Playing Dirty (12 page)

She nevertheless called the cab company to go collect the older man before she went looking for Cade.

She found him talking on the phone in the parlor. “You’ve got it penciled in for the day after tomorrow, right?” he said. He listened, then gave a decisive nod, even though the other party clearly couldn’t see. “Good. It’s a go. Ink it.”

She stood quietly until he disconnected a minute later and looked up at her. Then she stepped forward. “Have you got a minute?”

His eyes were slightly wary but his voice easy when he said, “Sure. What’s up?”

She explained about Mr. Tarrof and how she’d sent a cab for him to come to the mansion until she could get him settled. “I hope that’s all right.”

“Hell, yeah, it’s all right. What a shitty thing to happen.”

“I know, isn’t it? It must be awful to have the home you’ve always felt safe in be violated like that. And that’s
before
getting hit over the head. I just hate the thought of what he’s going through by himself.” It felt strange to be on the same page with him for a change, to talk so easily.

And for this minute, at least, she set aside her new agenda. Because strange or not, it was also nice. “Thank you, Cade. I admit I forgot while I was talking to him
that this isn’t my place at the moment. So I appreciate you being reasonable about it.”

“Not a problem.” He shrugged, then gave her a leisurely up and down. “You might wanna find an apron or something, though, to slap over that dress. Mr. T doesn’t need a heart attack on top of everything else he’s been through. He’s probably seen all he cares to of hospitals.”

She had to bite back the laugh that tickled the back of her throat. Instead she made a production of sighing. “So much for the detente. Still, while you’re being so understanding and all, can you spare me for a half hour, forty-five minutes, to go to his place and pack him a bag? I don’t think it’s a good idea for him to go back in his house until I can arrange to have it put back to rights.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. Just let me know when you’re ready to go.”

“Fair enough.” She faced him squarely. “This is very nice of you.”

“I can say the same of you. You’re taking care of a guy you only met once.”

“Ah, well, but then that’s what I do.” Hitching a shoulder, she gave him a crooked smile. “I like taking care of people.”

They stared at each other for a moment, then she shifted uneasily. “Well.”

His phone rang and she left him to his calls. Walking from the room, she found herself breathing a sigh of relief. She couldn’t say why, but that little moment of agreement or understanding or whatever it had been between them seemed somehow more dangerous than all the sexual attraction in the world.

She shook the feeling off, however.

And headed back to the kitchen to call a concierge she knew at the Fairmont Olympic to see what kind of deal they could make her on a room.

T
ONY STOPPED
in his tracks a stride past the mansion kitchen archway, his blood flash-freezing in his veins. Silently, he bent backward to get another look—then eased upright in almost the same heartbeat.

Shit. He had seen exactly what he’d thought he’d seen. What the hell was Tarrof doing here?

Oh, Christ. Had he come to
ID
him? Were the cops on their way, as well?

Dammit, he
knew
he shouldn’t have made a play for the original Wolcott mansion blueprints. He wasn’t a goddamn second story man. As if anyone would choose to be when it was just plain easier to romance lonely women out of their money.

It was a whole lot safer, too. Besides, what house in the upper income brackets wasn’t wired for security to the
nth
degree these days?

And yet…

The opportunity had been too good to pass up. When he’d heard someone on the set telling somebody else that Tarrof’s granddaddy had built this joint and—more importantly, from his point of view—that the original
blueprints were one of Stan the Man’s prize possessions, he’d known he’d found his solution to the trick wall. So while everyone was busy shooting elsewhere, he’d gone to the room Beks used as an office, stolen a peek at Tarrof’s information sheet and made a note of his address.

The minute he’d turned his shift over to John last night he’d headed straight to Tarrof’s neighborhood. He’d parked several blocks away, of course, then hoofed it over to the right one.

It was sheer dumb luck that he’d been casing the joint for less than ten minutes when the old guy’s housekeeper had exited through the rear door. Tony couldn’t have timed it better if he’d tried, considering he’d just let himself into the back yard. From his vantage point around the ancient oak tree he’d dodged behind to keep out of sight, he’d had an excellent view as she’d made a beeline for an old-lady-mobile parked in the circular driveway. It hadn’t hurt his cause any that her attention had been focused on the monster purse she’d been rummaging through.

And hadn’t it just seemed like fucking kismet when she’d all but snapped her fingers halfway to her car and whirled to go back? Especially since she’d left the kitchen door wide open behind her.

Grabbing opportunities that came his way was his strong suit, but he had to admit that his heart had done some serious tripping shit when he’d sidled up to the door and peeked around its jamb. Because who was to say the woman hadn’t merely stepped into the kitchen to boost a bottle of wine or a package of filet mignons before hitting the road for the night?

