Criminal Confections (6 page)

Some needs, I figured—like Rex's apparent need to be 100 percent smarmy, 100 percent of the time—just couldn't wait.

 

 

When I emerged, something was happening. The string quartet's music had stopped. Raised voices rang from the ballroom. Shouts could be heard from the patio. Footsteps too.

A hotel staff member ran past me, looking grave.

Alarmed, I followed him to the ballroom. There, the retreat attendees streamed toward the open French doors leading to the patio. More guests pushed onto the patio itself, spilling onto the walkway and crowding between the potted topiaries and the tiled fountain that still burbled merrily in the moonlight.

“They said it was one of the chocolatiers,” someone blurted near me. “One of the people who works for Lemaître.”

“Maybe it's Christian,” someone else said with ghoulish zeal, but I couldn't stop to listen. I pushed my way past gawkers and bystanders, ignoring people whom I'd wanted to impress earlier.

All I could think about was Adrienne. I had an uneasy feeling about her. I know it's silly. I do. After the fact, anyone can say they had a premonition of disaster. Anyone can claim to have
known,
in their bones, that something was wrong.

But not just anyone saw what I saw next.

Between the onlookers, I glimpsed Nina. She sat on one of the low stone planters bordering the patio, cradling something. In the dim glow afforded by the now incongruously cheerful white light strings, I saw that she was crying. A man was trying to take something from her. I had the confused impression that Nina was fighting him off. Her agonized wail pierced all of us.

There was anguish in that sound. I'd never heard anything like it. My heart pounded twice as fast. My mouth went dry. I felt dizzy, but I kept moving like an automaton. I had to.

“I'm sorry.” Two men wearing uniforms stood. One silently collected his equipment. “There's nothing more we can do.”

Belatedly, I realized they were an EMT unit. The police had been called, too, along with the hotel staff. Hazily, I tried to peer around them—tried to see what was wrong with Nina.

Instead, I saw Adrienne. Her limp body was propped in Nina's arms, slumped at a strange angle. Her head lolled. Her chef's coat was stained with blood. Her sleeves were speckled with it, too, as though she'd held up her arms to ward off . . .
something.

Something, I realized, that had killed her.

Adrienne was . . . dead?

It didn't seem possible. But then suddenly Danny was there.

He was fighting through the crowd, pulling me into his arms, tucking my head against his shoulder. “That's enough now.”

Oh, God.
That's when I knew it was true.

Danny was pugnacious. Straight talking. Tough as nails. He didn't believe in babying people. He would never have comforted me this way over anything less than a disaster.

I raised my face to his. His gentle eyes looked back at me.

I started trembling uncontrollably. That's when Danny took charge. He nodded. “We're leaving,” he said. “Right now.”

Then he led me away.

Chapter 4

Danny, being Danny—and my doppelganger when it came to finding an escape hatch—had one destination in mind: the kitchen, with its superfast, behind-the-scenes stairwell.

Unfortunately, getting there proved trickier than hailing a taxi on a Parisian street corner. Other retreat attendees blocked our path, turning what should have been an easy getaway into a five o'clock sharp traffic jam. I stared at the well-dressed industry types surrounding us and felt like screaming.

Or maybe crying. I honestly wasn't sure.

Adrienne was dead.
It didn't seem possible.

Confirming that it was, a uniformed SFPD officer was in the process of interviewing people. Her voice pierced the hubbub with authority. “Had she had anything to eat or drink tonight?”

“I know the answer to that!” I stage-whispered to Danny.

Adrienne had been mainlining chocolates and green “energy” juice, I knew. Plus whatever she'd eaten at the spa that day.

I tried to veer in the officer's direction, planning to say so. My hunky, suit-clad pal dragged me back, shaking his head. Tight-lipped, he carved a pathway for us both through the throng. “Not right now,” he said as everyone made way for him.

Too late, I understood. Given Danny's past, his wrong-side-of-the-tracks upbringing, his various run-ins with the law (and his recent pickpocketing escapade with Rex Rader) . . . well, it was no wonder he tensed up around anyone wielding handcuffs, a SIG Sauer sidearm, and a baton. Danny didn't trust the police.

Confirming my theory, he ducked his head. With his face obscured, he swerved deliberately away from the SFPD officer.

Hmm.
That wasn't good. If he was up to his old ways . . .

I didn't have time to contemplate Danny's miscreant past, though. Because just then, we passed the area where we'd all posed for that cheesy group photo. I remembered Adrienne's goofy expression when we finished. I remembered her complaining about not being photogenic. I remembered cracking wise about Isabel Lemaître's lifetime bra-wearing quota and making her laugh.

Now Adrienne was dead. A sob escaped me.

If anything, my momentary breakdown put Danny even further into “Hulk Smash” mode. Wearing a scowl, he got us to the kitchen.

There, we almost collided with Christian Lemaître. All of us pulled up short—me with an embarrassingly girly squeal.

