Dangerously Dark (20 page)

I didn't want to hear more. But Lauren's lovey-dovey demeanor definitely sparked new suspicions about the likelihood of her sleeping with Declan. So far, that rumor hadn't been substantiated. Sometime soon, I intended to get to the bottom of it. Partly because, if Lauren truly was mourning the loss of her lover, then it wouldn't be wise for Danny to date her, would it?

Rebound romances never work out. Everyone knew that.

Not that saving Danny some heartache was my primary motivation, I assured myself as I slipped inside the busy bar and lost myself amid the crowd of people drinking, laughing, and listening to music. It wasn't. Mostly, if Lauren was Declan's killer, I wanted to catch her. But if things
also
weren't likely to work out between her and Danny for reasons other than criminal homicide, shouldn't Danny know that? Sooner rather than later, before he got in too deep with Lauren?

He did, I decided. But before any of those things could happen, I needed to retrieve Declan's iPad. And fast.

Just as before, luck was on my side. The front of the house was so busy that nobody was in the back. I cast a watchful glance toward the bar, caught Tomasz's eye, and waved to him.

Tomasz waved back. Despite my hurry, I couldn't miss the envious glances that a few ladies in his proximity sent my way. Say what you will about ego—it's an undeniable thrill to be noticed by an attractive man. There's no doubt about that.

In the small hallway leading to Muddle + Spade's back room, I picked up my pace. I couldn't believe I was cutting it so close with my tour guide responsibilities. Yes, I sometimes delay unnecessarily on taking action with my to-do list. (Just ask Travis. Or even Danny.) But garden-variety procrastination is different. It's semi-intentional. Even predictable. This thing that kept happening to me while investigating was . . .
trouble.

A clump of several giggling women wearing tiaras clogged up the hallway as they spilled out of—or waited to get into—the ladies' room. Their satin sashes, worn over their going-out clothes with giddy pink enthusiasm, spelled out titles like
BRIDE, MAID OF HONOR, BRIDESMAID,
and
MOTHER OF THE GROOM.
They were clearly a group out celebrating a bachelorette party . . . just the way Carissa's friends were supposed to have done that weekend.

Trying to hurry past them, I felt a pang shoot through me. Their happiness was obvious; their smiles were infectious. But it didn't seem fair that one bridal party was allowed to celebrate an upcoming wedding while another had been stopped from doing the same thing by the most heartrending circumstances possible.

Prodded by that reminder of Carissa's predicament, I moved faster. The bar's polished-concrete floor felt slick underfoot. The music's bass reverberated through me as I kept going. It was one thing to play detective. It was another to feel the responsibility of trying to set things right. Just then, I felt the responsibility of it all. I wanted to make a difference.

Taking chocolates from “pretty good” to “ohmigod
amazing
” is a unique skill. I'll give you that. Not everyone has my talent for discerning what any given chocolate confection, cake, or cookie needs and then delivering it. But it can't
all
be dark versus milk, semisweet versus bittersweet, Criollo versus Trinitario versus Forastero. Sometimes it's got to be more.

On that deeply philosophical note, I almost stepped on the cart pod's cat. Again.

The poor feline yowled and flashed across the bar's back room in a streak of black fur and indignation. I jumped, too.

“Chow!” I put my hand on my heart, heard a clatter as the cart pod's resident alley cat delved behind some kitchen supplies to hide, and stifled an alarmed yelp of my own. “Sorry, kitty!”

One of these days, I was going to have to make friends with that cat. I knew I could do it, too. Animals liked me. Because I liked them. Someday I wanted a dog and a cat, a gerbil and a—

Fish.
The instant I thought of it, I reconsidered. After Travis's story, I didn't trust those bloodthirsty creatures. Maybe I'd get a pet turtle, instead? Just something to welcome me home at night, whenever I (eventually) found a place of my own.

Feeling foolish for having been startled by a harmless cat, I veered toward the piled-up burlap bags of cacao beans sitting next to the roaster. The whole journey, from Sweet Seductions to the bar's back room, had probably taken only a few minutes. But to me, it felt like ages. I wasn't a natural secret keeper. It felt alien for me to approach the bags warily, glance over my shoulder, and then bend over, feeling around for Declan's iPad.

If anyone came in, I'd have
no
explanation for this.

My fingers touched sleek aluminum and glass. Declan's iPad.

I pulled. Just as that thin, squarish device came free, I felt a presence. I had a bewildering, sudden impression of two hands on my back. Then someone
pushed
me, fast and hard.

I couldn't hold on to Declan's iPad. It flew from my hand and skittered away. I gave a startled “oof!” and face-planted onto those burlap bags of cacao beans. They were so densely stacked I couldn't breathe. I tasted scratchy jute and inhaled chocolate.

It wasn't as enjoyable as you'd think. I awkwardly levered back and tried to gulp some cacao-free air, but the wind was knocked out of me. My knee throbbed, too. Confusedly, I realized I must have bumped it on the concrete floor when I'd fallen.

Disoriented by the surprise of finding myself suddenly on the floor, I took stock of my situation. It could have been worse, I knew. It could have been my head that I'd hit. I'd have a wicked case of burlap face tomorrow, that was for sure, given how hard I'd smacked into those bags. My chest hurt from a lack of air, too. But those things were infinitely better than a concussion. Better than
dead.
Unless I was slowly suffocating?

I dragged in a rattling breath, still struggling for air. I couldn't quite draw in enough. Shakily, I crawled backward from the bags of cacao beans. I got to my feet. I wanted to get Declan's hidden iPad and get out of there. Fast. If this was some kind of prank—some kind of Cartorama hazing—I didn't think it was funny.

