of the sink with suds and let water spray into the other. She gingerly plunged dishes one at a time into the soap. No group bath or dishwasher for these platinum-plated babies. Not at sixty dollars a place setting.

Tiny pings of water spattered her designer take-me-now dress, but Ridelle paid no attention. Why did she feel so guilty? She’d done nothing wrong. Well, nothing that her friends—tonight’s hostess included—hadn’t pressed her into doing. Except now, that hostess was acting less than grateful for Ridelle’s efforts. Did Fran honestly think she wanted to be here? That she’d secretly horned after this guy all these years and now jumped at the chance to play hide-the-sushi-roll with him? After ten years of friendship, Fran should know better than that. Then again, after ten years, there were still things her friends didn’t know about her. For instance, why it was exactly that what Ridelle was willing to do for friendship was a much bigger stretch than any of the group imagined.

She reached up from sponging a salad plate to wipe a brow beaded with perspiration. Between running water and streaming thoughts, Ridelle never heard the footsteps behind her.

“
I know what it is that you’re doing.”

With a gasp that erupted as a tiny yelp, Ridelle spun around to find Bruce behind her, too close for polite company.

His eyes fixed on hers with a pointed gaze bouncing between mocking and gruff. “And it’s not going to work.”

Her response forced itself past the adrenaline shock to her heart. “The dishes?”

He shook his head with deliberate slowness. “I see the game you three are playing.”

Damn it
. She should have realized she could never pull this off. Serving herself up with an apple in her mouth was as stupid a ploy as it got.

Panic manifested as blurted babble. “Game? What game?”

Bruce leaned toward her, and Ridelle pressed her backside even tighter against the edge of the sink. His reach veered to her right, where he deposited a brief stack of dishes atop the pile she’d whittled only halfway down.

He was already pulling back when his scent hit her. Though mixed with an amalgamation of alcohols and rich foods, his cologne found its mark and took her out at the knees. There was no mistaking the genuine, though brief, swoon as Obsession detached her legs from her brain’s control. Happened every time.

Of course, Bruce had no way of knowing the cause. Ridelle’s eyes fluttered for a moment, then opened to find an amused glance as he stepped back. Her reaction and ensuing blush was not enough to keep from giving suspicion a voice.

He waggled an accusing finger, though the tone was playful. “You three thought if you plied me with good food and wine that I’d go soft and do your bidding. But I’m onto you.”

“
You are?” Why could she no longer speak more than two syllables?

“
Yep. I thought Fran might pull something like this.”

She gripped the counter behind her as he leaned in again, sucking in a breath before his cologne could get within firing range.

His voice lowered to a graveled whisper. “Between you and me, I’d love nothing better than to dip into something more tantalizing than what I’ve been stuck with of late. But giving in won’t teach my wife the right lesson, will it?”