Wait for Me (6 page)

He would become darker, more brooding, and a whole lot less mysterious if someone had the nerve to suggest he was a flake, of course. But for the most part he played his role as the quiet, pleasant, next-door neighbor who was the last person anyone would have suspected of plotting the horrible demise of the next male he chanced to catch gazing a little too long at the Freudian slip.

Holly, as he might have guessed, was the center of attention. But it wasn’t because of her costume.

He was quick to learn that Holly had instigated the annual amateur art auction and theme costume benefit five years earlier, when she’d first come to St. Augustine’s. She’d coordinated it every year since, gradually increasing the accommodations to fit the ever-growing and remarkably distinguished guest list until it had become an event of some notoriety in the Oakland community.

“I had no idea Holly was importing her patrons from across the Bay already,” commented a man at Oliver’s back. “She works fast.”

Oliver turned. Immediately he extended his hand in friendship to the long, lanky man wearing both a belt and suspenders to hold his pants up.

“Phil! How are you? I haven’t seen you since... when? Last year?”

“At your aunt’s do for some charity or another,” he said, nodding. “In the spring. Great flower arrangements, as I recall.”

It was an old joke, one they’d cultivated early in their relationship after having met in the shrubbery at a garden party. Since then they had shared other favorite hiding places at parties they hadn’t particularly wanted to attend, such as the wall side of large potted plants, on the wrong side of vine-covered lattices, under the fall of a weeping willow, or behind any piece of furniture on which was set a prominent floral display.

“That’s right. You took the one with the daffodils and hyacinths, and I got stuck with the big droopy pot of lilacs and had a crick in my neck for weeks,” he said, laughing. “What are you doing here?”

“Having fun.” He stepped back to observe Oliver’s disguise. “What’s this? Oh, I see. Cutting Corners. Very clever.”

Phil, despite the fact that he was a savvy owner of a chemical company that specialized in insecticides and was enormously wealthy, was also one of the gentlest, nicest, most down-to-earth people Oliver had ever met. However, his wit was a bit dull at times.

“Phil, I’m a serial killer.”

Phil frowned and took another look, then he chuckled.

“Yes, indeed, I see it now. Very good. Now it’s your turn,” he said, holding up his belt with one hand and slipping the thumb of the other behind a suspender. “Guess what I am.”

Oliver had discovered that keeping his guesses as simple as possible usually produced the correct answers. At present the only thing that came to mind was a very old joke he’d once heard.

“Are you a pessimist?”

“I knew I wouldn’t fool anyone this way,” he said, slipping easily into his shibboleth. “I swear, if I used saccharin, I’d get artificial diabetes; if I bought an unbreakable, waterproof, shockproof watch, I’d lose it; if I had my tailor make me two-pants suits, I’d burn holes in the jackets...”

Oliver was in stitches. The jokes weren’t as funny as Phil’s uncharacteristic ease at being out-and-out silly. He’d never seen the man so relaxed and uninhibited.

Come to think of it, the whole gathering was one of friendly acquaintance between strangers. That the decorations were in a winter motif rather than Christmas, a sentimental season long noted for the spirit of
giving,
seemed to alleviate any pressure there might have been for the true purpose of the event. There was nothing stuffy or formal or proper or uncomfortable about it. Everyone was there to have fun, and that’s exactly what they were doing—including Oliver.

“...if I invested in General Motors, wagon trains would make a comeback; if I fell on my back, I’d break my nose. These are great, huh? I’ve got a hundred of them. I’ve been gathering them for weeks.”

“Well, save a few for later,” he said, giving Phil an affable pat on the back. “I want to know your connection to St. Augustine’s. I might want to sign up.”

“You already did.”

“I did?”

“Well, your aunt and the pack she runs with did, and since she pretty much runs the fund-raising end for the Carey Foundation, I assume you did too.”

Oliver was perplexed.

“Strange. I never heard of the place until tonight.”

“Not strange, just not a popular cause. You don’t see many news headlines about shut-ins picketing for better care. And the six o’clock news would rather show pictures of murdered bodies and beached whales getting put back to sea, than show what it’s like when a dilapidated nursing home runs out of hot water or has a broken furnace.”

