Kate Carlisle - The Lies That Bind

In Gunther’s case, the theory appeared to be true, as well. He towered over Layla and looked to be made of solid muscle.

Meanwhile, Layla was still talking, explaining to the crowd how the silent auction would benefit the nonprofit Book Arts Center and also allow several scholarships to be given to underprivileged high school students who showed artistic promise.

She listed a few of the items that had been donated to the silent auction by both wealthy contributors and vendors who supplied paper and materials to BABA. Then she returned to the subject of Gunther Schnaubel.

“I don’t mean to gush , but if you could all see how beautiful Gunther’s… mm, lithographs are…” She cast another lascivious glance at his well-toned body. “Well, all I can say is… cha-ching!”

Over the roar of the delighted crowd, I could hear Doris make a tsk sound as she shook her head. I had to agree this was a “ tsk -able” moment.

But Layla was on a roll. “And we’re doubly-no, triply honored that Gunther has agreed to conduct three short hands-on demonstrations of his patented lithographic technique, and attendees will walk away with your own piece of artwork. And I do mean ‘hands-on,’ ladies.”

The ladies and a few men tittered excitedly.

I checked my watch, then touched Doris’s arm. “I’d better try to get through the crowd. I have to teach a class tonight.”

“Good luck, dear,” she said, looking around at the wall of people. “This reminds me of the time we crossed the Serengeti. I believe I’d rather take my chances with the wildebeests.”

I laughed and promised to call her next week to discuss her books. As I inched my way through the crowd, Layla continued speaking, describing the highlights of the week, especially the closing night celebration. She named a celebrity chef who would prepare the menu, an award-winning winery owner who would select the wines, and the many spectacular items available to bid on at the silent auction that night.

“For instance,” Layla said, “just to whet your appetites, we have a first edition, 1922 quarto of James Joyce’s Ulysses; some lovely, rare Hemingway ephemera contributed by our own Zachariah Mason; and of course, the jewel in the crown and the raison d’etre of our Twisted festival, an exquisitely bound, extremely rare, 1838 first edition of Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist .”

I stopped in my tracks, wincing at her announcement. Even though I’d made her think I would play along with whatever lie she wanted to put out there, it was grating to hear her actually announce the lie to a crowd of this size. For a moment, I had the worst urge to walk right up and call her bluff. Of course, I would be kissing my job good-bye, but it was more than my job at stake. If I defied Layla, I could kiss my reputation good-bye, as well.

I hated her for that.

There was another round of applause; then Layla held up her finger and the noise died down quickly. “And I know some of you will be enchanted by a naughty little 1887 British photography journal that contains scandalous nude photographs of members of Parliament cavorting with the ladies of Queen Victoria’s court. That’s right. We’re not calling our festival Twisted for nothing, and I expect you all to be extremely generous with your bidding.”

The crowd’s laughs and whistles seemed to energize her and she licked her lips. More cheers and hoots rang out. Everyone seemed excited and happy.

Well, almost everyone. I happened to catch Naomi and Karalee rolling their eyes at each other in obvious distaste. I couldn’t blame them, but they probably needed a reminder to be more discreet around this crowd.

And didn’t that make me sound like Sister Mary Responsibility? Sometimes I really hated my inner disciplinarian.

Looking around for a way to move past the tight-knit group in front of me, I spotted my three librarian students near the front door. They appeared stranded and confused, until Marianne spotted me waving. She waved back and I knew they would make it through the crowd eventually.

Skirting yet another group of partygoers, I listened as Layla’s speech drew to a close. She thanked a few of the biggest benefactors, then introduced Alice Fairchild.

“Alice, are you out there?” Layla glanced out at the audience, looking for her protégée. “Alice is BABA’s newly appointed assistant director, and I’m thrilled to have her with us. Alice?”

I scanned the space but couldn’t see her. Maybe she was in the ladies’ room.

“Yes, I’m here,” Alice called finally, sounding resigned.

I craned my neck and spied her standing next to a ficus tree in the corner. I wondered if she’d thought about hiding behind it. She sounded so stressed, I had to smile in sympathy. Was there some medication she could take to calm her nerves?

“Alice is just a bit shy,” Layla said, her tone surprisingly maternal. “But I’m confident she’ll do a fantastic job.”

As the crowd applauded politely, I eased my way around the last group standing between me and the south hall. From here, I turned to watch Layla wrap up her speech. And that’s when I saw Cynthia Hardesty dragging her husband, Tom, into one of the empty classrooms. She looked angry enough to spit nails and he looked clueless as she shoved the door closed. Had she caught him drooling over Layla again?

As I watched Layla from this vantage point in the hall, I could finally see the other man standing at Layla’s left side, as he turned to survey the crowd.

I gasped.

The crowd burst into applause just then, so no one heard me wheezing as I rushed into my classroom, slammed the door, and sagged into a chair.

I couldn’t catch my breath. My ears buzzed and my stomach wrenched dangerously. I was going to be sick. I needed to move, get away, but I was frozen in place. I began to panic and had to fight not to pass out.

I knew the man standing next to Layla Fontaine. Or I thought I did. Now I wasn’t so sure. They were standing so close to each other that Layla’s hawklike talons had embedded themselves in his thousand-dollar coat sleeve. They were so close that she had slipped her leg between his. So close that, as I watched, she’d reached out and groped his excellent butt.

The man with the excellent butt was Derek Stone.

Yes, that Derek Stone. Was there any other?

God, he looked good. He appeared even taller than I remembered and his dark hair had grown a bit in the last four weeks. Four weeks and three days, to be exact. That’s how long it had been since I’d seen him at the Edinburgh Book Fair.

Despite our best intentions, nothing of a physically romantic nature had happened between us that last night in Edinburgh. There was simply too much else going on. My parents were there, along with my best friend, Robin. I’d just won a prestigious award. And I’d been held hostage by a vicious killer earlier that afternoon. The police had wrapped up a double-murder investigation. Talk about distractions.

The next morning, Derek and I met for coffee; then he was called to Holyroodhouse Palace and I took off for the airport.

That was the last I saw of him. I’d thought at the time it was all for the best. Yes, he was far and away the most appealing man I’d ever met, but why would I get involved with someone I might never see again? It was a good question, one I spent many long nights arguing over once I was home. The plain fact was, I’d missed him every day. I missed his dry sense of humor and his intelligence, and I missed the way I felt with his arms wrapped around me. Would it have been so wrong to spend one night together, even if we never saw each other again?