Читать книгу Warrior Without Rules - Nancy Gideon - Страница 11

Her birthday. Her ascension to the top of Aletta. The house swarmed with the rich and powerful come to pay homage to both events. It was her night to shine, but Toni would have felt more comfortable had that light been under a basket. Because she was very aware that someone in the glittery crowd might have an agenda other than celebration, one that involved a blood-stained blouse and a ransom unpaid.

Her mother had trained her practically since birth to work a room, to make the most of her looks, her smile, her smarts. She did so on a gracious autopilot while her gaze scanned the shadowed corners and her system jumped at every unexpected sound. She searched for Zach, finding instead a host of unfamiliar faces he’d brought in for the occasion to police the room. The sight of those innocuous strangers brought no sense of comfort, though she was sure they were very good at their jobs. They had nothing at stake, no reason to go an extra mile, to make that extraordinary promise to secure her peace of mind. Only Zach Russell had done that.

Where was he?

She snagged a flute of champagne from a passing tray just to have something to do with her hands. She wouldn’t drink. She needed her senses sharp.

Where the hell was he?

Every room of the house was designed for ease of entertainment and traffic flow. Each was crowded with guests intent upon sampling all they could from the elegant appetizers, abundant spirits and undercurrent of classical music served up to them with an unobtrusive style. She moved through the ground floor chatting with friends and business associates while her gaze never stopped its restless journeys and her nerves pulled ever tighter.

Even the stairs were lined with company who lifted their glasses in salute as she climbed past them. Her father was in the huge upstairs room that served as theater, boardroom and, as it did tonight, ballroom. The oriental rugs had been rolled back to expose the gleaming floor. An alcove at the far end hosted a five piece band playing an infectious ragtime. Through the bank of glass to the left was the dynamic view of the lake and to the right an equally impressive sea of imported luxury cars overflowing the drive and extra lot. And her father stood at the massive fireplace, leaning casually against the Danish tiles as he talked business. Even on this night, he was hard at work.

“Antonia, you know Servando Fuentes.”

She took the cold, limp fingers offered by Angel Premiero’s right-hand man. Premiero, who’d grown up with Victor Castillo, had partnered with her father in many of his past ventures. Now he was spearheading the company move to Mexico.

“Señor Fuentes, always a pleasure.” She waited just long enough to be polite before withdrawing her hand, fighting the urge to scrub her palm to restore its warmth.

“Señor Premiero most anxiously awaits your visit and the opportunity to link your families in business.”

She smiled thinly. As long as that was all Premiero thought to link. “I look forward to our meeting.”

“Happy birthday. This is from Señor Premiero. A small token.”

Under the unbridled avarice of her father’s stare, she took the heavy velvet box and opened it with a hint more apprehension than anticipation. Gifts from Premiero didn’t come unencumbered by strings.

It was a weighty necklace of silver fashioned into entwined calla lilies. The bell of each flower was filled with a piece of deep blue lapis.

Fuentes waited with a smug smile for her reaction. When it was slow to come, he prompted, “Señor Premiero remembered those exquisite eyes you inherited from your mother, may she rest with the saints.”

“Put it on, Antonia,” her father urged, but Toni was reluctant to wear Premiero’s controlling collar quite this soon. She shut the box and offered, instead, a pretty thank you.

“Tell Señor Premiero his gift is as lovely as it is extravagant. I will wear it with something more appropriate when we meet.”

Her lack of enthusiasm over the gift clearly annoyed her father, but she spotted Veta by the hall and took the opportunity to slip away with a nod and a wish for them to enjoy the evening.

Veta looked stunning in a full-length tank dress that skimmed her knockout figure with an explosion of grand scale red Impressionist roses upon a dark background. With her vivid makeup and black hair piled high, she looked like an exotic, hothouse species. But Toni knew she carried a .44 in her chic beaded bag. This rose had deadly thorns.

“Here.” Toni thrust the box at her once they were in the hall. “Put this somewhere.”

Veta opened the lid and expressed a low whistle. “Who’s the admirer?”

“Premiero.”

Veta closed the lid and regarded her friend solemnly. “Toni, how are you going to work with his man if you despise him so?”

“My father has worked with despicable characters all his life. It’s part of doing business.” That’s what he’d always told her.

“But at what cost? Promise me you’ll be careful. Premiero is no junior league executive to be easily controlled.”

“As he thinks to control me with his gifts and his oily embassador? I know what Premiero is and what he’s capable of.”

“Do you?”

