How To Host a Seduction (11 page)

“Miss Q just told me that you'd be here,” he said.

“She didn't tell you she'd be playing Cupid and installing us in the same suite?”

He shook his head. Miss Q hadn't told him she'd be playing Cupid because he'd requested the service, so technically he was telling the truth. Giving in to the urge to trace the lines bracketing Ellen's mouth, he watched her reaction in the way the golden lights shimmered deep in her eyes.

Then he let his gaze slip down to the folder. “So, what have we got here?”

It took a moment for Christopher's question to register, another for Ellen to realize he'd neatly changed the subject. Leaning back against the bench, she just as neatly withdrew from his roaming hands.

Flipping through the contents, she was more than willing to move past all talk of their relationship and this setup.

Rule number four of sound business strategies:
Stay focused on the goal.
In this case, sex.

“Looks like our mystery gear. We've got lists and charts and our map.” She slipped out the character biog
raphies, a sheath of papers several pages thick. “We really need to spread all this stuff out.”

“Come on. I know just the place.”

Christopher led her along a path that followed the shoreline where the branches of oaks, cypress and tupelos sifted the sunlight over the bayou into a lazy golden haze. The water appeared almost black from fallen leaves, and the surface rippled softly as ducks flew low. Some sort of wildlife rustled nearby in the underbrush, crackling twigs and dry leaves.

“There's this whole untamed thing going on.” Ellen inhaled deeply, caught a whiff of the southern breeze, heavy with the smell of the sea.

“That's the part that fascinates me.”

“What?”

“That a woman so comfortable in the urban jungle enjoys a place where time stands still. What's the attraction? I mean, besides the ducks.”

The dimples flashed and she felt a tingle at his reminder of their many visits to Central Park, where she enjoyed sitting on the grassy knoll beside the lake with her bag of corn, making friends with the wildlife.

“Oh, no, I just come for the ducks.”

He laughed, a compelling sound that rippled on the lazy morning breeze and filtered through her. “Right.”

“What's that?” She pointed to a white spire peeking out of a copse of trees on a tiny island.

“An island gazebo. A lot like the one we just left.”

“I'd love to go visit. Maybe we could make the time?”

“I thought you were scared of gators.”

“There aren't any alligators here. Look at all these ducks.”

He arched one brow doubtfully, but she didn't want to
hear an alligator might happen by, not with all these ducks around.

“I think it's the fact that time does stand still,” she said. “There's a sense of peace here. Time's going to move along at its own pace, no matter what I do. Makes it easy to put things in perspective. To forget life and work and the million things I should be doing.”

“A place where you can be yourself. No pressures, or worries, or expectations.”

“Yeah.” She glanced up at him, surprised at how well he articulated her meaning.

But Christopher wasn't looking at her, his gaze fixed on a patch of blue sky that shone through a break in the trees, where seagulls cavorted.

He finally brought her to the edge of a grassy bank sheltered by a bright pink azalea hedge, an overlook encompassing a gorgeous spread of blooming azaleas and what appeared to be a meeting place for ducks of many varieties.

“Hold this.” After handing her the treasure map, he took off up the slope toward a small utility shed, returned with a blanket and a bag of cracked corn.

“Corn, Christopher? Do most plantations stock a supply like the grain feeders at the zoo?”

“You don't even need a pocketful of quarters. Convenient.” He set the bag down, then shook the blanket out and spread it over the grass. “Here, come sit.” He waited patiently while she arranged her skirts and got comfortable. “When I saw the ducks, I asked Olaf to have some brought here, just in case we had the chance to come back.”

“Oh. Well, thank you.”

He grinned in reply, so Ellen spread their mystery gear around her, mulling the way he easily admitted to making
thoughtful arrangements he'd clearly hoped would please her.

And he had. Opening the bag of corn, she withdrew a handful and tossed it toward the shoreline, catching the interest of the flock. Domesticated ducks waddled right up to the offering, helping themselves, while the wilder breeds danced around, observing before chancing closer.

