First and foremost, she’d gone straight to the Fairbankses. And hadn’t been surprised to find not one single reference to them in the police database. You didn’t run a law firm as successful as Fairbanks, most particularly not with the types of clients they represented, if you were prone to mischief.
Still, a girl could never be too careful. If she was going to pretend an interest in the rainmaking attorney—and she was most definitely going to if she could persuade him to pursue her—she needed to be certain that he was going to help her case, not hurt it.
After brunch, already in uniform, she stopped to give the captain her report and then headed out in her car, driving by Max and Meri’s house—completely unnecessarily, given that the man who’d tortured Meri was in prison for life in Nevada, but it was something she still did several times a week, just the same. And she took a drive by The Lemonade Stand, too, going around the block twice, just watching. She was glad to see that the shops that fronted the unique women’s shelter were conducting business as usual. There was no reason for them not to be.
But the women who were fighting for their lives inside those shops, fighting for fresh starts, striving to live without violence, deserved to be watched over.
Then she went to the beach, to sit on a bench and watch the ocean. To clear her mind, relax a bit, so that she’d be prepared and focused when she hit the streets that evening.
What she saw, as she sat there, was an empty beach with an inner vision of her and Colin Fairbanks transposed onto the sand. They were walking, hand in hand.
And there the vision stopped. Even when she’d been in a serious relationship, Chantel hadn’t been the type who held hands on the beach. Or had her doors opened for her, either.
But boy, if ever she had been, a hand like Colin’s wouldn’t have been horrible to hold...
Giving herself a mental shake, she thought about Leslie Morrison and replayed their meeting the night before over and over. Making note of the “tells” the other woman had given her. There’d been too many to ignore.
Even accounting for the fact that Chantel had been specifically looking and could have made something out of nothing a time or two, she hadn’t imagined Leslie’s completely changed manner after her husband had joined them.
Whatever Chantel thought, personally, of Colin Fairbanks, whatever strange and possibly delicious feelings he’d raised in her undercover persona were irrelevant. If, indeed, he was presenting her with the perfect alibi for spending more time in his circle than a few charity events would afford, she was going to use him for all he was worth.
Because saving a woman and her son from brutality was far more important than Chantel’s social life.
She’d just have to make certain that Colin understood, from the beginning, that their time together had nothing to do with any real caring between them. She couldn’t let things develop beyond enjoying each other’s company. Maybe she’d have to change her story a bit—maybe she was only in California until she finished her story. Maybe the family would need her back in her publishing position as soon as her book was done. She was out to save a life—not to be cruel.
* * *
COLIN FELT LIKE a schoolboy as he pulled into the recently poured parking lot of Santa Raquel’s first and impressive full-service library just before noon on Saturday.
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