“I didn’t know this was a special interest of yours.”

“I didn’t know either, until I met Holly. Have you met Holly Loftin?”

“Yes.”

Phil started to laugh. “Three years ago she crashed one of your aunt’s operations and started recruiting contributors. She backed me into one of my hiding places and had me in tears by the time she was finished. Look there. She got Bill Gastrel that same night, and over there, see the hypochondriac with the thermometer behind his ear? You know Chevy Zamora, don’t you?”

“Sure,” he said, seeing several other familiar faces. “And who are the rest of these people? Locals?”

“Mostly. A few employees. A couple of residents. Trustees. Neighborhood folks. They do what they can, but we’re the big bucks here.”

“And Holly recruited you.”

“Like a master sergeant. I was afraid
not
to come that first year. I was afraid she’d hunt me down again, but since then...” He paused and sobered. “I don’t think there’s anything I wouldn’t do for that girl.”

“Really?” he asked reflectively, wondering if she weren’t some sort of witch who cast her magic spells on everyone she met. Wondering, too, if she knew his net worth. And since she seemed to make a point of knowing that sort of thing about certain people, why she hadn’t hit him up for a donation.

“Oh, she’s as plain as day about wanting my money, but she has a way of making me feel good about giving it. Not like it’s a tax write-off, or my duty to do it. More like... well, hell, I don’t know, just good about it.
And
she throws a hell of a party to boot.”

“My ears are burning,” she said from behind them. They parted to face her. “I hope you’re not telling Oliver what a bloodsucking gold digger I am.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Phil said, taking her hands and bending to plant an affectionate kiss on her cheek. Oliver wanted to do the same thing, but a little more to the left.

“Good. I wanted to thank you, too, for painting another picture for us this year. I like it even better than last year’s. Did you know that Phil paints?” Oliver looked at the man as if he’d never met him before. “Wonderful pictures of children. Last year he did one of two little boys eating ice cream on a park bench that was so precious, I bid every dime of my savings for it. But Mrs. Vochec outbid me.”

Oliver glanced back at Phil and almost dropped his teeth to see him blushing and simpering like a schoolboy. She was a witch.

“Tonight I slipped a magic sleeping potion into her punch that should take effect just about the time the auction starts,” she said wickedly. “I’m not taking any chances this year.”

Damn, she’d done it again. He was thinking witch, and she started talking potions. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up.

Phil looked ready to bow his head and start shuffling his feet in the light of her admiration, so Oliver came to his rescue.

“Maybe I could talk you into taking me over and showing me some of this artwork?” he said. “Didn’t you tell me you had a piece up too?”

“Yes, but mine is truly amateur compared to some, and nothing compared to Phil’s.”

“I’d like to see it, then. Both of them...” It was then that he recalled her earlier comment on his love of art. Had she been casing him, setting him up as a possible recruit? Was their meeting on the plane fixed or fate? Was that how she knew his tastes, seemed to read his thoughts, because she’d had him staked out all along? “I’m immune to magic potions and might have to outbid you tonight myself.”

“Well, for the sake of St. Augustine’s you’re certainly welcome to try,” she said, her smile wavering for a brief moment when she thought she saw a streak of anger in his eyes. “But I warn you, I’m very determined this year. I have more in my account than I had last year.”

“Note taken,” he said, fairly warned.

They made their excuses to Phil and began a slow migration to the art exhibit in an adjoining room. They could hardly take two steps without someone stopping Holly to congratulate her on the success of the party; to renew her acquaintance; to hug her warmly; to ask a question. It was extremely annoying.

Despite the circumstances, he couldn’t shake the possessive notion that he was her escort for the evening. And he wasn’t used to his date getting more regard than he got. She made a point of including him, but he could tell he didn’t have her complete and undivided attention. And he wanted it. He had questions and he wanted answers.

It was irritating as hell not to be her focal point. Her friends were staring at him. Not as if he had money hanging out of his ears, he knew that stare. This was different. They were inspecting him. They were testing him with their remarks and rejoinders. They were auditing
his
worthiness to be with her.