She tossed out several more handfuls, caught sight of Christopher shrugging off his frock coat, an impressive display of grace and strength that brought to mind the way those broad shoulders had felt beneath her hands and her lips when they'd made love.

Loosing his bow tie, Christopher flipped open his collar to reveal a discoloration on his throat, an echo of a bruise that appeared striking against his white collar. A hickey to match hers. Reaching into the bag, she grabbed another handful of corn. Funny, but she couldn't exactly remember when she'd done the deed, with so many nibbles and tastes crowding her memory.

He sank down to the blanket, an awesome show of contracting muscle and powerful male grace, and sat across from her with his legs crossed.

They perused the literature in silence, organizing the various categories with corresponding glossy photos of Félicie Allée's rooms, fingers occasionally brushing, knees sometimes bumping as one or the other reached for another leaflet.

She threw out more corn whenever the ducks' supply ran low, and eventually the flock tucked their heads beneath their wings for a nap or waded back into the water for a drink.

Corn for the ducks. Who'd have guessed? Bowing her head under the pretense of inspecting the treasure map, Ellen considered his thoughtful gesture.

If Christopher had wanted to prove how great they were together, why had he waited three months after she'd ended their relationship? And he hadn't said a word about compromising—not that she'd consider a compromise now that she knew he wasn't
the one.

She didn't get a chance to consider the answer further because footsteps crunched on the gravel path. Christopher had glanced up at the sound, and together they watched a couple round the path, a man and woman she didn't recognize, though their costumes labeled them as either other guests or staff.

“That's the stupidest idea I've ever heard,” the woman was saying. “Where'd you study your investigative technique, a mail correspondence course?”

“Harvard,” the man said matter-of-factly.

“Josh's investigators?” Ellen asked in a whisper.

Christopher nodded. “Mac and Harley.”

Harley was the type of woman who exuded a tough intensity completely at odds with her feminine appearance. She wasn't tall but lithe, which added to an illusion of height. Incredible wavy red hair framed somber features and gave Ellen the impression the woman wouldn't have much patience for people who confused her appearance with her competency.

Mac, on the other hand, might have been cast from the same mold as Christopher or Josh. He had that same larger-than-life maleness about him, and his simply delivered “Harvard” suggested he might have shared their Garden District upbringing.

The two clearly hadn't noticed their audience, unsurprising given the slope of the bank and the lush hedge of azalea blocking a clear view of the water from the path.

“Hiding Brigitte's diary in the library doesn't seem ridiculously obvious to you?” Mac asked.

“Obvious is the whole point.” Harley shook her head, sending red hair tumbling over her shoulders. “Try to think like a criminal for a second. Can you actually do that with all your blue blood? If you place the emphasis on
hiding,
the diary will be easy to find because everyone will be looking. We want the emphasis on
overlooking
the diary.”

“I'm sure everyone will overlook a book in a library.” Mac gave a snort of obvious disgust.

“If you think about it for just a minute it makes sense.”

“It explains why prisons are overflowing.”

“Well, then, come up with a better idea, and hiding the diary in the bathroom was not a better idea.”

“Do you ever do anything but argue?”

“I'm not arguing.”

“Shut up, Harley,” Mac said, the frustration in his voice obvious even to Ellen, a total stranger. He reached out, grabbed Harley's arms and dragged her against him. “Just shut up.”

Then he lowered his head…and engaged her in what appeared to be a very heated kiss.

Harley was so still at first that Ellen couldn't tell if the woman had been shocked into compliance, but when her arms slipped up around Mac's neck, Ellen had her answer.

Their bodies came together as though fused, and for one surreal moment, Harley and Mac looked like lovers off the cover of a romance novel, dressed in their period costumes and framed by azaleas, Spanish moss and filtered sunlight.

