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.
When her libido leaped in response, Chantel took a sip of water and then added, “I’m going to go back to it, though. I talked to my folks last night. They agreed to give me as much time as I need to finish the book, as long as I would return to the family business when it’s done. In the meantime, they’re going to be sending work my way. Things they want my decisions on.”
There. Cleared up a bunch of issues. Namely, any chance that Colin Fairbanks would think there was any future in a relationship between them. It also negated any need for her to be in the market for a permanent residence. Something she had a feeling this friendly and powerful bunch would be glad to help with.
His hand didn’t leave her lap. Julie didn’t respond, either. She was looking at her brother and was no longer smiling.
Did she know what Colin was doing to Chantel under the table? And she disapproved? She’d gotten the impression earlier that Julie had been pleased to meet her...
“What do you all think?” Leslie’s voice raised as she addressed the table, halting private conversations. In that first second Chantel froze, heat rising up her neck and face. Did everyone know how her body was responding to the chaste touch of a man’s hand?
“Did everyone get a chance to try everything?” Leslie followed her first question with a second.
Chantel hadn’t had any quiche. Everyone else nodded.
“We need to make a choice today.” The caterers weren’t being mentioned by name. A had provided the quiche. B was the salad and bread assortments. C had brought some kind of grilled chicken that, in spite of the fact that it was chicken, the meat that was served at every banquet Chantel had ever attended, was delicious. Leslie passed around menus provided by all three caterers minus any kind of identifying determiner.
Discussion ensued. Chantel listened. Agreeing with Julie on every point she brought up—the flavors that, while gourmet, wouldn’t please as wide a range of palette as others. The need for a variety of options for those who couldn’t tolerate rich food but yet preventing the dreaded “bland” moniker being slapped on the evening. Colin opted for the meat and potatoes option over fondue and finger foods, his fingers leaving little caresses just above her knee.
As conversation died down, Leslie called for a show of hands in favor of A, followed by B and C. C had the job unanimously.
And Colin leaned over to ask her if he and Julie could drop her off at her hotel after their tour of the mansion, preventing the need for her to call and then wait for a ride.
Her announcement that she wasn’t going to be around for long hadn’t seemed to slow him down a bit. He was knowingly embarking on a short-time flirtation.
Which made him fair game.
She accepted his offer of a lift.
COLIN WAS READY to take the tour and go. Julie’s gaze had bruised him a bit. His little sister was pissed at him for keeping Chantel’s publishing background from her. He’d known she would be. But if he’d told her right up front, she’d probably have refused to meet her with an open mind.
Ever since the rape, she’d been slowly becoming more closed-minded. Stubborn.
Could he be blamed for caring enough to try to help her?
And Chantel...maybe she’d be free to have dinner with him that night. Just the two of them...
As Leslie was concluding the business portion of the day, the outer door of the library sounded. Someone had just come in.
“Ladies and gentlemen, dessert has arrived,” Leslie said, smiling, as a couple of white-coated women came into the room, each carrying a large brown box. And right behind them was...Patricia Reynolds—Commissioner Paul Reynolds’s wife.
Colin stiffened. What in hell the police commissioner’s wife was doing there he didn’t know. And he wouldn’t have cared, if not for the fact that Julie was sitting just a few feet away from him.
This was why she didn’t go out much. To avoid unexpected appearances...
“Now that the catering decision has been made, I can tell you that Patricia Reynolds has volunteered to handle the catering details for the mystery gala. As you all know, her daughter and son-in-law own Beachside Catering and, to avoid a potential conflict of interest, Patricia didn’t want to take on her duties until our choice had been made.”
Patricia smiled, including everyone in her greeting. The woman gave endlessly to the community. Volunteering everyplace she could. Providing companionship and guidance through a youth program she’d helped develop to young