She’d been nowhere in sight, however, so he’d slid
into the room slicker ’n snot. Working fast and silent, he’d found a walk-in pantry to close himself into.

When the housekeeper had come back through the kitchen a short while later, she hadn’t acted as if anyone else was there. She’d neither walked particularly quietly nor called out to anyone. And while it might have been that she simply didn’t have the kind of relationship that included calling goodbyes to her employer, he’d taken a wild shot and deduced the old man wasn’t home. The housekeeper’s car had been the only one in the drive, and the place had just felt empty when Tony had finally judged it safe to let himself out of the pantry.

He’d grabbed a pair of cleaning gloves from a box he’d found under the sink, pulled them on and yanked a paper towel from the roll on the counter, using it to wipe his prints from any surfaces he’d touched. Stuffing it in his back pocket to dispose of later, he’d gone in search of the old man’s office.

While looking for it, he’d passed some spectacular
objets d’art.
But as he’d been on a mission that would net him a thousand times what those were worth, he’d left them untouched.

He’d finally found the room he was looking for upstairs, and was feeling pretty good when he’d pulled open the first in a series of cabinets with wide, shallow drawers.

Then things had turned to shit.

Jesus. There must have been five hundred blueprints in all those drawers—and the things weren’t exactly easy reading.

He’d started out being real careful, since he’d fully expected to find what he was looking for and be out the door with no one the wiser.

But not only had Tarrof’s grandfather been an architect, so had his daddy been, apparently. And between them they must have saved every fucking piece of paper they’d ever sketched on, never mind the fifty years worth of blueprints. It wasn’t like he’d had the whole goddamn night to search either, so after a while he’d started just tossing the shit aside the instant he determined it wasn’t what he was searching for, then moving on to the blueprint beneath it in hopes that this,
this,
would be the one he needed in order to grab the brass ring and get the hell outta drab, gray Seattle.

Midway through the third or fourth cabinet—who could keep track?—he’d wondered if maybe Tarrof had framed the damn thing and had it hanging in another room. He sure as hell hadn’t heard anybody talking about all this other crap in here. So he’d searched room to room and in his mounting frustration had maybe thrown a few things around.

When he’d heard footsteps on the staircase, he’d damn near had a heart attack. Realizing he was probably in the old man’s bedroom, he’d snatched up a nice hefty statuette and stepped behind the door. Then bashed the old man a good one as soon as he’d stepped into the room.

So here he was, hanging outside the mansion kitchen, wondering if he was about to get his ass hauled off to jail.

Jesus.
This was supposed to be a gravy job.

But if not for the lousy luck he’d had since taking it on, he’d have no goddamn luck at all.

A
VA HAD THOUGHT
documentary-making was chaotic before. She discovered later that week that the interviewing portion was nothing compared to filming.

There was a mountain of additional equipment, and she didn’t know if it was simply that—that there was so much more of it—or if the filming gear was larger than the digital equipment, as well. Either way, it seemed to suck up all the available space.

She did know that the noise levels before and after filming had ratcheted to new heights today. Which was hardly surprising considering how many more people were suddenly crowded into the mansion. Everyone’s job appeared to be more task specific than during the interviews. Assistants had assistants.

Or so it looked to her. All she knew for sure was that the food service portion of this gig had suddenly gone from being a fun job to one that made her feel that there weren’t enough hours in the day to pull together everything she needed to accomplish.

Not that she had any excuse for being caught by surprise. Cade had given her the new personnel list Beks had drawn up days ago, so it wasn’t as if she hadn’t known it was coming. Hell, she’d done the up-front preparations for it, had arranged the housing and transportation for the additional crew and actors. But that was work she could do in her sleep.

It was the logistics of feeding the larger group that was going to take a little longer to get straight in her head. And when she
used
her head, she knew it was too soon to panic. This was only the first day for cripes sake—of course she had to allow for some adjustments.

Her silly, emotional gut didn’t feel quite so positive, however. She was accustomed to being good at what she did. And planning, buying and preparing everything in order to have it all table-ready, as well as keeping her platters stocked when the hordes tore through them like
weevils through cotton, had eaten up way more time than she’d anticipated. She didn’t have a handle yet on how much food was enough but not too much.

Where she’d had professional caterers to defray the work for the bigger events she’d put on in the past, she was now on her own. So, she’d give this one more day, then she would have to think hard if it looked like it was going to keep up this frenetic pace. If that were the case, she’d definitely have to come up with a different solution.

“Well, bitch, whine, complain.” She hauled her second pineapple of the day to the counter and brought over the bowl of apples, a clamshell of kiwis and one of strawberries.

But before she started cutting everything up, she poured a bag of mandarin oranges into a bowl and slid it onto the service table. That and the decimated tray of deli meats would have to tide over anyone wandering in looking for something to nosh on while she refilled the platters. She’d added some odds and ends to her soup, and although it should stretch a little further, it was still reheating. Given how fast the newly enlarged group had gone through it, she had a feeling she might have to start making two pots full.