Overall, he’d have to say that since his little discussion with Phil, he was feeling more and more like a serial killer—maladjusted, neurotic, and very dangerous.

Holly, who’d never been tuned in to anyone the way she was to Oliver, could feel the muscles in her shoulders contracting as he grew more and more stiff-necked beside her. The tension between them was like a live wire, snapping and throwing off sparks whenever they made contact. Something was different. And in her experience the fastest way to get a man’s hackles up, to make him suddenly stiff and inflexible, was to wound his pride—which, unfortunately, was all too often connected in some way with his finances.

He followed her lead, bided his time, and took a distracted interest in each new piece of art as they circled the room. “Amateur” carried a wide definition—from comical to good to exemplary works that could hang in any number of professional galleries. Phil’s, for instance, of two small children on their hands and knees exploring the life of a caterpillar, was remarkable. Stunning, really, if you knew the man who’d painted it.

Holly, who’d seen the display earlier, was far more interested in Oliver. Before her eyes he had become the man she’d glimpsed. Cool. Aloof. Unapproachable. Someone not nice, as if Barbara Renbrook’s comment wasn’t too far off the mark. Someone she couldn’t like very much, and certainly wasn’t comfortable being around.

When they’d gone far enough, she slipped her hand into his and pulled him through a metal doorway and into a hallway used by the hotel staff.

“Okay,” she said, turning on him at once. “I know who you are, but I didn’t until I met your aunt in L.A. The plane threw me off; I figured you’d own your own,” she said in one breath. “Well, never mind that... By the time I did realize who you were, I didn’t think it really mattered. It certainly didn’t to me. But to make this perfectly clear, you’re welcome to make any donation you care to here tonight, but you don’t
have
to leave a penny and that wasn’t the reason I invited you. I’m not after your money. I don’t care about your money. And if you still think differently, you can leave now.”

She had the door open and was halfway through before he could stop her.

“You’re very direct,” he said, as surprised as he was glad to have it out in the open, for once not minding that she could read him like a book.

“I don’t have time not to be, Oliver. I have a life and I want to call you a friend in it. But if you think I pick and choose my friends according to the amount of money they make, then you don’t know me, and I don’t have to waste my time proving myself to anyone.”

Oliver felt like a whipped dog. It was too plain that she was speaking the truth, that she could take him or leave him at that point as easily as she might accept or reject the tuna salad at the buffet. Suddenly it was imperative that she take him.

He snatched her into his arms and lowered his mouth over hers to shut her up, to keep her from telling him to go away. She resisted with her hands to his chest and angry noises in her throat, but he held on, his hands burning with the feel of silk and cool, soft flesh; his mouth filling with the sweet warmth of her; his mind fogged with the scent of her.

And when her resistance weakened, when her arms went limp about his shoulders and her body grew heavy against his, he held her closer and deepened the kiss.

Never had he needed to rely on a single kiss to make him feel important; to impress a woman; to prove to her that she could hold him near; to beg to be accepted in her life; to convince her that he could contribute to her needs if she’d only give him a chance.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured when they stood weak, clinging, and dazed, torn between body and mind, between sex on the spot and returning to the party. “I’m sorry I misjudged you.”

“Don’t do it again,” she said as she desperately tried to gather her wits. “You don’t know me.”

“I want to.”

“I don’t like your aunt, but I’ve tried not to use that ruler on you. You’re different. I like you. Please, don’t disappoint me,” she said, and for a moment it was as if she’d asked him to commit suicide for her. The ultimate test of her faith in him. And for that moment he was completely willing to do it.

It was a simple request. Don’t disappoint her. Don’t make her sorry that she trusted him. Don’t prove her wrong in her hopes that he wasn’t like his aunt, who for all her good works was also narrow-minded and a bit of a snob. In an instant, he knew that no matter what the future held for them, he’d spend the rest of his life striving to fulfill her one demand.

“I’ll try not to disappoint you,” he said. “If you’ll answer one question.”

“What?” she asked. Her eyes were wide open.