Obsession Falls (14 page)
Touch-screen monitors had been set at intervals into the walls.
“What are those for?” Brent pointed.
“They’re the catalog of wines and the locations,” Taylor answered.
Georg sent her a sharp glance. “Our Summer is right.”
Taylor shut her mouth firmly. She did not need to give herself away with her knowledge.
Brent reached out a finger to tap the screen.
Georg snapped, “Do
not
touch that.”
Brent pulled back his hand. He said, “Yes, sir,” but his gaze wandered back to the monitor.
“Do not touch anything.” Georg’s stern gaze swept his staff of four. “Not any of you. Mr. Gracie would view any mucking with his possessions with displeasure, and you do
not
want to displease Mr. Gracie. You’re here to carry cases of wine, so stay close and keep your hands to yourself.” He pulled a folded printout from his pocket. “We’re serving a Seghesio Old Vine Zinfandel, port, and an ice wine from Mr. Gracie’s personal winery, three cases of each. Each of us will carry one case, except Brent, who will carry two.”
Brent puffed out his chest.
Georg continued, “We will
gently
transport these into the dining room and stand at attention while Mr. Gracie presents the wines to the guests and they applaud his generosity. Then we will take the bottles to the staging area beside the dining room, where they will be uncorked and allowed to air. We will return to the kitchen at a rapid clip since, due to this disturbance, we are now behind schedule. Brent, don’t touch that!” The last was in a sharp, staccato voice.
Brent pulled his finger away from the dusty bottle. “I was going to wipe it off.”
“Do. Not. Touch. Anything.” Georg’s face turned the dusky red of annoyance. “You do understand what
anything
means, right?”
Brent nodded.
Georg went to a cubicle, where long, narrow bottles of golden wine glistened. “Summer make sure each bottle is correct, pack it into the case and”—he sighed again—“can you lift this?”
Taylor locked eyes with him. “Of course.”
Going to another cubicle, Georg repeated the instructions to each of his staff, saving Brent until last. He hovered over Brent, checking each bottle himself to make sure it had the proper label.
When the wine was packed, the staff lifted their cases and followed Georg, but not back toward the door where they had entered. Instead they took a left into a completely different section of the wine cellar. This second room was long, wide, and lined with rows of bulky old-fashioned oak wine barrels against each wall. The barrels were three feet apart and had been placed on carved wooden racks that held them two feet off the cool, flagstone floor. Small carved wooden plaques hung from narrow chains, identifying the varietal inside:
CABERNET
SAUVIGNON,
BARBERA,
MOURVÈDRE.
Taylor had seen this kind of setup in some old, respected European wineries—but only to impress the tourists. Yet here, the careful attention to decorative detail, combined with the scents of aging wine and new oak, made her think this was an actual working cellar. She asked, “Georg, does Mr. Gracie keep wine in these barrels?”
“He does. Idaho wineries produce some fine wines, and Mr. Gracie owns one of the wineries. For his own pleasure, he transports his best vintages and ages them here in this controlled environment. When he has guests he wants to impress with his European heritage, he brings them down and taps a barrel.” Georg sounded …
off
… as if he didn’t want anyone to know his real thoughts.
But Taylor suspected those thoughts were not complimentary. Yet … why? Mr. Gracie appeared in every way to be a man admired by his colleagues. And God knows she admired him. “What
is
his background?” she asked.
“He’s an orphan. He says his family originally came from southern France.” Georg was careful. Too careful.
She moved back toward the end of the group, and realized Brent was lingering, nudging one of the casks with his shoulder. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “Trying to get fired?”
“I can’t believe it. All this wine, waiting to be drank.”
“Drunk.”
“Yeah, I imagine everybody gets drunk. How much do you think is in each one of these?”
“A regulation-sized wine barrel holds sixty gallons and weighs about six hundred pounds.” She eyed the barrel. “These are custom wine barrels, probably half again as large.”
“Whoa.” He nudged it again. “Feels like it weighs a ton.”
“Not that much. Including the weight of the barrel, it’s maybe a thousand pounds.”
