“Ooh, it’s gorgeous. I’m so happy for you.”
“Thanks, Nat. I just...” she sighed, and Ciaran’s face flashed across her mind. “I wish we could see more of each other while we’re here, that’s all.”
“Believe me, I understand. Rhys has been constantly busy with the launch, and most nights he doesn’t get home until late. Speaking of the launch, how’s it going?”
“It’s not bad, really, except for Coco Welch.”
“The promotions manager,” Natalie said, and made a face. “I don’t like her, either.”
“Yesterday she sent me up to the attic to inventory all the junk – in my brand-new skirt – and while I was up there, I found a portrait hidden in the eaves. A painting of a 1920s flapper.”
“Ooh, how intriguing,” Nat exclaimed, and paused as the waiter brought their drinks. After he left, she leaned forward. “Give me details, please – who is she?”
“That’s just it – I don’t know. I’m trying to find out, but there’s not much to go on. Mr Darcy’s having the painting evaluated tomorrow.”
“Mr Darcy? Isn’t he Alastair’s lawyer?”
Holly nodded. “He studied Art History at Oxford, and he knows someone who might be able to tell us a bit more about it.”
“You know, when we were in the drawing room at the pre-launch the other night,” Natalie confessed, “I couldn’t get warm, despite the fire...and I felt a breeze. Like someone walking past me – but there was no one there.”
Holly stared at her. “You felt it too?”
She nodded. “Rhys said I was imagining things. Just like he said I imagined our intruder,” she said, and frowned.
“Intruder? What intruder? What happened?”
And as Natalie filled her in on the events at the Dunleigh the night of the pre-launch party, Holly’s eyes grew wide. “You saw someone in your apartment?”
“I’m quite sure I did. Oh, I admit it was dark, and I couldn’t make out details – but I saw someone, Holly. And whoever it was had a gun.”
“And Rhys didn’t believe you?”
“Not really, no. He searched the apartment, and checked to see if someone had tried to break in, but there was nothing.”
“So he thinks you imagined it.”
“Yes. And maybe I did...but–” She leaned forward. “–there really is a cat burglar on the loose in Manhattan. So it might very well have been him.”
Holly’s mobile phone buzzed from the recesses of her handbag, and she reached behind her chair to grab it. “Speaking of Jamie,” she said in apology to Natalie as she glanced at the screen, “he’s calling. Hello?”
“Crikey, Hols, where’ve you been?” he asked testily. “I’ve called three times, and every time I get your voicemail.”
“Sorry, I’ve been busy. I’m having lunch with Nat.” She paused. “Why, what’s up?”
“I wanted to say sorry I couldn’t meet you for lunch. And to let you know I’ll try to get home a bit earlier tonight. Catherine wants to go over the food orders again before we leave to be sure we haven’t forgotten anything.”
“Of course she does.” A world of sarcasm undercut her words.
“Look, Hols – I know we’ve not seen each other much, and I’m sorry, but it’s a lot of work getting the restaurant ready to open. I’m all over the place at the moment. I thought you understood that.”
“I do,” she sighed, instantly regretting her criticism. “I know it’s not your fault.”
“I don’t know what I’d do if it wasn’t for Catherine,” he added. “She’s been a real lifesaver through all of this.”
Any vestiges of sympathy Holly felt for Jamie dried up on the spot and morphed into irritation. “Well, hurrah for her. So glad she’s there to save the day once again. Sorry, Jamie, but we have a bad connection. I have to go,” she said abruptly. “Talk to you later. Bye.” She rang off.
Their plates arrived, and she and Natalie tucked into their respective entrees. Nat made no mention of Holly’s brief but semi-heated conversation with Jamie. Of course she wouldn’t, Holly thought; she was far too polite.
She scowled as she took a roll from the basket and buttered it with savage motions. Catherine spent far more time with her fiancé than she did, and it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair at all, in fact it was driving her absolutely bat-shit crazy—
“Something wrong, Hols?” Natalie inquired gently.
Holly looked up, startled out of her dark thoughts. “No. Why do you ask?”
“Well – you’re buttering your bread. And you never eat bread. Or butter.”
Holly forced her thoughts aside. It wasn’t fair to Nat to scowl and sulk through lunch because of Jamie’s ridiculous culinary infatuation with Catherine. “You’re right. Sorry, just thinking about that flapper and wondering who she is,” she said, and returned her bread to the basket.
Natalie nodded her understanding but said nothing more. She knows I’m lying, Holly thought.
They both knew she was lying.
“I’m done.”
Jamie took off his apron later that evening and sank wearily onto a barstool and glanced around him. Everything was nearly ready for the opening.
“It looks amazing,” Catherine said, reading his thoughts as she rested her hip against the bar. “You’ve done a great job, Jamie.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “Not true. You worked your ass off for weeks to get here.”
“It’ll all be worth it when we open the doors. But now–” He stood up. “–I really should go. I might even manage to get home before midnight tonight. I promised Holly I’d try.”
Catherine went behind the bar and retrieved a bottle. “Oh, no,” she said firmly. “Not until you have at least one glass of champagne with me to celebrate. We’ve earned it.”
She popped the cork, laughing as a froth of fizz bubbled out, and filled two glasses. She handed him one. “To us. Cheers.”
“Okay. Why the hell not?” he said as he took the glass. “Cheers,” he echoed, and grinned as he sat back down. “Here’s to you, Catherine – the best damned sous chef in Manhattan.”
There was nothing that a bubble bath couldn’t cure, Natalie reflected that evening as she eased herself into the claw-footed antique tub and leaned her head back in bliss.
It was half-past seven, and Rhys wasn’t home yet. But she didn’t mind. It gave her extra time to linger in the frangipani-scented bath, spray herself with frangipani-scented perfume, and arrange herself seductively in bed to await her husband’s arrival.
Well, she thought ruefully as she rested a hand on the slight swell of her stomach, at least as seductive as one could look in the fourth (nearly fifth) month of pregnancy.
But as she sat propped against the pillows a short time later, reading a murder mystery about a man who escaped from a mental health facility and went on a killing spree in a quiet English village, Natalie wished she’d chosen something a bit more...anodyne to read.
She