Stay (Dunham series #2) (25 page)

And on the back wall of the large sitting room,
there
it
hung.

Wild, Wild West
, eight feet wide and five
feet high.

Eric sucked up a sharp breath at its magnificence
and wondered if he would have the privilege of touching that
magnificently curved body this week and become her third lover.

There was something very strange about a
twenty-eight-year-old woman with such a sparse sexual history that
was, at the same time, so remarkable.

I go for high-profile quality and not low-class
quantity.

So she did. Eric wasn’t high-profile—yet—but he sure
as hell hoped he could live up to the quality part.

He was so taken with the enormity and beauty of the
painting—this
place
—that he started when a simply but
elegantly clad blonde approached him.

“Hello,” she murmured. “I’m Shelly Geier, the
concierge. Welcome to Whittaker House.” Eric had to adjust his grip
to accommodate the flaccid handshake she offered.

“Eric Cipriani.”

“Are you a guest with us this weekend? I don’t
recall your name on our arrivals list.”

He looked at her a moment, his attention caught by
something subtle that he’d seen before. She had almost the same
look on her face that his eager unattached female students got—but
there was something different about it. More elusive, more . . .
calculating.

“Yes,” he replied, watching her face change nearly
imperceptibly to satisfaction.

“Really,” she purred, keeping his hand a few seconds
too long, curling her fingers into his. He decided to follow this
path to see if his instincts were correct, so he didn’t bother to
retrieve his hand. “Perhaps I can give you a tour?”

Eric cocked an eyebrow, tilting his head just a tad,
and quirked his lips. “A tour of . . . what?”

“The . . .
property
,” she returned smoothly,
her expression betraying only the most miniscule amount of
satisfaction.

All his years managing people, teaching them,
watching them while they testified, picking up on subtle, almost
indistinguishable tidbits of body language, had given him an almost
sixth sense about people’s motives and what they might be hiding.
It was a skill Knox had never really learned and it gave Eric
strengths in the courtroom Knox didn’t have, although Knox’s memory
more than balanced out any deficit.

The concierge didn’t think she’d given away a single
thing even though he’d read most of her game plan in just the few
seconds they’d conversed. Still, he was missing something, some
important detail.

“Ah, well. Actually, I’m looking for Vanessa.”

Her smile of studied, benign amusement was well
practiced, as if she hadn’t just propositioned him. “I assure you,
Mr. Cipriani, as your concierge, I’m more than capable of taking
care of your . . .
needs
. Miss Whittaker is most likely
flitting around.”

Miss
Whittaker.
Flitting
around.
Meow.

He flashed her a smile that wouldn’t betray his
suspicions, slowly withdrew his hand, and said, “Then if you could
tell me where she might be, ah,
flitting
, I’d appreciate
it.”

“Hmmm.” She looked at her watch. “That would be
difficult to determine at this time of day and she won’t be around
until six this evening to begin seating guests.”

His eyelids drooped a bit in response, and a corner
of her mouth turned up. “No problem. I’ll just wander around until
I find her.”

Leaving her there to stew in
that
, he turned
and walked out the front door, across the veranda and around a
corner, nearly colliding with a man only a little shorter than
Eric, with long black hair, similar complexion, and a thick but
tidy beard and mustache covering most of his face.

“’Scuse me, buddy,” he muttered absently as he
passed, then actually
looked
at Eric. He stopped, his eyes
narrowed a bit, and then he burst out laughing. That was strange
enough, but the man didn’t bother to explain himself as he shook
his head and continued past him into the mansion, still
chuckling.

“Piper.”

The man stopped. Turned.

Eric stared at him, his jaw clenched, and Piper
returned it with a smirk.

“I’m leavin’, Cipriani,” Piper said in a thick
country accent chock full of amusement. “You got no threat from
me.”

“Why are you still here?”

“Not for her tryin’ to kick me out since she got
back from Kansas City. I wanted to see what’s had her in a snit for
the last two years.”

Eric stared at him, but Piper continued on his way
into the mansion, the words, “Now I see. Now I go,” floating back
after him.

A snit.

Over Eric.

Two years.

Justice wanted her to be one of her bridesmaids and
I wanted you to be one of my groomsmen . . . she declined.

