Chapter 2 #2
A few jaws dropped. With Saskia, the love of his life, sitting on his lap, Clay asked, “Has Fernsby had a stroke or something?”
On the screen, Dane shook his head. Cammie sat next to him. Troy wondered fleetingly when the hell Dane planned to marry her. Though he’d finally admitted he was bonkers for her, he had yet to put a ring on her finger. Troy hoped it wouldn’t take another twelve years for Dane to follow through.
“He asked me for a night off,” Dane said. “But I thought he was going to help you out, since you’d mentioned the dinner party.”
“Fernsby shouldn’t have to ask for time off on a Friday night,” Ava said. Troy’s beautiful older sister pushed a lock of red hair behind her ear.
Ransom Yates, sitting next to her, leaned in to add, “Do you all really think he should be at your beck and call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week?”
Gabby, the subject of the bet—which made Troy think of Michaela again and almost threw him off track—said, “Of course we don’t.
It’s just that he’s always there whenever we need him.
He never says no to anything. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him asking for a night off before. Something’s wrong.”
Troy and Gabby were in agreement. But Clay said, “Why didn’t you call us immediately, Dane? This is so freaking strange.”
Saskia added, “Wow, you guys are all very proprietary about Fernsby.”
Dane jumped in. “It’s only because we care about him.”
Cammie held up her hand, focusing the attention on her. “I believe I know what it is. I saw a flyer in the mail for a book signing by Mathilda Sullivan, which is being held in San Francisco on that Friday.”
“Mathilda Sullivan?” Troy could only echo.
“She’s a British mystery writer,” Dane explained. “Fernsby has all her books.”
Cammie added, “In print, e-book, and audiobook.”
Another mouth gape by all.
Saskia tipped her head, her dark hair falling over her shoulder.
“He was carrying Mathilda Sullivan’s new book the first day I met him.
” She patted Clay’s chest. “Remember? We were talking about Charlie Ballard’s brilliant new sculpture in your warehouse lobby.
” Clay had commissioned Charlie, who’d married Sebastian Montgomery, one of the Mavericks, only a month ago—in Las Vegas, no less. They’d all been in attendance.
Clay nodded. “I remember.”
Ava’s eyes suddenly held keen interest. “That makes a lot of sense, then. He’s dying to get her autograph.”
Troy switched over to his internet browser and looked up the woman’s most recent book. And lo and behold… “Holy crap! The main character’s name is Fernsby. It’s a woman detective, but her last name is Fernsby.”
“Good Lord,” Ava said, her stunned expression mirrored on all their faces.
It was Ransom, chef extraordinaire and the man Ava loved with her whole being, who said, “Mathilda Sullivan and Fernsby must know each other, maybe even from back when Fernsby was in England.” His gaze shifted to what Troy thought was Dane’s video panel. “Do you know how long he’s been in the US?”
Dane looked sheepish. “I don’t know when he left England. He’s never talked about it.”
Then they all appeared a little sheepish. Because none of them knew much about Fernsby—not his age, not his first name, not how long he’d been in the country. He was ageless Fernsby, who’d dropped into their lives fifteen years ago. And he’d been with them ever since.
Maybe they took him for granted. Maybe they loved his baking too much to push for his private details.
“And maybe,” Ava said on a stern note that sounded like it might have come from Fernsby himself, “none of this is any of our business. Especially not why he wants to go to a book signing instead of helping you with your supplier dinner.”
The faces on his monitor suddenly appeared chastised. Because Ava was right.
Troy couldn’t help himself, though. He had to go to that book signing. His supplier dinner could definitely take place in July.
But first, there was Gareth’s gallery showing, where he would once again see Michaela Killian. And her plus-one.
Troy was aware the moment Michaela arrived at the gallery. He swore he could smell her breezy scent and pick up the soft tones of her voice even in this crowd.
His worst fear was that she’d be hanging on the arm of a handsome man who was perfect for her. The plus-one she’d asked to bring.
He’d never been the dueling kind, but for her, he’d consider it.
Like ripping off a bandage instead of peeling it back slowly, he turned.
For a long moment, she was hidden in the packed gallery as patrons moved from painting to painting, viewing, absorbing, buying, and sipping the plentiful champagne.
Gareth Tate was a master painter; anyone could see that now, though he’d hidden his talent behind a lawyer’s facade for ten years.
Troy had already put money down on an image of three male divers ready to hit the water.
Troy might have been the inspiration—after all, Gareth had known him during his Olympic diving days—but the young men were indistinguishable except for their form, which Gareth had captured precisely.
Troy had to have the painting for his home.
It reminded him of his glory days, with Dirk Pendergast and all his diving buddies.
The camaraderie, the striving for a goal, fans falling quiet as he stood high on the board, then jumping to their feet and screaming when he plunged into the water after a perfectly executed dive.
He’d never lost his need to strive toward a goal, but now that goal was his sporting goods business, as well as inspiring young people to be the best they could be.
Whenever he traveled for business, he always set up speaking gigs, talking to youths, inspiring them to have a goal, showing them by example that they could accomplish whatever they strove for.
Then the crowd parted. It was as if a spotlight shone on Michaela rather than the paintings. Troy’s heart flipped over.
Michaela Killian was stunning in a flirty black cocktail dress with a flared skirt that seemed to swish around her luscious thighs.
Don’t think about her thighs . The lights caught glittering jewels along the neckline, which plunged low, enough to make him sweat at the sight of her cleavage.
Spaghetti straps bared her shoulders, her throat.
He had the urge to kiss every inch of her exposed skin.
But it was her high heels that did him in. His heart pounded hard enough to make him feel lightheaded.
Then he saw her plus-one.
And he thanked God he wouldn’t have to challenge anyone to a duel tonight.
The woman beside her was obviously her mother, with the same luscious dark hair, though the older lady’s was shot through with an attractive silver.
Her black sheath dress, also trimmed with jewels around the neckline, outlined a form as delightful as her daughter’s.
He could even make out the sparkle in green eyes the exact shade of Michaela’s.
He made a beeline for his special guest and her mother.
Before Michaela could react, he took her hands in his, the feel of her warm skin as sensual as the thought of her lips on his body. “Hey, Mikey, I hope you like it.”
Her eyes widened. She didn’t laugh. And his heart whispered, Please, please, please, have a sense of humor .
It was her mother who laughed and got the reference to the old-time commercial with a little boy named Mikey. Like her daughter’s, her voice was a melody as she said, “You’re far too young to remember that commercial.”
He shrugged, held out his hand, and said, “I love old-time TV. I even know who Mr. Whipple is.”
The woman laughed as she shook his hand. “I’m Flo Killian. Mr. Whipple is a bit before my time, but I do know of him.” Then she whispered, “Please don’t squeeze the Charmin.”
They laughed together. Until Michaela broke in. “My name’s Michaela, not Mikey.” Then, without cracking a smile, she added, “and it’s not Mr. Whipple either.”
Wow. Was that a trace of humor leaking through? He could only hope. But he said, “I thought it was only Mick you didn’t like.”
She scowled. “I’m not partial to Mikey either.”
Could that be a smile flirting at the corners of her pretty lips? He sure as hell prayed it was.
Then he set about introducing the ladies to everyone in the gallery.