I thought it was scary. Painful too.

I heard movement and remembered that shove.
Someone had pushed me.
It couldn't have been an accident.

Heart pounding, I whirled to confront my attacker, my trademark antimugging stance at the ready. No one travels the world without seeing trouble or being trouble. I've learned to be watchful, be smart, and (in the worst case) run. Thanks to some overprotective Spaniards, Italians, and one (especially memorable) Frenchman, I've also mastered some reliable self-defense moves. I knew I could take care of myself.

Except when no one was there. The place was empty.

Almost disappointed, I sagged, still trying to catch my breath. Then I heard that sound again. It came from my left, from within the rows of industrial shelving. It could have been the cat. But it wasn't. Because as far as I know, the average seven- or eight-pound domestic cat can't push a person—or shove over a detached metal shelving unit that's over six feet tall.

Uh-oh.
The shelves closest to me swayed. The cans and bottles teetered in their places and then settled briefly where they belonged again, deceiving me into thinking I was imagining things. I stared, aghast, as they seemed to pause, just for a split second. A moment later, everything toppled toward me.

I didn't have time to think. I reacted instead. I lunged to the side, diving onto the cold concrete floor like an action-movie hero—
if
those macho guys ever squealed and flopped out of danger powered by pure motor reflex instead of bravery, that is.

Partway out of danger, my banged-up knee gave out. It refused to move me another inch. I collapsed and hit the floor hard, jarring my hip, my elbow, and my knee, too. Finding myself down so suddenly again was a bizarre sensation. I can't explain it. One minute, I was upright, moving on my own power. The next, I was crumpled on the floor, wondering what had hit me.

Except at that moment,
nothing
had. I felt relieved.

A heartbeat later, I heard a guttural sound not unlike the one Lauren had made before pushing Austin into traffic. Alarmed, I looked up to see the whole shelving unit sway horrifically forward before finally—
finally
—falling completely over.

Everything on its metal shelves slid and fell. Full boxes hit the floor and burst. Jars dropped like bombs, smashing one after another. As they erupted, I smelled maraschino cherries and olives, simple syrups and pickled onions, all gushing together in a malodorous wave. Juicy brines and sugar syrups splattered me. A deadly blizzard of glass shot toward me.

I think I screamed. I'm not sure. But I definitely closed my eyes. I ducked and covered my head. Bits of glass pricked my bare arms, my face, and my neck, ricocheting from the concrete floor in a thousand tiny shards. It felt like being caught in a sandstorm. I'd once been outdoors in Marrakesh in the late spring, when the sirocco winds come in from the desert. Then, I'd ducked inside before being abraded too painfully by the sand. In this instance, though, there was no escape from the glass.

Or from the shelving unit that came crashing down seconds later. It landed with a tremendous crash, shattering the items that hadn't broken already. I couldn't be sure. My eyes were still squeezed shut while I crouched amid the mayhem.

The resounding silence that followed made me open my eyes. Still suffused with adrenaline, I scooted sideways as best I could. It was a mistake. I put down my palms for leverage and instantly sliced dozens of paper-cut-like abrasions into my hands. I yelped and pulled them back, but it was too late.

Ouch.
Shocked and sticky, I looked at the mess all around me. Shattered bottles oozed liqueurs, oils, and cocktail garnishes. Plastic-wrapped burger buns stuck to the floor, burst from a box that held even more. On top of all of it lay the metal shelving unit, its wired chrome shelves mashing everything beneath them. Near me, a fallen beer keg propped up one edge.

I'd been saved by beer.
If not for that untapped keg, the shelf would have fallen right on top of me. At the least, my lower leg would have been broken. At the worst, my skull would have been fractured. Shaken, I scooted backward—this time using my feet to push with, instead of my hands—and encountered gummy glass.

A few pieces pierced my jeans and stopped me cold. I noticed too late that I was surrounded by lethal-looking shards, some of them pebbly, others as big as a spatula.

I looked down at myself. All the sticky liquids that had splashed me had basically glued glass slivers all over me. Cautiously, I lifted my bleeding hands. My hair was dusted with glass pieces, too. I probably looked very sparkly, but there was no one around to witness my glamorous glass-princess moment.

“Hey! Anybody?” My voice sounded quavery. “Help!”

I was afraid to move. As long as I stayed (mostly) where I'd been when everything had come crashing down and/or exploded, I was (mostly) okay. If I moved, I risked more glass cuts.

I felt queasy with fear and shock. Just a second ago, I'd been harmlessly skulking around getting Declan's iPad. Now look at me. I was bleeding, hurting, and (maybe) unable to walk.

I frowned at my knee. It was useless. It had let me down at Maison Lemaître, too. I'd gotten injured while poking around. On the other hand, not much time had passed. My knee probably still hadn't healed. I was lucky it hadn't mutinied before now.

Well, it looked as though being stuck on the floor of the bar's back room was my new reality until someone wandered back there for another case of cocktail picks. Looking around, I spied my purse on the ground, covered in maraschino cherries and olives. My cell phone lay next to it, although it had escaped a similarly sloppy fate. I could
just
reach both items. I gripped my phone gratefully, ready to call Danny to come get me.

He'd have to abandon his tour-driving duties, I knew. But maybe Lauren could transport the tour attendees. It was likely that she'd already appropriated them and decided to run Chocolate After Dark's twilight tour herself, with or without Declan's iPad information. Although, I remembered, she'd been one of the few—unlike Austin and Janel—who'd
hadn't
volunteered their tour guide services. So maybe all Lauren had wanted was a chance to be near Danny . . . who was usually near me.

Except for times like this, when I
needed
a bodyguard.

Neither of us could have known I'd run into a killer shelf.