I had a crush on you . . . I never got over it . . .
you were always larger than life . . . unattainable.

Sebastian Taight. Nash Piper. About Eric’s height.
About Eric’s build. Both with black hair.

Eric wouldn’t pass for either of them, but all cats
were gray in the dark.

“Oh,” Eric breathed as all the pieces of the puzzle
fell in place, filling in spots he didn’t know needed filling. The
significance of it humbled him. His jealousy, unwarranted. His
hesitance in trying again to approach her, unnecessary.

If he’d sought her out any time in the last ten
years like he should’ve . . .

“I really am a fucking idiot,” Eric muttered.

He took a deep breath, now more eager than ever to
see Vanessa and put it all to rights. He set off around the other
side of the veranda, following the cobblestone driveway that led to
the northwest corner of the park until he was at the rear of the
mansion. Once there, he saw Piper walking toward him, still
chuckling, still shaking his head. He gave Eric a wide grin and
threw his thumb over his shoulder. “She’s back there—first big
outbuildin’ on the left,” he offered. As he passed, he clapped Eric
on the shoulder heartily and said, “Good luck, Cipriani.”

Without bothering to respond, Eric headed in the
direction Piper had indicated. Once he got to the “first big
outbuildin’ on the left” and rounded the corner, he stopped short
and gaped.

Wide-open carriage doors comprised the entire front
wall. Vanessa stood behind a stainless steel table up to her elbows
in rabbit carcasses, her hair in a pony tail, her body swimming in
a bloody paper coverall, and blood all over her face. She stopped,
a fillet knife in her hand, to wipe her forehead with the back of
her arm.

Eric blinked. He wasn’t going anywhere near that
mess, not even for a kiss.

“Welcome to my world,” Vanessa muttered as she
skinned and filleted another rabbit. “I hate to introduce you to my
butcher shop this way but Vachel showed up with this haul about an
hour ago, so I had to deal with it right away.”

“Yeah, I’m not crying.”

“Most people do. They don’t mind eating it as long
as they can pretend it wasn’t cute and cuddly at one time or had a
face. Damn things eat my gardens when they could be eating out of
my compost. They deserve what they get.”

Eric laughed. “Is that for tonight’s menu?”

“No. Tonight is—” She looked up at him then. “Do you
really want to know?”

“This is what you’re famous for, right?”

“One of them. So, tonight’s dish is ’possum and
squirrel medallions over thyme-and-rosemary couscous with the
coveted Vanessa Whittaker creamed collard greens.”

He grimaced. “Where’s the nearest Taco Bell?”

Vanessa laughed then and went back to butchering
rabbits. “I warned you. But. I do serve other things for the less,
ah, epicurious.”

Eric snorted. “I’ll take a hunk of cow, thanks. You
learned how to butcher ’possum in New York?”

“Not specifically, but I learned how to treat
different meats, depending on their toughness and maturity. And
just so you know, I didn’t intend to make a career out of cooking
like Granny Clampett. It was a little side interest that kind of
evolved. I get ideas from the Foxfire books and then mix it up with
oddball dishes I create. If it’s a hit, I keep it. If it’s not, out
it goes.”

“Foxfire books?”

Her mouth twitched in thought. “I don’t know how to
explain them. Kind of an . . . encyclopedia of Appalachian life.
Customs, folklore, recipes. Instructions. Like dowsing. How to make
moonshine.”

“Would you make moonshine?”

She grinned. “I would if I thought I could get away
with it. That would do well on my bar.”

“This place,” Eric murmured, gesturing vaguely
toward the mansion. “It knocked me over. It’s about as perfect as
any place could be.”

“My father,” she said softly, “hoped heaven was at
least as pretty. He was looking forward to dying.”

Eric shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at
the floor.

She cleared her throat. “Anyway,” she said, her
husky voice a bit hoarse. “The holiday season is booked up three
years out, working on year four, because of the masquerades. The
Hilliards’ suite—in the top of the middle gable—is never rented out
and it’s inaccessible except by elevator key and secret passageway.
January through March, and September through November are
relatively slow, but I use those months to sort and clean, create
dishes, plan for the next year. It’s really not as slow as I’d like
because Laura Ingalls Wilder’s house is just down the road a bit.
That’s why people come to Mansfield and they do it year-round. And
as of—” She checked her watch. “—five minutes ago, I have two
permanent residents.”

