How To Host a Seduction, page 10
“That’s right, dear.” Miss Q reached out and patted him on the knee. “You’ll sleuth out what really happened that weekend when he and his sister hosted the governor and his family. The mayor of New Orleans and his family came, too. Got it?”
“Got it, and we’ve got our map of the crime scene.” Christopher tapped the rolled treasure map against his palm.
“And your costumes.” Miss Q, looking pleased, swept her eyes over them in their finery before reaching for her shoulder bag again. “I’ve got your mystery packet right here. It includes details about the murder, a playbill listing the guests, and your very own special secret clue.”
“Special secret clue?” Christopher handed the treasure map to Ellen and accepted the thick folder with the Southern Charm Mysteries logo on the cover.
“Each couple has been assigned a special clue to the mystery, your own individual piece of the puzzle. You’ll drop that clue to the other couples sometime during the session, and these clues will move you farther along in solving the mystery.”
“Drop the clue? How?” Ellen asked.
“That’s entirely up to you, dear. As hostess I can make suggestions—you can stage conversations for others to overhear, leave pieces of evidence lying around. How you choose to reveal your special clue is strictly between you and your partner. Be forewarned, though—Olaf and the staff will be watching to make sure you do. Working within the framework of rules and guidelines is also part of the skills we’re developing here.
“The whole point of the training is for each couple to work together as a team to compete against the other couples. Friendships are to be disregarded, alliances abandoned and survival your only motivation.”
“Sounds rather cutthroat,” Christopher commented.
“Your favorite type of game.” Miss Q winked. “The higher the stakes, the better.”
Glancing at Ellen, he took in her cool expression, her utterly controlled demeanor that revealed itself in squared shoulders and a reserved set to that kissable mouth.
As if the stakes weren’t already high enough.
“The best things in life are worth working for.”
“I agree entirely.” She handed Ellen a hardbound notebook also bearing the company logo. “Here’s a journal in which to record your progress. We’ve got clues and red herrings planted, so you’ll want to take good notes. Every night at seven, we’ll assemble as a group for dinner. You’ll have a chance to assess how far the others have gotten in their investigations. You’ll also have access to the staff, who may very well drop clues when you least expect them, so listen carefully to everything they say. Servants are always privy to what’s going on.”
She stood, smoothed her skirt and smiled down at them. “Familiarize yourselves with your materials. In addition to the playbill and information about the players, you’ll find checklists for the training goals we’re trying to meet here. Remember, everything you could possibly want to know about the mystery is hidden somewhere in this plantation. You just have to be clever enough to figure out where.”
Retrieving her purse, she slipped it over her shoulder. “Solving the mystery will require you to be flexible and to work cooperatively in cross-functional teams, sometimes in areas you might be unfamiliar with. You’ll be challenged to use some very innovative problem-solving strategies. Skills business people need. Any questions?”
Christopher shook his head, glanced down at Ellen. “Can you think of anything, love?”
“You’ve pretty much covered it all, Miss Q. Looks like the real work is up to us now.” Her gaze slipped between the map she held and the folder and notebook on his lap.
“Well, then, I’ll be off, dears. I’ll be around if you need me. Olaf, too.”
Christopher placed the folder on the bench, intending to escort her back to the plantation, but Miss Q waved him off. “Stay put and work on your packet. I’ll head back myself.”
“You’re sure?” The house wasn’t far, but…
She patted his cheek and smiled reassuringly. “Get to work, and have fun.” With that she lifted her skirts and disappeared down the gravel path the way they’d come.
“How much did she tell you?” Ellen asked once Miss Q was beyond earshot.
“About what?”
“About her plans to set us up this weekend. Lennon didn’t have a clue.”
Ellen had turned toward him, and Christopher took advantage of their sudden solitude to hook an elbow over the back of the bench and run his knuckles along her cheek.
She met his gaze, her own expression unchanging, but Christopher recognized the way the golden lights in her eyes flickered. He’d become very proficient at reading the subtle signs of Ellen’s moods, and intended to become even more proficient by the conclusion of this event. She might be able to school her expression and hide her reactions, but her eyes were thoroughly readable if he paid close attention.
Her eyes were the key. They masked her emotions behind a cool green stare. Or darkened to shadow when she was angry. Or melted, warm liquid gold with desire.
Right now, they hovered somewhere between green and gold, which told him she wasn’t nearly as unaffected by his touch as she’d have him believe. So he trailed his thumb along her jaw, aimed for that full bottom lip.
And being Ellen, she stubbornly refused to pull away.
“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 biographies, 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?