Brent was clearly impressed. “How do you know all that?”
I’ve decorated a winery in Cenorina. I dated the vintner. It was fun and I learned a lot. I even learned he was a lying, cheating bastard.
“I once visited the California wine country and took a tour. Now, let’s go.” She stepped away.
Brent bumped the barrel again.
It settled more securely into place. The supports groaned.
And Georg whipped around and stared forbiddingly.
Brent looked guilty.
Unfortunately, so did Taylor.
“Don’t! Touch!” Georg thundered.
Taylor hurried to rejoin the group.
At this end of the cellar, two massive oak doors awaited them under an arch decorated with an ornate carving of vines and grapes intertwined with the name Gracie. Georg pushed against one of the doors; like the other, smaller door where they had entered, it whooshed open silently. He held it with his shoulder and waited while his servers exited. Then he let it go and took the lead again, and walked up the wide, ornate stairway toward the main floor.
Taylor took her place in the line as number three server, and as she walked, the hum of conversation from the dining room grew louder.
Outside the doorway, Georg turned to his servers. “You’ll follow me single-file. When I tell you to stop, you’ll place the wine at your feet. You stand against the wall, look over the top of everyone at the table—don’t stare!” He glared at Brent. “And smile. Mr. Gracie will make a speech about the wines he is offering. When he’s done, you’ll pick up your box and we will exit at the other end of the dining room, into the serving area. Got that?” He glared at Brent again.
Brent nodded and grinned.
“My God.” Georg rubbed his forehead between his index fingers, then he straightened. Taking Brent by the shoulder, he shoved him into line directly behind him. “All right, let’s go.” He hovered in the doorway, then at a signal from inside, he gestured to them and led the way.
Taylor walked in second to last, put her box down on the signal, straightened, and gazed over the tops of the heads of the guests.
She had never in her life felt so naked. Yes, her hair was cut. Yes, she had lost twenty pounds. Yes, it had been three and a half months since she’d disappeared into the mountains.
But three hundred wealthy, influential people were gathered at a series of elegant round tables. Taylor had been a high-end interior designer; she had probably worked for some of them, creating warm and inviting interiors for their homes. If one of them recognized her …
She couldn’t resist. She skimmed the faces, never allowing her gaze to linger, but checking to see if anyone was staring specifically at her.
And two of them were, both men, both middle-aged, both openly lustful. Were they the kind of men who sensed vulnerability and swooped in for the kill?
Euw
. Thank God that tonight she had been chopping onions and not serving tables, as so many of Georg’s female waiters had been. Now those women stood against the back wall, waiting to be summoned to top off a glass or remove a plate.
She concluded her survey of the lesser tables and slid a glance at Mr. Gracie.
He really was a gorgeous man, well groomed, with a marvelous physique and a deep, resonant voice.
He was saying, “These two aperitifs are jewels of flavor and color, precious gems in the world of rare wines and exclusive ports, moments of sunshine and grapes from summers past.”
Polite applause.
Taylor didn’t care what Georg said. Michael Gracie wasn’t all flash and show. He was eloquent, intelligent, and obviously had a good palate. Maybe someday, when her life was back to normal, she’d see if he needed a home decorated and they could …
“Look. Look!” Allison whispered out of the side of her mouth. “It’s Colin Sebastian, from the new Bourne movie, and he’s with Melissa Clarkson, the one who won all the gold medals in swimming. I heard they were dating, but they denied it.” She chortled softly. “Yeah, right.”
Taylor didn’t care. Not really. She was intent on her own survival, not on the trivia of celebrity dating. But … Colin Sebastian … he was such a great action actor … She didn’t turn her head, but she was looking. “Where?”
“Head table. Behind Mr. Gracie.”
Her gaze found the head table, larger, grander than all the others, filled with men in expensive suits and women in sequined dresses.
She saw Colin, as beautiful in person as he was on the screen, and Melissa, tall and sleek in a dress that bared her swimmer’s arms and shoulders.