Whoops. Ordinarily, I pride myself on not being your stereotypical girly girl. Fluff isn't for me. It never has been. For one thing, “helpless, pink-loving princess” doesn't play well worldwide—not when you're hanging your own mosquito nets. But it had been a tough night. I'm only human. So shoot me.

It was some consolation that Christian squealed, too. The sight of Danny on a mission tended to do that to people.

Christian leaped out of our way, wide-eyed and flushed. He looked as if he'd been caught doing
something
devious. At that point, I have to admit, I was ready to think the worst of him. More than likely, I figured, he'd been in the kitchen firing someone, just for laughs. Or maybe kicking puppies. The jerk.

Or chowing down on chocolate, I realized, belatedly noticing the telltale brown smudges on his dress shirt. Some of them looked pretty distinct, almost like chocolaty fingerprints.

But by then, Danny had tugged me past Lemaître's personal Napoleon and into the service stairwell, and I was saved.

 

 

“I should go back,” I said as soon as I realized it.

Isn't that the way of it, though? Superman bravery comes through ten minutes
after
the crisis has passed. Now that I was in the clear, I felt awful about not doing more to help.

“You're not going back.” Danny kept moving.

In his wake, I did, too. Not that I could help it. His grip on my arm was like Iron Man's. His attitude forbade argument.

It was that attitude (predictably) that got my dander up.

I yanked back, then stopped cold. Against Danny's momentum, my efforts were pretty laughable. I basically skidded along the floor like a cartoon character. That only made me madder.

I was a good person, wasn't I? If I wanted to go back and help Adrienne, I would. So I dug in my (flats-wearing) heels and held my ground.

“I could have done something,” I insisted.

Sure, other people had seen what Adrienne had eaten and drunk that day. I wasn't special. But I wanted to help.

“It's too late for anybody to do anything.”

Just then, Danny's usual pragmatism didn't sit well with me. Neither did the dank atmosphere in the deserted stairwell.

I was grateful for its echo-chamber silence, but I could have done without its subzero, frostbite-inducing temperature. I shivered. In fact, I shivered so hard that my teeth chattered.

That's
probably what made Danny stop dragging me along like a recalcitrant three-year-old. He stopped and stared at me.

Roughly, he took off his suit jacket. This is probably the part where you're expecting him to gently tuck it around my shoulders for warmth, all Bogey-meets-Hepburn in
Sabrina
style. But that's only because you don't know Danny like I do.

He threw it at me instead. “Take this.” He gave my make-do cocktail dress a frown. “Next time, go to the party less naked.”

Naked?
As if Danny would ever notice. I could gallivant around wearing nothing but gym socks and tasseled pasties, and Danny would treat me (mostly) like a kid sister. As proof? His suit coat, which rocketed at me like a 90 mph fastball. I caught it while it was still warm from his body. That heat was enough to convince me to put it on, despite my exasperation with him.

Ah.
Warmth enveloped me in instant bliss. Except for the part where we had just seen one of my friends—
my friends!
—die.

But I didn't want to talk about that. I couldn't.

“It's not my fault Christian is too cheap to heat this place properly.” I stamped my feet, wishing I'd worn my motorcycle boots. But they lived at Travis's place, where all my stuff that didn't pack well—but had sentimental value—cooled its heels. Possibly in alphabetical order, knowing my accountant.

“Big news. Christian's an ass, even when it comes to utility payments.” Impatiently, Danny gestured. “Ready now?”

I wasn't. “Do you think she's really dead?” I whispered.

Danny wasn't having any part of my incipient meltdown.

“If you're angling for me to carry you—” Dubiously, he eyed my glammed-up ensemble. And me in it. “I'm not going to.”

“Real chivalrous.” He
did
think Adrienne was dead. Oh no.

“We've still got two flights to go,” he argued further.

“You're up for the challenge, He-Man.”

But even before he shook his head, I started moving. I knew better than to rely on anybody else for help. Even my old pal.

Another flight up, on the next landing, I stopped again. Danny's
now what?
expression was not enough to budge me.

“I should have stayed with her.” My head swam with visions of poor Adrienne, blood splattered and limp. “You know, to—”

“To keep her company on her ride to the morgue?” He shook his head, probably wishing he'd turned down that gratis LAX to SFO plane trip I'd offered. “She won't know any better.”

“Danny!”

“Besides,” he added in a softer tone, “Nina was there.”

That was true. She had been. Adrienne hadn't been alone.

I was glad about that. I was. Not for the first time, though, I wondered about Danny's pragmatic side. It tended to veer toward merciless sometimes. At least it did with outsiders. He hadn't done much more than exchange nods and hellos with Adrienne. He wasn't invested in her. Not the same way I was.

A clatter of footsteps—and accompanying voices—from the landing below sent Danny into motion again. He grabbed me.

Moments later we lurched into my room upstairs, me still shivering and him still stone-faced. He pocketed his room key.

