Нора Робертс - Hideaway

She looked matronly, something that would have upset her if not for the thrill. Her name fit the look. Millicent Rosebury. She’d paid for the fake ID, the credit card she’d used to buy the gala ticket.

She had those items, a lipstick, tissue, a small amount of cash, a pack of cigarettes, some already removed, a silver lighter, and what looked like a small perfume sprayer inside her black evening bag.

She’d left her car, as instructed, in a public garage blocks away. When she’d done what she came to do, she’d return to her hotel room, change, pack up Millicent in the single tote she’d brought with her, check out via the TV, walk to her car, and drive back to San Francisco.

It was all so simple really. Grant had such a brilliant mind.

Secretly, she worked on his story— their story. When finished, it would be for his eyes only once he lived free. Once they lived free together.

She walked to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Grant said to walk.

She struggled not to look awed—by the hotel itself, the glamorous people. After clearing check-in, she stepped into the ballroom. Had to muffle a gasp.

The flowers! White, all white, calla lilies, roses, hydrangeas, spearing out of gold vases on every table. Glittering chandeliers spilling sparkling showers of light. Champagne frothing in crystal flutes. Women in stunning gowns already seated or strolling.

Grant had told her not to come too early, not too late.

She knew, her greatest skill, how to be invisible.

Accepting a glass of champagne with what she considered a regal nod, she wandered. She didn’t intend to sit at her assigned table, or if needed, not for long.

It only took a moment to spot Charlotte Dupont, flitting, swanning, holding court. She wore a sleek gold gown, like the vases. She dripped with diamonds, like the chandeliers.

Rage rose up inside Jessica. Look at the lying, deceitful bitch, she thought. She thinks she’s a queen, thinks she’s untouchable. She thinks this is her night.

Well, in a way, it would be.

Her husband, old, frail, and looking both, sat at the table in front of the stage. He sent his wife adoring glances, chatted with people who stopped by the table, with his tablemates—no doubt as filthy rich as he.

She bided her time, watched for her moment as she wandered closer.

There would be a speech from Charlotte—undoubtedly tooting her own brass horn, probably working up a few tears as she did so. Then dinner, an auction to raise more money, entertainment, and finally dancing.

The two women at the table rose, walked away. Ladies’ room, Jessica assumed, and slowly moved forward.

While she could pick her time, Jessica felt the sooner the better.

Sooner came when one of the servers approached the table. She set something in a tall, clear glass with a lime on the lip in front of Conrad.

Slipping her hand into her purse, Jessica removed the top from the little atomizer, palmed it carefully as she stepped forward.

“I beg your pardon.” She used the haughty voice she’d practiced, believed it came across well. “Could you possibly direct me to table forty-three?”

“Of course, ma’am. Just one minute.”

As the server rounded the table to serve the other drinks, Jessica leaned down to Conrad. “I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for the good work you and your beautiful wife are doing.”

“It’s all Charlotte.” He beamed a proud smile, looking up as Jessica gestured upward with her empty hand. Misdirection, Grant called it.

“A beautiful setting for a beautiful cause,” she said as she tipped the contents of the atomizer into his drink.

“Thank you for supporting it.”

“I’m proud to be a small part of tonight.”

She eased back as the server came to her side. “This way, ma’am.”

“Thank you so much.” With that regal nod, she followed the server. “Oh, I see it now. And my party. Thank you.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

Jessica continued toward table 43, walked straight past it.

Drink, she thought, drink, drink, drink.

She walked straight out of the ballroom, sliding the empty atomizer back in her purse, taking out the pack of cigarettes. She moved straight to the outside doors, fumbling out her lighter like a woman in need of a smoke.

Someone tapped her shoulder, making her jerk as if struck by lightning.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” The woman in a bold red dress laughed. “I was hoping I could get a light.”

“Of course.” Jessica forced her face into a smile so they walked out like two friends. Afraid her hand would shake, she offered the woman the lighter.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Excuse me, won’t you? I see a friend.”

She moved away, taking her time until she saw the woman chatting with another smoker.

She kept walking. Kept walking. And realized her hand wouldn’t shake. She not only felt steady, she felt triumphant.

She’d become someone to write about.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Because she wanted to keep her schedule light for the summer, Cate limited her workload to three hours in the morning. It gave her time to spend with her father, time at the ranch. Just time.

She loved watching the way her father interacted with Julia, Gram, Red, and of course, Dillon. And knew some of her favorite memories would come from that summer. Watching fireworks explode across the sky with the horde of Sullivans, with Dillon and his family, riding with her father and Dillon to herd cattle from field to field.

Something she’d never expected to do.

Walks on the beach, dancing at the Roadhouse, a visit from Gino—thanks to Lily—to add a little sass to her hair.

She imagined today would add more memories with the Coopers’ big summer barbecue. She had a new dress, courtesy of a shopping trip with Lily. White might be a mistake at a barbecue, but it looked so fresh and summery with its floaty skirt and strappy back.

She hoped her contribution of bread and butter pudding held up to what she imagined would be amazing and plentiful food.

She’d just slipped it into the oven to bake when she saw her father through the wall of glass.

Opening the door, she called out, “Just in time! I put bread and butter pudding in the oven, and you can distract me from worrying about it. I dug out Mrs. Leary’s recipe, but I haven’t made this since I was a teenager. Why did I go with something I haven’t made in over a decade?”

Then she saw his face, and the buzz of excitement over the day silenced.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“You haven’t had the news on?”

“No.”

Her pulse shuddered. Someone else? Who? God, she’d convinced herself it was over.

As they stood in the doorway together, Aidan took her hands. “Your mother’s been taken in for questioning over the death of her husband.”

“But … They said he’d had a heart attack. I know it got Red’s suspicions up again, but the man was, what, ninety? And he had medical issues.”

“It seems he had some help with the heart attack. They found digitalis, a lethal dose, in his drink.”

“God.”

“Here.” He slid an arm around her waist. “Let’s sit down out here. In the air.”

“Someone killed him. Poisoned him. They think she— But that doesn’t connect with any of the other deaths or attacks. It was his drink? Not hers?”

“His, yes. A gin and tonic, apparently. She was drinking champagne.”

“But then … It’s not connected. She didn’t even know him when everything happened.”

“No. Do you want some water?”

“No, no, Dad, I’m okay. It’s awful. A man’s dead, a man’s been murdered, and I’m relieved it isn’t connected to me. Except, I guess it is,” Cate murmured. “Is she actually a suspect?”