Seated at the table next to Melissa, she saw
him
—Seamore “Dash” Roberts. In the flesh.
Dash looked exactly as he had on the highway at the north end of Wildrose Valley: large, smug, dressed in an expensive suit and impatient with the proceedings.
He wasn’t looking at Taylor. He seemed oblivious to Taylor.
She yanked her gaze away and stared down at her toes, then collected herself and looked over the heads of the diners at the far wall. She did not want to attract attention. Obviously. She wanted to blend in with the other servers.
“Are you okay?” Allison whispered. “You look like you’re going to faint.”
Taylor took a long breath. “Colin,” she said. “I’m woozy. Too close to him.”
“God, yes.” Allison understood rampant hormones.
Georg looked down the line of servers and glared fiercely.
What was Dash doing here?
Was he a guest of Mr. Gracie’s? Yes. Yes, he was, because now Mr. Gracie was introducing the celebrities at the head table. Movie stars, two, Colin and a British grande dame
.
Singers, two: a rap star and an opera star who introduced programs on PBS. Politicians, four: one senator, two big-city mayors, and a Chinese dignitary. And athletes: two, Olympic swimmer Melissa and former football star Dash.
Taylor slid a glance at Dash when he stood up and waved, then sat down and adjusted his tie.
How ironic that she had made the decision to come to the dining room on the ridiculous belief that to do otherwise would be remarked on in the kitchen. Who cared about
them
? None of them had chased her up the mountainside, shooting to kill. None of them had the ability to murder her with his bare hands.
Her face burned so hot she feared she would burst into flames, yet her hands were icy. This felt like a police lineup; she was caught, held, exposed with a light on her guilty face.
She’d been here for hours. Hadn’t she?
Yet Mr. Gracie was still talking. “I’m pleased to have celebrities among my guests who honor me by visiting my home, and I’m proud to announce you have raised over one hundred thousand dollars for breast cancer research!”
More applause.
“I’d like to introduce the head of breast cancer research at the American Center for Cancer Control, Carolyn Romano, who will fill us in on what your money will do to fight this terrible disease.”
A woman standing at the back of the room came to join him, and spoke earnestly about the efforts to treat and eradicate breast cancer.
Taylor didn’t hear a word. She was sweating too hard, concentrating too much on being invisible, hoping with all her heart she wouldn’t faint from fear.
A burst of enthusiastic applause brought her back to the moment.
“That’s cool,” Allison said.
“What?” Taylor barely moved her lips.
“She says Mr. Gracie is matching the donation. Over one hundred thousand dollars.” Allison sounded hungry. “So he’s gorgeous
and
generous.”
Taylor wrenched her attention to Mr. Gracie as he stepped up to the microphone.
“I’m not a good man,” he said.
A spattering of applause interrupted him.
He shook his head. “No, I am not a good man. But my mother died of breast cancer. She was such an intelligent woman, dynamic, alive, and even the short time I knew her, she taught me so much about people. I have never forgotten…”
Taylor needed to keep her attention on Mr. Gracie. She needed to appear fascinated by him, as so many women here were fascinated by him. And in fact, the way he spoke, the way he looked—he was fascinating.
Mr. Gracie continued, “That last time when she held me, even as young as I was, I felt the life slipping from her body, and I fought to keep her with me. I begged her to stay. I was helpless.”
Taylor couldn’t stop herself. She slid a sideways glance toward Dash. She expected to see him looking bored. After all, a man who would hire himself out to murder a child seemed unlikely to care about breast cancer.
Dash scrutinized Mr. Gracie with the cool calculation of a running back studying the game play.
A chill ran down Taylor’s spine.
Why? What possible interest could Dash have for Mr. Gracie except as a meal ticket?
She looked again at Mr. Gracie.
He was still talking, a vital, handsome man exposing his vulnerabilities for the good of a charity. “So I donate to breast cancer, because I cannot bear to think of another child having to face those bleak moments when he is irrevocably alone, and forever after, there is no one who understands him … the boy he is, and the man he grows up to be.”