To lighten that dour warning, Toni placed her hand upon her friend’s shoulder. “That’s why I have you to run interference. One look at you in that dress and he’ll be blinded by more than ambition.”

Veta gave a derisive snort. “One uses what one has to its best advantage as your father would say.”

“Yes, he would.” Toni glanced about restlessly. “Have you seen Russell?”

“He asked me to stick close to you while he handled the perimeter. I guess he’s not much of a social animal. Perhaps his tuxedo is at the cleaners.”

That he would hand her off into the care of others rankled unexpectedly. Just as his intentional absence chilled her. “I’m not paying him to shake the bushes. He’s supposed to be with me.”

Veta raised a speculative brow, but offered no comment. “Last I saw him he was headed back toward the kitchen.”

“I guess it’s time I stirred something up with our Mr. Russell.”

The kitchen, a gleaming bank of stainless steel and oiled butcher block, was a hive of activity with waiters rushing in and out, heat pulsing out from the big industrial oven and flames jetting from the multi-burnered stoves. Six cooks performed under the exacting maestro’s baton of Henri Galliteau, a master chef stolen from one of the pricy Windy City restaurants her father favored. Henri conducted the chaos in his kitchen with a loud and often profane gusto, comparing the qualities of his underling chefs to the nether regions of a suckling pig while brandishing a cleaver as his instructional wand. No one was allowed in his kitchen during an event. Those performances were always closed to an audience. Which was why the sight of Zach Russell sampling a Bearnaise sauce at his side gave her a jolt of surprise.

He did own a tuxedo. And he looked fabulous in it.

“It’s nice to know you’ll have a skill to fall back on when this career is pulled out from under you.”

Russell finished stirring the bubbling cheese mixture, then glanced up without a trace of surprise or chagrin. He’d known she was there. His gaze was cool in the sweltering kitchen.

“It’s been tried before without success. A stellar reputation can survive a few dings and scratches.”

“How about a head on collision?”

Henri murmured something to him in French and Zach smiled faintly, his gaze never leaving the challenge of Toni’s.

He’d been ignoring her and now he was laughing at her. Her temper came to a hot, rolling boil.

“You’re not being paid to entertain yourself playing Julia Child in my kitchen.”

Unmoved by her harsh tone, Zach’s reply was as nonchalant as his manner. “Not enjoying the party? Is that what’s got your panties in a twist?”

All movement ceased in the room. Her fury escaped like steam from a pressure cooker, with a fierce hiss.

“Not so much as you, apparently. And, if my panties were a topic of discussion in front of the staff, be advised that I’m not wearing any.”

As Toni stormed from the kitchen, every male eye was drawn to ascertain the truth of her parting statement, Zach’s included, until the swinging door closed behind her.

“Excuse me, monsieur, I fear I’ve left something burning.” Zach handed the ladle to Henri, who shook it at him with a knowing smirk.

“A few careful stirs will prevent scorching, mon ami.”

She stalked down the hall, heading for the escalating noise of the party. With a quick movement she bolted down the contents of the flute she still carried. It wasn’t enough to extinguish her ire.

“You were in no danger.” He spoke softly and suddenly from just over her shoulder.

“Not as much as you are at this moment.” She refused to look at him.

“I thought you preferred head-on, but you seem to be enjoying these nasty sideswipes.”

She stopped then to confront him directly. “What happened to your Rule Two? Or do you just impose them then break them at your discretion?”

He touched the almost invisible earpiece he was wearing. “I don’t have to be right next to you to be right next to you.”

“So you thought you’d play Iron Chef at my expense?”

Again, the slight quirk of a smile. “I was doing intel work.”

“You think the kitchen staff is going to try to poison me?”

He grinned then, a quick startling flash of white. “The only thing venomous around here tonight seems to be your tongue.” Then before she could parry that remark, he was all business once more. “Who notices the goings on in a big house better than those you never see?”

She took a breath. And another. He’d been working the staff for information. “Did you find out anything interesting?”

His gaze did a quick downward dip. “That you’re not wearing any panties.”

With a huff of aggravation, she spun away and marched back toward her celebration, which was now in raucous full swing. She didn’t have to see Russell’s grin. She could feel it.

Zach watched as she cut through the room like a social heat seeker. To appease her, he remained in plain sight just on the edge of the party while she controlled it.

The crowd loved her just as the camera loved her. How could they help it? She dazzled, with her beauty, with her rapier-sharp wit, with her flair for doing the unexpected.