Guns and Roses (5 page)

“The table decorator.” There was probably an official name for that person, but she had no idea what it was. “Whoever did the flowers. I’m… I’m…” She gave an apologetic laugh. “I’m sorry. My name is Callie Parrish and my father is Martin Parrish.” At his blank stare, she added, “The diplomat? From…” They’d never decided where he was from, had they? “Paris?”

He nodded slowly, no doubt digging into memory banks for information that he’d never find no matter how hard and deep he dug.

“Anyway, I’m planning a similar event for my father in… at the…” Where did diplomats even work? “The U.N.”
Oh, brother
. She gave him her best smile. “And I simply adore this tablescape.” Thank God she’d watched enough HGTV to know that term. “Can I discuss some details with her? Him? Whoever?”

He surprised her by putting his hand to his ear and speaking softly into the earpiece. Oh, no, he was calling security. Had she failed before she could even look at a single tall, blond woman for a possible ID?

“D&D,” he said brusquely.

D&D? Drunk and disorderly? She was neither. Disguised and dishonest? She was both. Heart hammering, she stole a glance left and right, the longing for Ben to come to her rescue so strong she could taste it, her blood pumping a little too hard for her to carefully examine every fair-headed woman in a room packed with many of them.

“Got it,” the man said into the headpiece. “I’m bringing in a CF from the floor, stat.”

A CF? Complete Fake?
Oh, sweet Jesus and all the saints, please help me not get arrested for impersonating a diplomat and crashing a party.

“Come with me,” the man said, putting a hand on her shoulder and giving her a nudge. “This way.”

She followed the order, noticing how close the man stayed as he expertly wove through the crowds toward the other end of the banquet hall.

Faces blurred, voices echoed, and that relentless hand never lifted. What could she do? How could she get out of this? More lies? The truth? Would Ben—

“In here.” With his free hand, the man slammed a metal swinging door and instantly the light and noise changed as she entered a deafeningly loud and blindingly bright kitchen.

Men and women scurried everywhere, fires crackled from a bank of stoves, dishes clanged, and people screamed at each other.

Her escort motioned to a young black woman who had a hand to her ear and spoke into her own headset, holding up an index finger in Callie’s direction.

“Wait here,” the man said.

“Why?” she asked, finally finding her voice. “What’s a D&D and CF?”

A slow smile lifted and, for the first time, he looked kind and not menacing. “Design and decor, who you want to talk to. A CF is civilian female, which you are.” He nodded to the woman, who was the only person not in a black tux or a white chef’s jacket in the whole kitchen. “That’s Raquelle. She’s your table girl. Enjoy your lunch, Ms. Parrish.”

A moment later, the woman strode over, reaching out her hand, a broad smile across her face. “How can I help you?” she asked.

This certainly wasn’t the woman who stole the roses, but maybe there was a connection. It was a start. Feeling better, Callie shook her hand, introduced herself, and asked if she knew who purchased all the flowers.

“Aren’t they fabulous?” Raquelle asked. “I’m loving those black roses.”

Those
stolen
black roses. “Where did you get them?” Callie demanded. Yes, she was supposed to ID the actual thief, but surely a name would help, too. Would that still be worth six grand to Ben?

“Oh, I wish I could take credit for them.” Raquelle pointed one long, white-tipped nail toward the center of the kitchen. “But there’s the lady right there. Chef Monica L. Stone. But I wouldn’t bother her now, cause if you think that dude on Hell’s Kitchen is scary, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. There’s a reason the staff calls her Chef De-Monica.”

Across the kitchen, through a bank of stainless steel, a huge orange flame danced high with a sear and a crackle. When the blaze cleared, Callie had a perfect view of the chef who’d caused the flare up.

Even with her blonde hair pulled back and a boxy white jacket so unlike the snazzy outfit she’d had on the day she came to the farm, Callie recognized her. That was the woman she’d walked back to her Black Cherry rose beds. That was the woman who no doubt stole them last night. And that was the woman… who was in charge of what the governor was about to eat.

“Oh my heavens,” Callie gasped softly.

“What is it?”

At that moment, the chef turned and looked directly at Callie, her eyes slicing with the same precision as the menacing butcher’s knife she held, delivering a laser-straight look of hate and warning and recognition.

~*~

Ben darted through the crowd, searching for Callie and tamping down his frustration. He didn’t really blame the new security team for pulling him before he could get to the first check-point; he’d have done the same thing. They had no legitimate reason to keep him out, but they’d cost him precious minutes and the opportunity to stay close to Callie.

The tables were starting to fill so he had an almost clear shot across the whole banquet hall, his gaze landing on kitchen doors as they popped open and Callie shot out, her face ghost white.

What the hell? He powered his way through the crowd, calling softly to her when he approached, just enough to get her attention but not anyone else’s.

She whipped around at the sound of her name, eyes wide and wary, then relieved when she caught sight of him. As they came together, she grabbed his arms and let him pull her into his chest.

“What’s the—”

“I found her.” She looked over her shoulder, squeezing his arms. “She’s the hotel chef.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I recognize her and…” She cringed. “I’m pretty sure she recognized me.” She glanced over her shoulder again. “I’d have gone right up to her and demanded my money, but, oh my God, Ben, she’s
cooking
for the governor! You might be right about—oh, there she is.”

He pivoted, blocking Callie and stealing a glance at the kitchen door in time to see a white-coated woman march out, her face familiar as she scoped the crowd.

“Chef Stone?” He practically choked the name. “That’s not the hotel chef, she’s McManus’s personal chef who travels everywhere with…” His voice trailed off as everything suddenly made sense.