Scratch that.
My
room key. “Where did you get that?”

“Do you really want to talk about that now?”

I didn't. But I wanted to do
something
my way. I had my pride. Like I said, humility isn't exactly my forte.

Besides, being annoyed at him felt better than being freaked out and upset about Adrienne.
Poor Adrienne.

“Yes, I want to talk about that now.” I watched Danny stalk to the window, then look out. He pushed the button that drew the drapes. With silent, luxurious efficiency, they obscured the expansive view.
Bye-bye, sliver of the Golden Gate Bridge. Bye-bye, moonlit night. Bye-bye, Adrienne.
I refocused. “So spill.”

Instead, he faced me. The concern in his face made me wonder if he'd glimpsed Armageddon outside. Nothing else could have made Danny look so . . .
tender.
Even
with
his rampaging beard stubble and tattoos.

“Have you been sweating?” he demanded.

“Sweating?” I crossed my arms. “That's a new kink you've got there. You like a little Slip ‘N Slide action these days?”

Impatiently, he crossed the plush carpet. He stuck the back of his hand against my forehead. He squinted into my eyes.

“Easy, there, killer!” I joked, giving him a shove. “This routine might work with most women, but I'm not most women.”

“You're still shivering. You might be in shock.”

The tone of his voice gave me goose bumps. “Maybe. Or . . . ?”

“Or you might be experiencing what Adrienne did tonight.”

“What?”
No wonder Danny looked tender. He was mentally composing my eulogy. Instantly panicked, I rushed to the mirror. I don't know what I expected to find. Spots, maybe. Hair falling out in formerly ponytailed clumps. Blood gushing from my nose. Something macabre and pandemic-like. Instead, my own ordinary face, a lot paler than usual, stared back. “I
do
feel dizzy.”

As I said it, a wave of nausea passed over me. I couldn't believe any of this was happening. Everything felt slightly surreal—the way it did when you've been awake twenty-four hours straight, crossing time zones and getting increasingly jet-lagged.

Except I hadn't been traveling. Not for weeks.

I should have been getting itchy feet just realizing it.

“How much of Adrienne's green juice did you drink?”

I frowned, thinking. “A few sips. That stuff was vile. You know I'm not much for the health-freak routine.” I widened my eyes, suddenly catching Danny's drift. “You don't think—”

“Maybe.” His stony expression said it all. He did think.

Now I felt
really
woozy. But also hyperaware. I know it sounds weird, but I swear I could feel my pulse. In my ear.
Ugh.

It occurred to me that
Adrienne
had been conspicuously sweaty earlier.
Uh-oh. If that was one of the warning signs . . .

“You weren't out there when the shit hit the fan.” Danny paced, casting wary glances at the window and door. “I was. The paramedics said Adrienne might have overdosed on something.”

Instantly, I was indignant. “Adrienne wasn't on drugs! She was a nice, hardworking, strawberry-daiquiri-loving woman.”

I remembered our chatty after-work drinks sessions. Those wouldn't be happening anymore. I sat on the king-size bed. Hard.

“She was only in her forties,” Danny persisted. “And she died of a heart arrhythmia. That's the theory the EMTs were working with, anyway. That doesn't happen randomly.”

“A heart arrhythmia doesn't cause someone to bleed all over!” I shivered, remembering the ghastly sight of Adrienne in Nina's arms. I knew I'd never forget it. I'd never seen a dead person before. Now I had. I didn't know how to feel about that.

“No, but an overdose might,” Danny said. “Adrienne might have been vomiting blood. That would explain the splatters.”

Yikes. He'd accurately diagnosed blood splatters?

“Your life is vastly different from mine. You know that?”

Danny wasn't bothered by my non sequitur. “That could have been Adrienne reacting to whatever she overdosed on. Your body does its best to protect you from your dumbass brain. Like when you go full bore on those strawberry daiquiris and wind up puking your guts out.” Still looking tense, he glanced outside again. Evidently, he'd gone into hard-core security-expert mode on me. “Only sometimes the fail-safe doesn't work as designed.”

I didn't want to know how Danny knew that. Also, gross.

But he had a point. “You think
I
might overdose, too?”

“Maybe you were supposed to.” His gaze turned hard. “Maybe Adrienne got the dose meant for you. Do you have enemies here?”

At his dire tone, I couldn't help laughing. “Danny! This isn't a movie. It's me. At a chocolate retreat. At a chichi resort with its own security force. Nobody tried to overdose me tonight.” I gave him a long look. “You're just being paranoid.”

He didn't give in. “Did anyone give you a drink?”

I tried to remember. Rex? I shrugged. “Only Adrienne.”

Danny made a face. “That disgusting swamp juice?”

Another shrug. “Sometime I
might
get healthy.”

“That'll be the day.” He flashed me a grin. “You mainline chocolate like it's your job.” A pause. “Oh, wait. It is.”