Ellen's heart did a silly flip-flop and she refused to look at Christopher. Something about this couple's kiss suggested such longing, such a powerlessness to resist their chemistry. It struck a chord in her, reminded her of how she'd reacted to Christopher last night.

She was suddenly aware of how his knee pressed against
hers and how his big body shaded the sun pouring through the trees. The way her nipples tingled when she heard him laugh softly.

Then a very familiar electronic melody jangled.

Ducks scattered. Harley and Mac sprang apart, both looking breathless and staggered. Ellen couldn't tell which one seemed more surprised, but Harley recovered first and stormed back in the direction they'd come.

Ellen dove into her purse for her cell phone, flipped it open and glanced at the display. “Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, honey. Are you enjoying your vacation?”

“Sure am.”

“How's the whole murder-mystery thing coming?”

“So far, so good. It's been…
interesting.
” To say the least. She couldn't help glancing at Christopher. He was scowling, so she shifted her gaze back to the ducks.

“Good, I'm glad. It sounds interesting.” Her dad chuckled on the other end. “No lounging around on a beach for my girl.”

No, indeed. Lounging around on a beach would have been considered a normal vacation pastime. The idea had never even occurred to her. “So what's up, Dad?”

“Your mother has just been announced as a nominee for the President's Goodwill award.”

“Wow, she must be thrilled.” Ellen schooled her voice and continued to ignore Christopher. “Timing's great, too, since she just arrived back from Bosnia. Kiss her for me and tell her congratulations.”

“I will. If she wins, she'll want all of us with her when she accepts.”

“When?”

“Saturday night.”

Ellen didn't want Christopher to sense trouble. “Of course. Just let me know as soon as you know.”

“I will. Until then, you relax and enjoy yourself. This will work out the way it's meant to. You might not have to cut your vacation short. We'll see.”

“All right. Love you, Dad.”

“Love you, too, honey.”

Ellen disconnected the phone, returned it to her purse, and all the while Talbot family rule number one echoed in her head:
All Talbots must be accessible any time, any place.

To Christopher's credit, he didn't ask. He didn't point out that her call had chased off Harley and Mac before they might have overheard more clues. All he said was “Do you think they'll still put the diary in the library? Let's log it so we don't forget to check.”

Mechanically reaching for the notebook, Ellen hoped Miss Q had thought to include a pen in the mystery package. She was happy to escape into denial at the moment. After all, like her father said, if her mother didn't win the award, she wouldn't have to cut her vacation short.

She could hope.

“Lennon only said Harley and Mac were having difficulty getting along at work,” she said. “I didn't realize it was…well, like
that
between them.”

The tightness to Christopher's jaw didn't ease up. Not one bit. “I don't think they realized it, either. Josh is expecting a lot from this training. Unless those two are another of Miss Q's pet passion projects.”

“Good luck to her, then.”

He arched a brow. “You actually think she stands a chance?”

Ellen shrugged, not willing to speculate after witnessing that kind of raging passion firsthand. Is that what Miss Q saw with her and Christopher?

I know grand passion when I see it and I'd rather risk your friendship than let grand passion pass you by.

Wise words spoken by a wise woman, or sheer madness? Ellen wouldn't speculate. Not when her breath was shallow and she felt so aware of the man sitting beside her. Not when she was fighting back this ridiculous feeling that she'd somehow disappointed him. He may not know the details of her conversation, but that tight set to his jaw revealed he knew full well that duty had just called.

And why on earth should she feel guilty for living up to her family responsibility? She could feel guilty if she was forced to abandon the training—although she hoped by Saturday they'd be far enough into the game that her departure wouldn't create any big problems. She could feel guilty that she might diminish Christopher's chances of winning, if they hadn't solved enough of the mystery by then.

She shouldn't feel guilty for disappointing him.

She shouldn't care whether he approved or disapproved of her commitment to her family—although, in all fairness to Christopher, he'd made it clear long ago that he didn't disapprove of her commitment, but rather the fact she placed her family's needs above her own without question.