Great. That’d add another forty minutes to her evening schedule.

With a sigh, she pulled out a butcher-block cutting board, grabbed a knife…and worked on getting over herself.

The truth was, she could probably ask Cade for an assistant, as well. They could no doubt get a part-time prep cook for a negligible amount, given the overall budget
for this production. So if stubborn pride prevented her from doing so—well, she could hardly blame it on him.

And didn’t
that
just bite.

She tried keeping the facts rather than her reaction to them in mind as the day wore on. It was just tough luck that she was tired, frustrated and feeling increasingly cranky by the time the young woman with the suck-the-soul-right-out-of-your-body stare strolled into the kitchen.

She looked to be in her early twenties, a lanky brunette one latitude south of tall. Grabbing an orange out of the bowl, she came over to the working area, leaned her narrow hips back against the counter and locked her gaze on Ava. “Hi.”

The avid intensity of her look made Ava feel almost claustrophobic. All the same, she gave the other woman a polite nod and said, “Hi, yourself.” Then, stepping around her, she grabbed two containers of braided apple strudels. She had to move around the woman again to pluck a couple of cookie sheets from a lower cupboard and was starting to grit her teeth by the time she paused to fire up the oven. While it preheated, she placed the pastries on the pans. Things had gone quiet in the rest of the mansion, which meant they were probably filming or doing their test shots or whatever. And considering how late in the day it was getting to be, that meant people would likely be descending on her soon.

“I heard you knew Agnes Wolcott really well.”

“Uh-huh.” Okay, she still had some of the fruit she’d cut up earlier. And there were crackers and—shit. She still needed to cube up some cheese. She headed for the fridge.

“I need to know everything there is to know about her.”

Seriously? That pulled her attention away from the mental list she was running, and she glanced at the young woman over her shoulder. Who the hell
was
she?

She promptly shook the question aside, because it didn’t matter. Ordinarily she would love talking about Miss A with someone involved in Agnes’s documentary—which this woman must be or she wouldn’t be here. But not when she felt not only hip-deep in preparations but a scant two steps ahead of getting buried in the avalanche of them. “Listen, I don’t have time for this. Maybe after—”

The young woman whirled on her heel and stalked from the room.

“—I finish up here.” The breath Ava blew upward contained enough gusty irritation to flutter her bangs.
Jeez, lady. Impatient much?

As she suspected, the crew started pouring in a short while later. She was hot, sticky and starting to worry big-time about running out of food by the time the last person dished up and took a seat.

But she made it. By the skin of her teeth, but still. She recorded a few changes for tomorrow, then raced through the cleanup. Worn to a nub, all she could think of was how badly she needed to get away from here.
Now
. There was still a lot of prep work to do for tomorrow’s spread when she got home, but at least she’d
be
home. Where it was blessedly quiet.

And where a bubble bath with her name on it waited down the hall as soon as she finished her chores.

Someone out in the hallway called Beks’s name.

“Hold on,” she heard the PA reply. “I need to tell Ava Cade wants to talk to her ASAP.”

Oh, no.
Grabbing her purse, she let herself out the back door. She knew her actions were less than professional, but she didn’t care. She was seriously tapped out.

Besides, she assured herself as she climbed in her car, started it up and backed out of the driveway, she was doing them both a favor. No telling what she might say, given the frame of mind she was in at this moment. She’d be in a much more reasonable one first thing in the morning.

Walking into her condo a short while later, she didn’t feel her tension immediately melt as she’d half expected. But she assured herself that was because she was still revving. She’d had to stop at Metropolitan Market on the way home, and it had been a madhouse of too many people crowding the aisles and long lines. That and the fact that even though she was finally home, she still had a ton of work to do.

She’d planned on sitting down and putting her feet up for ten minutes to catch her breath and decompress. But looking at the bags of groceries she’d dumped on the counter, she sighed.

Then kicked off her shoes and began pulling out items, separating them into two different groups for the dishes she needed to prepare for tomorrow.

She’d chopped red cabbage for the Thai chicken salad, had just begun on the head of green and was concluding her pissy factor probably had something to do with not taking the time to eat dinner, when someone started pounding on her door.

“Aw,
c’mon!
” Sliding off the stool onto her very tired
feet, she stalked over to the door and flung it open.
“What?”

Then she blinked. “Oh, crap. It’s you.”

Cade bulled his way into her tiny foyer as if he owned the joint, slammed the door behind him—then had the nerve to lean down and shove his nose a fraction of an inch from hers. His eyes sparked gas-flame blue with temper. “Who the hell told you it was quitting time?” he demanded.