“I met your third.”

She bit her lip. Refused to look up at him.

“It’s all good, Vanessa. Don’t sweat it. I— Got it.
Finally.”

She sighed, then said wryly, “Well, so did I. Nash
told me he came here because I look like his ex-wife, so when I saw
you at my father’s wake . . . ”

He smirked. “Oh yeah . . . ?”

“Let’s just say I realized that if Nash had shown up
in his natural hair color, nothing would have happened.”

Eric burst out laughing.

“You know that makes me certifiable.”

“If you are, I am, too,” he said, chuckling. “I’ve
been crazy jealous about you since I saw you at the school
exhibition— And I’ve never been jealous in my life.”

She grinned.

“So now that we know we’re both crazy . . . why did
you
come to Mansfield?”

“Laura Ingalls Wilder, same as everybody else. I
adore her. She gave me courage.” She looked up at him. “She was the
reason I went to Knox with Simone’s diary in the first place.”

“I don’t know who she is,” he said, as she went back
to cutting.

“
Little House on the Prairie
?”

“Oh, the TV show.”

“No, no. The books.”

Eric shook his head. “I didn’t know how to read
until I got to college and then I just dove headfirst into
Kierkegaard.”

Vanessa laughed outright at that.

“How big is your staff?”

“Right now, eleven full-time employees, twenty
part-time. Housekeepers. Gardeners. Servers, bellhops, and valets.
Chefs and line cooks. I usually grab a few teenagers for seasonal
work, like now, and I always have an apprentice chef or two.

“I’m the chief executive chef, so the time I spend
cooking is to create the dishes. My executive chef runs the
kitchen. I create the food, do all the butchering myself, tape the
TV show.”

“You tape your show in your kitchen?” he asked,
surprised.

“No. The set is in the basement. I have to keep the
technology out of sight. Kind of ruins the mirage if the guests see
how
not
rustic we are. Everything’s hidden, like internet
and cable outlets in the suites and guest cottages. That’s not to
say they’re not there. You just can’t see them. Vachel has a TV and
a computer in his room, video games, iPhone, the works. My office
is totally high-tech. I had to put in a few things for the disabled
and to meet fire codes, but people understand that stuff. Nobody
would find the lack of an elevator in a four-story building
acceptable.”

“And your employees?”

“The few who live here can do what they want, but no
employee is to let the guests see their technology.”

Eric watched Vanessa work: The intense expression on
her face, the speed and precision with which she wielded her
scalpel-sharp knife, the way she held and considered each carcass
before she began to cut.

“Where is Vachel, by the way?” he finally asked.

She glanced at her watch again. “Sleeping in a tree
or a meadow somewhere, this time of day. He has to have his
siesta.”

“His PTSD.”

“Yes. He doesn’t sleep much when it’s dark. Winter
was . . . difficult.”

Eric’s lips pressed together, wondering what that
kid could have lived through to make him so afraid of the dark he
wouldn’t sleep in it, and regretting that he hadn’t called Social
Services years ago.

“He usually spends his nights hunting. During the
school year he studies. One reason he doesn’t like school is
because he’s so tired. His work is fine, he tests well, but he gets
in trouble for nodding off . . . ” She shrugged. “He’s really too—I
don’t know, adult?—for school, but he needs the education to go
with his maturity. He doesn’t . . . fit.”

“Does he have friends?”

“Friends, no, but he does have a fan club. His kilts
and buckskins. His aloofness. He very rarely speaks.”

“Mysterious. Tough.”

Vanessa nodded. “I had tween girls calling here
constantly because he won’t give his cell number to anybody. I
finally had to call their mothers and have a chat.”

Eric laughed, then noticed a pile of fur off to one
side of the table. “What do you do with the pelts?”

“Send them to a tannery,” she said as she sliced and
diced. “Have them made into throws and blankets for the beds. Adds
an unexpected touch. You don’t expect to see furs all over a gothic
Victorian, but then they get sold as fast as I have them made.”