Tara Taylor Quinn - Love By Association

In business attire, minus the jacket, he perused the parking lot, wondering if she was there yet.

“You see her car?” Julie asked from the seat beside him. Guiding his Lincoln Continental to a stop beside a silver Mercedes—a birthday gift to Leslie Morrison from her husband—he shrugged.

“I have no idea what she drives. She was dropped off by the hotel’s limousine the other night.” And then he realized that he’d fallen into Julie’s trap. She’d never named whose car he might have been seeking.

Yes, he’d been thinking about Chantel Johnson. Looking forward to seeing her. It may also have occurred to him that she’d change her mind and not show.

After all, what did he really know about her? Except that she was beautiful and had made one hell of a first impression on him. She could be a total flake. Lord knew, there were enough of them in their set. There were people, young women in his set among them, who did exactly as they said they would do, too.

A long black limousine pulled into the grand entrance in front of the historic mansion.

“Is that her?” Julie asked, looking beautiful in tight black pants, and a long, figure-hugging black-and-white silk top with a black silk scarf tied loosely around her neck. She handled her three-inch spiked heels like they were tennis shoes as she shut the door of the Lincoln behind her. “She’s beautiful, Colin.”

“Yeah, that’s her.” Reminding himself to wait for his sister, Colin approached the front entrance, getting turned on as one long leg followed another out of the car. In a fitted blue dress that ended just above the knee, the blonde woman with her perfectly manicured nails and sleek makeup could be stepping out of the pages of a fashion magazine.

Except that she looked far too elegant to ever parade herself for hours in front of a camera.

“Chantel!” He greeted her just outside the massive front door. “Good to see you again.” She couldn’t be blamed for thinking he was stalking her—appearing just at the exact moment that she arrived. “I’d like you to meet my sister.” He drew Julie closer. “Julie Fairbanks, Chantel Johnson.”

Two slender hands met. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, the two women sized each other up. Julie’s interest he understood. But Chantel’s? Could it be that she really was as interested in him as he was in her? That the instant attraction between them was mutual?

Only way to find out was to pursue her. And so he would.

Holding the door, Colin followed both of the women inside.

* * *

THE LIBRARY COMMITTEE consisted of six members. Seven including Chantel. Each member of the committee was in charge of an aspect of the project—from catering to marketing—and each had people working with them. As they sat over lunch—a sample from the three top caterers in the running to provide the mystery dinner on gala night—one by one they reported on their progress.

Leslie, who was the committee’s head, ran the meeting. To her right, at a table set for eight in what had once been a dining room and was soon going to be one of several conference rooms in the Santa Raquel Public Library, sat Emily Longfellow, a thirtysomething woman whose plain features were accentuated with beautiful jewelry. Emily was in charge of arranging the mansion for the evening’s entertainment—including all furnishings necessary not only to accommodate dinner seating for a couple of hundred people, but for any necessary accoutrements for the mystery that would be unfolding throughout the night. Next to Emily was a little woman who must be at least seventy, Martha something or other, who was responsible for floral arrangements.

John Duncan, next to Emily, was a man Chantel had met the other night at the auction. He was a young attorney in Colin’s office who, having just recently passed the bar exam, was on the committee but was there to oversee any work that Colin determined was legally necessary. John’s father, Clemency Duncan, was chief of neurosurgery at Stanford Hospital.

And then, opposite John, was Colin. Chantel was in between him and Julie, who sat directly to Leslie’s left.

When Chantel was introduced as their artistic director, everyone smiled and welcomed her. She had a feeling every one of them had already known everything there was to know about her. What she’d led everyone to believe about her, she amended the thought as she smiled and greeted everyone before taking a stab at the salad in front of her. It had walnuts in it. And cranberries.

“Chantel’s going to be beefing up the script for us, but since I am giving it to her only this afternoon, she hasn’t had a chance to read it yet.” Leslie continued and then moved on to Julie, in charge of invitations and marketing, who reported that their guest count was closing in on the two hundred mark.

Obviously in her element, Leslie Morrison appeared to be exactly what everyone thought she was—confident, healthy, in control, in charge. There was nothing about her that even hinted at any kind of unrest at home. She asked for the committee members’ opinions as to whether or not they should raise the guest cap on the function in the event that response continued to be so positive. Leslie took a vote and the cap was raised by fifty.

Conversations broke out at that point, Leslie leaned over to say something for Julie’s ears only and Chantel relaxed for just a moment. Long enough to feel the brush of Colin’s thigh against hers beneath the table. He was engaged in conversation with John, and at first she thought the contact had been accidental.

Until his hand dropped to his lap, disappeared under the crisp white linen tablecloth and ended up on her leg.

He was taking a hell of a lot for granted, based on one night’s meeting. Or was simply being bold, telling her in the only way he could in that moment that he was interested.

His fingers didn’t slide up her leg. Or toward her inner leg. He wasn’t being a creep. Or disrespectful, either. He just held on.

And Chantel liked it.

* * *

“DO YOU HAVE some experience with scriptwriting?” Julie was trying the spinach quiche Chantel had shied away from, and, finished with whatever she and Leslie had been discussing, she was addressing Chantel while she ate. Her smile was warm and friendly, reminding Chantel of Jill—the best friend she’d had since grade school and lost to a crook’s bullet several years before.

“None,” Chantel admitted, breathing through the memory. And then, remembering her cover, said, “I’m a writer, though.” You didn’t have to be published to be a writer.

“Oh? What do you write? Anything I might have read?” Colin’s hand moved from her leg, leaving a cold place.

“Hardly.” She grinned and almost forgot to soften the edge of street life from her voice. “I’m not published. Yet,” she added to give the impression that she was serious about her pursuit.

“Do you have an agent?”

Did she? Trying to remember anything she might have heard about her aunt’s business, and the story she’d told Colin about her own publishing position, she decided on, “Yes.” And hoped she wasn’t digging a grave before she was ready to bury Chantel Johnson. She’d be doing publishing and agent research later that night.

“So what are you writing?”

“Women’s fiction. Suspense. It’s a woman-in-jeopardy story.” And before she saw any of these people again, she better have some kind of plot fleshed out. She’d go through her case files. Find an interesting arrest that had converted to charges and then a conviction.

Colin’s hand was back. Chantel’s body responded with a small feeling between her legs. She didn’t dare look at him. But she did notice that he was no longer speaking with John.

She assumed he was listening to her and Julie. So she slipped her hand under the table, leaving it on her lap. “My family’s in publishing,” she said, telling Julie that she’d left behind a position of VP of marketing. Colin’s hand slid over hers.