“Clare, I don’t…” he said haltingly. “Bree and I…it’s just a networking thing.” He shrugged, looked away. “She needs an escort that knows which fork to use, someone to open doors for her, hold her coat, give her, you know…”
“Don’t strain yourself searching for a euphemism. I know what it is you give her.”
“It’s not like that. We’re just casual friends.”
I was sure he was serving me baloney, but I bit my tongue, feeling stupid for having let our conversation get even this far. I had allowed myself to fall back into some cheated-on wife pattern when I was no longer his wife. It was embarrassing. And Matt was being more than patient with me.
I was about to apologize when a breeze blew up off the ocean, rustling the Japanese paper lanterns and making my teeth chatter. I hugged myself, shivering, and Matt shook his head. He slipped off the Helmut Lang evening jacket and draped it over my shoulders.
“Listen, Clare, changing the subject won’t get you out of hot water…although it’s obvious the water you just stepped out of was ice cold.” His eyebrow rose again, a little of the old playful Matt back in his expression. Then he actually smiled. “Anyway, I still want an explanation from you. But first I’m going to borrow Breanne’s car and drive you home.”
“Matt, that’s okay. You don’t have to—”
“I want to talk to David anyway, tell him how the installations on the West Coast are going. I tried to get to him tonight, but there were just too many people surrounding him. I just need to tell Bree where I’m going. Back in a minute.”
I couldn’t argue, mainly because I was too chilly.
I watched Matteo cross the patio, put a light touch on Breanne’s shoulder. She turned from her small circle of friends, smiling—a little forced I thought. They spoke for a moment. The smile disappeared. Her eyebrows rose into that HDTV forehead and she glanced in my direction.
I looked away, watching the rest of the party to pass the time. Matt was at my shoulder again before I knew it. He grabbed my elbow, not much gentler than the security man had a few minutes ago. I couldn’t stop myself from observing—
“It’s amazing what an uplifting effect Breanne has on you.”
“Come on, let’s go.”
“Was Bree cranky?”
“I’m cranky,” he growled, pressing me through the crowd. “Don’t go there.”
“Trouble in paradise?”
We entered the mansion’s crowded first floor, and I gawked at the decor. The Sandcastle was the most extravagant home I’d seen yet. Gothic in style, the place had been fashioned to resemble a medieval castle, complete with a single stone tower. Constructed of granite, glass, cast iron, and heavy wood, the mansion’s rooms (what I saw of them anyway) were huge.
Matteo led me through a split-level living room, the lower portion transformed into a dance floor complete with disco lights. Then we headed down a long hallway, lined with medieval-style tapestries, stunning reproductions of museum pieces. An anteroom held an actual suit of armor. Then there was another hall, this one lined with portraits of medieval knights, and finally we came to the mansion’s grand entranceway.
The foyer sat directly under the castle’s only tower. The area had a vaulted ceiling with graceful, carved stone arches that met at its center. The room was illuminated with tall iron braziers (actually gaslights behind glass, no open flames). Coats of armor hung on the bare stone walls.
A wide curving staircase descended from a second floor mezzanine constructed of carved oak, black with age. On the opposite side of the entranceway the huge front door was guarded by a mob of valets.
The door itself looked like something out of Ivanhoe, and I thought to myself that all this place needed was a portcullis, one of those iron gates that drops down from the ceiling. That, and a few actual knights with broadswords, of course.
Matteo approached a valet and handed the young man a parking chit. As we waited for Breanne’s car to be brought around, I heard a commotion from the mezzanine. Then a pleasant voice cried out.
“Don’t go, the party is just getting started!”
A handsome man hurried down the stairs. I recognized him immediately. Two women in maid’s uniforms followed right behind. One clutched a fluffy royal-blue robe, the other a pair of matching slippers. The man practically shoved Matteo aside to reach me, something he could easily do because he was as tall as Matteo, with shoulders looking as broad as Mike Quinn’s in his fine, buff-linen suit.
No older than thirty, olive complexioned, with a square jaw, a close shave, and neatly combed ebony hair, the host of the party regarded me through eyes of black onyx. For a long moment, he simply stared at me with an intensity that almost embarrassed me.
I self-consciously pulled Matt’s jacket closer around me, worried, not for the first time, how much was revealed by my damp clothes.
“Please,” he finally said. “You’re soaking wet, allow me…”
He took the floor-length robe from the maid and held it open.
“We really should go,” muttered Matt.
I slipped Matt’s jacket off my shoulders and handed it back to him. Then I stepped into the soft, warm folds of the thick, Egyptian cotton robe.
“That’s better, isn’t it? And now the slippers.” The man actually got down on one knee and placed the slippers on my bare feet.
“Th-thank you,” I stammered, flabbergasted. The last time anyone knelt down to put a pair of shoes on me I’d been around ten years old, getting fitted for First Communion patent leather.
“My name is Bom Felloes,” he said with his familiar British accent and a warm, open smile. “Welcome to my home.”
His name was no surprise, of course. I’d already recognized the man from his Gourmet Channel show, Elegant Dining. A very charismatic mix of British and Portuguese ancestry, Felloes obviously had become quite wealthy from his show, the chain of restaurants bearing his name, and whatever else he did on the side.
“My name is Clare. Clare Cosi,” I said.
“Yes, I know, my head of security told me. I do apologize for his manhandling you in any way. You’re not hurt are you, love?”
I suppressed a laugh. Now I knew why Bom was being so solicitous. He was probably terrified I was going to sue the pants off him! Not that Bom with his pants off would be an unattractive sight, I realized. Seeing the man up close and personal gave me a whole new perspective on his villainy.
Could anyone this charming really be a contract killer?
“Yes, I witnessed it. Your head of security was pretty rough with her—” Matt began to gruffly respond.
But I quickly interrupted him. “No worries, Mr. Felloes. I’m the one who’s sorry for crashing your party, and in such a state.”
“Why you look perfectly charming, even sopping wet!” he declared. “A waif from the sea. An adorable little Venus.”
“Yes, well…” I stumbled, embarrassed. “I did see your ice sculpture on the way in. I think she had a few less shreds of clothing on than me.”
Bom laughed, his dark, intense eyes sparkling. “So you’re my neighbor?”
“Yes, I’m staying with David. Something, uh…came up and I crossed the beach to find him. It was dark, you know? And I, uh…I was stupid…I walked too close to the water. A high wave caught me by surprise.”
Bom frowned. “Well, it’s a shame you missed David. He left a little while ago. His restaurant manager, Jacques Papas, arrived late, but he agreed to cut short his fun and drive David home. Alas, David claimed he wasn’t feeling well.”
Bom paused and then chuckled. “I hope it wasn’t the company.”
“I’m sure he had a fine time,” I politely replied.
“And I’m sure you know…we’ve had our business rivalries in the past. But I invited David here to bury the hatchet, as you Americans say. So tell me, how do you know David? Are you two…”
He let the words trail off in implication. “We’re just friends,” I replied, quickly straightening out any misconceptions. “I’m his barista manager for the summer at Cuppa J. I’m overseeing the coffee service, managing the beans, putting together the dessert pairings, that sort of thing.”