Monica Stone was most definitely in Roy McManus’s inner circle. Not his political one, certainly, but his personal circle, his only chef. He never even thought of her when Callie described the woman, but he should have. Chef Stone would easily have access and know his schedule and—

“Did you see the centerpieces?” Callie demanded, still clinging to him. “My Black Cherries are everywhere!”

He glanced around, carefully keeping Callie out of Chef Stone’s visibility, taking in the magnitude of the security breach. “There’s poison on every single table in this room.”

“What do we do?” she asked.

His gut said to order an end to the entire luncheon, but neither his gut nor his security firm was calling the shots here. He glanced at the kitchen again, catching the agitated expression on Monica Stone’s face as she searched the room before pivoting to smack the swinging doors on her way back into the kitchen.

“She’s pissed,” he said.

“She’s busted,” Callie replied. “Now what do we do?”

He knew exactly what to do, the only thing he could do to save the governor and win back his job. “We’re going to catch her red-handed.” He did a quick assessment of the room, imagining the flow of traffic when food was served. “Our best shot is to find a place where she won’t see you, but we can see every tray coming out of the kitchen.”

“The invitation you gave me said table fifteen,” she said. “Shouldn’t we sit there?”

He shook his head. “That’s too far away. I have a better idea.” He guided her to a large column that would provide some cover from the kitchen. “Stay here, I’m going to do some last-minute table number management.”

He accomplished his goal in a few quick moves, so used to slipping around an event like this that no one noticed him sneak the number from table twenty-two and switch it with fifteen. When he finished, he brought Callie to the new table fifteen, directly outside the kitchen doors.

“Really?” she asked, angling her head toward the doors. “So close?”

“Keep your back to the doors until trays of food come out and then we have to examine the food, especially the governor’s plate.”

When Callie sat, he stood behind her, his trained eye moving around the room to take in the position of every security person, the route between the kitchen and the governor’s dais, and the table hosted by the Angela McManus, the first lady of Florida.

“Ben, look at this.” Callie pointed to the printed menu. “Shaved black truffle salad with beet root jelly.”

“The pectin catalyst.”

“And a thinly shaved black truffle could look an awful lot like a black rose petal.”

Two couples approached the table, frowning at the numbering sequence and clearly unhappy with the lousy location. Ben greeted them with a quick nod and sat next to Callie, putting his arm around her and pulling her close before the others started a conversation.

“You’re into me,” he whispered.

She didn’t respond, unless he counted the sudden blossom of goose bumps on her bare arms. He lightly held her chin, keeping her ear close to his mouth.

“We don’t want to engage with anyone, just each other. So, be into me. Got it?” He turned her face toward his and their gazes met.

“Got it.” She inched closer so that their lips nearly touched, one hand on his leg. “But…” She let their cheeks brush as she whispered in his ear. “We have to watch the kitchen.”

Her breath was warm, her fingers tense, the soft scent of roses teasing his nose and tempting him to inhale deeper and get even closer. The two couples chatted with each other, ignoring Callie and Ben, but the other four chairs stayed empty; no surprise, proximity to the kitchen made this table the worst seat in the house.

And perfect for thwarting an assassination attempt.

Behind them, the kitchen door opened, and Ben kept his arm around Callie, angling her like he was still talking in her ear, but managing to cover her face and give her a clear shot of the tray just before a waiter hoisted it.

“Your job is to see if the truffles are roses.”

“Okay.” She repositioned herself a little, her breasts pressed into his arm, her thigh against his. “I think I can…”

He kissed her ear, and not just because it helped her cover. Because… he wanted to. “Of course you can, Callie. So you can take your great-grandmother to Paris.”

Next to his cheek, he felt her smile, but her fingers tightened on his leg as the next server staged and set another tray. One after another, platters spun by Callie, giving her scant seconds to secretly examine each. But she did.

“Truffles,” she whispered over and over. “Truffles. Truf… I think.” She inched back and gave him a look. “I’m not sure about that last one.”

“I’ll watch where it goes.” Ben’s gaze followed the tray, which was held aloft by a bustling waiter, taken to the middle of the room, far from the governor.

“Truffles, all truffles on the next set.”

For a few minutes, they worked like a seasoned team. Ben watched the principal—the
former
principal—while Callie watched the plates. McManus worked his way through the room, flanked by two men Ben recognized as event handlers, and followed at a reasonable distance by a burly bodyguard. The governor shook hands, patted shoulders, bussed cheeks, and encouraged his guests to start their salads as he worked his way to the head of the room.

“Every one of them are truffles,” she said.

“You’re positive?” He didn’t dare take his eyes off McManus to double check her, but if she was wrong and someone in this room was being poisoned—
and he hadn’t stopped it from happening
—then he didn’t deserve to be a Bullet Catcher.

“I can see the ridges on the sides of the truffles easily,” she assured him in a breathy whisper. “All truffles. The chef must have just been dying for black roses as centerpiece and unwilling to pay three grand. Is that normal?”

“Not in the least. The chef isn’t typically that involved with decor and they spend three thousand on paper clips. No one would steal flowers.” Unless they wanted to use them to kill the governor and not leave a trail that could be easily followed. And conveniently spread the “murder weapon” throughout the room which would only complicate any investigation.

McManus stopped at his wife’s table, gave her a peck on the cheek and shared a loving exchange before rounding the stage. There, he stepped up to the platform where two rectangular tables and a speaker’s podium faced the audience.

As he did, applause exploded he gave the crowd a wave, slowly making his way to the seat of honor.

“Governor’s table!” someone in the kitchen called.

Ben shared a look with Callie and covered her hand, threading their fingers. “Watch for the plate trimmed in gold,” he whispered. “That’s his.”